I grab my sketchbook, pencil and cross the cool sand. Crashing waves, wind, and the call of seagulls usually soothe but my cell phone keeps ringing, interrupting my efforts to chill. I put the phone on vibrate and shove it in my backpack.
Sand cradles me when I plop down, settle in. I take a deep breath. My pencil scratches over the paper in short, jagged bursts sketching the choppy mass of sea. My phone vibrates continually.
I rip the page from the sketchbook, crush it between my fists, stuff it in my backpack. Take another deep breath of thick, sea air. Start over.
Dad loved that I drew. “You’ve got a gift, that’s wonderful. Have you considered art school?” he’d asked.
“Art’s not what you call a real job.”
He eyed me. “I faired pretty well.”
Yeah. It’s hard not to let resentment infect me. Of course I’d like to spend the rest of my life creating.
Once, when Judy had been away and I’d been at the house for one of our once-a-month visits, he’d taken me into his office, shut the door and unlocked the top drawer of his desk. He’d pulled out the snapshot of Grace Doll—the one from the safe deposit box— and said, “There’s a face for you to draw.”
After I’d sketched the photo, Dad wanted it, but Mom got first dibs on anything I drew. Mom took one look at the Grace Doll image and her eyes had widened. She’d examined the drawing: Grace’s long dark hair—the floppy hat— peasant blouse. I could tell by the look on her face she was conflicted. “It was a color photograph?”
I nodded.
Mom looked off in thought, then back at my sketch.
“Have you ever seen it before?”
She shook her head and handed me the drawing. “No.” An odd silence had tightened the air.”But then there are probably a lot of pictures of Grace Doll out there the world hasn’t seen.”
I hadn’t had the heart to tell her Dad had kept that one locked away in his desk.
“You think I could get anything for the sketch?”I’d asked.
“A Grace Doll sketch that good? Why not?”
I ended up entering the piece in a contest at the Hollywood Civic Center for young artists and I won five hundred dollars.
The sketch sold to a collector.
Dad was angry I’d sold it. He didn’t talk to me for three months after that.
That was the only money I’d ever made with my drawings. Mom didn’t mind my love of art—as a hobby. But she wanted me to major in something practical like business or law. I got that.
My pencil seems to draw of its own accord now. Soft, rounded strokes. Cheeks. Eyes. Wispy hair, blown by the sea breeze.
Grace Doll.
The picture from the safe deposit box comes to life in my head. Her eyes blink. Her lips part, as if she’s going to say something.
I darken the sky around her face using fingertips to smudge in angry clouds. Her eyes look at me with that look I can’t identify. She’s got a smile that steals your soul, and I spend forever making sure I catch that essence in my sketch.
By the time I finish, the sky over my head is two shades darker, the temperature in the air has dropped a few degrees. I hold the drawing in my hands and stare at it.
She’s alive.
I’ve purged myself and finally rise, gathering my crumpled papers. I cross the empty sand back to the street. You can’t run away from what life gives you, Mom used to say. Her death taught me that. The pain is deep, and penetrating as a sunburn, and feels like it’ll never go away.
Solomon’s not going away unless I make him go away. I’d rather do anything than return to Dad’s house. If I meet with the man, it’ll kill some time, and I’ll make some money. Maybe Judy will be asleep if I can b.s. the old guy long enough.
I retrieve my phone. Fifteen calls from Judy, twelve from Solomon. Jeez.
I hit Solomon’s number and wait.
“Yes Brenden?”
“I can meet now.
A long pause follows. “Twenty-one Chalon Road. I’ll expect you within the hour.” Click.
Who does this guy think he is? Part of me wants to call him back and tell him to shove his demands where the sun doesn’t shine. But I need the money, and I’ve got the day.
I head to Beverly Hills.
This winter’s the coldest it’s ever been in Los Angeles. I shudder, crank the heater—which labors to blow warm air. I plug my earbuds in, but the rock blasting from my iPod doesn’t distract me.
What does the man want?
