by Tess Little
“That’s nice,” she said, affecting a smile.
Scott had said the police didn’t see me as a conspirator or accomplice, but I was concerned about where their questions were veering. This session was making me jumpy—too many layers behind each word.
The male detective scrutinized me as he asked, “Was Mr. Debrowski acting aggressive at all that night?”
“Not aggressive, no,” I said.
His colleague looked at her notes, like they claimed something else.
“Not that I saw,” I added. “But he was maybe melancholy. Very drunk. Why? Do you think that he…?”
“We’re just trying to establish some facts, Ms. Bryant Bell. Do you know why Mr. Debrowski was invited to the party?”
“He and Richard have—had been friends for years. And he’s Richard’s manager, of course.”
The cops looked at each other.
The woman took over: “Mr. Bryant had recently fired Mr. Debrowski.”
“Richard fired Jerry? No. Why would—”
“Unfortunately, Ms. Bryant Bell,” the officer said, “we cannot give you any further details.”
“But when? Why?”
The conversations I’d had with Jerry replayed in my mind. He must have thought I knew; had I offended him in any way?
“What I believe my client means to say,” Scott interjected smoothly, “is that she might be able to provide you with more helpful information if she fully understands the situation.”
I fixed on the male officer. “So much happened that night.” I smiled. “You know how parties can be—maybe if you fill me in a little, it might jog my memory?”
He gestured to his colleague, and they left the room for a short consultation. When they returned, the female detective gave me the bare bones: There had been stresses and disagreements during the filming of Dominus; Richard had fired Jerry.
I could not believe the real story was this straightforward. Jerry and Richard had been working together almost from the beginnings of their careers—and Jerry had stood by my ex-husband through all of his scandals, steadfast, dog-loyal. Only a monumental dispute could have broken them apart. But then, they had seemed perfectly amicable on the night of the party. None of it made sense to me.
This information had scattered my thoughts. I was struggling to reinterpret Jerry’s behavior.
“I have to say,” I said, selecting my words slowly, “Jerry didn’t seem resentful at all. At one point he grew sad; he was drinking a lot, I remember that. But by the end, I think he had thrown himself into the spirit of the party—we all had.”
“Thank you, Ms. Bryant Bell,” the male cop said, soft, understanding. “Of course, we know you had been drinking and we don’t want to put too much emphasis on impressions, but it’s useful—can’t really tell what it’ll throw up.”
“But these professional concerns aren’t restricted to Mr. Debrowski,” the female officer cut in. “Are you aware of the issues surrounding Mr. Bryant’s latest film?”
“Could you be a little more specific—which guest are we talking about here?”
“All involved: Miguel Montana, Keiko Nakamura, Sabine Selmi, and Charles Pace.”
* * *
—
I drove back to Lillie’s as fast as possible. Opened my laptop, ready to flesh out the information the cops had given me with gossip-blog rumors.
I would begin with Jerry. I scrolled, I clicked. I opened every link I could find, right back in time, and there it was: the beginning of the story, two months before the release of Dominus.
A slideshow of photos through a long-range lens: fuzzy-grained figures in a stop-motion sequence; two men outside a restaurant. One was facing away from the other, head hung low. The other reached a hand to his companion’s shoulder. In the next image the two were facing. And then a blow to the face. One figure turned back toward the photographer, blood dripping from his nose.
It was a shocking red, and I could see—even through grainy pixels—how it dripped thickly down his face. My hand covered my mouth.
Richard was a master at goading others to anger, but I could not imagine what he had said to provoke Jerry—gentle, loyal Jerry—to hit him in the face with such force.
I gathered myself and resumed scrolling. There was no comment from the manager of the establishment, the Tam O’Shanter, but another diner reported shouting and clattering heard throughout the lunch service. I explored the other articles, moved forward in time, rooting out all of the theories. Among the plausible: a personal spat, payment disputes, rumors of difficulties circling Dominus. Both men refused interviews.
