by Susan Kandel
“No trouble,” I said, standing up. “None at all.”
“April Fool!” said the gardener with the double chin. He was trying to help me out, which was nice.
“Today’s Halloween, my friend,” said John Wayne.
“Trick or treat!” I said, brandishing a Necco wafer.
The patrolman shook his head. “Not while I’m on duty.”
“We have green cards,” said the crew cut.
“What about you?” he asked me. “What’s your business here?”
“Just a tourist,” I said, smiling. “Visiting from Tucson. Go Suns!”
“I think all of you had better be moseying along,” he said.
“Would you look at the time?” I glanced at my watch. “Do you know the way back to the Bel-Air Hotel?”
“You a guest there?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Don’t leave before trying their tortilla soup,” John Wayne said. “It’s out of this world. The secret is the tomato base.”
The first gardener started yelling in Spanish.
The crew cut nodded vociferously, then stepped forward. “Tomatoes are not the secret. Masa flour is the secret.” He nodded. “My dad just wanted you to know.”
The Hitchcocks didn’t stay at 609 Saint Cloud for long. In the spring of 1942, they purchased an elegant colonial shaded by lush trees that backed directly onto the Bel-Air Country Club’s golf course. Number 10957 Bellagio Road was in move-in condition, but it took twenty years to complete the redesign of the kitchen.
For Hitchcock, eating was serious business.
His father, a grocer in London’s East End, insisted on potatoes at every meal. The habit stuck. Hitch wolfed them whole, halved, diced, sliced, boiled, baked, fried, sautéed, cottage-fried, double-baked, and, in his waning years, mashed. At age twenty-seven, he weighed two hundred pounds; at forty, he weighed close to four hundred. At forty-four, by his own admission, his ankles hung over his socks and his belt reached up to his necktie. Not that he particularly minded.
His weight was his armor, his insulation.
Which makes it doubly odd that in his work food is so unfailingly gruesome: the milk poisoned, the eggs scrambled to resemble brains, the ketchup explosive. Murder victims are baked into pies, then devoured. Corpses are concealed in sacks of potatoes. Chickens have necks meant to be strangled, and breasts—don’t ask.
But 10957 Bellagio Road would have to wait for another day.
I had a date in less than an hour.
I drove directly to the Hotel Bel-Air, known for its blue lake filled with white swans, beloved of brides and Oprah Winfrey, who threw a slumber party here when she turned forty. And for its tortilla soup, I hear.
“Checking in?” asked the valet, handing me a ticket.
“Um-hmm.” I grabbed the suitcase out of the trunk.
“Can I get that for you?” he asked.
“I can take care of it myself.”
I sailed past the registration desk and a bouquet of creamy white calla lilies, and walked downstairs to the bathroom, done up in pretty pinks and greens, where I proceeded to set up shop.
Out came the blue-black mascara, the black kohl liner, the baby pink blush, and the very berry gloss. The brush, the curling iron, and the mousse. The bronze ankle-wrap sandals and clutch. The plum, crimson, and fuchsia tiered dress with plunging neckline. The matching bolero. And a nearly empty bottle of Serge Lutens’s Fleur d’Oranger, which smells like the first day of spring.
Nobody bothered me for twenty minutes. After that, a maid came in with a feather duster and the wherewithal not to say a word. She dusted around my makeup, then disappeared, returning moments later with a garment steamer for my dress.
When I was ready, I went over to the concierge and asked for directions to Bonhams & Butterfields.
“Ah. The sale of Very Important Celebrity Memorabilia.” He checked his watch.
I nodded. It was almost seven.
The concierge said he’d be happy to provide me with a map. He wondered, though, if I knew about the complimentary limousine service, available for guests of the hotel for destinations within a five-mile radius. Before I could say a word, a man with a very black cap took my suitcase and led me out to a very black car with a very full bar in the back seat.
I poured myself a Diet Coke, put on some music, and sunk back against the plush leather seat.
Blondes may be nearing extinction, but they still know how to have more fun.
