Scent of Triumph

by Jan Moran

  24

  “So where the hell is Cameron Murphy?” Lou Silverman barked into the phone on his desk.

  “I don’t know,” Erica replied, her voice wavering across the wire. “But I’ll find him.”

  “We were to have met at ten o’clock Monday morning. It’s already Wednesday and there’s still no sign of him. I can’t use Cameron in your picture, Erica, if this is any indication of his future behavior. He’s easy to replace.”

  “Please, Lou, give me twenty-four hours. I’ll find him, and I swear to you, he’ll never pull this stunt again. I’ll stake my own salary on it, Lou.”

  “Hate to see you do that, Erica. But you’re absolutely right, he’ll never do this again, because if he does, he’s finished, not just with me, but with every major studio. I’m doing you a favor now as it is.” Lou paused, lowering his voice. “Don’t let me down, Erica, or it’s your contract we’ll be discussing next.”

  “No, you’ve been more than accommodating.” Erica sounded repentant. “I promise, once production begins I’ll see to it personally that Cameron is on the set early every morning.”

  “You do that. Now find him.”

  Erica hung up the phone, then quickly dialed another number. A man answered in Cantonese. “Hello? Sammy, it that you?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Erica. You remember me, Sammy. I’m looking for Cameron.”

  “No, Cameron not here. Sorry.”

  “Wait, Sammy, don’t hang up. Has he been there?”

  The line was quiet.

  “Sammy?”

  “Okay. He been here. Not today, though. Yesterday. You too late, Miss Erica.”

  “Where did he go?”

  Silence.

  “Sammy? Do you know where he went?”

  “I can’t say on phone.”

  Erica thought quickly. “I’ll come there then.”

  “No, you not come here.”

  “Yes I am, Sammy. And don’t run away,” she hissed. “You stay right there, or I’ll tell the police what I know.”

  “Okay, okay. You be here in fifteen.”

  “Twenty,” she replied, snatching her car keys and French leather purse from the kitchen counter. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” She slammed the phone down, her anger blazing.

  Erica jumped into her Dusenberg roadster and raced through town, tires screeching. In barely twenty minutes, she was in Chinatown, skidding through a turn onto a pot-holed street. “Shit!” She slammed on the brakes in front of a dilapidated house, its windows boarded. She flew from the car, ran to the rear of the house in her stiletto heels, and banged on the door.

  The door swung open and a slight man cowered before her. Erica was twice as large as Sammy. She put her fists on her hips and glared at him. “Where is he?”

  “I tell you, okay? I write it down.” Sammy scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and handed it to her with trembling hands. “Don’t tell anyone I tell you. Very bad for me.”

  “Bad joss, huh?” Erica snatched the address and stormed out, cursing in Spanish. She scowled at the paper, immediately recognizing the address. Her shoulders slumped in dismay. Damn Cameron a thousand times to hell!

  She didn’t have far to go. Her next stop was in a grimy downtown industrial area near the railroad tracks. She parked, pounded on the door, and waited. No answer.

  Looking from side to side, making certain she wasn’t observed, she opened her purse and withdrew a pick and tension wrench she had stolen years ago from a drunken locksmith in a border town bar. She tried maneuvering the lock cylinders, but to no avail. Frantic, she kept trying. At last, the lock gave way. She stepped inside.

  The air was sickly sweet and dense with smoke. She sniffed the air. Opium. She tiptoed through the hazy corridor until she reached a stained drapery. Shoving it aside, she let her eyes adjust to the darkness.

  The putrid odor of human waste assaulted her nose. She pressed her white chiffon scarf over her nose and mouth to keep from gagging. Her eyes burned from the malodorous mixture of smoke and stench. Blinking hard, she wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara. She glanced around in desperation. Tattered cots lined the wall, but only one held a body.

  A low moan emanated from the deathly white lips of the motionless figure. The man was clad in stained, wrinkled pants, his chest bare, his hair matted. Erica suppressed a wave of nausea. Cameron. Just like old times.

