“Um-”
“You like the long hairs, then?”
Holly grinned. “Yes.” She was surprised - she hadn’t expected Delilah to like the Beatles or the Stones.
“Very good. At least you’re not totally lacking in a musical education. What do you want to be when you grow up, Holly? What are your plans?”
“Maybe an astronaut or a secret agent, but probably a dolphin scientist or forest ranger. Or maybe an adventurer like Thor Heyerdahl.”
Delilah sniffed. “You’re young. You have plenty of time to grow out of those tomboyish notions. You’re an attractive girl. Let me see you. Stand up and come to me.”
Holly did as she was told. Delilah studied her.
“You take after my beloved sister, Carrie,” Delilah said at last.
“I have a great-aunt?” Holly asked.
“No. She died when she was just sixteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
Delilah didn’t speak for a long moment. “You have the same coloring. Your hair is gorgeous. I do hope it doesn’t turn dark and drab. It usually does.”
She looked so sad that Holly babbled, trying to fill the silence. “Did you ever meet my father? He was a famous photographer. His pictures of the Amazon and Machu Picchu were in Life Magazine.” His pictures of Mt. Everest were published there, too, but that was too sad to mention. He’d died on the mountain two years ago and though his camera was brought back by his friends, they’d had to leave his body up there in the snow. Don’t think about it!
“Sit down, Holly.” Delilah’s voice softened. “Yes, I met him. He was a good man and your mother was wrong to leave him.”
“I-” Cherry said from her detention chair.
“I was not addressing you, Charlotte. Do mind your manners.”
Charlotte? Charlotte? Charlotte is stuck in Delilah’s web! The thought destroyed Holly’s momentary sadness; it nearly made her giggle. She wouldn’t use her real name either if it were Charlotte. Holly had no idea until now. It was ugly and made her think of Bette Davis with blood on her white ball gown, holding a hatchet behind her back. Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte, her mind began crooning.
There was a mechanical click and chimes rang from a massive walnut grandfather clock in a corner near Cherry’s chair. Charlotte’s chair. Holly made herself stay solemn.
“Sit down, Holly.”
Holly returned to her seat.
“Now, as I explained to your mother, as long as you’re under my roof, I expect you both to join me for dinner once a week. I will choose the night. We will dine here or downstairs in the restaurant. Do you have any objections to that arrangement, Holly?”
“No.” Holly was only surprised they weren’t going to have dinner together every night.
“Good. At dinner, I expect you to wear a nice dress and comb your hair. Don’t wear what you have on now. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t too happy about that - she didn’t really like dresses because you had to change out of them before you could climb on the monkey bars.
“You will each have your own room on the fourth floor and while the maids will change the beds and do the vacuuming and so forth once per week, I expect you to keep your own rooms clean. Is that a problem for you?”
Holly smiled her happiness. “No. I always cleaned the apartment and cooked dinner in Van Nuys.”
Delilah’s eyebrow arched. “Why am I not surprised to hear that?” She shook her head sadly in Cherry’s direction. “That girl could never keep anything neat. Holly, while you are here, you are not to clean your mother’s room for her. She must clean it herself. That is a law you will live by, both of you.”
Nodding, Holly heard Cherry groan and wished she hadn’t said anything. Her mother was going to be mad.
“Your rooms each contain a kitchenette. There’s a sink, a few dishes, a hot plate, and a small refrigerator. You can use those or you can take your meals in the restaurant. Our staff has their own dining room and you’re welcome to join them. They’re expecting you.” Delilah’s voice rose. “Liquor, Charlotte, is not provided.”
“Thank you, Miss Delilah.” Holly spoke before Cherry could say something nasty. “That sounds great.” Not having to make PB&Js or heat TV dinners or SpaghettiOs would be wonderful. Here, she’d get to eat real food.
“Now,” Delilah said. “Am I forgetting anything?”
Holly waited.
“I suppose not. Oh, yes. You do need a source of income, I assume, so Holly, I’d like you to water the plants in the lobby and in the hallways of the first through fourth floors several times a week. It’s very dry here and they need it. Does that suit you?”
“Yes! I’d like that.” Now I have an excuse to explore! Maybe I’ll see the ghosts!
“Excellent. I’ve already explained your mother’s job to her, and there’s no need to go into that with you.” Outside, a hawk made a lonesome call. Delilah glanced at a window, then turned back to Holly. “Do not disturb the guests, no yelling or running, or any of that nonsense. Is that clear?”
It was hard to see the soaring hawk through the amber sheers. “Yes. Don’t worry. I’ll be good.”
Delilah eyed her. “I suspect you will. I do hope Charlotte will also be good. Now, have you met my manager, Meredith Granger, yet?”
“Yes, she’s nice.” Holly smiled.
“You and Charlotte go see her now. She’ll see to it that you have your keys and that your bags are brought upstairs.” Delilah rose in a hush of expensive black crepe. “There will be no switching rooms. Remember that, Charlotte. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have drinks with the Commodore in half an hour. She retrieved a silver bell from the side table and rang it. Frieda appeared instantly. “Yes, Miss Delilah?”
“Please see my guests out.”
Delilah Devine waited until she heard her daughter and granddaughter leave, then walked the length of the vast living room, passing several conversation areas - clutches of settees and chairs, each with their own accent tables and lamps, past a grandfather clock, and the dark alcove where Charlotte had waited. She’d had many of the walls removed on the fifth floor when she moved in because she loved open big spaces where she could see everything. She hated feeling trapped.
