Lucky Stars

by Jane Heller

  He shrugged. “Maybe they won’t, but now that I’ve gotten all this off my chest, the prospect of people finding out isn’t so frightening, oddly enough. I lied to you, to keep the story a secret, and now I’m actually glad I told you.”

  I slid over to him, folded him in my arms, and smoothed his hair back off his forehead. It was wonderful to touch him again, to reestablish physical contact with him. I had missed the feel of him during the two days we’d been apart.

  “Does Tim know what you did?” I asked.

  “He does. Why?”

  “The day you brought me to his house, he mentioned that you had made great sacrifices for him. Now I understand what he meant.”

  Jack nodded, squeezed my hand. “Remember how you accused me of being afraid of getting involved the other night?” he said. “You were right, as it turns out.”

  “No. No. I had no idea what Victor put you through.”

  “There was truth to what you said, Stacey, about how I distance myself from people, run from intimacy, stand in judgment of others. Except for Tim, I never told anybody the story I just told you. I have been isolated, have set myself apart from people. Your words really hit home. But I don’t want to be the person you were describing. What I’m saying is that if you need me to help with the Victor situation or anything else, I’m here for you. As a matter of fact, I think you should go and see Helen right away. Tell her everything.”

  “I can’t.”

  “No, really. It’s okay. I’m not afraid of Victor anymore or what he could do to my career. Go ahead and tell her. I want to be involved.”

  I hugged him. “It’s not that. My mother isn’t speaking to me, Jack. She won’t listen to a thing I have to say, especially if it’s negative about Victor. She won’t let me out of the deep freeze until I accept him or stop hassling her about him or whatever. So I need proof that he’s a crook if I have any hope of getting her away from him— evidence that’s not hearsay or something you wrote. If I sent her your article, she’d just accuse me of roping you into the conspiracy.”

  “Then we’ll find your proof. Together.”

  I looked up at him. “We will?”

  “Count on it. I told you: I’m here for you, no matter what. Okay?”

  Well, it was more than okay, obviously, and I indicated that to Jack by stroking his cheek. “I think this is the part where we kiss and make up,” I said.

  “The part where the guy gets the girl and they live happily ever after?”

  “That’s the one.”

  twenty-nine

  After I recounted to Jack how Maura and I had overheard Rosa and Carlos making derogatory remarks about Victor, Jack suggested that they might hold the key to our plan.

  “They’re close to the situation,” he said, “so our job is to get close to them.”

  “How about if I cozy up to Rosa?” I said. “I’ll make up a story about how I’m playing the role of a chef on an episode of Law and Order or Frasier or Buffy the Vampire Slayer, who cares. I’ll explain that I’m not much of a cook, which is true, and that I’d like her to be my technical advisor.”

  “I think you’re onto something. If you can spend time with her in the kitchen, whip up some refried beans together, engage her in a little girl talk, we might get information out of her.”

  “I’ll do it. She can cook more than refried beans, by the way. She’s actually a pretty talented chef. Mexican, French, Italian—you name it, she can make it.”

  “Great, but the main thing is to schedule all this for a time when Victor and your mother aren’t around.”

  “Right.”

  When I made my pitch to Rosa, she was flattered. “I’d love to be your technical advisor, whatever that is,” she said and told me to come by the house that very next day.

  “Are you sure you’ll have time to spend with me?” I asked. “I wouldn’t want Victor or Mom to be upset with you.”

  “Mr. Chellus will be playing golf,” she said. “And your mother will be doing one of her tuna fish commercials.”

  “Perfect. See you tomorrow.”

  “No, this is how you hold the whisk,” she instructed me as we stood together in Victor’s kitchen, studying a bowl of egg yolks.

  Even I knew how to hold a whisk, but I was feigning total ignorance in order to stretch out my meeting with her. I had asked her to show me how to make a soufflé— the hardest thing I could think of—also in the hope of keeping her talking. “Okay. I see now. Thanks, Rosa. My character is supposed to have trained at one of the best restaurants in France, so your input is essential.”

