Black Rite

by Allen Caraway

  As I read the article, I realized that I had seen New York Winter and The Shallows of Man several years earlier, although I could barely recall the plots or her performances. After another search, I discovered that seven of her movies were available as downloads. I then went onto Amazon and ordered a copy of Joe Hyams’s book.

  She was on my mind as I fell asleep that night and occasionally drifted into my thoughts over the next few days, but it wasn’t until I had seen a few of Dashwood’s movies and read the biography that I became deeply interested in her life. That interest, and the emotions it created, caused me to shine like a beacon, making me visible to inquisitive and malicious eyes.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Joe Hyams’s book arrived five days later. It was well written, thoroughly researched and fascinating. By the time I had finished it, I felt that I really knew Elizabeth Dashwood.

  The overall impression it gave was of a lonely yet fiercely private person, the forlornness briefly alleviated by her marriages. Elizabeth’s childhood was a difficult one. Her father, a languages professor, was a cold, officious and demanding man who banned toys from their home because he found the sound of his daughters playing ‘intrusive and distracting.’

  When she moved to Los Angeles, Elizabeth shunned the Hollywood set and when she wasn’t in a relationship or socializing with her small, select circle of friends, she spent a great deal of time alone.

  Despite a tumultuous personal life, Elizabeth nonetheless came across as a kindhearted, affectionate, moral and unpretentious person who was extremely close to her sister and mother. She had been popular in Harkinen, delighting the locals with her affability, knowledge of ranching, horses and her toughness, Elizabeth frequently working alongside her ranch hands. At her insistence, the townsfolk called her Lizzy and she always waved at them when passing by in her Studebaker pickup.

  What surprised me most when reading the book was the town’s reaction to her arrest, subsequent release and eventual suicide. It contradicted the Sunday Times’ assertion that her friends had abandoned her. Maybe that was true of most of the Hollywood community, although David Niven, Fred Astaire, Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable remained publicly loyal and most of Harkinen’s residents believed she was innocent. Some had even hinted at a conspiracy, largely due to the open hostility exhibited by Sabatino’s ex-fiancée, Jasmine Rivers, one of Hollywood’s numerous starlets, who claimed that he had dumped her in favor of Lizzy. Rivers never fully recovered from the collapse of their relationship and had stated on a number of occasions that she would ‘get the bitch.’

  To the townsfolk, Lizzy remained the same friendly person. She continued to stop and talk to people whenever she was in Harkinen or wave from her pickup. However, she always looked pale and tired and rarely smiled. During her final year, Lizzy’s trips into Harkinen became less frequent, drying up completely in the last six months.

  Her death stunned the town, its residents reacting with a tremendous outpouring of grief and turning out en masse for her funeral.

  In addition to Hyams’s biography, Lizzy featured in numerous autobiographies and I was surprised by my inability to learn anything truly unpleasant about her, which for a long time I found hard to believe. David Niven described Lizzy as ‘… not only beautiful, but a real and genuine person, unselfish, gentle, brave and great company.’ Even Hugh Alford, Lizzy’s first husband, spoke highly of her and his only criticism was that ‘Lizzy had zero interest in cooking, perhaps because, on the rare occasions that she tried, the results were disastrous. She also had the annoying habit of leaving dirty plates, mugs and dishes around the house and in the sink as if she assumed that I would clear up after her, which to be honest, I usually did. And then there was Lizzy’s unattractive habit of picking at her bottom lip when she was concentrating. She also twirled her hair around her fingers during such times, but I found that rather cute.’ He also mentioned his second wife’s reaction upon seeing Lizzy’s choice of décor. ‘Beverly hated the pink bathroom with matching curtains, the dining room’s purple wallpaper, the master bedroom’s green curtains that were bedecked with sailboats, the cardboard chest of drawers that stood in the corner and she especially hated the hippopotamus coffee table in the front parlour.’

  Over the next few weeks, I thought about Lizzy constantly. The days drifted by and I barely noticed. I socialized less and less, preferring to re-read Hyams’s book and watch the DVD over and over, charmed by the relaxed, smiling woman in the news reels, home movies and informal photographs taken by friends and family.

