I got off at Devonshire, as instructed, and rode past a wider array of fast food franchises than I’d ever known existed before I spotted a huge sign for the Devonshire Grand Prix, which turned out to be a go-kart raceway. Or make that former go-kart raceway, because it was no longer in business. Boarded up. Padlocked. Gone. There was a vast trash-strewn parking lot where weeds grew in cracks in the pavement in a decidedly non-artful manner. But there was no Malibu High location shoot. No lights. No cameras. No action.
I pulled into the empty lot, shut off my engine and climbed off, pulling Patrick’s letter from my pocket to give it another look. Yes, I had come to the right place. Yes, I’d arrived at the correct time. Patrick hadn’t included his phone number on the letter. I decided I’d call Maritza to see if she had it. There was a payphone in front of the car wash next door. I started my way toward it on foot, Lulu ambling along next to me.
That was when a black Trans Am pulled into the raceway’s parking lot. I came to a halt, thinking that Patrick had sent someone to deliver me to a different location. Last-minute changes happen all of the time. I waited there for the Trans Am’s driver to pull up alongside of me and roll down his window. Except he didn’t do that.
He sped up.
And headed right for me.
My first response was to freeze in disbelief. But then my paternal instincts took over. Lulu. Bassets are scent hounds that were bred to hunt rabbits. Lulu’s sense of smell is second only to that of a bloodhound. Her first step is second only to that of a potted philodendron—which explains why I reached down, scooped her into my arms and dove all in one swift motion. I came down hard on my right shoulder and cheekbone just as the Trans Am sped past us, missing us by inches. My cheek burned instantly from smacking against the rough tar. So did my right knee. I lay there with Lulu squirming indignantly in my arms as the driver hit the brakes and turned around, gunning his engine. I couldn’t get a good look at him. The Trans Am’s windshield was tinted. And its California license plate was conveniently splattered with mud. I scrambled back up onto my feet with Lulu and readied myself as he started back at us, burning rubber . . . Only this time he swerved around us and kept right on going to the driveway, where he made a screeching left on two wheels, took off down Devonshire and was gone.
There was no mistake. I’d come to the right place. And I’d been given a message. Scram. And don’t let the door hit you in the ass.
Message received.
“What happened to your cheek?” Monette Aintree wanted to know.
“Lulu and I had a small disagreement. She can get a bit fierce.”
Elliot Schein let out a nervous chuckle, which was something I was about to discover he did a lot. Monette Aintree stared at me with chilly disapproval, which was something I was about to discover she did a lot.
It was nearly 6:00. Darkness had fallen. They were seated under the grape arbor at Monette’s glass and wrought iron dining table, sipping white wine. Maritza was in the kitchen making dinner. It was peaceful out there on the patio. So quiet I could hear Elliot’s breath wheeze in and out. Monette’s pudgy producer/manager was not in the greatest cardiovascular health.
“I love that kooky motorcycle you rode in on,” he said to me.
“It handles well. And style points for your use of the word kooky. Very Maynard G. Krebs.”
“It so happens that I used to represent Bob Denver.”
“Lucky you.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it, my friend. I had to fight off three other managers with my bare hands. One of them needed a neck brace and a tetanus shot by the time I was done with her.”
I’d been back at Aintree Manor for nearly an hour. When I returned I’d encountered four times as many photographers as when I’d left. Translation: The lady of the house was in the house. Her white Toyota Land Cruiser was parked out front near the crouching lions. I’d gone directly to my pool house, stripped and showered. My cheek stung a bit. My knee stung a lot. I dabbed at both wounds with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide that I found in the fully stocked medicine chest. My right shoulder ached. I washed down a couple of aspirin with a cold Dos Equis from my mini fridge and gave Lulu her supper. She was hungry and super pumped. Danger is her middle name. Mine, as you may recall, is Stafford. Not that we’d been in serious danger. The driver of that Trans Am hadn’t been sent to kill me. If he had I’d be dead right now.
