The Notorious Pagan Jones

by Nina Berry

  Sit on that, Devin Black. She padded through the kitchen and down the hall to Daddy’s office door. Using the bigger bobby pin as a tension wrench, Pagan slid it into the lock the way Mercedes had taught her.

  Two minutes later, the last pin clicked into place and Pagan turned the lock. The aroma of her father’s cigars hit her like a blow. It lingered, but Daddy was gone.

  She clenched her fists, her newly pink nails biting into her palms. Focus. She had more important things to do here tonight than wallow in self-pity.

  She made herself walk right up to her father’s leather chair and sit down in it. Daddy had opened the safe in front of her many times. She pulled aside the fake wainscoting on the lower part of the wall that concealed it and put her fingers on the dial.

  Eleven and a turn left, then six, then two turns to the right, then forty-four. Pagan’s birthday. It was a stupid, sentimental number to use for a family safe, but her father had been that kind of man. How he and her hardheaded mother had ever fallen in love remained a mystery to Pagan.

  The safe clicked open. She angled the desk lamp to shine into it and began piling file folders onto her lap. After the car crash, life had been too scary and hectic for Pagan to think about going through her father’s papers. Mister Shevitz had handled what needed to be done. But if there was anything to be found on Mama, Daddy would have put it in here.

  Her hand hit the metal floor, and she stuck her head down to make sure she’d gotten everything. A lumpy rectangle threw a shadow near the back wall. She leaned in to pull it out.

  There were two bundles. The first was wrapped in plastic and secured with rubber bands. Green glinted under the wrapping. A large stack of one hundred dollar bills.

  Bless Daddy for keeping an emergency stash of cash.

  The second bundle was an envelope full of folded paper, bound together with an older, nearly rotted rubber band. When she slid her index finger under it, the band snapped and flopped away like a dying fish.

  The envelope was unsealed and yellowing at the corners. Pagan lifted the flap and carefully pulled out a stack of folded stationery on heavy white paper. Letters. She unfolded the first one with the care of an archaeologist unrolling an ancient papyrus.

  Handwriting in black ink slanted across the paper in a jagged scrawl. She didn’t recognize it. Her breathing quickened as she read the first two words: Liebe Eva.

  Her mother’s name, Eva, with a casual German greeting in front of it. Pagan understood enough German to know that Liebe was, at the very least, friendly. It didn’t have to be more than that.

  But it could be.

  Why in creation would her father have kept letters to her mother from someone in Germany? At the top the date was written: 30 Juni 1952. In European fashion, the day came first, then the month and year. June 30, 1952. Pagan had been seven years old. She’d turned eight that November.

  She turned the expensive, textured paper over to see the signature. Hochachtungsvoll, Rolf von Albrecht.

  Yours truly, Rolf von Albrecht?

  Outside the office door, a floorboard creaked.

  “Daddy?” she breathed, and caught herself.

  Oh, God. For one wild moment she’d thought that sound was her father, coming home late. The urge to tear open the office door and throw her arms around him was almost overwhelming.

  Steady, Pagan. No, it had to be Devin Black, patrolling her house in the middle of the night. He must be feeling as restless as she was. Thank goodness she had shut the office door when she came in.

  Resentment of him and his control over her movements, her time, her life, bubbled up inside.

  Damnable Devin might have all the power of a parent, but she’d sneaked out of the house on her actual parent, Daddy, plenty of times. Years of memorizing scripts had given her an ironclad memory for words on a page and the terms of the contract she’d signed were clear. The court-appointed guardian had to be on hand during the film shoot and thereafter at the court’s discretion.

  Well, she wasn’t on the shoot, yet. She could give Devin Black a merry chase and still abide by the contract. She’d arrive in time for the movie, but on her own terms. Maybe by the time Devin caught up to her in Berlin, he’d realize he couldn’t treat her like a child.

  Pagan grabbed her father’s empty briefcase, stuffed the files and the bundle of money inside, and closed it with two quiet clicks of the clasps. She’d finish reading the papers later.

