by JoAnn Ross
“Of course your eyes are pure Newman,” she continued cataloguing Gage. “And although there’s no real physical resemblance, you remind me a bit of Errol Flynn. With Gable’s masculine sex appeal tossed in for good measure.”
Gage grinned. “I’m flattered.”
Natasha clapped her hands in obvious delight. “And you’ve got Gable’s wonderfully wicked smile, too! A man with a smile like that can charm a woman into anything,” she said to Blythe.
“So I’ve discovered,” Blythe answered with a smile of her own.
“It’s really too bad you didn’t go into acting,” Natasha told Gage. “You could have been a star.”
“I prefer to leave the starring roles to Blythe.”
“Well, that’s not surprising. You know, my dear,” she said, turning her attention to Blythe, “you are almost a dead ringer for Ava Gardner. In her younger years.”
“I’ve been told that before,” Blythe admitted.
“And no wonder.” Natasha’s gaze filled with admiration as it took a slow journey from the top of Blythe’s head down to her feet, clad in ankle-tied espadrilles. “You don’t see many hourglass figures anymore,” she mused. “These days, everyone seems to be trying to starve themselves into those eating disorders clinics that have become all the rage.”
“I’ve always had a healthy appetite.” Blythe had long ago given up trying to buck nature by shaping her curvaceous body into popularly boyish lines.
“I can definitely attest to that,” Gage agreed, his double entendre earning a quick, appreciative smile from Natasha and a faint blush from Blythe.
“Ava ate like a stevedore—fried chicken and hominy for breakfast, steak and milk shakes for lunch, and mountains of spaghetti for dinner,” Natasha revealed. “But she never had any trouble meeting MGM’s weekly weigh-ins. The other poor contract actresses continually deprived themselves, living on consommé and Mr. Mayer’s famous lemon tea.
“I don’t believe Ava ever drank tea. But she certainly drank everything else. In fact, she was the only woman I’ve ever seen who could smoke like a chimney, down brandy with champagne chasers and chew gum all at the same time. And still look glamorous doing it.
“Although even she couldn’t stop the clock, she possessed a timeless beauty that even a lifetime of bad habits couldn’t diminish.”
Natasha’s eyes turned thoughtful. And sad. “Alexandra was the same. She had the face, the bones, the presence that would have made her still stunning at ninety.”
“Unfortunately, she didn’t live to ninety,” Blythe said quietly.
“No.” The smile faded from the elderly woman’s lips and eyes. “And that’s why you’ve come. To talk about poor, tragic Alexandra.”
“And Patrick,” Blythe said.
“Yes.” Natasha sighed. “It’s a very long story. And a very sad one.”
“That much we’ve figured out for ourselves,” Gage said. “But since you did Alexandra’s makeup while you were working at Xanadu, we were hoping you could clear up a few nagging gaps in the story.”
She shook her white head and briefly closed her eyes. Blythe had the feeling that she’d mentally returned to the days when Hollywood stood for glamour and glitz. When stars were larger than life. And when one particular scandal rocked not only the movie community, but the world.
“Come into the sitting room,” she said. “I’ve instructed the cook to make coffee and pastries. We can talk there.”
Blythe and Gage followed her into a spacious cabin comfortably furnished in complimentary shades of blue, white and yellow. A pot of fragrant green basil had been placed on a nearby table, a twin of the one Blythe had seen on the deck outside.
She remembered reading from yesterday’s guidebook that basil—also known as basiliko, the kingly one—was believed to be the plant St. Helena had found growing at the foot of the cross. Greek seamen used the plant as a talisman, to protect their ships.
Inviting them to sit on the white sofa, Natasha settled into the yellow-and-white awning striped chair on a swirl of lacy peasant skirts.
She took her time, pouring thick Greek coffee into small white cups, placing almond pastries onto plates, arranging damask napkins. Blythe had the feeling that she was buying time to choose her words carefully.
“What do you know about Alexandra?” she asked finally.
Blythe and Gage exchanged a look. He nodded, encouraging her to be the one to answer the question.