My jeans had a three-inch tear in the right knee. I hung them from a hook on the back of the bathroom door. Stropped Grandfather’s razor and shaved. Dressed in my navy blue blazer, vanilla gabardine slacks, a white shirt, blue-and-yellow polka-dot bow tie and my spectator balmorals. I pulled the brim of my trilby low over my right eye, but it didn’t help. Monette had spotted that fresh scrape on my cheek right away when I’d found her there under the grape arbor with Elliot.
She stood up as I approached, as did Elliot. Monette was a tall woman. Not as tall as I am but nearly six feet tall in her low-heeled pumps, which made her a good eight inches taller than Elliot. She stuck out her hand, which was quite large, and gave me a firm handshake.
“What were you and Lulu disagreeing about?” she wanted to know.
“The usual. She likes Richard Gere.”
“And you don’t?”
“I think he has the emotional range of a napa cabbage.”
Monette studied me curiously. “You’re not exactly the sort of person I was expecting.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t intended as a compliment,” she said, raising her chin at me. Monette Aintree was a regal presence, no question about that. She was self-possessed, strong-willed and accustomed to getting her way. She held herself very erect in her cream-colored silk blouse and charcoal pleated slacks. Her back was straight, shoulders squared. She had long, shiny blond hair and the same aristocratic features as Reggie, albeit a bit more pronounced, as in almost but not quite masculine. Like Reggie, she had blue eyes. Unlike Reggie, hers were an unusually pale shade of blue. And when they grabbed hold of mine they didn’t waver or blink. They held on, assessing me, challenging me.
Elliot Schein, who was in his late fifties, resembled two extremely large green marshmallows as he stood there stuffed inside his matching lime green Nike warm-up jacket and pants. Elliot was freckle-faced and had a shock of red hair that was so toweringly frizzy that I couldn’t decide whether it was a perm or a rug. I didn’t want to think about it long enough to decide. He was a nervous little guy who blinked a lot and, as I mentioned, chuckled a lot. In his pudgy left hand he was clutching a mobile phone with a built-in antenna.
“We’re drinking Sancerre,” Monette informed me. “Will that do?”
“Always has.”
“I’ll get you a glass. I want to see how Maritza is doing with dinner.”
As soon as she’d gone inside Elliot hurriedly called someone on his mobile phone. “Can you hear me . . . ? No . . . ?” He struggled to his feet and hurried over in the direction of the pool. “How about now . . . ? Good, did you take care of that little problem? Good, good. Righto, bye.” He rang off and returned to the table, plopping himself down in his chair. “Small hiccough in today’s taping,” he explained. “Monette was interviewing a diet doctor who happened to use the phrase pregnant pause in passing—meaning nothing untoward—but the studio audience jumped on it and went ‘Oooh . . .’ on account of this Pat ’n’ Kat bullshit. I just made sure our sound editor took it out. We do not need to be feeding the beast.”
“No, you do not.”
Elliot Schein was a showbiz legend. He’d been a small-time manager of stand-up comics in New York back in the early seventies when one of his clients had come up with the idea for Coming Soon, an ingenious low-budget film comedy that was nothing more than a dozen hilarious ten-minute previews for major Hollywood motion pictures that didn’t actually exist. They were equal-opportunity spoofs of big-budget sci-fi spectaculars, low-budget slasher fests, hard-boiled cop films, romantic comedies, dis
aster epics, you name it—complete with soaring music, basso profundo narration and a campy B-list of has-been performers like Mr. T, Erik Estrada and Charo. Elliot scrounged up the financing for Coming Soon and served as its executive producer. It was such a huge box-office smash that it spawned two hit sequels and prompted Elliot to move to L.A. to launch his own production company. He was currently producing three successful prime-time sitcoms as well as Monette’s syndicated daytime show, which he and Monette jointly owned. Elliot was a multimillionaire power player, yet he still came across like a small-timer. He also came across like someone who cared about Monette. There was concern on his face as he gazed at her through the kitchen window.
“I’m glad that you’re here,” he confided to me. “Monette really, really needs for this project to happen.”
