I made my way over to North Camden Drive in Beverly Hills and slipped inside, past the usual cast of power clients. Instead of being a hairdresser to the stars, Alain worked for the women behind the stars. For Hollywood networking, his salon was the estrogen-laced equivalent of Monday nights at Morton’s. I spotted a chair-hopping talent agent chatting up a studio development exec, and a screenwriter advising a Warner Brothers vice president to go brunette. “Much more dramatic,” she said in a low voice. “And trust me, I know drama.” Amid the streaking, peroxide applications, and wholesale highlighting, more movie deals got made at Alain’s than on the ninth green at the Bel Air Country Club.
I changed into a thin robe and sat down in a soft chair that faced a wall of mirrors. Good lighting, so I didn’t look nearly as terrifying here as I had in the showroom. Alain came up behind me dressed in blue jeans and a crisp black shirt, his own hair crewcut short and light brown. The style changed regularly but always stayed understated. Alain didn’t do flamboyant.
“I’m glad you came in,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Are you all right?” He knew what was going on, of course. He knew everything.
“I’m fine. Just my hair’s a problem. Murky in the middle and brassy on the ends.”
“Oh, dearest, it’s never just about the hair,” he whispered. “You can confess to me.”
I caught his eye in the mirror and suddenly felt tears welling up. For unloading emotion, a session with Alain beat a private appointment with Dr. Phil any day.
“Everything’s awful,” I admitted. “I’m frightened for my family, and for Dan. It’s all so sinister and scary, and I have this sense of danger around every corner. Plus it doesn’t make any sense. Dan has a generous heart and he’s a good man. He really is a good, good man.”
I had a feeling I’d picked up that last line from a bad Lifetime movie (are there any good Lifetime movies?), but I didn’t care. I sniffled and indelicately wiped a finger across my nose.
“Dan’s practically the last honorable guy in Hollywood,” I said. “He doesn’t deserve this. He spent years building his reputation, and I can’t bear what people must be thinking about him now.”
Alain handed me a tissue. “Nobody’s thinking about Dan. They’re too focused on their own affairs. You know what it’s like in this town.”
“He’s accused of murder,” I whispered.
Alain snorted. “A juicy extramarital affair with a B-list star trumps murder any day.”
I laughed and blew my nose, almost at the same time.
Andre came out of the back room, holding a tray with enough little tubes of color to keep Mondrian happy. Alain pulled on thick plastic gloves and began methodically mixing.
“I never heard details. Do you mind? Who was the girl who died?” Alain asked, taking a brush and painting the new color carefully onto my roots.
“A would-be actress who never acted, as far as I can tell,” I said. “Not exactly a power player. She worked as a makeup girl for Roy Evans.”
“Roy Evans? Omigod.” He pinched his lips tightly and stared intently at the back of my head as he continued wielding his brush. Alain heard about everything but didn’t repeat much — which is why we all confided in him. But finally he murmured, “I happen to have a client who knows Roy Evans very well.”
“Personal friends?” I asked, trying to be discreet.
“She works with him,” Alain said, easily outdiscreeting me.
“I’m going to work with him, too,” I said, a little too quickly. “Decorating. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“So you’ve met him? What’d you think?”
What did I think of Roy Evans? Self-involved. Untrustworthy. Fake as a two-dollar bill, as my mother used to say. “He struck me as having all the depth of a puddle,” I admitted, “but maybe I missed some mud underneath.”
Alain laughed loudly and set the timer for twenty minutes. “I’ve heard all sorts of big Roy stories from my client. Her name’s Julie Boden, by the way. You might want to talk to her. I’ll get you two in touch, if you want.”
“Alain, you’re too wonderful.”
“I know,” he said with a sweet grin, then flitted away.
I opened up a House & Garden, but I couldn’t focus on “Ten Ways to Use Paisley” when I was thinking about Julie Boden and Roy Evans and Tasha Barlow. Sometimes L.A. seemed like the ultimate small town. Everybody knew everybody. And somebody probably knew the real killer. Molly had me call Roy. Alain said to call Julie. The Hollywood game of telephone tag, continuing.