I opened another article, this one from a month later. Jerry had grown paler in the paparazzi pictures, eye sockets sinking. A source close to the manager claimed to have visited him at a rehab clinic in Culver City. This was fictitious, I was sure: Jerry was not an addict. Jerry, the steadfast friend who had driven Richard to rehabilitation four times.
I clicked on another link. Jerry’s family had given a statement, only two weeks before Richard’s party: stage 3 prostate cancer. Jerry had retired to focus his energies on recovering.
Privacy and prayer appreciated at this difficult time.
The front door slammed. I jumped up from my computer; I hadn’t even realized Lillie was out.
“Yeah, exactly,” I heard her say, “we’ll put it on the list for tomorrow.”
She was on the phone, waved when she saw me.
“Sure,” she said, continuing her conversation. “That’s what I was thinking too.”
She smiled an apology, went to her room. That was fine, that was good—her friends were reaching out now. And time spent alone could be used for research.
I reopened my computer to those pixelated photos.
The fight, the firing, the cancer: I couldn’t slot the pieces of Richard and Jerry’s relationship together. Had Richard fired Jerry because of his illness? I knew my ex-husband could be coldhearted, but he had always kept Jerry close. The friend who knew all his secrets.
I was certain the police knew much more than the bloggers, but I couldn’t figure out why they had asked me about Jerry. If he was the first guest they’d inquired about, did this mean he was their primary suspect? Or did they question me about him because of that waitress’s comment? Did they really think conversations amounted to conspiracy?
Lillie hadn’t come back to see me and I was getting tired, so I went to bed early. The pictures were there as I closed my eyes, two men through a long-range lens. Lillie was right: I needed to be careful, I needed to examine what others, what the police, thought of me. And I needed to reexamine what I thought of them. If a basic internet search had revealed tension between Richard and Jerry, what could I discover about the other guests?
There was a knot in my chest, squeezing tighter. A part of me wanted to contact Jerry. Ask him outright what had happened that day. Ask him about his prognosis. Poor Jerry. Gentle, loyal Jerry—who could draw blood with one blow.
* * *
—
Someone called my name.
“Elspeth.” Tommo sidled up beside me, whispered in my ear, “There’s an awful stain on your hemline.”
I looked down.
“At the back,” he added.
I caught sight of it in the window’s reflection—a gray smear across my white skirt.
“Shit, I was sitting on the wall outside. Shit.”
“It’s fine, darling, don’t fret. I’m sure Richard has some stain remover. I’ll find him—you go through to the kitchen.”
By the time Tommo joined me, I’d already discovered Tide pens in the utility closet and was twisting to catch the stain.
“Need a helping hand?” he asked, snatching the stick and crouching low. “What do I do? Just color it on?”
“It’s probably easier if I tak
e off the skirt.”
“Elspeth, I love you—but not like that.”
There was silence as he concentrated on his task.
“Now what?” Tommo stood to face me. Liquor laced his breath, fruity.
“We wait five minutes, then I’ll wash it off in the bathroom.”
“There’s a hair dryer in the one upstairs.”
He put both hands on the kitchen counter and swung himself up. Tapped his hands on his thighs. “Have to say, I’m glad the staff have left. Keeps me on edge, being watched like that all night. Not really sure why Dicky hired them.”
“It’s all part of the theatrics,” I said. “He needed a supporting cast.”
“Well, I say it’s unnatural,” said Tommo. “Like to pour my own drinks. Can’t decide if having waiters is an aristocratic or an L.A. thing.”
“Oh, both.” I laughed. “Most definitely both.”
“So,” he said. “Dish: What do you think of the others?”
“I don’t feel like I’ve gotten to talk to them,” I said. “Besides catching up with you and Jerry, I spoke to Sabine outside, briefly…”
I remembered that I had walked back into the house before her. She must have seen the stain and chosen to say nothing.
