by Luna Joya
Joe slammed the horn and yelled profanity at another driver before continuing the conversation like nothing had happened. “I called the man who bought Sunny’s mom’s personal effects in a lot at auction. He’s agreed to give you access to his storage of collectibles in exchange for an acknowledgment if the story goes to print. Or a blip on the movie screen. Everyone wants to be famous, you know. But you gotta go tonight. He and his staff leave for Morocco for six weeks tomorrow.”
After a brief exchange of place and time to meet the collector, Joe rambled about his current project. Before his brother could end the call without so much as a “later,” like usual, Sam asked the question lurking in his brain since the library.
“You know anything about our mother having a sibling?” He thought about Cami’s relationship with her older sisters. “Or maybe a half-sibling from a prior marriage?”
Joe’s irritated snort stopped him. “We both know Mother is an only child.”
Sam had believed the same, but some digging online for his grandmother’s obituary had turned up the name Mitch Abrams in one other local newspaper. He had failed to discover any information on the man. It was as though he never existed before or after the one-line mention. “Does Mitch Abrams ring any bells? Maybe a brother she didn’t talk about”
“You saying Mother has some kind of evil twin brother? That’s soap opera shit.”
Sam’s eyes widened. He hadn’t been saying any such thing, but now Joe had mentioned it, his mind seized on the idea.
Joe laughed. “Oh, that’s rich, baby brother. This is why I’m the writer in the family. Do us all a favor. Keep to flipping burgers.”
Sam wasn’t surprised when the line went dead. Eight hours later, he’d gotten everything under control at the restaurant for his assistant manager to handle the few hours to closing. He pulled to a stop in front of Cami’s building. When she came out smiling and swinging an overnight bag, he hurried out of the truck. He wanted to help with her bag, sure, but mostly he needed some of her refreshing sweetness. Talking about his parents always left him bitter.
“I’m so glad I had the night off so I could come.” Cami swung into the truck. “How exciting to see Leslie Sol’s possessions firsthand. Maybe Sunny’s mom kept some of her things. Oh thanks.” She leaned toward him for a kiss when he took her bag. Sam lingered over her mouth, letting each sensation pull him back to safer waters.
He hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed in whatever they found. Celebrity auctions could be hit or miss. Much like the storage bidding reality television show that aired in a time slot behind Lottie’s favorite show about the LaVay family of fake Voodoo priestesses, the lots of property bid off at a celebrity auction might contain a treasure trove or a load of useless crap.
The worry haunted him as the underpaid lackey shuffled to unlock the large storage rental. He pushed the creaky door and pulled the chain on the bulb. Stacks of crates, bins, and boxes towered haphazardly to the ceiling with only two narrow walking paths cut through the mess. Joe had called this guy’s boss a collector? More like hoarder. How would they find the right parcels in this claustrophobic cluster?
“This way.” The slight man with the pinched face continued down the right side. Sam followed, clearing a path for Cami while watching overhead to make sure the jumbled maze didn’t topple on them. The precarious stacks constricted to a small opening.
Sam plunged ahead and found something wholly unexpected when the man flipped a switch. Dust particles danced like fairy lights through the illumination as a bank of ceiling lamps flickered to life. Blinking against the growing brightness, he faced three long rows of neatly shelved and itemized rubber bins. All the containers were stark grey or dark blue with small white labels taped on the side near the top. Only their sizes differed.
“Let’s see.” The man rolled a ladder down the left corridor. He quietly mumbled a listing which made no sense to Sam, but had him reaching for the middle shelf at the end of the center row. He tapped two different bins. “These are the items.”
He stepped into the shadows for Sam to lift the heavy bins to the floor. “I must get back to my employer. I will lock the door from outside. There’s a safety latch inside somewhere underneath the front unsorted collections. I’ll leave a heavy doorstop to keep the entrance opened. Try not to get locked inside. My employer would be disappointed to find deceased family members of a favorite writer on his property.”