  She became an obsession.

  It got to the point where I would become depressed if I wasn’t doing something related to her. On the rare occasions that I left the ranch, I would wander through the forest thinking about Lizzy and the various stages in her life, trying to imagine what she had been thinking and feeling, or visiting her grave. I spent a great deal of time on the internet searching for Lizzy’s movies, photographs, radio and news reel appearances, newspaper articles and other memorabilia, downloading or purchasing whatever I found, hanging some of my favorite photos around the house and putting one of them on my desk. It was a black and white portrait taken by George Hurrell; Lizzy’s head on a pillow, hair falling over one cheek and to the edge of her right eye. Her expression was that of a woman who was gazing at the man she loved. I stared at it a great deal, wishing that I had been alive at the time and on the receiving end of that look. How Hurrell had managed to elicit and capture such an emotion was something that I wondered about frequently. I found myself envying him.

  My most valuable finds were five handwritten letters and a postcard. The postcard proved to be quite entertaining. Written to her mother and sister in 1940, it said:

  I’m still here in sweltering Alabama with Flynn, he of the wandering hands and the dog that he loves more than any human. Filming has been delayed due to his drinking (amongst other things). The cockroaches that reside in my hotel room I can tolerate. Flynn I cannot. Wish you were here!

  Lizzy

  I assume that it was sent inside an envelope and via an internal mail system as there wasn’t a postmark. Had a curious post office worker spotted it, then I’m sure it would have ended up in a gossip column, resulting in all manner of embarrassing headlines.

  I displayed my collection in the dining room, which was devoid of furniture as I wasn’t big on dinner parties. By the time I had included a hat that Lizzy wore in Wild Horse Plains and a dress she had deliciously filled out in Stratford Lake, the room was beginning to look like a museum. Perhaps even a shrine. The latter thought occurred to me one evening and I hurriedly dismissed it, telling myself that I was merely an admirer, nothing more. It had once been her house, after all, and I was just keeping her memory alive.

  With denial chugging away on all cylinders, I continued my online research and located Lizzy’s childhood home in Durham, two former homes in London and her old house in Hollywood. Feeling as if I was on a pilgrimage, I flew down to Los Angeles and after cruising up and down Summit Drive, I spotted her former home behind a huge gate. I stopped and stared at it for a while, wondering what she had thought and felt while living there, what she had done. It was an odd feeling. For those few minutes, I felt as if I was in a trance, transported to another time. When I returned home, that strange feeling grew stronger and I now pictured Lizzy walking around the house or sitting in the same room.

  My ever-increasing emotional attachment to Lizzy was an extremely surreal and unnerving experience. I began to worry about my sanity, told myself it was unhealthy, that I should back off, stop watching her movies, looking at her photographs and researching her life, but I couldn’t. I was addicted. My concern increased when I finally realized that my desire for her had caused my frequent bouts of depression. I pined for Lizzy, ardently wished that I could travel back through time and be with her.

  On a cold and overcast afternoon in early December, I drove down to Redwood Hill Cemetery to visit her. Established in 1860,
the fifteen-acre plot was dark and Gothic, dead leaves covering the straggly grass underneath oak and eucalyptus trees. Many of the old headstones leaned at precarious angles and the place had a forlorn look to it despite Larry ‘Digger’ McFadden, the caretaker, doing his best to keep the place tidy. Yet, despite its gloomy ambience, birds sang cheerfully in the branches and squirrels skittered up and down the tree trunks or chased each other across the grass, their tails twitching.

  Lizzy’s grave was in the old section, her mother and sister buried on either side. It wasn’t as grand as one might expect; just a simple gray granite headstone with a faded black and white portrait of Lizzy above an inscription.

  ELIZABETH MADELEINE DASHWOOD

  CHERISHED DAUGHTER, SISTER AND FRIEND

  FEBRUARY 28, 1916 – OCTOBER 9, 1950

  So now we weep, until we meet again.