  She hurried across the room and the stench intensified. “Cameron, get up. Time to go,” she whispered hoarsely. No response. She rolled him over, and his head lolled listlessly off the bed. Startled, she pressed her fingers to his throat, found a faint, slow pulse, and breathed a small sigh of relief.

  Hooking her arms under his, she heaved him off the bed and dragged him across the room. Erica was a tall woman with substantial strength in her well-developed arms and shoulders, and she knew how to leverage her body. She had done this before.

  As she moved him, Cameron’s eyes glazed over in delirium. His garbled speech was incomprehensible and he had no control over his limbs. Erica dragged him through the hallway and out the door. She propped him against the building and ran to the Dusenberg. Pulling the car onto the sidewalk, she pushed him into the passenger side, slammed the door, and jammed her key into the ignition. She turned the key. Nothing.

  In her rear view mirror, she could see two men running from the exit, shouting about money and shaking their fists.

  “Come on, baby, start.” Perspiration seeped through her hair and dripped down her silk blouse. The Dusenberg sputtered, coughed, then roared to life. She floored the accelerator.

  A half hour later, ensconced in her Bel Air mansion, Erica gave her domestic staff the rest of the week off with pay. Better to be safe, she always thought. No telling who might wag their tongue to a tabloid newspaper.

  When the help had gone, she dragged Cameron onto the rear porch and dropped him onto a lawn chaise.

  When he regained consciousness, she screamed at him, “Don’t ever do this to me again, or so help me, I’ll kill you.”

  * * *

  Several days later, Erica sat in her spacious, sun-drenched kitchen and stared at a cup of coffee, thinking of Cameron, who was upstairs dressing for his meeting with Lou Silverman. Erica had covered for Cameron during the horrible gut-wrenching days it took for the opium to exit his system. He might have been the love of her life, but he put her through hell.

  Yet on a good day, no one was more fun than Cameron Murphy. He had a magnetic charm. Erica smiled as she reminisced. When he took her shopping for a new dress, he couldn’t buy just one dress. Instead, he’d purchase a dozen, with accessories to match, showering her with generosity. And the parties! People flocked around him. His extravagance was legendary.

  But so were his indiscretions. Erica gulped her coffee. They’d been thrown out of the finest hotels around the world for their violent arguments. She rubbed her thumb along the line of her jaw where Cameron had punched her one evening, shattering the bone. She’d confronted him, screaming, and biting his ear. They were on location, and production had stopped on the film. Of course, Lou had been livid.

  Her makeup artist always managed to cover the scars left on her body by Cameron, but even today she was seldom filmed from her left side. She shook her head as she remembered the highs and the heartaches.

  Cameron had soaring, jubilant heights one day, then black, bottomless depressions the next. She’d lived with the constant fear that one day he’d die of an overdose or in an automobile accident, or that he’d be shot by a lover’s husband. In the end, Erica was exhausted.

  It had been three years since she’d divorced him, but she hadn’t given up hope. She still dreamed he’d break free of his demons and return.

  She blinked back despair. Maybe he needed to hit rock bottom before he could turn his life around. But how much worse could it get? He appeared to be failing in every way: physically, professionally, emotionally. Erica sighed. How long could she, should she,
hold out hope?

  When Cameron’s manager, Harry Nelson, told her that Cameron was broke, she had used her box office power to sway Lou, insisting that Cameron be given a part in her new movie. “But he’s just a drunken saloon singer,” Lou had said. “Do you still love him that much?”

  “Of course not,” she’d smoothly lied. “But he’s perfect for the part. Besides, you can get him at a good price.” The deal was sealed, then Cameron had gone out to celebrate.

  Erica stared into the depths of her coffee cup, searching for answers in the murky blackness.

  Cameron entered the kitchen, jolting her from her thoughts.

  “How do I look?” he asked. He wore a cream linen jacket, dark sunglasses, and a hat tipped at a jaunty angle.

  Erica couldn’t help but smile. “You look like a star. Now, don’t forget what I told you, and here—” She tossed him her keys. “Take my car.”