It’s hard to see addresses in this part of Beverly Hills. Everything’s designed to hide. I round the corner of a massive property surrounded by a wall covered in ivy. A scary looking black iron gate closes off the driveway. A stone plaque in the brick arch houses the address.
I stop at the security tower. A camera, a phone. I pick up the phone. It rings once.
“Hello?” A voice addresses me.
“I’m here to see Mr. Solomon.”
“Name?”
“Brenden Lane.”
“Proceed.” Click.
On top of the ivy-drenched walls sit cylindrical video cameras. The gates slowly open. A narrow, foliage-lined drive seems to never end, winding around and around. At the top I see the mansion: white stucco with a red tile roof. Its windows, French doors, and balconies are shrouded and dripping in red bougainvillea.
I round the fountain and park. The fountain is King Neptune, surrounded by mermaids holding their breasts while water spews. Okay.
A fourteen-foot door made of hand-carved wood sits deep inside a mosaic-tiled vestibule. I lift the brass knocker and let it fall, sending a clang into the cool air and echoing beyond the thick barrier, through the house.
The door opens. I’m greeted by the silver-haired man who approached me yesterday at the beach. He plasters a fake smile on his face. “Brenden. Please come in.”
I step into a two-story entry. The floors are laid with big red tiles and an elegant stairway curves up to the second level. The place smells like a funeral. The walls are white. White flowers of every kind crowd cubby holes, spill from giant vases, and stretch out on tabletops.
“Follow me, please.” I trail the silver-haired man down a hall and through a wide, arched opening. We step down into a spacious room. Dark beams hold up white vaulted ceilings. Everything’s white. Couches, chairs—retro furniture like I’ve just stepped on an old 40s movie set.
In this room, portraits of Grace Doll cover every inch of wall space. Is the old man going to drill me about her?
My stride slows. I don’t want to stare, but can’t stop myself. She’s beyond beautiful, her round eyes like lonely mirrors, begging me to keep looking. Then I see it. My sketch—framed in black—sits on a table next to a couch. My heart dips. My escort clears his throat. I notice we’re not alone. A bald man sits in a huge black wing chair facing French doors that look out to a garden and a pool, pool house, and cabana. I only see the top of his head, and his hand, resting on the arm of the chair. His scalp is mealy, blotched red. His hands are the same.
The servant faces his employer. “Brenden Lane is here.” The assistant gestures me over. I round the chair, eyes latched on who I assume is Rufus Solomon.
Bile shoots up my throat. Black eyes peer at me through a face disfigured with taut scar tissue pulled over bone.
“Mr. Solomon, Brenden Lane.”
Solomon’s lips are raw, gleaming slits. “Mr. Lane.”
Disgust shackles my muscles and bones. What happened to him?
“You can leave us, Roger.” Solomon’s crow-black eyes lock on me. He dismisses his assistant. “Tell me,” he says. “What made you change your mind? The money?”
My mouth opens to answer, but his appearance is so disgusting and distracting, words flee my brain. His eyes narrow.
I nod.
Puckered skin on his neck shifts when he moves, opening and closing craters left by the scarring. I steady my breath, the sight is so revolting. My gaze flicks to my sketch, then back to this sca
rred piece of flesh in front of me.
“Your sketch,” he says. “Is one of my favorites.”
“You’re the collector?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He gestures to the walls surrounding us, covered with Grace Doll’s image. “My favorite subject. Sit.” He points to a nearby chair. I lower into the seat.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“I tried to save my wife from a fire. Did your father ever speak of me?”
Dad hadn’t talked about him. Mom had in passing. But if I wanted to milk this guy for money, I’d have to elaborate. I lift a shoulder.
Moments crawl by. His lips open, a line of saliva dribbles out one side. I feel like I’m at a circus freak show, not a mansion in Beverly Hills sitting with an old Hollywood legend. He digs into the pocket of his black slacks and pulls out a white hankie, dabs at his mouth. “I’m not paying you to stare. Did your father ever talk about me?”