“I know that Walter Stern—the first Walter Stern—discovered her working at a casino in Havana and brought her to Hollywood to counter the popularity of MGM’s Dietrich and Garbo. I also know that it worked. That critics and fans alike fell head over heels in love with her.”
“Alexandra’s exotic Russian looks were a striking contrast to the lacquered blondes of the day,” Natasha said with a knowing nod.
“I know Stern cast her in femme fatale roles,” Blythe continued, “which earned fines from the Hays commission and advisories of boycotts by the National Legion of Decency.”
“Her waterfall scene in Lady Reckless was so hot, Louella Parsons said it was a miracle the celluloid film hadn’t burned,” Natasha told them with another faint, reminiscent smile. “Alexandra told me that Walter liked taking advantage of the fact that women fantasized about being Alexandra, while men fantasized about getting her into their beds.”
Her still-bright gaze moved slowly over Blythe’s face. “It is, of course, much the same marketing strategy that Walter’s grandson has used with your pictures.”
“Actually, I’m hoping to change that image,” Blythe said. “Which is why I’m so interested in making this film.”
“Yes.” Natasha nodded again, thoughtful. “I can understand why you wish to make this film. The question is, will Stern permit it?”
“It isn’t going to be his decision,” Blythe revealed. “Since he’s no longer in control of Xanadu Studios.”
“You’re joking!” Natasha leaned forward, her body a taut, tense line. “When did this happen?”
“Very recently.” Blythe shook her head. “Connor Mackay, of C. S. Mackay Enterprises bought controlling interest in Xanadu. Connor told me, before I left for this trip, that he was about to send Walter packing.”
“Amazing.” Natasha leaned back in her chair and seemed to be considering that for a long time. “I wonder... “ Her voice drifted off. Her gaze turned inward.
“Wonder what?” Blythe asked when her nerves couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. Her impatient question earned a sharp, warning look from Gage, reminding her what Cait had once said about successful interrogation being more about knowing when to keep quiet than when to ask questions.
Natasha looked at Blythe with a bit of surprise, as if she’d forgotten the couple existed. “I wonder if it’s finally safe to tell.”
She’d garnered even Gage’s complete attention. “Are you saying you know who killed Alexandra?”
“I know who I’ve always suspected. But I have no proof.”
“You don’t believe Patrick killed her?” Gage asked.
Natasha snorted and muttered a curse in Russian. “Of course Patrick didn’t murder Alexandra. He adored her.” Her emerald eyes turned dreamy. “No woman was ever so loved by any man.”
Excitement surged through Blythe. Natasha’s declaration only seconded what she’d known all along. She leaned forward and put her hand on the elderly woman’s lace clad knee. “Anything you can tell us,” she said earnestly, “will be a big help.”
Natasha gave her a sharp, direct look. “Are you seeking help with your screenplay? Or in clearing Patrick’s name?”
“Both,” Gage and Blythe said in unison. They exchanged a quick, surprised glance. Then a grin. Once again, their thoughts were on the same track.
“I knew,” Natasha said, her voice sounding as if it were coming from a long distance away, like from the bottom of a wine dark sea, “the night of the party, that there would be trouble.”
“The
New Year’s Eve party, at William Randolph Hearst’s Palisades Beach Road house,” Blythe couldn’t keep herself from coaxing when Natasha fell silent again. “The night she was killed.”
“Yes.” The former makeup woman’s distant gaze was filled with ancient pain. “I’d known Walter was orchestrating problems between Alexandra and Patrick, of course. Until that night, I’d hesitated putting myself at risk by interfering. But then I witnessed the unhappy results of all that wicked, behind the scenes manipulating.”
“So Alexandra and Patrick did fight that night?”
“Yes. And it was a terrible scene. Alexandra looked, as always, stunning. She’d borrowed an evening gown from the studio wardrobe department, the same one she’d worn in Patrick’s film, Fool’s Gold. It was white satin, cut low and flowed over her perfectly sculpted ballerina’s body like mercury, shimmering like the inside of a seashell in the streaming silver moonlight.
