“No!” Monica’s voice had tautened, and I knew how keyed up she was. “I can’t bear waiting any longer. If I’m to do this, I want to go out there and get it over. If Saxon is so inconsiderate as to be late, I’ll go on alone.”
Saxon must have returned to his earlier plan of not appearing at all, I thought, and knew this was probably the better way. Let Monica have this triumph she had earned, and let her have it alone.
Wally flew off to consult with the actor who was to introduce Arlen and Scott, and get things started.
“You can’t do this!” Linda wailed. “It will be too hard for you. You didn’t plan any speech, and without Saxon—”
Monica gave her a withering look. “What do you think I’ve been doing all afternoon, a prisoner in my room? Of course I’ve been thinking of what I might say. This is my night, with or without Saxon. He’s probably been planning this all along—forcing me to either face an audience alone, or back down. Well, I’ll show him!”
There was nothing more to be said, and we followed Monica’s slender, valiant figure into the wings. The famous actor had begun his introduction at the lectern, explaining that Saxon Scott had been delayed in coming to the theater (a moan from the audience), though he was still expected to arrive. Nevertheless, Monica Arlen was here (applause). He went on with a few words about the famous pair who had done so much for films, and then turned to welcome Monica.
Linda clutched me desperately as Monica went out to face the lights. She moved gracefully, proudly—every inch the woman they’d just seen on the screen. It didn’t matter that her face had, grown older; she gave them her impersonation of youth—she gave them herself. The response was tremendous. All over the theater men and women rose to their feet applauding a long-lost star, and Monica raised her iris to them in salute, and smiled her famous smile.
Standing easily center stage, she began to speak. Her voice had grown older, but tonight she knew very well that she must sound like the Monica they’d just heard. She lowered her tones to the old inflections—playing herself, as I had seen her do at Smoke Tree House. If the performance could not be entirely true because of the passing years, it was so close that for those who watched and listened, the sight of her brought tears to their eyes.
The few words she spoke were of no special significance—just a memory or two from the past, a mention of the acting years with Saxon, an expression of her feeling that tonight she had come home again. It was enough. This time the applause was wildly emotional. This was the homage such an audience could give generously when they were touched and delighted by one of their own. Monica bowed graciously, waved the iris again, and walked off with her chin in the air and her step steady.
Linda flung both arms about her, weeping, and Monica shook her off sharply. “Stop that! I did it, and now I want to go home. Saxon didn’t even come. He didn’t even see me out there at all. Oh, Linda, look what’s happened to my iris!”
We both looked, and saw that the strain she’d revealed in no other way had caused her fingers to snap the iris stalk, so that blue petals hung limply from a broken stem. Linda took it from her and began to cry harder than ever.
People were crowding backstage now, reaching for Monica, embracing her, and I knew we needed to get her away at once. Reaction was setting in, and I saw by the slightly wild look in her eyes that she’d had all she could take. For once Linda was no use at all, but fortunately Wally and two museum guards managed to get Monica through the crowd and out of the theater.
Jason was waiting outside, and he came with me to the white Rolls. “Maybe I’d better drive,” he said with a look at his sister.
Linda managed to pull herself together. “No—Wally will get us home. I’m afraid something’s wrong with Saxon. Monica wants you to drive out to Indian Wells and see if you can find out what’s happened. Maybe his man will know.”
“I’ll go with you, Jason,” I said quickly. “Look in on Keith when you get home—please, Linda?”
She nodded and got in beside Monica. “It’s not Keith I’m worried about, but I’ll look in on him. Call me when you get to Saxon’s.”
Jason and I talked very little on the drive, self-conscious with each other now, and somehow a little wary. He spoke admiringly of Monica’s appearance tonight, and some of his criticism of her had lessened, as appreciation of her courage grew. She had been a gallant lady out on that stage, and perhaps none of us could fully realize the strain she must have been under. Even though, once she was out there, the adrenaline, the old exhilaration, had seen her through.
When we’d been checked in through the entrance to the club grounds, we went at once to Saxon’s house, only to find it dark and apparently empty. Not even his houseman was home tonight. Though the streets were lighted, there were no lights near the house. Jason placed a hand against the door, and at once it swung inward. It had been ajar all along, and we stared at each other.
“We’d better go inside,” Jason said.
A switch flooded the entry hall with light, and he found another to turn on living room lamps. Everything seemed quiet and undisturbed—as luxurious as I remembered. Draperies had been pulled, shutting out the mountains.
“Look in his study,” I said. “Over there.”
Jason went through the dark doorway and again turned on a light. I heard him gasp and hurried into the room. I had only a glimpse of Saxon, flung forward across his desk, but it was a glimpse I would never forget.
Jason spoke to me over his shoulder. “Stay in the other room, Carol, while I call the Riverside sheriff’s office. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
NINETEEN
While we waited for sheriff’s deputies, Jason phoned Linda and said she must decide whether to break the news to Monica now, or wait until tomorrow. He would try to persuade the sheriff to let Monica rest tonight. They would undoubtedly want to question her because of her planned appearance with Saxon on the Annenberg stage this evening. Saxon had been shot, but Jason had seen no gun, and it didn’t look like suicide.