“No.”
“Did he ever talk about my wife, Grace Doll?”
I lie.“Sometimes, yeah.”
“What did your father tell you?
I swallow. “He was her makeup artist.”
His eyes are shark-like. “And?”
Two hundred bucks. Can I stretch it to four?
“And he liked working for her. She was the best in the biz.”
What used to be an eyebrow lifts. He’s not amused by my answer and can see right through me.
“He was married,” I spit out in my defense. “He didn’t spend a lot of time talking about other women.”
More long, tense moments drag by. His stare sends a dagger down my spine. “How often did you see Jon?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Jon was a workaholic. I imagine that left little time for being a father.”
“He was retired by the time I was born,” I snap.
“What else did he say about Grace?”
Lie, lie, lie. “Like I said, he had great times with her back in the day.”
“You’re not telling me everything. Jonathan was devoted to Grace. Without question she was the most magnanimous star the world has ever seen. I find it difficult to believe he didn’t say more about her.”
My fingers dig into my knees. I itch from head to toe with discomfort. I hate lying, even for the money. It’s not worth it. I want to get out of here.
“Your father didn’t spend much time with you, did he?”
I avert my gaze for a second. Anger and disappointment sprint through my system. I lift a shoulder. “He remarried.”
“Did he ever go away for extended periods of time? Without explanation?”
Breath steams in my chest. I don’t have to admit that to this guy.
“This may seem insignificant to you,” Solomon continues. “But it’s very important to me.”
I swallow again—he eyes my throat. I start to sweat. My gaze flicks to the wall, covered with Grace’s photos, paintings—then to my sketch. “Why do you care what Dad did?”
“Anything at all you can tell me about Grace.”
“Okay, okay. He said that he liked doing her makeup over all the other actors. He said she was nice. Really sweet. They were good friends. Pals. ” How long can I continue to blow smoke? In reality, Dad only got a far off look in his eyes if Grace was mentioned. Solomon remains eerily silent. “He said she was a hard worker. Talented. That everybody loved her. He wished she hadn’t died.”
His knuckles whiten on the arms of the chair. “Do you think I’m stupid, Mr. Lane?”
“You asked, I’m answering.”
“You expect me to buy this cockamamie crap?”
“You’re the one who called me.” I sit forward. “What did you think I was going to say?”
“Jon was Grace’s confidant. He spent hours with her day after day, year after year. She was his priority over everyone else in his life. What did he tell you?”
A sudden surge of anger races inside of me. This man is sick. “Yeah, he did spend hours a day with her—a billion years ago. He moved on. Had a family. He had a life.” The lie about family is bitter on my tongue. “Something you should think about doing.”
I’m done.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His pocked skin begins to redden like a fire burns beneath the surface. Pleasure trickles through my veins.
I stand, glare down at him. His eyes widen. “He also told me you finally got what you deserved.” Another lie, but this one isn’t bitter. I relish the shock on his face.
The air in the room thickens with his rage. But I feel powerful. This guy’s no threat. He’s an invalid. And he’s not going anywhere looking like a monster. “Actually, he didn’t tell me that,” I say.”I figured that much out by myself.”
“Roger!” Solomon’s voice booms.
Before the hound appears, I step closer. “Keep your money. You need some serious plastic surgery.” I start for the front door. Solomon curses. And curses. I steal glances at the photos and portraits of Grace, hanging on the walls because I have to. It’s as if her voice calls out to me in distant whispers, and I can’t look away. Her haunted eyes, her beauty. No wonder Dad loved her.
Roger enters the room just as I exit.
“Leave me the hell alone,” I bark over my shoulder.
The scent of flowers in the entry hall brings the funeral to mind.
Dad, what else did you know about Grace Doll?
* * *
I drive to Dad’s. I’m still broke, but I’m glad I told the man off. On the other hand, deep inside my gut, panic swarms like wasps when I think about Solomon’s rage. Have I kicked open a nest?