“…and Miguel.”
“He’s a bit of a character, isn’t he?”
“I would love to be able to say I hadn’t already met dozens of men like him.”
“Oh, I get it, I do. But he seems particularly tedious,” said Tommo, overenunciating with his gin-and-tonic tongue. “It doesn’t take a psychoanalyst. He was telling me about his brothers—he’s the youngest of three, and they all took over the family business when Daddy Warbucks retired. But now he’s being edged out, as he was the one who brought Dicky on board.”
“What did Richard do?”
“I don’t know all of it. It’s not just the box-office numbers; apparently he’s been a naughty boy from the start—something to do with messing the studio around. Slipping schedules and bad press and refusing to play along with public engagements, something like that. Anyway, Miguel’s getting the rap because Big Brother didn’t want to make this movie in the first place, but Miguel can’t bring himself to cut his losses with Richard. Thinks he’s a bloody auteur. And so he can’t choose either way—lose l’artiste, or lose his power and his money and lose the fucking artist anyway. I think it’s an easy decision, but then”—he came close and stage-whispered—“what the fuck do I know? However…” He raised his voice and flung his arms out. “However! It does explain why Dicky invited such a bloody wet blanket to the party. Buttering him up, nice and tasty.”
Tommo jumped down from the counter and sauntered forward, a sly grin on his face: the very image of Richard.
“You’re a good friend, Miguel, you know you’re more than a patron. Without you my art is nothing. Without you I wouldn’t be half the man I am today….” He was on his knees, grasping at my ankles, pleading. “Maestro, master, Lord and Savior. Mummy, Daddy, buddy, baby.”
I applauded this perfect impression. Tommo fell backward—not entirely on purpose—and sat on the floor.
“And so Miguel is torn, he’s in anguish, Elspeth. It’s put him on edge tonight. Well. That’s what he’s told me four times already—four fucking times and we’ve only had three conversations—along with giving me his opinion on every single fucking facet of the entertainment industry. I know, I know, he’s not a bad person, but, god, do I wish Dicky hadn’t sat me next to him at dinner. He won’t fucking leave me alone, thinks we’re bloody best pals.”
He had risen to a crescendo of rage and was now catching his breath. I empathized with Tommo’s predicament—but there was something else in the story that had pricked my ears.
“So Richard’s a loss-maker?”
Tommo stared. “Darling. You can’t expect Dominus to do well in these circumstances. Too much scandal—and none of it’s good. The saying isn’t true, you know. All publicity…”
Lillie had not mentioned any of this to me: the slipping schedules, the box-office failure. Although that was not unusual. She had only ever divulged her successes—the kind of kid to smuggle away bad report cards, smile through tears after grazing a knee.
But the fact that I had not found out regardless forced me to acknowledge the extent of my mental hermitage, my efficacy in blocking all social media, tabloid, TV gossip.
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Where have you been hiding away?”
I smiled, said nothing.
“Anyway,” Tommo went on, “speaking of drama—how are you finding being here at the same time as him?”
“Richard?”
“Honey.”
I had no idea how to answer. Let myself flounder until Tommo specified his question.
“I have no problem with it. He’s Richard’s partner, so—”
“But do you like him?”
“I don’t know him.”
“He’s really quite lovely,” said Tommo. “Charming. One of those thoughtful creative types. Maybe you should talk to him. I’m sure that once—”
“How could I?”
Tommo closed his mouth.
“Look,” I said, “these chemicals have been on me for five minutes at least. I should wash them off.”
“Down that hallway, up the stairs, make a U-turn and you’ll find the guest bathroom. With the hair dryer.”
As I walked away, he called after me, “You can’t escape that easily, Elspeth. We’ll talk later.”
I resolved not to.