  I put a bouquet of white lilies, her favorite flower, on Lizzy’s grave and then stared at her headstone for a few moments, sadness welling inside me.

  Oh for God’s sake, get a grip! an inner voice chided. You didn’t even know the woman!

  Reluctantly pulling myself away, I stepped over to her mother’s, then her sister’s graves, put a single lily on each and then turned to leave. As I did, I noticed a head duck behind a tree. I frowned, wondering who it was, then said, ‘You might as well come out. I know you’re there.’

  Two brown eyes peered at me from behind the trunk. They looked surprised. ‘You can see me?’

  ‘Well d’uh. Why were you watching me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Kain, I didn’t mean to spy.’

  A tall good-looking girl aged around twelve, maybe thirteen years old, stepped out from behind the tree, her gaze never leaving mine. She had long chestnut hair and wore jeans and a Marvin Gaye T-shirt. I felt my eyes widen. She bore an uncanny resemblance to a girl who’d attended my church.

  ‘You’re the spitting image of Robin Ashmont,’ I said. ‘Are you two related?’

  She frowned. ‘I am Robin Ashmont. Don’t you recognize me?’

  I stared at her in astonishment. Fragmented memories of TV news reports rose from my subconscious. Images of sheriff’s office detectives walking through Redwood Hill’s main gates. A grim faced reporter talking to the camera. A school photograph of a smiling girl. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I tried, but no sound came out. I felt weightless, as if I was floating above the ground. Detached from reality. Unable to comprehend what was happening. Eventually, I found my voice but it came out strangled and hoarse.

  ‘Robin?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But … it’s not possible.’

  ‘You’re talking to me aren’t you?’

  ‘I think so, unless I’m hallucinating.’

  Robin smiled. ‘Oh I’m here all right.’ She walked over while staring intently at me. ‘You’re nothing like him, y’know.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your brother. You’re nice. I can tell, I can see it.’

  ‘See it?’

  She nodded again. ‘Yes. There’s a nice bright pink glow around you.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘How-’

  Robin pointed at Lizzy’s grave. ‘You a fan?’

  ‘You know who she is?’

  ‘Sure. She was a famous actress. Used to live near us. My great-grandma knew her.’

  ‘Oh? Well, I live in her old house now.’

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘You too?’

  ‘I moved in after Gary … What do you mean, “you too”?’

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, perplexed and a little annoyed by the way Robin jumped from subject to subject as if she had very little time in which to talk to me.

  ‘I’ll walk with you if you want.’

  The weightless, detached feeling intensified. ‘Okay.’

  We strolled in silence towards the main gate, my feet never seeming to touch the ground. I wanted to carry on talking, to ask innumerable questions, but the words refused to come.

  When we turned a corner, the gates now a few hundred yards away, Robin broke the silence. ‘You’ve lost your faith, haven’t you?’

  ‘What, in God?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is it written on my forehead or something?’

  She laughed and shook her head. ‘No, I can just feel it.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Oh. Well, you’re right, I have.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I suppose it began when my parents died, but so subtly I didn’t notice at first. They were good, kind-hearted people taken too soon because some drunken bastard got behind the wheel of his car, even though he was banned from driving. Then there was other stuff. Life, you know? Then … you.’

  Robin looked perplexed. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah. When you …’ I couldn’t say the word out loud. It seemed … insensitive. Tactless. ‘That just tore down what faith I had left. That God – a supposedly kind God - could allow such a thing to happen.’ I shook my head. ‘It made going to church and praising him seem pointless and absurd.’

  ‘But it’s not pointless and absurd. My dad says that he likes going to church because it reenergizes him.’ Robin stopped walking, her eyes holding mine. ‘You need to regain your faith.’

  ‘Why? It didn’t do me any good. I didn’t gain anything from practicing religion or believing in God.’

  ‘Oh but it did. It protected you and you need that protection more than ever now because you’re vulnerable.’

  ‘Vulnerable?’