I felt numb with shock, unable to believe. Tonight I had seen Saxon Scott young and heroic again on a screen—an artificial image. Now I found it was the stricken man, with all his failings, whom I liked best, and I remembered his kindnesses to me.
The deputies and coroner came quickly and began their terrible routine. Though Jason and I could tell them little, it was well after midnight before we were allowed to leave.
Jason drove me back to Monica’s, and by that time I could cry a little. Tomorrow’s headlines would blare the news, and even before that the airways would be full of Saxon’s murder. The fact that it came on the heels of Monica Arlen’s triumphant appearance at the theater would keep reporters and columnists busy for days to come, and Monica would be bombarded unless Linda and I could fend them off. The house would really become a fortress now.
When I saw Linda, however, I wasn’t sure she could take care of herself, let alone Monica. The light was on in her office, and Jason and I went in to find her sitting at her desk, looking pale and ill. The cup she was drinking from clattered as she set it down in the saucer.
“Are you all right?” I asked, thinking how foolish it is that we always ask that of people who are anything but all right.
She stared at us blankly for a moment. “Nobody’s all right. I had to tell Monica. The telephone’s hardly stopped ringing, even though we’re unlisted. Not because of Saxon, but because of her appearance tonight. But the other news will come through at any time, and she was picking up the phone. I’ve given her a sedative, and I stayed until she fell asleep. What’s going to happen now?”
“We’ll face it out together,” Jason said. “I can stay for the rest of the night, if you like.”
“How did Monica take it?” I asked.
“She fell apart.” Linda’s voice cracked with emotion. “You’d have thought she’d just lost him, instead of when she really did all those years ago.”
“Perhaps she hoped secretly that something wou
ld come to life between them tonight,” I said sadly.
“I don’t know about that, but she’s ready now to build a new grand passion out of his death. She’s always lived in a dream world. I suppose that’s the only way she’s kept from being hurt more than she could bear.”
I knew all about dream worlds—they had been mine for too long. But if a person kept on trying to live in one, it could destroy everything that was real.
“How can we help her to stop that?” I asked.
Linda shook her head. “I don’t think we can.”
She reached for the coffeepot and Jason took it from her hand. “No more. You need something to help you sleep, not coffee. I’m going to stay and bunk down on a sofa somewhere. Better take the phones off the hook.”
Linda relinquished the pot and accepted gratefully. “You can have my room, Jason. I’ll sleep in Monica’s extra bed.”
We heard the sound of a car reaching the terrace, and Jason went to look out. It was Ralph, and when he’d parked he came inside to join us. It was clear that he’d been drinking, though I’d never thought that one of his vices.
“I just heard,” he said. “About Scott, I mean. What happened?”
Jason answered him quietly. “He was murdered. We don’t know anything more than that.”
Ralph showed no emotion one way or another. When he put out a hand to steady himself it was because of the liquor. “How’s Miss Arlen?”
“She’s asleep,” Jason told him. “Just go to bed and stay away from her for now.”
A little of Ralph’s cockiness returned. “Okay. I got something to sleep off myself.” He left without further questions and I was relieved to see him go.
Linda still sat at her desk staring blankly at nothing. “I was glad when Saxon didn’t come to the theater tonight. I was glad! But I never wished him dead.”
Jason moved quickly to draw her up from her chair. “You’re heading for bed right now.”
Unlike her usually independent self, she leaned on him heavily as he helped her upstairs. I followed them to Monica’s door. There she rallied a little and turned us away, so she could go in alone.
Jason came with me to my room, where Helsa sat beside my sleeping son, the radio on, murmuring softly. She had heard and she looked at us in alarm.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I said.
She nodded her understanding, and refused Jason’s offer to see her home. “I have my car, and it’s only a little way.”
When she’d gone, Jason and I sat on the balcony for a while. Not talking. Just waiting to get sleepy. I wanted to shut out the horror, the memory that was etched on my mind, but there was no way. It would stay with me forever. Jason’s quiet presence was my only comfort. It would take very little to send me into his arms tonight, but neither of us took the step that would make this happen. False solace that skipped over everything that was real wasn’t what I wanted now, and he didn’t offer it.
For the next few days Linda’s requiem was what we heard over and over. Everyone had liked Saxon Scott—no one wished him dead. But someone had come to see him that afternoon. Someone who had definitely wished him dead, though so far no murder weapon had been found.
It developed that two people were known to have visited him that day, and both had checked in at the gate to the Eldorado Country Club at separate times. Linda Trevor and Owen Barclay—in that order. Both claimed they’d talked with him, left him alive. Both said he’d seemed tense and keyed up, anticipating the evening ahead. Owen had apparently been the last one known to have visited Saxon, and he talked readily and glibly to the police, claiming that he’d wanted Saxon to intercede for him again, so that he could talk with Monica in her own house concerning the sale of Cadenza. Apparently she’d refused to see him there, and he thought Saxon could manage this.
How much of anything Owen said could be believed, I didn’t know. Murder out of passion might well be Owen’s style, but it wasn’t Saxon who had knocked Owen out in the Mirage Room that day, and since he had no apparent motive (and could pull a lot of strings), the police didn’t hold him.