  She made her way carefully to the door and pressed her ear against the wood. Outside, wooden stairs squeaked. Devin was heading back up to his bedroom.

  She let him get farther up before she silently opened the office door, listening. The faint footsteps continued above her, down the hall, back toward his room. His door rasped open. She waited for the soft thud of it closing before she tiptoed up after him. She was prepared to pick the dead bolt to get back into her own room, but there was no keyhole, just a latch she could flip. Moving in silence, she reentered her bedroom and began to pack.

  * * *

  At 5:00 a.m. she opened her door and looked back at the lilac bedroom. Pillows lay scattered all over the floor, except for the three she’d stuffed under the lacy white coverlet to look like her own sleeping body.

  Devin Black would come to wake her up in a few hours. He’d be concerned when she didn’t respond and even more concerned when he saw the door wasn’t locked. He’d probably push his way into the room to throw back the coverlet. Then he’d see how she’d fooled him. He’d see her packed trunks still in the closet, waiting for transport to Berlin. He’d curse her when he saw that her smallest suitcase, the new Chanel purse, and the Dior suit dress were gone.

  She was wearing that fabulous outfit now, her purse full of Daddy’s money, his papers in her bag. She was slick and chic and lighter than air. She floated downstairs and out the door. Through the clear air of the summer morning, she glimpsed the cab she had called waiting for her at the end of the drive. Let’s see Devin Black catch her now.

  As the cab drove past the Episcopal Church on Hollywood and Gardner, Pagan swiveled her head to stare at the small group of people smoking outside. So they still had A.A. meetings there early in the morning.

  Should she ask the driver to stop? She had promised Mercedes, after all. But then they were half a block, then a full block away and there was no point in turning around.

  And she didn’t need a meeting. Dodging Devin Black had given her a high no glass of vodka could compete with, and she didn’t want to miss the early flight from LAX to New York.

  Instead she made the driver pull over at a newsstand on Sunset, where she bought every silly tabloid magazine they had—Photoplay and Screenland, Modern Screen, the National Enquirer, and VIP. Plus Life, Time, Seventeen, Vogue, and anything else that looked juicy.

  She’d read them on the plane, then mail them special delivery to Mercedes. She’d loved hearing Pagan’s insider stories about the celebrities on the magazine covers. Together they’d read every tattered copy of every old magazine in the reformatory.

  The cab swept past the new War of the Worlds–looking Theme Building in front of the airport and up to the terminal by 6:00 a.m. Pagan carried her own bag to the ticket counter and asked about a flight to Berlin with a stopover in New York. Without Devin’s ticket in hand, she’d have to buy her own. Thanks to Daddy’s money stash, that wasn’t going to be a problem.

  Devin had told her they were booked on TWA, so she went to the Pan Am counter. Better not to run into him on the plane. But Pan Am’s flight straight to London had already departed, and they confirmed that all the direct flights to New York were sold out, so she settled on a plane change in Chicago. It didn’t get her to New York in time to see a Broadway show, but the agent did help her call ahead to get a room at the Waldorf-Astoria that night, with a flight to Berlin the next morning.

  O
nce on the plane, she settled into first class, happy the seat next to her was empty, until she realized that the stewardesses in their light blue uniforms and flat round hats were serving drinks. Alcoholic drinks.

  In her suit dress, Pagan knew she looked much older than sixteen. It would be so easy to wander over to the tiny, exclusive first-class lounge before takeoff and order a Bloody Mary. Later there would be caviar and toast served on bone china, with maybe a glass or two of champagne.

  To distract herself, she pulled out the stack of magazines. She made a note to read the article in Time on the Cold War, then scanned the covers of the fun magazines. According to Screen Stories, Liz Taylor’s plans for life were Full Speed Ahead! Movie Teen Illustrated had a Special Elvis Issue, and TV Star Parade featured Annette Funicello’s Tips for Teens: A Miss Should Kiss.

  No kidding, Pagan thought. How else are you supposed to have any fun?