  “Thanks, and Erica?”

  “Yes?”

  “I owe you one.” His face lit up with a grin, his white teeth dazzling against his suntanned skin.

  Erica scowled. “You owe me a lot more than one.” She looked into his eyes and found that, to her chagrin, it was impossible to be angry with him when he turned on his charm. She relented, and gave him a kiss on the lips. “Get out of here, and don’t wreck my car.”

  “Hasta luego, me darlin’.” The screen door slammed behind him, and within minutes, Erica heard the throaty rumble of her Dusenberg roadster.

  Lou punched a button on his intercom. “Yes, Gladys?”

  “Cameron Murphy is here. Will you see him now?”

  “Send him in.”

  When Cameron entered his office, Lou made no motion to stand or acknowledge him.

  Cameron crossed to Lou’s massive desk, nervously turning his hat in his hand, his eyes downcast. “About my disappearance last week, Mr. Silverman. There was a death in my family back east. In Boston. Pity my poor old aunt, God bless her soul.”

  Lou knew Cameron was lying. He leaned back in his chair, lightly tapping his fingertips together, studying Cameron through narrowed eyes. Lou valued honesty and integrity. He could smell a charlatan a mile away, and Cameron reeked of duplicity. Finally, he said, “You understand the studio is taking a risk with you.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir, but I have millions of fans from my record sales and concert appearances. There’s little risk.”

  “Only the financial risk of costly delays.” Lou clipped his words. “And you haven’t recorded a song in what, three years?”

  “No, sir.” Cameron hung his head. “I appreciate your taking a chance on me. I won’t let you down.”

  “I hope not. This is a rare opportunity for you. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Erica.” He smoothed his already impeccable silver hair and glared at Cameron. “Tell me how you plan to organize your life so that you’ll be more responsible during our filming and contract period. Why should I put my studio resources behind you?”

  “Well, sir, I-I,” Cameron stammered.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m getting married.”

  “Married?” Lou sat up, frowning. Would Erica make the same mistake twice? I certainly hope not, he thought, or there goes another star, just when she’s on top.

  “To Danielle Bretancourt, the perfumer and dress designer.”

  Danielle Bretancourt. Lou repeated the name to himself with pleasure. Now there was a woman who had both feet on the ground. No doubt, she could keep Cameron in line, at least for the duration of filming. He recalled that when he had asked Danielle about designing costumes for Erica Evans, she had phoned him early the next morning, just as she’d promised. And her designs were stunning. Lou had approved every one she submitted, taking twice the number he’d planned. Danielle didn’t miss an opportunity. Lou couldn’t really put them together. But who can ever tell about affairs of the heart?

  “Good move,” Lou said. “I like her.” He stood abruptly, signaling the completion of their meeting. “Don’t let her get away. She’s a good match for you.” He paused. “If what you say about your marriage is true, then I have renewed confidence in your judgment.” He stared hard at Cameron. “That is, if you marry Danielle, and if you can hold onto her. I’m being straight with you, Cameron. You need someone like her.”

  “Absolutely, I couldn’t agree more.” Cameron shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Have you chosen a date? Let’s time it in conjunction with the release of the new movie. Weddings are great publicity for the studio.”

  “Sure, I guess that’s okay.”

  “Good. Let me know tomorrow. Don’t let me down again, boy.” Lou grasped his hand with an iron grip and sent Cameron scurrying out the door.

  Lou turned to the window, gazing out across the city. He thought for a moment of Danielle Bretancourt with Cameron Murphy, then shook his head.

  What made women fall in love?

  A slow smile spread across his face. He made a mental note to call Abigail for dinner.

  * * *

  The late summer sun streamed through the smudged windowpane in Danielle’s apartment. She pressed her fingers lightly against the glass and watched her mother and Liliana two flights below on the street, strolling hand in hand to the corner market. She was glad that Marie’s mental condition had improved, but Marie still had tremendous hurdles to overcome.