“Why is that?”
“Because she’s in trouble. Her last two books lost so much money that her publisher just flat out rejected her newest proposal. She wanted to do a gardening book. Had a photographer all lined up and everything.” He shot a worried glance at me. “You didn’t know?”
“Somehow, Boyd Samuels neglected to tell me that part.”
“I don’t like that guy.”
“No one likes that guy. And you?”
“What about me?”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Elliot swallowed uneasily. “Our show’s bleeding stations from coast to coast. Twenty good-sized markets have bailed on us in the past two weeks. This mess with Patrick is killing her image. Who wants to take lifestyle advice from a woman whose husband just ditched her for a nineteen-year-old tramp? Monette is in real trouble, my friend. She needs a game changer in the worst way. This business with her father could be it, am I right?”
“It could be.”
He folded his hands across his belly, studying me. “Everybody I talk to tells me you’re the best. Top of the list. King of the hill. A-number-one.”
“You’re not going to break into ‘New York, New York,’ are you?”
“You’d better be.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’m going to be very upset. And you do not want to be around me when I’m upset.”
At my feet, Lulu let out a low, protective growl. Me, I had nothing to say. It never occurred to me that Elliot Schein had gotten to where he was by being a cuddly teddy bear. He’d felt it necessary to make absolutely sure I knew it. I’m accustomed to such threats by members of a celebrity’s inner circle. They wash right over me.
Monette returned with my wineglass, poured me some Sancerre and said, “Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes.” She was sitting back down with us when Elliot’s mobile phone rang.
“This’ll just take a second,” he said, answering the call. “Hello . . . ? Wait, I can’t hear you.” He got up and waddled off in the direction of the pool again. “Can you hear me . . . ?” And waddled still farther. “How about now . . . ?”
“All of the movers and shakers must talk on those silly things,” she said drily. “They remind me of little boys playing with walkie-talkies.”
“Hang on, I’ll try the other side of the pool . . . !”
Monette gazed at me in that direct, unblinking way of hers. “How long are you prepared to stay?”
“As long as it takes. But if that letter’s genuine, and I have every reason to believe it is, then your dad will reach out to you again very soon. You’re absolutely sure that no one other than you, he and Reggie know that he used to call you Olive Oyl?”
“No one else knows about that.”
“Not even Patrick?”
“No one,” she repeated, her gaze hardening. “I understand that you’re to be well compensated no matter what happens.”
“Your plumber doesn’t give away his time for free. Neither do I.”
“No, of course not.” She softened slightly. “I didn’t mean for that to sound . . . I’m just not sure I understand what sort of a book will come out of this.”
“You don’t have to be sure. That’s where I come in.”
“Perhaps you can explain something to me . . .”
I sipped my wine, which was dry and quite good. “I can try.”
Elliot returned to us, mobile phone in hand, and said, “That young comic of mine from Iowa? The one with the cowlick? He’s having an anxiety attack over the network’s notes on his pilot script. I gotta go hold his head while he vomits. Will you kids be okay without me?”
“We’ll be fine, Elliot,” she assured him.
He handed me his business card. “Holler if you need anything. There’s nothing I won’t do for this lady. I’ll call you later, hon,” he promised, wheezing as he padded off in the direction of the driveway.
I heard his car start, followed by the sound of tires on gravel. A moment later the front gate opened and there was a great deal of shouting from the paparazzi camped out on the street. Then he drove off and all was quiet again.
“I feel so bad for our neighbors,” Monette reflected. “This is normally such a quiet neighborhood.”
“What did you want me to explain to you?”
Monette reached for her wineglass, staring down into it. “I came home late last evening from Burbank. Our postproduction meeting went on until practically ten o’clock. I didn’t feel like taking the freeway. I was tired and people drive too damned fast. So I came over the hill on Coldwater. It takes a bit longer but it’s a more relaxing drive. Or it usually is . . .” She sipped her wine. “I was up near Mulholland by Coldwater Canyon Park, starting my way down the hill, when I realized that someone was right up on my tail. There are a lot of steep twists and turns up there, and very little traffic at that time of night. He flicked his brights on and started honking at me, forcing me to go faster than I wanted to. And then I swear he tried to shove me over the edge of a cliff. He would have, too, if I hadn’t hit the brakes when I did.”
