I walked slowly, like a pall barer, through my kitchen to the room that was once my husband’s office. Trembling I opened the door and quickly flipped on the light. His desk chair was at a quarter-turn as if he had just stood up. My photograph was still on his desk. The computer screen was blank. The daybed appeared to be untouched. The small bathroom still had the faint smell of Colin’s cologne. I breathed it in feeling the pain of loss once more. I opened the door that led out to the side of the house. The walkway was as it should be. Everything was as it should be. And yet something was wrong. Colin’s room did not have the feel of a forgotten place. There was the sense of someone having recently been in it. Of the stillness having been broken.
I took Theo’s award from the mantel and went back to my room. I placed it on my nightstand and got into bed. I turned off the light. I didn’t turn on the television. I didn’t take my sleeping pill. I stared at the shadows on the ceiling and waited in the dark terrifying quiet. I’m not sure how much time had passed when I saw Theo’s slim figure in my doorway.
“It took me a while to figure out what was wrong,” she said in her low soft voice. “No TV, no Willie Nelson. No white noise.”
“You were counting on my fear of silence.” I sat up and turned on the light. We blinked as if seeing each other for the first time. She wore black slacks and a black sweater. Her small sharp face was drawn. Her intelligent eyes looked dull. I’d never seen her eyes look dull before.
“I was only taking advantage of your fear. Why are you so afraid, Diana?” She stayed in the doorway.
“Just like Brendan I’m trying to a fill a void. The void death makes.”
“I liked staying in Colin’s room. It was like sleeping in a shrine.”
“You’ve been here all the time.”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I just needed to be where nobody could get at me. Haven’t you ever felt like that, Diana?” She titled her head and attempted a smile.
“I think you needed to be in a place where you could commit a murder and nobody would know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Brendan’s dead.”
“Brendan? I don’t believe it.” She sagged against the door jam; writers should never act.
“Writers should never act,” I said.
She pulled herself up to her full height.
“That’s better.”
“How did he die?” she asked.
“The police think he committed suicide in your house. But I don’t believe he killed himself. Of course they’re waiting to talk to you.” I swung my legs around and sat on the edge of the bed.
“How can you think I would do such a thing? My God, did Brendan think I was never coming back?” she asked.
“Maybe it was the postcard you sent him.”
“I was angry at him, but not enough to kill him, Diana.”
“You knew I rarely went into Colin’s office. You knew I hated a silent house. What did you do with your car? Park it on a side street?”
“Unless you have proof I wouldn’t go around saying things like that. You know how this town talks. Besides what’s my motive? Brendan was making me a fortune, and he was my lover.”
“Brendan would have left you with nothing to write about.”
She laughed harshly. “That’s hardly a motive, Diana.”
“But it’s true. Dorothy Parker said, ‘give me a man that is handsome, ruthless and stupid.’ Well, that was your Brendan. And you liked that about him. But the more successful he became the more he felt he needed to talk off-screen like he did onscreen. He began to repeat things you had shared with him about your life as if they were his own, didn’t he?”
Rubbing her forehead she paused a moment then said evenly, “I thought I had found what every writer, hell, every woman, hopes for. A lover that is a good listener. But I got suckered. I would hear him at parties talking about his father but it was really my father. His father drank diet cola and ate macaroni and cheese and never said an interesting thing in his life. My father was a drunk but at least he talked to the moon. Brendan would make a witty observation, everyone would laugh, but it was my observation. How do you tell a person at a dinner party that’s not really Brendan speaking, that’s me? You can’t without sounding like a petty idiot.”
“He needed to fill his own void. That’s what his wife said.”
“She knew him better than I did. I began to realize he was stealing my life, my creative life, so he could fill his empty one. You’re correct about one thing, Diana. I was afraid I’d have nothing left to write when I sat down to start my novel. I couldn’t shut him up. I couldn’t stop him. I tried but he just didn’t see the problem. It was all dialogue to him.”
“But you did stop him.”
“Nobody will believe that I killed Brendan. The golden goose never gets killed in Hollywood.”
“You killed this one. You got him to come to your house. That would be easy. But how did you get his gun? That’s the only part I can’t figure out.”
“Are you telling me he shot himself with his own gun? He must’ve used the gun he gave me. Brendan didn’t like the thought of me alone at the beach without protection. Diana, I‘ve been good to you. I given you parts in my shows that other actresses your age would kill for.”
“Well, this show is over, isn’t it? You’ve seen to that.”
“I’ll write other shows, other parts.”
“But Theo, even with Brendan dead you still won’t be able to write your novel.”
Her dull eyes glimmered briefly with the pain of recognition. “Why do you say that?”
“If TV saps your soul what does murder do to it?”
“TV is worse. Trust me.” She grinned wryly. It was Theo at her ironical best.
“I want my key back.”
“Sure.” She reached in her pocket of her slacks took the key and dropped it on my dresser.
“Yours is there in the glass bowl.”
She took it.
“Don’t forget your Golden Globe.”
Theo picked it up and weighed it in her hand starring at me all the time.
“Are you thinking of killing me, too?”