Alain came back, peered at the color under the foil, and clucked approvingly. He sent me off for Andre to wash my hair, then told him to apply undercover cream conditioner, secret-formula shine enforcer, and Code One glaze. Getting glossy hair apparently required as much covert action as joining the CIA. I leaned back against the hard ceramic sink as Andre smoothed on the products. Though my neck started to stiffen from the awkward position, it was soothing to have someone taking care of me. I wasn’t in any rush to leave the cozy salon and get back to the real world.
Cell phone reception in Beverly Hills was terrible — one of God or Pacific Bell’s little jokes — so I didn’t get a message from the headmaster at Ashley and Grant’s private school until I was heading home. I pulled over and dialed with trembling fingers. Headmasters like Mark Morland didn’t usually call with good news. I’d have been surprised if he wanted to report that Ashley had scored a field hockey goal or been unexpectedly elected class treasurer.
“I know this is a difficult time for your family,” Mr. Morland said when he picked up. “I spoke to Grant, but since Ashley’s still out, I wondered if I could help her in some way.”
“Ashley’s been back a couple of days. Maybe you just haven’t run into her yet,” I said, glad to be more in the know than he was.
He hesitated only briefly. “Actually, Mrs. Fields, I checked the attendance records before I called.” I should have figured that. “And I spoke to her teachers.” Ditto. “None of them have seen her or heard from her.”
He sounded confident, but it took a minute for the information to sink in. Monday morning at school, I’d watched Ashley disappear into the crowd. But it never occurred to me that she’d actually evaporated.
“I don’t even know what to think,” I said, suddenly panicked. “I’ll come right over.”
Half an hour later, I sat perched in his office, staring at a bulletin board studded with varsity sports schedules, Students Against Drunk Driving banners, and faculty phone lists. Mr. Morland himself looked slightly rumpled and distracted. He had a PhD in philosophy from the University of Chicago, and his air of absentminded professor appealed to the parents who could buy everything for their kids except a few extra IQ points. A placard on his desk said:
There are no facts, only interpretations.
— NIETZSCHE
I wondered if I should write down the line for Chauncey to use in court. There are no facts in this case, your honor. Only interpretations.
“A terrible situation with your husband,” Mr. Morland said now, rubbing his hand across his forehead. “Has Ashley been taking it hard?”
Did hysterical screaming count as “taking it hard”? I thought of her crashing to the floor, wailing and bellowing when she first heard the news.
“Ashley’s sensitive,” I said, “but this is tough for everyone. We’ve all been pretty shaken.”
“What happened when you brought her back on Monday?”
Normally, I’d put on a happy face about my kids for the principal. But why pretend now? “She was miserable. She didn’t want to come to school or face her friends. But everyone said we had to get back to normal, so I dropped her off and…” I shrugged.
“She came home after school?”
“Pretty late.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. She went into her room and I assumed she had homework.” I felt myself edging into Bad Mother territory here. Everyone knew that
the key to dealing with a teenager was Communication with a capital C . And I’d just earned a D.
“Girls at this age are emotional in the best of times,” Mr. Morland said soothingly. “When they’re feeling vulnerable, they can really disappear. It’s not your fault.”
Of course it was my fault. Forget Nietzsche, hadn’t he read Freud? When you’re the mother, everything’s your fault.
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
Mr. Morland sat back in his chair. “Sometimes the students know more about what’s going on than we do. They confide in each other. Is Ashley still close with Mandy Bellows?”
I nodded. So that’s what you got for outrageous tuition payments at a fancy private school — a principal who kept track of your kid’s friends.
Mr. Morland excused himself and stepped outside to talk to his secretary. He’d barely returned when Mandy Bellows swooshed into the office, her long golden hair flying, her perfect heart-shaped mouth pursed into an expression of surprise.