The man sounded as though he discussed inconveniences, a worrisome bother, not death. How could the man be so pale beneath his mop of greasy black hair? Sam started to ask a question, but when he turned, the man was already gone.
“Well, that was creepy.” Cami shuddered. “Do you feel like we’ve walked into the set of a don’t-go-in-there horror show?”
He had, but didn’t want to admit it out loud. “Let’s get through these, and we can get out of here.”
They each opened a bin and raced to sort the contents. Bundled clothes, dull costume jewelry, hair pins and clasps, dirty makeup brushes, and perfume bottles went into one pile. Framed pictures, photo albums, scrapbooks, tattered leather-bound notebooks, and twine-bound envelopes and papers into another.
“I read Sunny Sol’s ashes were buried in her mother’s casket almost thirty-five years after the actress’s death.” Cami brushed her hands against each other. Small dust clouds puffed and faded.
He nodded. “Leslie Sol loved her daughter. After she’d lost her son when he was just a kid and her husband’s heart attack, Sunny was the last of Leslie’s family.”
She gestured toward the stack of papers and photographs. “Let’s start there.” They each pulled from the documents. She wrestled a bulky leather-bound book. “Articles about Sunny’s career in this scrapbook. How she started out in a training school for actors.” She flipped through the large volume. “Through her short films and supporting actress roles in male comedies.” She flicked the flashlight from her phone over the yellowed pages.
Sam opened an overstuffed envelope. “Marilyn scanned a large collection of articles from the year or two after Sunny’s death for us.” He flipped through bills, invoices, and receipts. “Nothing here except Leslie’s finances.”
“Marilyn’s pretty awesome.” She hefted another scrapbook with a torn cover into her lap, wiping away dark smudges and grime.
He agreed and started into another bundle of bills. “I’ll forward you the scans and release forms the library requires.” Two of the envelopes in his hand fell to pieces on the floor. Dangers of handling documents at least sixty years old. She started to reach for them, but he waved her off. “Huh.” He held a fallen torn slip of paper to her bright light. “I’m sorry. F.” The shaky scrawl smeared across the paper. “Wonder what that’s about.”
“Look. Here’s the same photograph posed at the Brown Derby you found at the library.” She spun the book in his direction. He brushed his hands over her fingers to steady the phone and resisted the temptation to linger. The faster they finished inventory of the collection, the faster he could get her somewhere more romantic than a cold, dirty cement floor.
He angled the light. “That’s definitely Arturo Davino behind her. Otherwise known as Artie the Hat. He and his brothers ran a gambling business. After they were run out of Vegas by the East Coast Syndicate, he turned a heavy profit on offshore gambling on a couple of luxury ships he converted.”
He searched his mental file cabinet of local historical facts. “Davino didn’t get his biggest gaming ship going until the late thirties.” He flipped to the back of the scrapbook. It ended before Sunny died.
She finished paging through the book, and they both searched invitations, promotional photos, scripts, and personal papers for clues. Finding nothing, he thumbed through small hardback volumes of poetry—Bronte, Dickinson, and Plath. He leafed through the first book only to find none of Sylvia Plath’s poetry in the slim volume with the broken spine. On impulse, he checked the other two volumes.
“Cami.” He
tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he scanned the long lines of neat cursive with strikethroughs and blots of hastily composed handwriting. Each had long narrative of personal reflections. What if these false-covered volumes had been Leslie Sol’s secret hiding place to record her feelings?
“Hmm?” She pressed a fingertip against those pretty pink lips and dampened the edge with a flick of her tongue before turning a sticky page.
Every coherent thought flew from his brain except the need to kiss her, to borrow some of her sunshine and sweetness.
“Sam?” Her brows pulled together as she studied his face and looked down to the book he held. “You okay?”
He shook his head to clear it.
She tapped the book in his hand. “Find a favorite verse?”
“Even better.” He held up the three books. “Leslie Sol’s journals.”
“No.” Her reverent gush made him feel like he’d found a lost holy relic. She snatched one of the volumes from his hand.