“The clinging satin dipped dangerously below her waist, leaving her back bare. It was, of course, obvious to everyone that she was wearing nothing beneath the dress.”
“Patrick must have been jealous,” Gage suggested.
“Perhaps.” Natasha dipped her head. “But, I think he understood that other men would always want Alexandra. I also believe that such admiration didn’t disturb him. So long as he was the man she always went home with.”
Natasha frowned. “They did not go home together that night.”
“They didn’t?” Blythe felt a frisson of excitement mixed with fear. “What happened? Surely she wouldn’t have left with another man?” She couldn’t have, Blythe knew, with a certainty that went all the way to the bone. Not feeling the way she did about her husband.
“Of course not,” Natasha said firmly, confirming Blythe’s thoughts. “There was never another man for Alexandra. From the moment she first saw Patrick.” Her gaze moved from Blythe to Gage, then back to Blythe. “Sometimes it works that way. As I believe you both know.”
Blythe felt the damning color rising again in her cheeks. “I didn’t realize it was that obvious.”
Even Gage had to laugh. Anyone with eyes could see exactly how Blythe had spent the night. Her face was rosy and roughened from his beard, her swollen lips appeared almost bee stung, and the lingering glow in her dark eyes hinted at erotic pleasures.
“My dear,” Natasha said with a gentle smile, “you must never apologize for being well loved.” She flicked her braid over her shoulder. “It’s a gift to be treasured.”
One of the ways Blythe had survived a lifetime in Hollywood was keeping her private life exactly that. Private. Uncomfortable with discussing her relationship with Gage with this woman, who, although seemingly quite nice, was still a stranger, she returned the conversation to their reason for having come to Greece in the first place.
“Tell us about the argument,” she prompted gently.
“Ah.” Natasha sighed again. “Alexandra left the party first. Patrick was right behind her. He was tall, his stride so long, it took him no time at all to catch up with her. Her silver high heels were not made for walking in the sand and I remember him taking hold of her arm when she stumbled. But she shook off his touch and kept walking.”
When Natasha closed her eyes, Blythe suspected she was seeing that long-ago night. “Patrick, unfortunately, had a furious temper. As did Alexandra.”
“He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. He was towering over her, his hands curved around her shoulders. He looked huge and threatening, even from a distance.”
She opened her eyes and looked straight at Gage. “Now that I think about it, you remind me a great deal of Patrick Reardon.”
“Gage doesn’t have a temper,” Blythe argued.
Natasha gave him a long look. “Of course he does, dear,” she responded mildly. “You just haven’t witnessed it, yet.”
For what he suspected was a shot in the dark, she’d hit damn close to the bull’s-eye. Since he didn’t know how to respond to the calmly-stated accusation, Gage didn’t say anything.
“Patrick was a mystery man, which, of course made him even more exciting,” Natasha revealed. “When Walter brought him to Hollywood, to write the screenplay of his novel, the studio put out its typical glossy biography.
“According to Xanadu’s publicity department, besides rounding up cattle, Patrick had also been a boxer in his youth, earning the money which allowed him to write by knocking people out in western bars. That was the official line. When he first arrived in town, rumors circulated that he’d killed a man with his bare hands.”
“Rumors that proved to be false,” Blythe pointed out. Gage had disproved that colorful story his first day on the job.
“True. But since Patrick refused to either confirm or deny the stories, they persisted.”
“You were telling us about the night of the party,” Gage prompted gently.
“I’d come out on the terrace for some fresh air. I watched them. Their faces were close together, but their taut angry poses were definitely not that of lovers. They exchanged words. Angry words I could not hear.
“Then Alexandra slapped Patrick across the cheek. For a moment, I feared he was actually going to strike her back. But he didn’t.
“Instead, he dropped his hand to his side. Then, without another word, he went striding back toward the house. Alexandra called out to him. When he didn’t respond, she threw the champagne glass at his back. Then she dropped to her knees in the soft sand and buried her face in her hands.”
“That’s the same thing she did in Lady Reckless,” Blythe remembered. “When her married lover chose to return to his pregnant wife.”