“No, you have no proof. Except that Brendan was sucking all my creativity out of me. And who is going to buy that as a motive in Hollywood? People get paid for doing that here. It’s called synergy.”
“Alison Kincaid may think as I do.”
“No. She loved the man Brendan had become. The Brendan I had created. She wouldn’t want his image tarnished.”
“Where are you going to go?” I asked.
“To the police. Tell them how shocked I am. And hope that my silly behavior wasn’t partly to blame for his suicide. But sometimes, Diana, a woman just needs to get away. She just needs to pull her thoughts together. Goodnight.”
I made sure Theo had left and then I went back to bed. I turned on the TV. Bette Davis was talking. On reruns of his show Brendan Kincaid would soon be talking again. Now Theo too was one of the talking dead; she just didn’t know it yet. Cold, I pulled the covers up around me and watched Bette Davis blow smoke.
The Good Daughter
Trying on clothes in a department store dressing room I heard a mother and a daughter arguing over a dress the mother wanted the daughter to buy. I was stunned by the lack of compassion in the mother’s voice and the hurtful anger of the daughter as they battled each other. I didn’t buy anything, but I came away with an idea for a short story. How far would a daughter go to please her mother? How far would a mother go to get her way with her daughter?
“DIANNA, TELL KYRA how beautiful she looks,” Monique Lancer told me.
Kyra, Monique’s daughter, fought back tears as she glared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. I sat in a silk slipper chair sipping wine.
“It won’t do any good, Diana,” Kyra snapped. “I’m not wearing this stupid dress.” A small figure of a winged angel was tattooed on the curve of her young breast.
; “Tell her, Diana.”
Monique squeezed my hand; it was a cold bony reminder that she was one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood. And she had just gotten me a role in a movie with the hot new young actor Jimmy Whitelaw. I had ten lines and had just finished shooting my part. I knew I was on treacherous ground. Not only was I being inserted into the middle of an argument between a mother and daughter, but I was also being commanded to lie. I needed work so I considered what it would morally cost me to tell a sixteen-year-old girl that she didn’t look ridiculous in an evening gown when she did. The gown was a pink strapless affair with a huge ruffled skirt that swept the floor. Scarlet O’Hara going to a 1950’s prom came to mind. Except for the tattoo on her breast. While I was trying to find the right complimentary words without sounding like a sycophant, Kyra turned her hard little face on her mother.
“Who is this birthday party for? You or me?”
“You, darling, I’ve already been sixteen. I see no problem with having some of my friends here.”
“You don’t have friends. You have famous clients.”
“Diana is my friend.”
“She’s hoping you’ll take her on as a client. Why don’t you tell her what you told me? She’s too old!” Now Kyra glared at me.
“I said it would be difficult to take Diana on because there are so few roles for women on the verge of middle-age.”
On the verge? They went on this way, talking about me as if I weren’t there. Just to make sure I checked my reflection in the mirror. Yes, I was in Kyra’s bedroom sitting in the blue silk slipper chair, my long legs crossed, wearing a black suit that showed off my fleshy curves, and determinedly blonde hair. I could hear guests arriving in the foyer below.
Monique, thin as a sliver of ice, thrust a pink barrette into her daughter’s harshly dyed black hair. The severe color turned Kyra’s flawless pale skin a dead white.
I took more wine. I was drinking too much. I was drinking in place of good acting roles, in place of sex, in place of a man in my bed, in place of letting go of my dead husband. I was avoiding the void.
Kyra screamed the name, “Jimmy Whitelaw!” drawing my attention back to mother and daughter.
“That’s who this party is for. Jimmy Whitelaw. Not me! You’re just using me.”
Jimmy had the enormous ego of a very little man. When I had worked with him he had to stand on what the crew calls an apple box to make him taller. We all had to pretend he didn’t have to stand on it. Jimmy loved call-girls. He bragged about having them dress in retro fifties style cheerleader outfits or prom gowns. I looked at Kyra wearing her pink pouf of a ball gown. My heart sank.
“Is this dress you’re forcing her to wear about Jimmy Whitelaw?” I asked Monique.
“He’s taken a liking to Kyra. Who wouldn’t?” she fluffed her daughter’s hair. Kyra recoiled from her mother’s touch.
“He doesn’t like women,” I said.
“I knew he was a creep,” Kyra said.
“Be quiet.” Her mother said, and then stared me down. “He likes women, Diana.”
“‘He’s short,” Kyra snapped.
“I know the production company paid to have him surrounded by three prostitutes on the set. It’s amazing what keeps the costs of making movies so high and my salary so low.”
“You got that part thanks to me. And so what if he likes call-girls?”
“He likes them dressed the way you’ve dressed Kyra.”
“You want me to go to bed with him! You think that will get him as a client,” Kyra fumed. But no tears of a mother’s betrayal showed in her eyes. They could have been fighting over, well, a dress.
“It’s not as if you’re a virgin. You might as well get something for it instead of giving it away free.”
“You can’t tell me what to do with my body.”
“Oh, for God’s sake you call sex “hooking-up”. Having sex means nothing to you. And I might add who pays the bills? Who keeps your way of life going?”