  Then she caught the names Nicky Raven and Pagan Jones in large print on the next magazine cover, and her heart stopped.

  She dropped the other magazines on top to cover it up, and looked around to see if anyone had seen it, or noticed her. But the other first-class passengers were gathered in the lounge, clinking glasses. Adult laughter filtered down the aisle, and a stewardess passed, bearing a tray of canapés.

  What was her name doing on a magazine cover? She’d been out of the public eye for months, and Devin had gone to great lengths to keep her release from Lighthouse under wraps. Whatever else he was, Devin Black struck her as someone who could keep a secret.

  Which meant she’d have to look at the magazine cover again to see what was going on. One by one, she slid the other magazines aside until she revealed the Star Insider again.

  Her heart leaped into her throat when she saw Nicky on the cover. He wore a morning coat and top hat and was running down the steps of a church holding the hand of a pretty blonde girl in a long white dress and veil while people on either side of them threw rice.

  That’s me, she thought. That’s us.

  But it couldn’t be.

  Nicky had stopped calling after the accident. She hadn’t heard from him in nine months. So what the hell…

  She looked at the cover again and the words on it came into focus. Nicky Raven Marries Pagan Jones Look-Alike! Exclusive Photos and Interview with Bridesmaid Inside.

  Pagan’s heart was running a crazy race inside her chest. Images fought for space in her head. Nicky kissing her naked shoulder. Nicky singing “I love you,” in her ear, soft and low. Nicky shouting “Hey, beautiful! I’m gonna marry you!”

  She forced herself to look at the cover, to really see it.

  Nicky was married.

  To someone who wasn’t Pagan.

  To someone who looked like Pagan.

  Hands shaking, she picked up the magazine and riffled the pages till she saw a photo of a convertible Rolls-Royce pulling away. Nicky was waving from the backseat with his other arm around the blonde woman in white. The Rolls had a sign on the back that said Just Married, and strings of tin cans fixed to the bumper.

  Pagan squeezed her eyes shut, trying to come up with some other explanation. Nicky was starring in a movie where his character got married; Nicky was doing a photo shoot to advertise a particular designer or tailor; Nicky’s new album had a song about getting married, and these were possible photos for the cover.

  She forced her eyes open and ran them over the print of the article. The information didn’t register at first, until she saw a phrase in the interview, spoken by the bridesmaid: “People need to stop comparing Donna to Pagan Jones. Donna’s much prettier and sweeter, and she certainly never killed anyone. Nicky loves Donna for who she is, not who she looks like.”

  Pagan stared into the accompanying close-up photo of Mrs. Donna Godocik Raven. She was taller than Pagan, as tall as Nicky in her heels. Her eyes were blue instead of brown, her nose more upturned, her face more heart-shaped. But otherwise, she did look like Pagan.

  Probably a nondrinking version with no deadly car crashes on her résumé.

  According to the chipper magazine copy, Donna was nineteen and an up-and-coming actress, with a few small supporting roles in Paramount films to her credit. She and Nicky had met “thanks to mutual friends.”

  Friends. Ha! More likely their mutual publicists.

  Nicky’s reputation must have been tarnished by his association with Pagan after her conviction. It could only help him to be seen dating a clean-cut young woman who wasn’t Pagan.

  But did he have to marry her? Pagan had last spoken to Nicky a few hours before she’d crashed the Corvette. His last words to her had been, “I love you, Pigeon.”

  Pigeon, his pet version of Pagan. She hadn’t liked it at first. But later she’d basked in the way his smooth baritone caressed its vowels. Love could change anything. While she’d been in Lighthouse, she would’ve taken a month in solitary just to have heard him say those words again.

  But he’d never called, never visited.

  There were no quotes from Nicky in the article. It was mostly fluff about the wedding dress and statements from Donna’s friends and family. Then Pagan caught sight of Nicky’s mother Octavia and his three older brothers clustered in the back of a photo, and the stone in her chest turned into an anvil. The wedding was real. Mrs. Randazzo was a warm, no-nonsense Italian-American widow, and despite Nicky’s success, she still lived in the family’s same small apartment in Brooklyn. Nicky visited her three or four times a year without fail. The family was very close, and Pagan had loved becoming part of it once she’d started dating Nicky.