He flipped to the end of Plath. “This one ends abruptly with a quarter of it blank. Maybe it’s the last.” It was hard to tell with the entries being undated and stream-of-consciousness free- flow writing.
For the better part of the next hour, the two of them read intently, sometimes sharing snippets out loud, other times flipping through rambles they couldn’t decipher. The entries in the beginning detailed daily observations, recipes, and musings. Many of her accounts revolved around her daughter.
After Sunny’s death, the journal seemed to morph into a more introspective function. In a few pages, it appeared Leslie used her writing as a sort of means to communicate with her daughter. In others, she scribbled accusatory rants in small, spiked handwriting. In the later entries, underlying threads of guilt and grief wove the passages together.
Cami bit the end of her pen. “Listen to this: ‘They talk of suicide. My bright girl would never have taken her life. She had plans and parties. I knew from the moment I heard of her death, they’d killed my Sunny. Now they assassinate her character, and I cannot bear it.’”
He turned a page in the Bronte volume. “She says Sunny was worried about a gangster. Leslie writes: Sunny told me she’d been approached at the restaurant after their publicity pictures by an underworld fellow with such nasty countenance. He threatened to open a gaming din above her café. Possibly where she lives now with vile Paul. I worry for my lovely girl.”
From the Dickinson volume, Cami read to him, “I cannot stop reliving the last night before my Sunny left to the party. Paul attacked her at the restaurant only a week before. I’d heard the rumors. Could I have prevented her death if I’d simply insisted she not go?”
She passed her cell phone to Sam as the flashlight dimmed. He glanced at the screen. No service. He checked his own phone and found the same. No wonder he hadn’t gotten any calls from the restaurant.
Cami continued, “Aida has apologized profusely, dear girl, for inviting Sunny’s ex-husband to the party. Mabel, poor woman, has written long letters detailing her affection for my daughter. I treasure these sentiments, but they can never bring my Sunny back.
The overhead lights flickered as they bent their heads, absorbing as much as possible of the journals. Cami rolled her shoulders and something audibly cracked. She groaned.
He reached a hand to massage away the ache. “Take a break. We’ll get as much information as we can tonight. I’m sure Joe can get us back in here when the collector returns to the States. Or maybe he can arrange access somewhere not so gloomy.”
She handed him her volume. “I’ll go through the clothing and tidy things so it’ll be easier next time.” She knelt over the bundles, sorting through while Sam continued reading.
“I found a page in the Plath volume where Leslie says, ‘One of the Davino bastard children has written me with slanderous accusations of my Sunny spending her last day cavorting with a lowlife criminal. He gives assurance she was delivered safely back to Casa Oceana. Preposterous.’” He snapped a photograph of the page with his phone. “It might be worth reaching out to see if anyone in the Davino family is still living.” He took a break from reading. “Find anything?”
“These hair clasps and pins are so ornate. I think I recognize this one from a photo of Sunny.” She withdrew plain hair pins from the same velvet pouch. “The way these were kept like precious jewels, I wonder if they all belonged to Sunny.”
He stared at the jeweled feather shape in her fingers. “I remember the photo. Sunny wore the pin on the front of a dark hat.” He looked back down at the journal. “She was convinced Sunny’s death was a result of the men she knew. She says here, ‘I blame Paul. I blame her ex. I blame all the men in her life and even the man in mine. Did seeing her father’s firm hand lead her to these violent men?’”
Cami folded the rest of the clothing into the bin, cushioning the glass bottles and makeup pots with the fabric. She’d stored almost everything except a few small items on the floor. He packed away the scrapbooks and photo albums, leaving the journals for last.
“Look at this.” She withdrew a small square of fabric from a silk pouch. The cutting shimmered in the light.
“What about it?” Clearly he’d not given the answer she’d been looking for based upon her insistent expression and the way she thrust the cloth at him. “It’s silver?” he guessed.
