The Lost and Found Necklace

by Louisa Leaman

  “As you wish,” says Jess, sniffing the air into her lungs, “but I’m taking that flight.”

  “On your own?”

  “On my own.”

  And so they part, neither side winning, neither side losing, but with a distinct sense of disconnect wedged between them.

  At the airport, among the holiday crowds and families, Jess finds a seat and eats sushi alone. She’s traveled plenty, so airports don’t faze her, but it occurs to her that this is the first time she has flown since her unhappy return from Mexico. Her cane stacked against her chair, a cocktail of courage and unease seeps into her blood. It’s a big, wild step. But somehow, she understands, it’s a step she needs to take, a little bit of her old self returning, reminding her that she is still Jess Taylor, whatever that means.

  “Well, cheers to that,” she says, as she glugs from her water bottle, before feeling her phone buzz, a message from Guy.

  So that dinner? How about tomorrow? G.

  He’s certainly persistent. She thinks for a moment, then replies.

  Can’t. I’ve taken your advice. J.

  She attaches a photo of her boarding pass, and knows—hopes—it will incite a different response from Tim’s. Indeed, straightaway Guy sends a page of emojis, expressing various states of shock and delight.

  These tacky little fellas are trying to say GOOD FOR YOU. G.

  Jess smiles and is about to shut off her phone when he messages again.

  So yes to dinner then? Musso’s. Saturday, seven o’clock? G.

  Ha-ha. J.

  Then as she scoops up her backpack and starts the long hike to the boarding gate, he messages one more time.

  May you find what you’re looking for. G. x

  And out of nowhere, the sentiment of this, or maybe the laden addition of the kiss, makes her burst into tears.

  ***

  The heat gets her first, then the big sky, which stretches overhead, a brilliant blue forever, brightening the hills and streets. How much it must have changed since Anna first arrived in the 1930s. And yet, everywhere Jess looks, there are remnants of that history in the streamlined curves of the deco buildings and the elegant villas. As she walks the length of the Strip, she feels them all around her, the ghost whispers of Anna Taylor’s life. Anna from the mountains, with passion in her bones and designs in her head, among the colonial-style boutiques with their weather vanes and flower boxes, the black-tie supper clubs with their neon signs and palm-fringed entrances, the hills in the distance, the drifting heat, the women so tall and stylish, the men so suave—what did she think? What did she feel?

  With three days to herself, Jess feels dizzy at the thought of how to fill them, but she has made a list: her Hollywood DNA. Firstly, she will seek out Christopher Roderick’s mansion, see if she can join one of the Golden Age Restoration Foundation tours. Then she will hunt for evidence of Jossop’s Jewelry, the company she was told Anna worked for. Lastly, once her personal Hollywood connections have been plundered, with whatever time is left, she will embrace the standard touristy things: the Egyptian Theatre, the Walk of Fame, Rodeo Drove. Maybe a little of the Old Hollywood that Guy talked about. Plus the obligatory walk up to the white-lettered sign, although she doubts her hip will accommodate it. The flight, as Tim foresaw, has taken it out of her somewhat.

  After a hearty brunch of Americanos and blueberry pancakes, Jess grabs armfuls of brochures from the coffee-shop window. There are tours for everything, promising all that Tinsel Town has to offer, with names like the “Ultimate,” the “Big One,” and “Dream Homes of Beverly Hills.” Her attention is eventually drawn to an unassuming, cheaply made leaflet for a house tour, bearing the logo of the Golden Age Restoration Foundation. She tugs the dog-eared leaflet free and gives it a closer inspection. The main image features an old-style Spanish mansion with castellated turrets and dusty-pink walls. And in the top corner, in italics, is a word that strikes her heart: Zedora.

  Her beloved Zedora.

  She’d had no idea what Nancy was referring to, but now it’s obvious. Zedora must have been the Hollywood house where Anna lived. The cogs of her mind start to whir. With her heart in her mouth, she reads every word of the leaflet. “Support Hollywood heritage,” says the tagline. “See Zedora, a historic mansion in danger of being pulled down for development. Former home of Golden Age movie mogul, Christopher Roderick. Tours every day.”