  ‘What you’ve been doing, thinking and feeling has opened you up, made you visible to those on the fifth plane. Gary meddled with forces he didn’t understand and couldn’t control. That faith will be your spiritual armor. Start going to church again. Catholicism worked for you once, make it work again.’

  A sharp, prickly dread uncurled itself in my stomach, swallowing the surprise I’d felt at hearing such mature advice from someone so young.

  ‘What did he do?’ I said.

  ‘It’s all in the journal you found. Everything.’

  ‘How can you possibly know about that?’

  Robin started walking again and pointed at the gates. ‘You’re nearly there. I’d better go back. I’m his now. If he finds out that I’ve been talking to you …’

  Bemused, I said, ‘Robin-’

  ‘Will you give the journal to the sheriff’s office when you’ve finished with it?’

  ‘After what you’ve just said, I think I’d rather give it to them straight away. And what do-’

  Robin shook her head. ‘No, not yet. You’ll need it for a while and you’ll know when the time is right to give it to them.’

  I sighed. ‘Okay, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is.’

  I had parked my truck in front of the gates and to my surprise I saw Beau Harkinen’s maroon and white Trail Duster parked nearby, the old boy hauling himself out of the cab. We walked through and I waved at Beau, then turned to speak to Robin.

  She wasn’t there.

  I looked around, wondering if Robin was standing behind me. She wasn’t. Nor was she in the cemetery or in the lane that led to it. I felt a frown crease my forehead and the weightless feeling grew stronger, making me feel lightheaded.

  ‘Afternoon young fella,’ Beau said. ‘Hey, you lost something?’

  I turned and looked at him. ‘Huh?’

  ‘I said have you lost something?’

  ‘Oh. No.’

  ‘You all right? You’ve gone pale.’

  Telling him that I’d just seen Robin Ashmont, or thought I had, felt like a bad idea. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ I stretched my lips into a smile and gestured towards the gates. ‘I was, er, visiting the family.’

  Beau nodded. ‘A number of North Oak’s former occupants are buried in there.’

  ‘Oh
?’

  ‘Yup. In fact ...’ He made a smacking sound with his lips and gums as if trying to realign an errant set of false teeth, a mannerism I knew well. ‘Elizabeth Dashwood is one of ‘em.’

  ‘Really?’ I said in mock surprise.

  He nodded again, apparently pleased with my reaction. ‘Uh-huh. I knew her, y’know.’

  The whole freakin’ town knew her, I thought.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yup. I was eight when she bought North Oak Ranch and already had a crush on her. Had seen all her pictures, even the British ones when they played over here. I was a big fan.’

  Beau had a nostalgic look on his face. He sighed. ‘Used to see her in town and one day – soon after I turned nine - I got up enough guts to ask for her autograph. She was charming, real charming. “I’d be delighted,” she said. I floated home on a cloud, even more in love with her than I was before. From then on, whenever I saw her in town, we’d stop and talk. Over the years, I got to know her pretty good. We became pals, y’know? Even went over to her place to do some odd jobs. Not that I needed the money. Pa gave me a pretty good allowance.’

  ‘But despite this friendship of yours,’ I said, ‘you still think she murdered her husband and his lover?’

  He nodded emphatically. ‘I do.’

  ‘Why?’

  Beau glanced at the sky. ‘Cold and gloomy today.’ His eyes returned to mine. ‘Let’s talk in the truck. It’s warmer and I’ve got a thermos full of nice hot coffee. Wanna cup?’

  I understood immediately. Judging from the expression on Beau’s face, what he had to say was deeply personal and he didn’t want to risk the chance of Larry McFadden overhearing us. Redwood Hill’s caretaker had a reputation for eavesdropping and then repeating what he’d heard at the Condor’s Nest, a greasy dive bar just outside of town.

  ‘Okay.’

  We climbed into the Plymouth and Beau stared out of the windshield for a few seconds, then looked at me.

  ‘I saw her car pull up outside the house and then I heard ‘em shouting and screaming before she killed ‘em.’