Chapter 40
The limo glided to a stop in front of Bonhams & Butterfields. The driver ran around to open my door. “When would you like me to come back for you, Miss?” he asked, extending a hand.
I had trouble pinpointing an answer. It depended on so many things. Whether or not I could muster up the nerve to confront Ben. Whether or not he’d admit what he’d done. Whether or not he’d try to get away. Whether or not he’d try to kill me.
I.e., could be thirty minutes, an hour, or don’t bother, I’ll be seeing you in the hereafter.
I stepped up onto the curb, opened my purse and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills. “Can you keep the motor running?” I was starting to believe I was rich. That couldn’t be good.
He tipped his hat and nabbed the dough simultaneously. “My pleasure.”
Inside, a pack of women wearing expertly tailored pantsuits prowled the Berber carpet. When they saw me, they bared their whitened teeth. Three of them tried handing me catalogs. Another proffered cocktail wieners. A fifth popped open a bottle of champagne. A sixth, all business, asked if I’d like to register to bid.
After photocopying the driver’s license I handed her (Anita’s), she gave me a paddle.
“The sale started a couple of minutes ago.” She gestured toward the open door. “But there are still some seats down in the front.”
I stood in the doorway, surveying the room. It reminded me of church. There were maybe seventy-five people seated on hard wooden chairs. Most were dressed in sober tones of black and gray. There were numerous hats. Half a dozen small dogs. At least two people dragging portable oxygen tanks. All eyes faced front, where the auctioneer was taking bids for Lot 1009, an unused check from the account of Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller at First National City Bank of New York. A photograph of the wrinkled check was projected on a flat screen TV over the podium, along with a snapshot of the unhappy couple on the set of The Misfits in 1961.
I turned to the young woman. “I need to know where the exits are.” Just in case.
“Are you a fire marshal?” All color drained from her face. “I didn’t know you people worked on holidays.”
“No, I’m an agoraphobe,” I replied, fanning myself with the paddle. “This is the first time I’ve left my house in seven months.”
“Good for you.” She pointed to two exit signs at the rear of the room, then fled.
No sign of Ben yet. I found two seats on the far aisle and squeezed past six annoyed people. “Sorry,” I said. “Almost there.” I sat down on a pair of glasses that apparently belonged to the woman on the other side of me.
“They’re Cartier,” she hissed, grabbing for my bottom.
“Allow me.” The frames were covered with tiny gold spikes. Good thing they hadn’t damaged my dress.
Now there was spirited bidding underway for Lot 1010, a pair of false eyelashes worn by Barbra Streisand in Hello, Dolly! They were handmade in Spain and came with adhesive. One of the combatants was a short woman wearing a ruby ring the size of a turkey gizzard and a triple strand of pearls you could barely see because of her chins. The other was an older gentleman who waved his gold-tipped cane in the air each time he wanted to increase the bid.
At $2800, the woman nodded her head.
At $3000, the gentleman’s cane shot skyward.
“Do I hear three thousand three hundred?” the auctioneer called out.
The bejeweled woman’s husband, who was wearing an ascot, began wrestling his wife for the paddle. She protested audibly. Everyone in the ro
om was now aware he’d never made a dime of his own and had married her only for her money.
“Fair warning and last call,” the auctioneer cried.
The husband was still attempting to restrain his wife. He’d be sleeping on the couch tonight, that was for sure.
The hammer came crashing down.
“Yes!” came a voice from the front row. The old gentleman had gotten the eyelashes. With tax and the twenty-percent buyer’s premium, he was in for almost $4000.
“Next up is Lana Turner’s violet silk moiré makeup case from the fifties,” said the auctioneer. “We’ll start the bidding at one thousand two hundred.”
I loved Lana Turner. She was discovered drinking a Coke. Most people know that, but don’t know that her high school boyfriend was Judge Wapner from The People’s Court, nor that she left the bulk of her estate to her maid, not her daughter, even though her daughter killed the mobster Johnny Stompanato to protect her. Also, Lana Turner wore a turban better than anybody except maybe a Sikh.
The bidding escalated rapidly to $4700.