  She stares, mesmerized, the pieces of the puzzle slotting into place.

  This is it, she thinks. Hollywood history, sure, but it’s a little piece of her history too. She checks the time of the tour. Midday. Perfect.

  ***

  Away from the tourist-mobbed landmarks, Jess finds herself among rows of gritty streets where art galleries and strip malls hide bistros and tattoo parlors, then on steep, sleepy lanes where elegant homes in traditional styles promise the “old.” Following the map on the leaflet, she takes another right turn, then at the top of the hill she sees a turret. Those deep-pink sunbaked walls, she thinks, what memories do they hold? Pool parties, dinners, sunset cocktails, and surely a scandal or two?

  At the gates—rusted filigree ironwork, bearing the name Zedora—Jess is greeted by the Restoration Foundation tour guide.

  “Welcome,” he says with an unexpected monotone, pointing to the name on his pin badge: Jackson.

  Jess and Jackson are soon joined by a young man from Hungary, a group of Korean students, and an elderly couple from Alabama. Jackson ushers them into Zedora’s scrubby, overgrown grounds and clears his throat.

  “With so many prestige mansions within a few square miles,” he says as though reading from a script he’s extremely bored with, “you might wonder why you’ve arrived here. Hollywood has its share of ultra-modern palaces with every amenity going. You name it: hidden champagne vaults, helicopter pads, personal spa suites, and cinema rooms. But rewind for a minute and follow me. The true prestige is in the past. This is where the long-gone stars of the silver screen had their feuds, their affairs, and their fun.”

  Fun? thinks Jess wryly. Jackson makes the entire prospect sound devoid of fun, but whatever his commentary lacks, at least her imagination can fill in the gaps. They proceed to the front porch, and the tattered oak door is heaved open. Jess fidgets with anticipation, as the spoils of Zedora’s faded decadence are offered to her. The first treat is a swirling marble staircase gracing an enormous hall, flanked with sculptures of gilded cherubs. The gilding is a little lackluster and the marble is chipped, but the feel is there. Beyond the hall she sees a living room with mirrored walls, arched windows, and an ornate rococo fireplace. To the side, there is a row of shelving, which would once, she imagines, have been stacked with film scripts, magazines, and bookends shaped like lions. There has been some attempt to furnish the rooms: Italianate velvet sofas, a console crowned with a vase of ostrich feathers, a glass coffee table with imitation bamboo edges, and a sunburst wall clock, so reminiscent of the art deco era.

  The living room leads to a kitchen/dining room—and the lingering suggestion of finger buffets and gimlets. Jess finds herself drawn to the far window, to a glimpse of the terrace and swimming pool. The water in the pool is a shade of green that does not incite bathing. In fact, the whole house has seen better days—to call it a museum is perhaps stretching a point—yet to Jess, it has much to say.

  The fun Anna would have had! How exactly did she manage the maneuver: the Welsh mountains to all this! Evidently the house was Christopher Roderick’s, but how did the pair of them get together? Jess wonders, with a flutter in her belly, if the True Love Necklace had something to do with it.

  She tries to imagine Anna—rouge, lipstick, and neat pin curls—pirouetting into the heart of 1930s Hollywood society. The era of the blond bombshell, of Marlene Dietrich, Jean Harlow, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, and Katharine Hepburn. Did Anna meet them? Did she dress them? Did she fit sweet-bright glass
brooches to their lapels? Suddenly the air seems alive. Jess strokes the glossy walnut veneer of a nearby table, tickles the fringes of the lampshade that dangles over it. Anna is with her, she is certain.

  “Excuse me,” she says, pestering Jackson, “can you tell me anything about Zedora’s occupants? I’m especially interested to know about a couple called Anna Taylor and Christopher Roderick. They would have lived here in the 1930s.”

  “You’ve been doing your homework,” says Jackson sagely. “Records tell us that the house was built by the Roderick family in 1926. Christopher Roderick remained here until his death in the early seventies.”

  “And he was a movie producer, a successful one by the looks of this place?”