  If Mrs. R and Nicky’s brothers had traveled all the way to the Church of the Good Shepherd in Beverly Hills to attend this wedding, it was the real deal.

  Pagan threw the Star Insider aside and tore through the other gossip magazines, looking for more coverage. She found it in three other places, each with very similar photographs, but no further information other than how well Nicky’s new single was doing on the charts. So he did have a new song out. Finally, in the fourth magazine, she found the date of the wedding­: August 5, 1961.

  Just three days ago.

  While Pagan and Mercedes were planning their escape from Lighthouse, Nicky had been getting married.

  What if she’d escaped one day earlier and called him? Would he have gone through with this marriage?

  She shook her head at herself. Don’t be thick. Nicky would never have taken her call. Immediately after the accident, she had called him a hundred times. He’d never answered his phone or called her back. Why would it be any different now?

  It was still hard to believe that he hadn’t had the guts to formally break up with her after all they’d been to each other. It was unlike the Nicky she’d thought she knew. She couldn’t help being angry about it, but she always came back to the horror of what she’d done. How could anyone want to see her or speak to her, let alone be her boyfriend, after that?

  “Champagne, miss?”

  A blue skirt and jacket swayed into her peripheral vision, and a pretty dark-haired young woman bent her knees to lower a tray bearing several flutes buzzing with champagne.

  Pagan automatically took one of the flutes and sipped. Bubbles tickled her nose. The faint burn of the alcohol singed her tongue.

  So delicious. So familiar.

  So…wrong!

  She abruptly set the glass back down on the tray so hard, some of the golden liquor sloshed out.

  The stewardess caught the edge of the tray to keep it from tipping. “I’m sorry. Can I get you something else?”

  “No,” Pagan said. “No, I’m sorry. Thank you.”

  See, she still had everything under control. She could find out the boy she loved was married and even accidentally taste alcohol without giving in to temptation.

  Further proof A.A. was
unnecessary. She was cool.

  She tried to smile at the stewardess. The woman turned her own lips up with professional grace, then her gaze ran over Pagan’s face, and the smile faded. Her eyes widened in recognition. Her mouth, professionally lacquered in coral lipstick, parted, then closed, then parted again.

  “How about a Coke, honey?” she asked, low and kind. “Or we carry Sprite now, too. It’s like 7Up.”

  Pagan swallowed. The pity in the woman’s face came close to undoing her self-control. “A Coke would be great. Thanks.”

  This time the stewardess’s smile was small and real. “Coming right up.”

  She strode away, and Pagan took a tissue out of the beautiful black patent leather Chanel bag and quietly blew her nose. Very quickly, the stewardess brought the Coke in a bottle with a glass full of ice on the side, as well as some crackers and cheese.

  “Eat a little something, too, maybe?” she said. “We won’t be taking off for another ten minutes or so.”

  “Thank you.” It came out very low, almost a whisper.

  The stewardess patted Pagan’s shoulder. “Just let me know if you need anything, mmkay?”

  Pagan nodded, and the woman left her alone. She managed three crackers and a square of cheese before she set the food on the empty seat beside her, got up with studied composure, walked down the aisle, and locked herself in the tiny lavatory to cry.

  * * *

  By the time she hit Chicago’s Midway Airport, Pagan had full possession of herself again, but she kept her sunglasses on. Her skin was buzzing with the anxiety of being recognized, of how people’s reactions might undo her. She distracted herself by tapping back into her anger over the nerve of Devin Black. Maybe his failure to keep tabs on her would get him fired. Someone else would be assigned to be her minder. Anyone would be better than him, even if he was cuter than Elvis Presley.

  She’d devoted far too many thoughts to Devin, so she forced him aside by finding a lonely seat in the first-class lounge at the airport and pulling out the files from Daddy’s safe for another look.