“Exactly, and it sparkles with intricate bead and thread work. It’s a scrap from an evening gown.” She spun it in front of his face so close he could notice the loose threads at the edge held with a fabric tape or glue. “I’ve examined black and white photographs of the crime scene, and the material was similar to this. Reports said the dress Sunny wore to the party and was still wearing when Mabel found her was a silver sparkling evening gown.”
Sam instinctively backed away. What a ghastly souvenir.
She must’ve seen the understanding in his face. “Yes.” She folded the small cutting.
“Talk about bringing history to life.” He stood to heft the document bin back onto the shelf. “You’d wanted to be closer to the mystery than clippings. Looks like you got your wish.”
He cradled the journals, hesitant to part with them. “Good thing Marilyn’s not here. She’d have me on monitored lockdown for sure with these treasures so close at hand and probably no one else knowing what they really are.”
Cami didn’t laugh. Hell, she didn’t even smile. He reluctantly returned the journals to the plastic storage tote. “At least we know where they are for next time.”
He reached for the other bin. She looked everywhere but his gaze. Was she nervous? Had the discovery finally made her jumpy? He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong when he heard it—a clicking noise like nails on cement. The light from the front room swung wildly, casting long shadows through the back room.
Sam jumped up. The man had locked the door. If someone was out there, they could be trapped in here with no cell phone reception. He grabbed for her and raced toward the entrance.
“Sam!” She dug in her heels stubbornly. Did she not know the danger they were in?
“We’ve got to go,” he insisted and pulled again, only to be stopped by her stubborn resistance. Seeing no hope for it, he swooped her onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Her short shriek turned into loud laughter before they reached the first shelf. She called his name through giggles. “It’s a cat. Put me down, Tarzan. It’s just a kitty.”
A cat? How’d she know it was a cat? He stopped and slid her to the floor. “You sure?”
The clicking resumed, followed by a swish of fallen papers.
She nodded. “I’m sure. It’s as scared as we are. I’ll corral it while you get Leslie’s things back on the shelf.”
“Hell, no. I’m not letting you traipse alone into the unknown with whoever or whatever is between us and the locked door we need to stay open.” He snapped the lid on the bin over the clothing and shoved it onto the shelf before stretching a hand toward Cami. She s
queezed his fingers. “Let’s go. I can’t risk us getting locked in here with our luck. At least we’ll be safe surfing Saturday morning.”
Chapter Fourteen
“You’re doing great,” Sam called.
Cami sat astride one of his boards. She splayed her hands before her, counting in her head the reasons she shouldn’t tap into her magic.
Her legs dangled in the water, the wetsuit she’d dug out of her closet snug against the chill. May mornings in Santa Monica brought cool air and even colder waters. The leash strap’s weight tugged at her ankle, a security measure she hadn’t needed before with her element.
“You’ve caught a couple of good rides.” He flashed a quick thumbs up of encouragement. “Don’t be nervous.”
She couldn’t tell him the real reason for her apprehension. The call to water overwhelmed her. She could do this. The ocean hadn’t rebuked her the last time. Maybe it’d accepted what she’d done after she’d been provoked by Neil. When she’d almost killed him. She shook off the memory. She could do this.
She swam hard strokes, letting the waves carry her up and out. Sam bobbed in the water farther out alongside the other surfers waiting for their waves. The sun peeked above the mountains to kiss her face.
Sam caught a wave and paddled from where he’d been almost twenty feet away. Cami waited for the next and floated along the currents. He balanced on his board and rode a wave in, cutting the nose through the water in an impressive zigzag of ups and downs dodging other surfers. This morning, he’d already caught air, cut left and then right to show off his skill or maybe just his abs, and even wiped out impressively a couple of times.
The most amazing sight had been watching the way his hands trailed through the water, an intimate caress like his fingers on her body, with the same strong connection as she’d had with the ocean before she’d turned her back on it. Watching his touch, she was jealous of what she’d lost.
The ocean had welcomed her when she needed to find Mina. Maybe refusing her element had been her own mistake.