I looked around the room. Who were these people? Oh, my God. Was that Jilly? My neighbor? How odd. I waited until she turned her head. Yes, that was definitely her. The sunburn still hadn’t faded. What was she doing here? I turned the pages of the catalog. Maybe she needed another hideous item for her bedroom. Another pink patchwork quilt? Something lacy with gingham? Oh, yes. Here it was. No doubt in my mind. She was after the last item in the auction. A four-poster Gothic Revival oak bed from the late nineteenth century, carved with nine full-figure saints. The previous owner was Cher.
Still no Ben. I picked up the paddle and started fanning myself again.
“With the lady on the far aisle now, one thousand eight hundred for Sammy Davis Jr.’s tortoiseshell snuffbox!” the auctioneer called out.
I turned around to see who the sucker was.
The man sitting behind me gave me the thumbs-up. “It’s a beaut,” he whispered. “I saw one owned by Peter Lawford on eBay for double the price.”
I turned around and cried, “No! I’m not bidding. I’m an agoraphobe!”
The auctioneer glared at me. “I apologize, ladies and gentlemen. It seems we are back at one thousand seven hundred, one thousand seven hundred with the gentleman in the fedora for this wonderful piece of Rat Pack memorabilia. Do I hear one thousand eight hundred?”
This was my first auction. I didn’t like the atmosphere. No windows. No air. That was how they confused you. By cutting off blood supply to the brain. No wonder those people needed oxygen.
Was that Gambino in the third row? It looked like the back of his neck.
God, I was hallucinating now. This entrapment thing was clearly a terrible idea. I wasn’t prepared. I’d never even been a Girl Scout. My mother always steered me away from anything that reeked of female empowerment. Oh, why had I been so rash? If I’d been thinking I would’ve called Detective McQueen this morning and convinced her to put a wire on me. Maybe there was still time.
“Hey,” Ben murmured, sliding in next to me.
Too late.
“I almost didn’t recognize you.” He lifted a lock of my blond hair. “Va-va-voom.”
My heart started pounding, but not in a positive way. He was wearing jeans, an untucked white shirt, and a black sweater vest, which made me immediately suspicious. And cologne. Something outdoorsy, like hay. Or maybe wheat. I looked down at his feet. That was where it all fell apart. He should’ve been wearing Timberland boots, not those god-awful Gucci loafers. Those were the shoes of an unregenerate criminal.
I had to focus. I was supposed to be giving him a false sense of confidence. I channeled Lana Turner. I tossed my hair like this was a shampoo commercial. “I’m glad you like my new look.”
“Oh, I do.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I got it done at a fabulous salon in Bakersfield. You ever been to Bakersfield, Ben?” So much for reeling him in slowly.
“Bakersfield? No, I don’t think so.” He checked his phone. “I thought there might be a message from my client. He seems to be running late. Can I see that catalog for a second?”
He flipped through it. “Cece, did you see this? Lot 1038? Rhonda Fleming’s costume for the dream sequence in Spellbound!”
Now that would be something to own. Salvador Dali himself spent two hours with a large scissors cutting up a four-hundred-dollar Dior negligee to create it, but when it was shown to the Hays Office, the censors insisted on additional shreds to cover Fleming’s exposed midriff, thighs, and breasts. Hitchcock pretty much washed his hands of the whole scene once Selznick butchered it further. Still, the costume would look amazing in the window of Bridget’s store. She’d been talking about wanting to do a Hitchcock-themed display for Christmas, with beautiful fifties suits and hundreds of tiny coffins. Hitchcock loved to give tiny coffins as holiday gifts. He gave one to a young Melanie Griffith, with a minieffigy of her mother, Tippi Hedren, inside. Sweet.
“Here we go,” said Ben. “This one belongs to my client.” He tapped his finger on the page in question. “Brown leather football, signed and inscribed to Lynda Carter, TV’s Wonder Woman, by Joe Namath, reading in full, ‘Hi Lynda/Stay Happy!/Love/Joe Namath.’ Lot 1224. One of the last items. I’m sure Tom will be here by then.”
Like there was a Tom.