“I remember thinking that at the time,” Natasha said. “But I knew that Alexandra was not acting. It was obvious that her weeping was all too real.”
“Do you know what they were arguing about?” Blythe asked.
“I assumed some of it was about Alexandra’s earlier life. When she was living in Cuba. You know, of course, that she was not really a Romanov.”
“I’d assumed that the studio publicity department made her a member of the Russian family for box office appeal,” Blythe said.
“That’s exactly what they did. But, like many stories, it carried a nugget of truth. She was a Russian émigré. There were various versions of how she’d ended up in Cuba. Along with rumors that she’d done more than model bathing suits in those Havana casinos.”
Since Gage had already uncovered the allegations during a recent trip to Florida, Blythe was not surprised by the statement. “Did Patrick know about these rumors?”
“I don’t think so. Not in the beginning. But one day, shortly before the party, Walter Stern came to Alexandra’s dressing room when I was making her up. He looked furious. He told me to leave, which I did. But I will admit to being worried about Alexandra, so I remained outside. Just in case she needed help. Stern was not,” she said, her lips tightening, “a very nice man.”
“So you heard what they discussed?”
“No. I thought I heard some mention of Havana, but the door was too thick to make out what they were saying. Then, shortly after I’d left them alone, the assistant director came to call Alexandra to the set. I was forced to redo her makeup. Because Stern had made her cry.
“It was obvious he was creating problems between Patrick and Alexandra. It was also obvious, from some of the things I’d witnessed, that he was trying to make Patrick believe that Alexandra was an unfaithful wife. At the same time Stern was using a contract actress to make Alexandra believe the same of Patrick.” She dragged her palms down a face that was remarkably unlined, given her age. “Unfortunately, the party was too public a place to reveal such unsavory secrets. So I decided to tell her before the premiere of Patrick’s film.”
“A premiere she never attended,” Gage said. “Because she was killed that night.”
“Yes.” Natasha’s gaze was as dark and bleak as a tomb. “And I’ve never forgiven myself for that. If only I’d go
ne to her that night, if only I’d followed her home—”
“You can’t second-guess yourself,” Gage said. “It doesn’t do any good.”
“I suppose not.” Natasha sighed.
“There’s something I don’t understand,” Blythe said. “If you didn’t believe Patrick killed Alexandra, if you suspected you knew who did commit the crime, why didn’t you go to the police?”
“But I did,” the elderly woman answered promptly. “I also went to Patrick’s attorney with my story. But I was never called as a witness. Later, after Patrick was convicted, I realized that people far more powerful than me wanted the story buried. Since I had no desire to end up like Alexandra, I kept my silence. Later, despite my caution, I was fired for what I knew.”
“I heard a different story.”
“Of course you did.” Natasha’s smile was sad and knowing at the same time. “You were told I was crazy. Or a liar. Or both.”
Blythe could not deny it. “Yes.”
It was then Natasha Kuryan dropped her bombshell. “I was fired by Walter Stern, Jr. because he was afraid that someday I’d tell the truth. That his father, Alexandra’s mentor, strangled her in an act of rage because she was threatening to retire after the premiere of Fool’s Gold in order to move to Wyoming and live with her husband on his ranch.”
That was definitely news. “Do you think she really would have done it?”
“Absolutely. In a heartbeat,” Natasha confirmed. “It was obvious to everyone that Patrick hated Hollywood. It was also obvious that Alexandra loved Patrick. He was the sun around which her entire world revolved. If he wanted to return to Wyoming, she would not have hesitated leaving with him.”
“But what about her career?” Gage asked. “Do you honestly believe she could turn her back on fame and success so easily?”
Accustomed to looking at all sides of a case, Gage felt obliged to consider the possibility that Alexandra, after having promised to leave Hollywood, found herself unable to go through with the planned move and ended up being killed by a furious husband—who possessed a deadly temper—for her change of mind.
Yet, even as he thought it, Gage also knew, with a deep-seated certainty that went all the way to the bone, that his conjecture had not been the case.