  “Debatable. He is best known for the 1936 swashbuckling blockbuster Descent of the Sun, which, in some circles, is considered to be one of Hollywood’s most overblown follies. But fortunately for Christopher, the Roderick dynasty was wealthy enough to absorb a flop. They weren’t trying to be big in Hollywood. They were Hollywood. Nonetheless, in Christopher’s final decade he was a reclusive figure, his directing career virtually forgotten. He lived here alone with his long-term life partner, the celebrated choreographer, Bernard Almer.”

  “Ah yes…on that matter, do you know how things finished up with his wife, Anna Taylor? She was a costumer, made jewelry for the movies.”

  Jackson hesitates. “Christopher never married.”

  “Oh.” She shrinks back. “But…he was engaged once…perhaps?”

  Jackson shrugs.

  “It wasn’t unheard of for gay men in Hollywood to conduct relations with women in order to conceal their sexuality, so in answer to your question, maybe, but there is no official record of this.” He pauses, thinks for a moment. “There is, however, an unconfirmed rumor that he fathered a child. You’d have to look at birth records to be certain—”

  Jess brightens, stands to attention. Nancy? Could this child be Nancy? As the tour group files to the next room, she lingers at the window, absorbing every color, every detail. What next? A Roderick/Taylor DNA test? A hunt through the local birth records? No. Deep down, she knows it isn’t proof she’s looking for. It isn’t legal certificates and inheritance rights. It’s a sense of kinship, an affinity with her backstory.

  So how did it play out? Christopher Roderick from his “dynasty,” with his mansion and his pool; an engagement that never resulted in a marriage; an illegitimate daughter who rarely talked about her upbringing; and Roderick’s subsequent commitment to another man. All said and done, Jess can only wonder whether Anna’s life at Zedora was as rose-tinted as its walls.

  ***

  Eager to uncover the next piece of her puzzle, Jess escapes the house tour and searches “Jossop’s” online. She is amazed to find that the company is still trading as a jewelry business, proudly boasting its historic credentials: Jossop’s. Since 1925. Its headquarters are now a store on Rodeo Drive. Tired of the walking, Jess hails a cab, but the roads are busy. Frustrated to be frittering away precious moments in traffic, she stares from the window and daydreams. She spots the famous landmark Egyptian Theatre, with its pyramid frontage and lofty palms, then a nearby restaurant sign snags her attention: Musso & Frank Grill.

  She puzzles for a moment, then remembers that it’s the name of the restaurant Guy described. Nothing flashy. Its bland exterior makes it almost ignorable, and yet…she remembers the way Guy described it, the passion in his voice, his warm charm and ever-expanding enthusiasm. She winds down her window, and as the warmth of the Hollywood afternoon floods into the cab, she leans out with her phone and takes a photograph of Musso’s. Then before she can question herself, she sends it to Guy with a message.

  Tempted? J x

  Immediately, she regrets her action, realizing such a gesture cannot be construed as anything other than flirtatious. She shoves her phone back in her bag, scrunches her face, berates herself. Why blur the lines? It’s not fair to Tim. Even if he doesn’t understand her desire to fly to LA, that doesn’t mean he deserves betrayal. So thank goodness Guy doesn’t respond to her message, bringing the flirtation to a sound and sensible dead end.

  ***

  Jossop’s of Rodeo Drive. The window displays say it all. The kind of jewelry that makes her shudder—big, blinding bling, solely aimed at demonstrating wealth and status, favored by ladies who lunch and host charity balls. Jess pushes open the door, expecting to be wafted with a you’re-not-our-typical-client vibe, but is greeted pleasantly by an elderly woman with sharp eyes, wearing an equally sharp suit dress and an edgy plastic choker that betrays her tolerance for the gaudy merchandise in the window.

  “Hello, dear. How can I help?”

  Jess smiles, wondering where to start. “I–I’m afraid I’m not here to buy jewelry. I’m on something of a mission.”

  “A mission? Well, that does sound exciting.”

  “I believe my great-grandmother may have once worked for this company, back when it made costume jewelry for movies.”

  “Ah, we certainly made jewelry for the movies. All the studios used us. MGM. Warner. Universal. From 1925 right through to the early fifties.”

  “You don’t anymore?”