“Did I do anything wrong? My English teacher told me to rush right over,” she said, panting slightly, either from the exertion of running to the office or the anxiety of being here.
“Why don’t you sit down, Mandy,” Mr. Morland said, gesturing for her to take the chair next to me.
Mandy shimmied into the seat, crossing her long bare legs in front of her and patting her floral skirt, which barely made it to the middle of her slim thigh. Last year, when Mandy was struggling through her parents’ loud and nasty divorce, she’d appear at our door almost every night, bedraggled and with her face streaked with tears, then hole up in Ashley’s room for hours. Ashley remained a loyal friend — not to mention therapist and advisor — and never left her side. Now that the divorce was final, Mandy’s anguish had vanished. Her skin shimmered, her made-up eyes glimmered, and her tiny tight clothes clung to every curve of her nubile body. Mr. Morland had already banned tube tops in the classroom, but Mandy remained the best argument I’d ever seen for sending Grant to an all-boys’ seminary.
“I asked you to come by because we need your help with Ashley,” Mr. Morland said to her now, jotting down a note to himself — probably to consider a mandatory uniform of burlap sacks.
Mandy blinked her long, thick lashes a couple of times but didn’t say anything
“I’m not asking you to betray any confidences Ashley’s shared with you,” Mr. Morland continued, “but she hasn’t been getting to her classes, and if she’s in trouble, we need to help her.”
“I, um, don’t know anything,” Mandy said quickly.
“Have you two talked much since her father was arrested?” Mr. Morland asked.
Mandy flushed, her face turning an appealing shade of pink. “No. No. We haven’t talked at all. I, um, should have called but, um, I, like, didn’t know what to say and I, like, thought Ashley would want to be left alone and I, like —”
Mr. Morland interrupted, sparing all of us.
“That’s okay, Mandy. I’m sure you wanted to do what was right. Have you seen her at school at all?”
“Um, no. I, um, didn’t know she’d come back.”
“You haven’t seen her at all?” He sounded only slightly incredulous.
“Nope. Not at all.”
“Her mom dropped her here the last couple of mornings, but if you didn’t know and none of her teachers saw her, then she must have gone somewhere else.”
“I can understand it,” Mandy blurted. “She probably didn’t want to face her friends and hear about her dad being a murderer and stuff.”
“But he’s not,” I said.
Mandy just shrugged
“Where would Ashley go if she wanted to avoid her friends?” Mr. Morland asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Can you take a guess?” he asked. “If she’s putting herself in danger, we have to help.”
“No place dangerous,” Mandy said. “Ashley’s not like that. I mean, with the black nails and the scary hair and stuff it might look like she’s rebelling and becoming a freak or something. But it’s just an act. Kind of a protection. I totally get her not wanting to be humiliated in the lunchroom, so, like, getting out of school makes sense. But I’m sure she’s hanging out someplace safe.”
Mandy looked at Mr. Morland and blinked her long lashes.
“We’ll hope you’re right,” Mr. Morland said. “If you hear anything from her, please let us know. And let her know that we’re concerned.”
“Sure,” Mandy said.
She got up to go with a little wiggle and started to stroll out. She had her hand on the door before my epiphany hit.
“Mandy?”
“Yeah?” She turned around, one hand still on the door. She’d made it through the conversation with Mr. Morland unscathed, and she was all confidence now.
“If you haven’t seen Mandy, or even talked to her, then how did you know about the black nails?”
“Pardon me?”
“You said her black nails could make it look like she’s rebelling. How did you know she had black nails?”
Mandy seemed to deflate right in front of our eyes. Her hand fell off the doorknob and she slouched slightly. A moment passed as she slowly rubbed the toe of one espadrilled foot against the heel of the other.
“I just knew,” she said, looking down at her own nails, which were polished with a pale pink shade from Hard Candy.