Whatever.
I zip through constant traffic on Sunset Boulevard. The trip was a waste. Now, the gas tank is half empty and I don’t have any money to put more fuel in it.
My stupidity grinds on me.
I’ve been gone four hours, not long enough to go back and face Judy.
My cell phone rings. Solomon. He wants more? Bring it on.
“What?”
“You have something I want.”
“Good skin maybe?”
Silence.
“Your father had something to do with Grace’s disappearance. I’ve spent the last sixty years putting pieces together and—”
“Look, if you want to spend your time chasing ghosts, go for it. My dad is dead. So is Grace. If you want to see her so bad, go walk into another fire.” I click off the phone, toss it into the empty seat next to me.
My hands shake. I’ve just thrown a log onto a blaze.
Chapter Seven
At the house, I find the garage empty. Judy’s black Jaguar is gone. Since I’ve lived here I’ve noticed she takes off a lot. Maybe it was her way of getting back at Dad for all the years he took his mystery trips. Not that I care. I just don’t want her giving me crap because I take off, when she does the same thing.
Dad’s black ‘69 Camaro sits abandoned in the third car spot. Dad loved that car; it still gleams in showroom condition.
The house is tomb quiet and just as dark. The sky outside is matted with clouds. The scent of carnations, roses, and lilies soaks the air. Judy’s put all of Dad’s flowers—the ones that didn’t fit around the grave—in every room. I’m breathing in the funeral all over again and it reminds me of my visit with Solomon. Of his scarred face. My stomach rolls.
A cold draft slithers through the empty halls. I take advantage of the privacy and head to Memory Lane. I never feel like I can linger and look at the photos hanging on the wall, not with Judy lurking at my heels. So many faces are recognizable. It was outrageously cool, what he did for a living. Secretly, I’m glad I inherited his artistic talent.
But what should I do with it?
He encouraged me to explore the arts, with the honest warning to stay away from the entertainment business. “It’s not what it looks like,” he’d said.
What it looks like, as I stand staring at the wall of black-and-white and color eigh
t-by-ten glossies, is a great time. It’s easy to tell someone not to do something, but what if I could follow in his footsteps?
I can think of worse things to do with a day. Or a life.
There are no pictures of Grace Doll here. Up until today it hasn’t occurred to me why. She was his big claim to fame. No doubt Judy couldn’t stand for having the famous star’s photos in the house. Which explains Dad locking up the old picture in the safe deposit box. But he must have had other pictures of her. They had a history, even though it was decades ago.
A craving eats at me to know more about Grace. Her vulnerable gaze had stared back from those images hanging on the walls of Solomon’s place like she was there in the flesh, captured.
What exactly did Solomon think had happened between Dad and her?
My hands go clammy. Was Mom right? Had Dad been in love with Grace Doll? Maybe they’d had an affair. Even if that was true, Solomon was demented if he carried a grudge this long.
But Grace isn’t dead. And Solomon thinks I know something. Did he have any inkling she was still alive?
Stepping into Dad’s office, I suck in a deep breath. His scent—Old Spice cologne—is quickly fragmenting. My hands open and close.
All that I missed…
I can’t be in the room any longer.
I head to the guest room and stop in the jamb, breath stalling in my chest. It’s a shamble of upturned bedding, tossed books, drawers and closet. The crank windows are wide open. I’d left them closed.
I dig my phone out of my pocket, dial Judy.
“So now you’ve decided to call me?”she chirps.
“Someone broke into the house.”
“What?” she shrieks. “When? How? I just left. The Oscars. Did you see if the Oscars are still—”
“I’m looking now.” I run through the halls until I’m in the living room. Oscar one for Paradise Found. Oscar two for Lifetime Achievement. Everything is else perfect. Untouched. “They’re okay.” My gaze sweeps the house as I walk through each room, heart pounding. What if the intruder is still here? “It doesn’t look like they did anything but trash my room.”
“Your room? What would anyone want in there?”
Grace Doll Page 5