“I think you’ll enjoy meeting him,” Ben said. “He’s great. His wife, Jeri, loves vintage clothing, too. Maybe they can join us for dinner?”
Tom and Jeri? He was going to have to do better than that.
Ben took my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Let’s go outside and see if we can find them.”
“No,” I said, sitting back down. My heart started pounding again.
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” said Ben. “Why not?”
“Because I want to bid on the next item.”
Lot 1062 was a custom throw pillow with needlework on one side reading, “Q: Name Two Things That Will Survive a Nuclear War,” and on the other, “A: Cockroaches and Celine Dion.” Just my luck.
The auctioneer said, “Do I hear five hundred?”
Ben looked at me.
“Oops,” I said. “I dropped my paddle. Now where is that thing?”
He bent down to get it. “Here you go, Cece.”
I raised the paddle in the air as slowly as humanly possible.
“I have five hundred with the lady on the far aisle. Do I have that correct this time?”
I gave him a weak approximation of a smile.
“How about six hundred? Six hundred dollars for this wonderful novelty pillow, once owned by the late Tiny Tim?”
Not a single paddle went up.
“Lucky girl,” said Ben. “You’re going to get it.”
I turned to the woman with the killer Cartier glasses and whispered, “Wanna go halfsies?”
“Sold!” said the auctioneer, bringing down the hammer. “For five hundred dollars.”
Maybe my accountant, Mr. Keshigian, could call it a business expense.
“No more excuses,” said Ben, taking my hand. “We’re getting out of here.”
Chapter 41
Walking down the aisle at Bonhams & Butterfields felt like walking the plank. I tried to catch as many eyes as possible, thinking it couldn’t hurt to have witnesses.
I could always twist my ankle. I was good at that.
Or I could try the old make-a-grab-for-the-lady’s-turkey-gizzard-ring trick. The husband with the ascot would apprehend me; he and the wife would kiss and make up; somebody would call the authorities; and I’d be safely in cuffs in no time.
Jail time sounded infinitely better than alone time with Ben.
“Here we are,” he said.
The lobby was empty.
“No Tom and Jeri here,” I said, turning on my heel. “Let’s go back inside where all the people are.”
“How about some champagne first?” He walked over to t
he buffet table, pulled a bottle out of an ice bucket, and poured us two glasses.
“Champagne’s the best,” I said inanely.
“Cheers.” He raised his glass.
I waited until the glass was at his lips, then cried out, “Oh!”
The champagne sprayed all over his sweater vest. A few droplets landed on the Gucci loafers. He tried unsuccessfully to maintain his cool. “What is it, Cece?”
“Over there! In the corner!”
When he turned his head to look, I dumped my champagne into a potted palm. I’d watched him pour it, but a person couldn’t be too careful.
Ben turned back to me. “I don’t see anything.”
I wiped my lips daintily. “Must’ve been my imagination.”
He took my empty glass, drained his, and set them both down. “We should check outside.” He pushed open the heavy door. A blast of night air slapped me in the face. “The parking lot is around back.”
“The parking lot?” Parking lots tend to be dark and deserted. How many shootings, maimings, and kidnappings have taken place in dark and deserted parking lots? Too many to count.
“Why are you repeating everything I’m saying?” he asked.
“I’m not repeating everything you’re saying,” I said, shivering. Sudden changes in temperature can cause colds. Too bad I’d left my bolero inside.
“Hold on a second.” Ben pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.
“The nicotine patch is very effective,” I said. “You should try it.”
“I did,” he replied. “But I’m no good at breaking bad habits. Do you have a match?”
“Give me a second.”
The limo was double-parked in front. I walked around to the driver’s side door, watching for oncoming cars. Traffic was heavy tonight along Sunset. Everyone was headed to the Halloween parade in West Hollywood. I wished I were at the parade right now. I wished I’d bought a costume for Buster at Petco. I wished I were home. But I couldn’t go home. Not yet.
The tinted window came down.
“Do you have a light?”
The limo driver reached over to the glove compartment, popped it open, and pulled out a Hotel Bel-Air matchbook.