As mother and daughter began to go at one another again I picked up my wine glass and purse. At the bedroom door I said:
“Kyra, that’s the ugliest gown I have ever seen. Don’t wear it. If you do you’ll regret it your entire life.”
I walked out of the bedroom. Pausing on the long curve of stairs I peered down at the famous guests mingling in the marble foyer. There was an over abundance of facelifts. The pulled skin on the women and men shined synthetically in the light of the crystal chandelier. The stars that were invited to Kyra’s Sweet Sixteen Birthday party were dimming. Monique Lancer’s clients were getting old. She needed young blood. She needed Jimmy Whitelaw.
“Diana,” Monique grabbed my arm. “Don’t you ever tell my daughter what to do. And she’s not some innocent child either.”
“And she’s not some deal you’re hawking either.”
I pulled away from her. Jimmy Whitelaw rushed up the stairs. Not recognizing me, his gaze quickly shifted to the top of the landing and Kyra’s door.
“Is that her room?” he asked Monique. Anticipation made his voice higher.
She nodded. He continued up the steps and slipped into the bedroom. The deal was done.
“I’m going home.”
Standing under the portico I asked the valet for my car. He stared at me as if I were crazy.
“Sorry, ma’am. We have all these limos coming in. It’ll be awhile.”
“I’ll wait.”
I stood there greeting people that I knew and being avoided by others that I also knew. You’re never sure why you’re being shunned in Hollywood; that’s what makes it so insidious. I gave up waiting and walked around the side of the house.
Under the enormous marquee a rap band was performing. The noise was deafening and had all the rhythm of an Uzi. Bodyguards with guns tucked under their heavy leather jackets surrounded the stage, protecting the rappers from the famous white audience. I walked across the lawn to the infinity pool; it looked like it was spilling Monique’s purified sewage over the hills of Hollywood. The rapper’s sounds filled the rich night air leaving no room for any other sound. There were guards placed around the property. Most of the men securing the party were moonlighting LAPD officers. There was only one who looked comfortable in his suit. He stood by the pool, hands in his pant pockets, looking out at the city lights.
“You a detective?” I asked, trying to talk over the music.
“What?” His dark eyes assessed me like a piece of evidence. He stepped closer in order to hear me.
I repeated my question.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“You look like you’re used to wearing a suit.”
He laughed. His dark hair was cut short and graying at the temples. He had a high forehead and a nose that looked like it had taken a punch. Men, I thought ruefully. Give them a bashed nose and it only makes them look more intriguing. The music thumped and pestered.
“I didn’t know detectives moonlighted. I thought it was mostly motorcycle cops.”
“I need the money. Ex-wife. Actually three ex wives.”
“I can’t hear. Did you say three?”
He nodded sheepishly. Then cupped his mouth with his hand and spoke into my ear. “Should I know who you are?” His warm breath tickled my neck. His crooked smile came easily.
“No.”
“But I have seen you in the movies.”
“Probably. You just didn’t know it was me.”
“And who is me?”
“What?”
“Your name?” he yelled.
“Diana Poole.”
He repeated my name trying to place me. “I have seen you. But you’re right I didn’t know it was you. Do you want to know who I am?”
“Not if you’re somebody.”
“Just a detective.”
“You could be a singing detective.”
“Who?’
“A singing…Never mind,” I shouted. “What’s your name?”
“My name? Leo Heath
.”
“You lied.”
“What?”
“You lied! You wrote a book that was made into a movie.”
“Did you read it?” He looked surprised.
“No.”
“See the movie?”
“No. I read for a part in the movie. I didn’t get it. You earned a ton of money. What are you doing moonlighting?”
“As I said, I have three ex-wives.”
“Write another book.”
“What?”
“Write another book!” I screamed. The music stopped.
My words hung in the air. My ears rang. We laughed.
“I can’t,” he said in his normal voice, which was surprisingly soft and intimate. I wondered if the tone of his voice made it easier for him to extract the truth from criminals and victims.
“Why can’t you?”
“I have writer’s block. Hey, where are you going?”
“You’re too famous for me. Besides my ears are ringing and I want to go home,” I said, trying to ignore my body’s response to his.
“And where is that?”
“Malibu.”
“You must have three very wealthy ex-husbands.” He grinned.
“Very perceptive.” I returned his smile.
I looked up at the glowing lamp in Kyra’s bedroom window and decided I couldn’t leave just yet. Somebody had to look after her.
The foyer was empty. All the guests were in the back yard. I went up the stairs and knocked on her door. There was no answer. I went in. The room was empty. Just the pink prom-like gown on the floor; the bodice collapsed into its full skirt. The skirt billowed out on the carpet as if it had just parachuted to earth.
Monique swept in. “Where is Kyra?” she demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“What are you doing in here?”
“I came to see if she was all right. Is that why you’re here?”
“Have you seen Jimmy Whitelaw?”
“No.”
Her narrow face tightened into anger. “She didn’t wear the dress. One of the guests said they saw Kyra outside standing by herself. She was wearing jeans and a sweater. Damn her.”
“For a moment I thought you might be worried about her.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Diana. I thought you were more sophisticated than you really are.”
Shooting Hollywood Page 11