  Over the summer, Danielle had visited with several doctors. They agreed that Marie needed a substantial period of rest and recuperation in a controlled environment, and might benefit from recent advancements in psychotherapy and psychiatry.

  Treatment would be expensive, and no matter how much she worked, or how far she stretched their budget, there simply wasn’t enough money. Danielle drummed her fingers on the glass, frustration churning in her stomach.

  An enormous decision weighed on her mind.

  In the bassinet behind her, she could hear the regular rhythm of Jasmin’s breathing. Her girls also had needs. School, clothing, food. She sat on the bed and folded her arms, mulling over her dilemma.

  Since Lou’s party, Danielle had been seeing Cameron. For weeks, he had professed his undying devotion.

  And just yesterday, he had proposed marriage.

  Although their lovemaking was extraordinarily passionate, when the sexual fog lifted, Danielle knew she didn’t love him as she had loved Max, or even Jon. Still, she thought they could grow into love.

  Perhaps I owe it to Mother and the girls, she thought. They deserve a better life. Someday she would be able to provide for them, but when? Next year? Or would it take her three years, or five years? She shuddered to think of it. Those would be lost years for Marie. How could she justify that?

  Time...how precious a gift. She thought of Nicky, her beloved son. She’d give anything to spend just one more day with him.

  Anguish seized her heart in a flash before she pushed it away, efficiently boxing her emotions for storage, as she did at night when Nicky drifted into her dreams. It was the only way she could function, the only way she could sleep.

  Should I marry Cameron?

  Still, another question tugged at her heart.

  Danielle reached into the nightstand drawer and withdrew Jon’s last letter. Curling her legs under her, she opened it and began to read.

  My dear Danielle,

  Thank you for your last letter. Your words certainly keep this lonely sailor going.

  We’ve scarcely a free moment these days. The night raids over London continue, and the Germans are intent on sinking every blessed vessel in the Royal Navy. I fear we can’t hold out much longer without assistance from the Yanks. This war is pure hell, and my heart bleeds for the poor young blokes on the front lines.

  Last week I received a disturbing letter from my sister. Abigail wrote that you’re seeing quite a lot of Cameron, that you’re practically engaged. Why haven’t you mentioned this in your letters? I was startled to learn you’re contemplating marriage, particularly to Ca
meron. Think this through, I beg of you.

  Danielle lowered his letter, thinking. Her relationship with Cameron had moved so quickly. He was an impetuous man, a man accustomed to having his way, which was so clearly evident in everything he did, from his career to his passion for her body.

  She lifted the letter and began to read again.

  Abigail also wrote to say she told you of my engagement to Victoria. I suppose most men in my position would be happy. No formal engagement has been announced, and I don’t intend to make any final decision until after the war. I hope you understand the reason for my hesitation.

  It takes a long time to really know someone, Danielle. I wish I were there with you, to share our experiences and develop our friendship.

  Give little Jasmin a kiss for me. Must sign off now, I’m on duty again soon.

  Regards,

  Jon

  Danielle stared at the letter, trying to read between the lines. To develop our friendship, Jon had written. She remembered Grasse, how he had helped her through her grief over Max, helped her deliver Jasmin. And his passionate good-bye kiss. His offer for her to live with his family in England. And now she writes about friendship? A slow anger filled her.

  I’ve misjudged him. His earlier letter had held the words and promises of a man under pressure, fearing for his life. She wasn’t the first woman to receive such emotional letters from the front lines. And now that he had made up his mind and proposed to Victoria, as Abigail said, he was clearly he was putting distance between them. She couldn’t really blame him, though. After all, she had rebuffed him when he asked her to come to England. But she could not have put her family in harm’s way, not for the love of any man. And rightly so, she thought. Nazi night raids by air were devastating London now.

  She shook her head sadly, regret filling her heart. She had been mistaken. Jon’s feelings for her were clearly in the past.

  She lifted her chin and faced the truth. Jon was marrying Victoria. Both families approved of the match. As Abigail said, they’d been planning it for years.