  “My pleasure,” she said. “I’m very excited to be involved with a television show. Will I get to visit the set while you’re shooting your scenes?”

  “I’ll ask the producer and get back to you,” I said.

  “I appreciate that. I might as well admit that I’ve always wanted to be an actress.”

  “You’ve always wanted to be an actress?” God, was there any woman in Hollywood who didn’t?

  “Yes. Carlos and I acted a little bit before we were married. We would give anything to do it again.”

  I dropped the whisk, a lightbulb going on in my head. They’d give anything to act again. That’s what she’d said. Anything.

  I tried to remain calm as my mind danced with possibilities. “Is that how the two of you met Victor? Through your work in the movie business?”

  “Yes. I was an extra in a movie Carlos was in—the one and only movie he was in—and Mr. Chellus had something to do with the financing. The movie never got finished, because the money ran out, but Mr. Chellus offered us part-time jobs and we were grateful to have the security, knowing how difficult it is to earn a living as full-time actors.”

  You’re telling me. “And you’ve been with Victor ever since?”

  “Yes. Our part-time jobs here became full-time jobs.” Suddenly, her eyes moistened and her cheeks flushed. I had struck a nerve, apparently.

  “What is it, Rosa? Is everything all right?”

  She shook her head, fought back tears.

  I patted her hand. “You can tell me. Is it that you want to leave your job here but can’t for some reason?”

  She nodded, then pointed to the egg yolks. “They’re getting runny. We should continue to whisk them.”

  “Forget the eggs,” I said. “Why can’t you and Carlos leave your jobs here and pursue your dreams in show business?”

  “Because…” She censored herself.

  Well, I knew about the illegal immigrant thing, but surely that wasn’t what was keeping them under Victor’s roof. Or was it? “Go on,” I encouraged her. “Maybe I can help. Are you afraid of leaving Victor because you think he might turn you in to the immigration authorities?”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know about that?”

  “It was just a guess,” I said. “Breaking the immigration law is so common in L.A.”

  “It is,” she agreed, “but if he turned us in, we’d be out of work and out of money.”

  “Not if you got other jobs—jobs in acting, for instance.”

  She brightened. “That would be wonderful, but how? We’re in this country illegally, remember.”

  “Victor must have wrangled phony documents for you, didn’t he?”

  She nodded sheepishly.

  “Then what’s the problem? Hollywood is full of people with phony something.”

  “Also, we’re not young anymore. We don’t have much practice at acting. And, as I said, Mr. Chellus could be so angry if we left him that he’d have us arrested. He threatens to do this on a regular basis.”

  He’s good at threatening, I thought, flashing back to Jack and the horrible way Victor had treated him. And then I recalled that Rosa had mentioned some sort of “evidence” that night when Maura and I had overheard her in the library—evidence she could use against him if he threatened her. What was it and how could I get her to confide in me about it?

  “Look, Rosa. I’m going to be h
onest with you. There’s no time to pussyfoot around.”

  “Pussy what?”

  “Never mind. What I’m saying is that I might as well come clean.”

  Again, she seemed puzzled and handed me a paper towel. I realized that, despite the many years she had spent in America, she hadn’t solved the mysteries of American slang.

  “The point I’m trying to make is that I sense that you and Carlos have a more complicated relationship with Victor than one would suspect and that, while he exerts a certain hold over you, you have evidence that could incriminate him, too. Am I right?”

  Now she sobbed in earnest. I handed the paper towel back to her, so she could wipe her face with it.

  “Why are you interested in such things?” she said during a break in her crying jag. “Your mother and Mr. Chellus are close to marrying.”

  “That’s exactly why. I’m looking for a way to prove to my mother that Victor is all wrong for her, and your evidence could be the answer. Please tell me what it is, Rosa. What do you have on him? You’ve been dying to use it. Why not give it to me and let me use it?”