  “Sadly no. Other companies got in the way, doing things on the cheap, cutting corners. Jossop’s always prided themselves on making costume look convincing. Bette Davis loved one of our emerald-effect brooches so much that she took it home with her. But when producers would no longer pay for our high standards, we started to focus on retail. I’m Ellen. Marti Jossop, our founder, was my grandfather.”

  Jess smiles, feels an instant kinship with this woman.

  “How lovely to meet you.”

  “You too, Miss—”

  “Taylor. I’m Jess Taylor.”

  “Please to meet you, Miss Jess Taylor. So tell me about this great-grandmother of yours—”

  “Her name was Anna Taylor. I believe she worked at Jossop’s in the 1930s. She came from Wales originally. I don’t suppose you’d remember? Or have any employment records? Or anything that relates to her? She got engaged to a movie producer. You might know of him…Christopher Roderick—”

  Ellen nods.

  “I do indeed. Christopher produced Descent of the Sun, which was Jossop’s biggest-ever project. We made nearly four thousand separate items for that movie. ‘We don’t make the fine stuff here,’ Marti used to say. ‘We just gotta make it look like the fine stuff.’ It’s no secret that picture turned out to be a dud, but production chucked every shiny thing they had at it, so we chucked our shiny little selves in there too, made our name from bangles and cutlass clips. For years, the ruby skull-and-crossbones brooch was Jossop’s signature piece. It even got popular in Paris. Several fashion houses tried to copy it.

  “Back then, of course, we weren’t the high-class jewelry shop you’re standing in now. We had a huge warehouse on the Boulevard, near Colombia. Mostly storage with workstations and dusty floors—it was a hot mess. Marti liked it that way, but when I took over in the seventies, with the way the business was changing, I knew it was time for an upgrade. So we came to Rodeo Drive. Do you like jewelry, dear?”

  “I love all kinds of jewelry.”

  “So you take after Anna—”

  “Then you know about her?”

  “I know of her. I know she played a part in Jossop’s success. Wait a second. I have something that might interest you.”

  She disappears to the back of the shop, then returns with a box.

  “This is a bunch of keepsakes that we took from the old premises when we moved. Take a look.”

  She pries off the lid of the box, revealing piles of invoices, pamphlets, and a few black-and-white photos of lighting rigs, costume rails, jewelry samples, and props—mostly swords and barrels. She sifts through them with her manicured red talons.

  “Here,” she says, removing one of th
e photographs and presenting it to Jess. “This might tell you something.”

  Anna! It’s clearly Anna—those unmistakable Taylor cheeks! Jess grins; her great-grandmother, suddenly vivid in front of her, all the way from the 1930s! As she draws the photograph closer, observing every detail of Anna’s rayon day dress and pin curls, her hands start to quiver. Right here, this is her ancestry, her kin, the origins of her existence.

  Anna is not the only person in the photograph. She appears to be midwork, fitting a faux bronze cuff to a sweaty-looking actress in a gold lamé playsuit. The look of concentration, the slight but natural smile on her lips, suggests she is only semi-aware of the lurking camera lens.

  “That’s on set, preparation for the ‘pirate slave’ scene,” Ellen explains. “Marti used to say Anna was the darling of the costume department. Had a real soft spot for her, with her instinct for color and an eye for what worked, always making sure everything was symmetrical. She was liked by the cast, too, because she didn’t just care about the appearance of the costumes, but about comfort. Look at those gem-encrusted shoulder straps that poor girl’s wearing, hideously scratchy, but Anna would have made sure they had enough padding.”

  Jess’s attention is drawn to a young, suited man standing behind them, slightly in shadow.

  “Who’s that?”

  “That, dear girl, is Christopher Roderick. No doubt wading in, about to insist those bangles are fitted tight.” Ellen rolls her eyes. “That man,” she says, with an irritated tone, “was the bane of Marti’s life. Apparently he constantly demanded more chains and bangles, then the minute he came on set, he complained the jangling drove him nuts. Told us we needed to make silent jewelry.”

  “Was he a good producer?”

  “He was a fastidious daddy’s boy. Uptight and snappy tempered, leaned too heavily on his prestigious family name. Marti thought he lacked the gifts a talented producer needs, used his bullishness to hide it.”