Linda had gone to see Saxon simply to plead with him not to embarrass Monica that night. This I could believe, since it was exactly the sort of thing Linda would do. And since Owen had seen him alive later, she was only questioned briefly.
At Smoke Tree House, Keith’s young ears quickly caught the undertones of tragedy. I tried to regale him with stories of Monica’s appearance at the Annenberg, but he knew something was terribly wrong, and he had to be told. Jonah had gone home again, and it was harder than ever to keep Keith occupied. Once more, however reluctantly, I accepted Ralph’s help. He seemed genuinely fond of Keith, and though he was back on duty with Monica, he spent what time he could with my son. I was never far away, keeping an eye on them both.
All the following morning Monica had stayed in bed, still drowsy from the medication Linda had given her. When a police officer came, she woke up sufficiently to see him, but Linda said she cried all the way through his visit. She had little useful information to offer, totally absorbed in the high tragedy she was now creating in her own life. She had looked forward to being on the stage last night with Saxon, and it had grieved her when he hadn’t come. Now that she knew what had happened, she hardly wanted to go on living. Moment by moment, Linda reported, she was convincing herself that she had just lost the great love of her life. These were California police, and they were able to allow for emotional performances. Not that her feelings weren’t genuine—she was clearly suffering. It was just that gifted performers could suffer in a very high key.
That afternoon, to my surprise, Monica sent for me with instructions to bring my notebook. When I walked into her living room, only Ralph was present at his usual outdoor post. Keith was swimming, while Helsa watched.
Monica sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing plaid slacks and a pullover. Spread on the floor before her was an array of glossy publicity shots—all either of Saxon alone, or of Monica with him, and all dating back to their great days on the screen. Nearby, Annabella and her fluffy friends watched with interest, but when one of the white cats put a tentative paw on a photograph, she was cuffed by Annabella.
Today Monica obviously cared nothing about her appearance. Her cheeks were still tear-streaked, and she looked up at me with swimming eyes.
“Sit down, dear. I can’t stand Linda’s long face for another moment and I’ve sent her away. My own is bad enough. I’ve got to get myself in hand. I’ll weather this as I’ve weathered every other terrible loss in my life. The only thing to do is keep busy. That’s why I told you to bring your notebook. I want to talk to you about Saxon. I want to pick out photographs you might use in the book.”
The transformation from the Star I’d seen on the stage last night to this fragile-looking old woman saddened me. Nevertheless, she was showing more spirit than Linda gave her credit for.
The stories she told me for the next two hours were fascinating. Her memories were rich and colorful, and far more useful to me than any research I could do in the Arlen room. She was my best source. Though she still wanted no tape recorder.
“I don’t want to leave anything on tape, since I sound the way I do now,” she admitted. “Last night I made an effort to breathe properly and control my voice, so I wouldn’t sound too different from the film. But it was a strain, and I can’t keep it up.”
Linda was still taking phone calls in her office downstairs, and I could hear the distant ringing through open windows. No calls were put through to Monica’s phone for a long while. When it did ring, Ralph came in from the balcony to answer.
“It’s that lawyer—Aldrich,” he said. “You want to talk to him?”
Monica held out her hand, and he brought the phone to her by its long cord. She got up from the floor, stretching wearily. As she listened, her face brightened, and she nodded at me cheerfully.
“That’s fine, Bill. I’m glad it’s settled. I don’t really need to see him again
until the closing: So just go ahead.… No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Come and see me when you can.”
Ralph returned the phone to its place, but when he would have gone outside again, she stopped him. “Will you pick up those photos for me, please? I know them all by heart anyway.”
A hint of color had come into her face as she sat down beside me.
“Wonderful news, Carol! Owen Barclay called Aldrich today and said that a check for the down payment was in the mail. So the closing can now be set. What an enormous relief this is! I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d backed out. There’s good news for you, too. Owen has gone back to New York, since the police didn’t require him to stay. Bill says he’ll be there for some time. Until he’s ready to move to the Coast and into my house. Of course he’ll return, dear, but for a little while you’re free of him. Bill said he didn’t think you’d need to worry about being followed anymore. Owen’s got a lot of other things on his mind.”
Had my bluff in trying to frighten Owen worked, after all? I didn’t dare take too much comfort in the thought. It would only be a matter of time until he found some other way.
“If it wasn’t my house he bought,” Monica said, sounding apologetic, “it would be someone else’s. And I do need the money.”
“I know,” I said. “I wish I didn’t still feel so doubtful about this.”
The call had distracted her, but now her attention returned to the photographs Ralph was putting into a box. She snatched up one of the pictures with a dramatic gesture, and began to cry in great wrenching sobs.
“You better stop that,” Ralph told her coolly. “Your face is a mess, and if you’re going to be a millionaire, you better get yourself back in one piece.”
She blinked at him, blew her nose, and sat up straighter. His direct words had cut through her grief as my sympathy couldn’t.
“Ralph is right. Anway, I’ve done enough talking for now, Carol. I just wanted you to know more about Saxon the way he used to be. He’s a terribly important part of my story.”
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