“What happened when you hit the brakes?”
“He veered around me, stopped and started to back up—until I made him think twice about it.”
“How did you do that?”
“I got out and pointed my loaded Beretta at him.”
“I’m sorry, you did what?”
“This city isn’t safe anymore. We have to protect ourselves. Carjackers, they tap your bumper on a deserted street and when you get out they steal your car out from under you. It’s happened to three of my co-workers. But it’s not going to happen to me. I own two Berettas. I keep one in my glove compartment and the other in my nightstand. Why are you looking at me that way? Surely you keep a gun in your apartment in New York City for your personal protection.”
“No, I don’t. Lulu’s all the personal protection I need. So you pointed your Beretta at him and . . . ?”
“He floored it and took off.”
“Did you call the police?”
Monette shook her head.
“Why not?”
“The media would have gotten wind of it. I do not need that kind of publicity right now.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t just a cowboy with too many beers in him?”
“Positive. He tried to run me off the road. I just don’t understand why.”
“What was he driving?”
“A Trans Am.”
“Was it black?”
“Might have been. I’m not positive. Why do you . . . ?”
“Because I had an encounter with a black Trans Am myself this afternoon,” I said, fingering my cheek. “A letter from Patrick was waiting here for me when I arrived. He wanted me to meet him at a location shoot in Pacoima. The letter was on Malibu High stationery, arrived by studio messenger. It looked authentic enough. But when I got there nobody was around—until a black Trans Am pulled into the parking lot and tried to take me out.” Lulu snuffled indignantly at my feet. “Us out.”
Monette’s eyes had widened with alarm. “I won’t blame you one bit if you catch the next flight home.”
“Not to worry, I don’t s
care that easily. Any idea who was behind the wheel?”
“None,” she said with a shake of her head. “What I do know is that Patrick wants me spooked. He loves it that those paparazzi are lurking outside my gate. Loves the idea of me feeling trapped and desperate. I have a great deal more money than he has, you see, and he thinks he can stampede me into a divorce settlement that isn’t in my own best financial interest. He’s wrong. I’ll never cave just because of a few nasty headlines. Never.” She stared across the table at me with her steely pale blue eyes. “I’m going through a painful time, Hoagy. It hurts, morning, noon and night. But I’ll get through this. I have to. My children are counting on me.”
I thought about what Elliot had just confided to me about Monette’s faltering multimedia career, wondering yet again whether it was possible that this proud, ambitious woman had concocted the letter from Richard Aintree herself. “How did you feel when that letter from your father showed up?”
“May I be honest?”
“It would be nice.”
“I was frightened. I’m being forced to confront some very deep feelings that I’ve kept safely bottled up for most of my adult life.” She gave me her unblinking stare again. It was a bit disconcerting, though I was starting to get used to it. “How does Reggie feel about it? You’ve spoken with her, surely.”
“I have. She told me she felt nothing at all.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I did and I didn’t. I don’t know her very well anymore. In fact, I don’t know her at all. May I speak frankly?”
“It would be nice,” Monette answered tartly.
“I was always under the impression that you two detested each other.”
“Not really.” Monette brushed her hair back from her face with her fingers, which were long and slender. “I’ll admit that I used to resent her a tiny bit, but mostly I admired her. Reggie was genuinely gifted, in the same way that Mom and Dad were. Me, I’ve had to work incredibly hard to carve out a place for myself. Reggie was a pretty little girl, too, and this world of ours loves pretty little girls. It doesn’t love gigantic, strong-willed women. Mind you, Reggie’s plenty strong-willed herself, but she comes across as frail and helpless. I come across as a great big bitch.” Monette studied me over the rim of her wineglass. “I was always under the impression that you were the great love of her life.”
The Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes Page 7