  Sob sob sob sob sob sob. I wished she’d stop already so we could wrap up the conversation before Vic came home from his day on the links and Mom came home from her day on the set.

  “It’s true about Mr. Chellus,” she said. “He’s a bad man. But Carlos and I have been bad, too. He made us do bad things.”

  “Like what?”

  She waved me off.

  “Okay, let’s go back to the evidence. I’m begging you to give it to me.”

  “If I gave it to you, it would help your mother but not Carlos and me. We’d be out on the street once Mr. Chellus was punished for his crimes.”

  “What if I made sure you weren’t on the street?” I was winging this.

  “How?”

  “You said you and Carlos always wanted to be actors. What if I guaranteed you jobs in a movie? My boyfriend is Jack Rawlins, the host of Good Morning, Hollywood. He’s a famous movie critic, Rosa.”

  “Are you serious? Carlos and I watch his show all the time. We’re his number one fans.”

  “Okay, then you know how influential he is. He could arrange for you two to meet with casting directors. They respect his opinion. It’ll be fabulous, you’ll see. You’ll give me the evidence, and you and Carlos will be up there on the silver screen where you belong—a regular Penelope Cruz and Antonio Banderas. In other words, I’ll help you if you help me. Or, as Jack would say, one hand washes the other.”

  She was confused yet again and passed me the Palmolive liquid. After I explained what I meant, she promised she’d talk to Carlos and then call me. But I knew they’d fall in line. After all, they’d had a taste of showbiz and were, therefore, seduced by even the remote possibility of stardom.

  “Just one thing,” she said as we were about to refocus our attention on the now-decomposing eggs.

  “Yes?”

  “If I went back to work in the movies, I’d need someone to give me a makeover, especially to my hair. It’s long and flat and few: the camera it should be short and poufy.”

  “Consider it done. But before I arrange for your makeover, you’ll have to give me the evidence. No proof, no pouf.”

  I waited a couple of days for Rosa to call me with her answer. When she didn’t, Jack and I decided that he would call her, to add a certain luster to our campaign.

  After she gushed that she really was his number one fan, she listened to the elaborate story he’d concocted for her benefit. It involved a movie that was being shot in Vancouver by a veteran director friend of his, and its script featured two scene-stealing parts that would be perfect for her and Carlos. He went on and on about the roles themselves, about the millions of people around the world who would see the movie, including their friends and family back in Mexico, and about this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her and her husband to sever their ties with Victor and make a fresh start.

  Rosa was sufficiently dazzled that she agreed to turn over her supposed evidence. She was, however, extremely nervous about Victor finding out about her traitorous plan, so she wouldn’t allow Jack or me to come near the Beverly Hills manse to collect the incriminating whatever-it-was. She was even afraid to risk being seen with us at a public place. As a solution, we decided on a drop-off location—a bench in Roxbury Park in Beverly Hills. She would leave her goody there, in a brown paper bag after dark, and we would zip by and pick it up.

  At the appointed hour, we cruised by the park and found the designated bench and waited in the car for her to make her deposit.

  “This feels like a drug deal,” I remarked, as we sat at the curb, engine running.

  “It could be a drug deal,” he said. “For all we know, Victor’s into that stuff, too.”

  “Look, she’s over there,” I said, pointing at the woman who, at that very minute, was walking briskly toward the bench, the brown bag in her arms. She kept glancing to her left, then her right, checking to make sure she hadn’t been followed.

  When she had left the bag on the bench and returned to her car, we pounced.

  “Let’s wait until we get to my house to take a look at it,” said Jack once we had the bag in our possession and were driving away from the park.

  “Not a chance,” I said firmly. “Let’s pull over and take a look at it now.”

  “It’s dark,” said Jack. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to be able to actually see it, since we’ve gone to so much trouble to get it?”

  “Good point,” I conceded.

  I sat with the bag on my lap during the twenty-minute ride to Jack’s. I was so curious about its contents it felt like it was burning a hole in the leg of my jeans. When we finally got there, we hurried inside, turned on the lights, and brought the bag into the kitchen.