* * *
—
I made myself a coffee early the next morning, opened my laptop on the kitchen table. Until yesterday I hadn’t wanted to think of the other guests as suspects. Two of them were old friends, and even if it had been one of the other five, it was nonetheless a terrifying thought: that someone so violent had been present all night; that I had been lying only a foot or so away when they’d taken their chance to kill. But if I was a suspect too, I’d have to live with that idea. I’d have to turn it over in my mind, view the memories from every angle.
Questions had been eating away at me all night. If Jerry, whom I had known for years, wasn’t quite who I thought he was, then what did I know of the other guests? By morning, I had reached three conclusions. First, that I had been foolish to focus on Persephone, to distract myself with mesmerizing videos of octopuses. I could see that obsession for what it was: a diversion, an easy answer—and one that left Lillie and me vulnerable. Second, that I would stop being passive: I would pay attention during my interrogations, try to follow in the detectives’ tracks; I would keep myself guarded and sharp and inquisitive. The third conclusion I had reached was that I knew very little at all.
And so there I sat that morning, with my laptop. I had a few hours before my next appointment with the police. The pictures of Richard and Jerry’s fight were still onscreen; I clicked away from them. I would explore the other guests, starting with the subject the police had raised yesterday: the filming of Dominus. The detectives hadn’t told me much, didn’t dwell on the “issues” themselves—they were only interested in my impressions from that night. I’d told them of Tommo’s gossip in the kitchen, and the female cop nodded like this wasn’t new information. She hadn’t made any notes at all.
“But how were they behaving the night of the party?” she had asked. “Let’s start with Charlie Pace.”
There were countless hits online for Sabine and Charlie. As far as I could tell, they hadn’t been personally involved in the scandals surrounding Dominus, hadn’t addressed rumors about Richard’s troubles with the studio, kept smiling in interviews and on the red carpet. But their existence was newsworthy enough. Sunbathing on the beach, meeting friends for lunch at the Chateau Marmont: I recognized it all from my own time as a star.
It was the journalism, instead, that had transformed entirely in the ten or so years I had been avoiding it. Once I was deep into gossip-blog territory, it was difficult to resurface. Websites screamed out, distracting here and there with more links, more videos, more pictures—many more pictures than words now. And how the pictures had altered: three composed selfies to every sly paparazzi shot. I read through the hashtags, somewhat bewildered, and the comments beneath, and the product placements. I could recall the days in which designers would send me soft-leather goods with handwritten notes, but it seemed every aspect of these young people’s lives was sponsored now, from their drinks to their teeth, their vacations to their workouts. And people were brands, and corporations were their families, and their bodies were lissome roaming commercials. And they were so, so thankful—to the companies, the designers, the hair and makeup artists. Everybody needed their mention.
Sabine kept this under control, with photographs mainly chronicling her red-carpet appearances. She had not given too much of herself away; she knew that true glamour needs some level of mystique.
Snooping through the stories and profiles of her co-star was an altogether different experience. Charlie had his publicists working overtime, or vice versa. I noted the “M” punctuating his follower count. These millions did not all seem to be fans; there were adoring comments but also hundreds of people trying to lure followers to their own profiles, like some kind of frenzied digital Ponzi scheme. How many followers were even real? Looking at this online version of Charlie, it would appear the failure of Dominus had done little to halt his career. He was advertising some kind of product or experience in every photo. But was that what he wanted to be doing? No new roles had been announced, I noticed, since the release of his debut.
Nevertheless—or, perhaps, consequently—Charlie Pace partied harder, laughed louder, in every uploaded image. I had recognized this in him, the night of Richard’s fiftieth. You could see it in his eyes, beyond the shine and the large black pupils: You could see the late rehearsals and canceled runs, the humiliating auditions and graveyard service shifts. He had tried to kill off that part of himself, had tried to deaden everything less than perfect behind a cold, hard stare. But he had not succeeded. The desperation was still there in his feigned nonchalance, which was swiftly betrayed by his greed for attention; there in his too-loud voice, his too-wide smile; there as he spoke to Richard. How palpable, his hunger.