“Ashley hauled out the black nail polish for the first time on Monday, the day she came back to school.” I stood up, staring hard at Mandy. “Same with the scary mousse on her hair and the baggy clothes. Before that, she was dressing” — I paused, trying to be discreet in describing the girls’ usual flirty style — “dressing just like you,” I concluded mildly. “You wouldn’t know about the whole punk thing if you hadn’t been in touch with her.”
Mandy ran her fingers through her silky hair, twirling a strand around and around.
“I have to believe you know exactly where Ashley is,” I announced, pointing my finger at Mandy and strolling toward her with high-heeled authority. “In fact, you’ve probably taken her to some secret hideaway.”
“You’re crazy,” Mandy said. But the assurance was gone from her voice and I heard a little tremble in it. Ah, yes. She was starting to crumble like a Lay’s potato chip.
“Not crazy. Ashley didn’t abandon you during your tough time last year, and you’re much too loyal to disappear on her now.” That could have been a compliment, but I was still jabbing my finger at her, as confident as Candice Bergen on Boston Legal.
“Someone had to be on her side, because you’re not!” Mandy said angrily, her voice getting louder. She squinched her face furiously, reducing her big, wide eyes to narrow slits.
“I’m her biggest supporter!” I said, heatedly.
“Then I’d never want you supporting me!” Mandy screamed, her eyes flashing. “Like, oh my God, her dad’s a killer and you expected her to be at school! This is a million billion times worse than what I went through last year! Ashley would die if she had to be in class all day! You’re just mean and stupid not to know that!”
She took a step closer to me so we were almost nose to nose. It must have looked to Mr. Morland like we’d start punching each other, because he came from behind his desk. Taking a swing at Mandy would probably feel pretty good right now, but I struggled to keep my composure.
“Where is she, Mandy?” I asked, dropping my voice almost to a whisper.
“I don’t know,” she said, seething.
“Of course you do,” I said.
“I said I don’t!” she yelled.
Now the annoyingly calm Mr. Morland put a comforting hand on her elbow. “I know you’re trying to protect her,” he said, “but we’re worried about her safety.”
“I told you she’s safe,” Mandy said furiously. “Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because we need to know where she is,” I said softly. “And you knew about the black fingernail polish.”
I looked at Mr. Morland, who remained expressionless. I turned back to Mandy.
“Your parents know about this?”
“Nope, the house is empty. My dad’s on a business trip and I’m staying with my mom this week.” The obvious upside of divorce for a rich teenager: two parents, two houses, and lots of room to maneuver in between.
“How about if I drive you there and we pick her up?” I asked.
“She’s going to hate me,” Mandy said, shaking her head.
“She’ll understand. You’re doing the right thing,” said Mr. Morland sanctimoniously. The man was getting on my nerves.
We headed out to my car, and I let Mandy call ahead to warn Ashley we were on our way. By the time we pulled up at the gated Spanish-roofed house, Ashley was sitting sullenly on the grass outside. She exchanged a look with Mandy, slung her faux-Prada bag over her shoulder, and started to walk wordlessly toward us. I raced over to hug her.
“Honey, I’m so glad you’re okay,” I said enthusiastically. Ashley didn’t say anything — though her sneer spoke volumes.
“I’m not angry,” I promised her. “I’ve just been so worried about you since Mr. Morland called.”
More silence. So that was her strategy. I couldn’t fight with her if she turned mute.
“Look, Ashley, I understand your wanting to run and hide. I know how awful this is for you,” I said, trying to commiserate.
Ashley rolled her eyes and got into the car. This was like having an argument with Marcel Marceau.
I slipped into the driver’s seat next to Mandy, who hadn’t moved.
“Should I take you to your mom’s, Mandy?” I asked.
“I’ll go to your house,” she said. “No way Ashley should be alone.”
I didn’t point out that Ashley wouldn’t be alone — she had me and Dan, her two brothers, a bed full of stuffed animals, and a lizard named Ralph. I looked into the rearview mirror, catching Ashley’s eye with my unasked question.
Looks to Die For Page 9