  “Here goes,” I said as I opened it. What I found was your basic cheapo leatherette scrapbook into which Rosa had glued photos along with captions and assorted handwritten musings. “If this is her wedding album, I’m throwing it in the garbage.”

  “Let’s take it one page at a time,” said Jack. “She wouldn’t have given it to us if it didn’t link up with Victor in some way.”

  Ironically, it was a wedding album, only Rosa didn’t appear in any of the photos.

  “How odd,” I said as we viewed the first one. It was of Victor dressed in a tuxedo and holding the hand of a bosomy blonde in a bridal gown.

  “She must be Mary Elizabeth,” said Jack, “the one who drowned.”

  I shook my head. “Victor was in his fifties when he married her, if I remember correctly from the obit in the LA. Times. This picture is more recent.”

  “You’re right,” he said after reading Rosa’s caption. “The bride isn’t Mary Elizabeth. According to this notation, her name is Karen Sweetzer, and she and Victor were married four years ago.”

  I did a double take at the photo. No, a triple take. Then I read and reread Rosa’s scribbles, which were in English but only sort of. Apparently, she, along with Carlos and Vincent, Victor’s chauffeur, had been a guest at the wedding and was, therefore, able to give a firsthand account of the event, which, she noted, had taken place in a small ceremony at the Pfister Hotel in Milwaukee, Karen’s hometown.

  “What on earth do you make of this?” I asked Jack. “Victor told my mother he was only married once—to Mary Elizabeth.”

  “And yet he was clearly married twice. And Rosa considered the fact that he was married twice significant enough to give us the scrapbook as ‘evidence.’ ”

  “I know.” I grabbed his arm. “So you’re thinking what I’m thinking. That this wife died, too. That he murdered this wife, too.”

  “I don’t have a clue. Even if they both died through no fault of his, it doesn’t make sense that he’d hide having been married the second time. Why would he tell everybody about Mary Elizabeth and how much he missed her and how much he grieved for her and yet not tell a soul about Karen Sweetzer?”

  “Maybe he t
hought we could handle one accidental death but not two. Maybe he thought we’d be more suspicious of him if he were a two-time widower.”

  “Maybe. As we said, there’s a reason Rosa snuck us these photos.”

  “Right. Let’s look at the rest of them, although they’re probably just those cheesy wedding shots where the bride feeds the groom the cake and then the groom feeds the bride the cake and they kiss with mouthfuls of frosting.”

  Jack cocked his head at me. “So you’re not a fan of traditional weddings?”

  “No, but my mother is.” I misted up when I thought of how desperately she wanted me to settle down, get married, and have kids. I hoped I would grant her that wish someday, but only if she was speaking to me.

  I turned the page of the scrapbook. Sure enough, there was a shot of Victor and Karen feeding each other cake, followed by another of them locked in a disgusting embrace, followed by another in which they toasted each other with champagne.

  “This is incredible,” I said. “I wonder what happened to Karen. Do you think he threw her overboard during a sailing trip or did he keep things interesting by disposing of her body some other way?”

  “How about this question: Did Rosa and Carlos have a hand in disposing of her body?” said Jack. “Clearly, they were involved somehow or she wouldn’t have made that comment to you about how Victor forced them to ‘do bad things.’ ”

  “My God,” I said. “What kind of a nut are we dealing with?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose there’s a chance that Victor merely divorced Karen and didn’t tell your mother she existed.”

  “But then we’re back to why Rosa gave us the scrapbook. I say it’s because she wanted us to see that her boss is the murderer of two women.”

  “But how would he have gotten away with murder twice? It’s hard enough to get away with it once, Stacey.”

  “Maybe Rosa and Carlos helped him get away with it, as you just suggested. Maybe Victor blackmailed them into cooperating and that’s why she kept a record of the crimes, as blackmail against his blackmail. In any case, I’ve got to show these photos to my mother immediately, whether we’re estranged or not.”