She passed a heavy-legged game table, mahogany inlaid with ivory and ebony squares and, finally, the billiards table with its burgundy felt and heavily ornamented Georgian legs. She trailed her hand over the felt; she’d bought the table in 1937, as well as many of the other pieces that filled her home. She acquired her Aero Coupe that same year, after Violet Morne, the movie that had transfixed the world and made her a household name and would have earned her an Oscar - if the shenanigans of that other actress hadn’t swayed the vote.
She’d been just twenty-five years old then, and beautiful. Charlotte was an adorable toddler in those days, coddled by Delilah when she had the time and always by her nanny and her daddy, Clifton Danvers, at least until the selfish bastard ran off with Millicent McKensy in 1939. Slutty little nobody. Delilah took solace in the fact that Millicent never made it out of the starlet phase. The studio dropped her like a hot potato after Clifton put a bun in her unbetrothed oven. Before long, Clifton’s career began fading along with his good looks - because, after all, he’d never been much of an actor.
Just like his daughter. Charlotte had turned into an even bigger disappointment than Clifton. She took after him in every way from her mud-colored hair and husky-blue eyes - so pale people either loved them or recoiled - to her preoccupation with sex. And the fact that she’d chosen to use - and tarnish - Delilah’s own surname was something that couldn’t be forgiven. Delilah had paid Max, her loyal driver, to endure one of her daughter’s vile movies and report back to her. The girl was shameless.
Delilah entered her bathroom, all gold gilt and marble. When she had inherited the derelict hospital, she’d immediately begun renovations on the first four floors to serve as a hotel. But on the fifth - her penthouse - she had the workmen
tear out all the tiny hospital rooms. She loathed confined spaces almost to the point of phobia - and so had her living quarters made spacious and open. She’d had them build in a few other rooms, of course. The kitchen, laundry, guest rooms, study, a formal dining room, a music room. Her private bathroom was as big as a typical master bedroom and her bedroom was the size of a studio apartment.
Now she looked at the gold-plated swan-shaped faucets and hand-painted sinks, the matching claw foot tub, toilet, and bidet. The porcelain was painted in the manner of Monet, allowing her to be surrounded by water lilies whenever she bathed. She, Max, and Vera had removed all the detailing and fixtures she loved in her mansion in Beverly Hills before the mortgage holder could repossess it after the bad investments had killed her stock portfolio. Bastards. Out here, in the wildly uncivilized southwest, she was easily able to find new marble for the bathroom counters and floors, all five of them, at a very reasonable price.
She brushed her hair - still dark with only a little help from a bottle - then removed her makeup and washed her face. After that, she opened a jar of Visage Ravissant and inhaled the scent of orange blossoms and honey, before massaging it into her skin.
As she did each day, she forced herself to examine her face for new signs of aging. She’d never had work done - too many of her friends had ended up chasing youth with a scalpel until they turned into monstrosities. Delilah refused to do such a thing, but aging had brought about the end of good leading roles. When she began being cast as a mother or aunt to the younger leading ladies - before I even turned thirty-five! - she let her contracts run out. She couldn’t face aging in public.
Hollywood treated any woman over thirty-five as a has-been, and Delilah refused to be such a thing. It was better to retire from film. She had continued working on the stage - a much more forgiving venue - for many years, but eventually got tired of fans staring at her; it felt like they were counting the lines in her face while she signed their autograph books. It got to the point that she couldn’t shop or dine out in Manhattan for fear of being recognized. She’d never liked that, but as she advanced into her forties, it became intolerable.
Deep inside, she felt she’d somehow failed by aging; she demanded perfection from herself. Eventually she retired from the stage and moved to Beverly Hills where she took up life as a recluse. There, she had her staff go shopping for her, had chefs brought in from famous restaurants to cook in her kitchen, and lived quietly with her long-time servants, Max and Vera, and a few others.
It was a good life until the money began drying up. She had to go back to work, taking roles in Universal horror films and other B movies. It was humiliating even though she acquired a new and enthusiastic set of fans. In the movies, she looked good, but she dreaded the studio asking her to make public appearances or do television interviews.
Even so, those trashy movies had paid the bills and kept her in her mansion, at least until her idiot financial manager, Leon Penske, had convinced her to make a series of bad investments. It was a very good thing that her inheritance had come along when it did because it not only saved her from the public humiliation of losing her home, but provided this wonderful place to live, far from Hollywood and the fans. After Leon turned coward and blew his brains out, she didn’t try to hire another advisor. Instead, she consulted with Victor Campion, an old friend who’d lawyered for one of the studios back in the day. The Commodore, as everyone called him, had never steered her wrong; and if they occasionally indulged in a bit of romance - as they had since her first days as a divorcee - he was a consummate gentleman. He never told. She treasured him. He retired to Sedona shortly after she had moved to Brimstone. It was convenient for both of them.
And here in Brimstone she didn’t need much income to live well - her decision - encouraged by Victor - to turn the first four floors of the massive old hospital into a hotel was one of the best she’d ever made. It gave her enough income to live as she desired; the only thing she didn’t like was the fact that the fans had found her - I never should have named the restaurant after myself. The fans weren’t just tourists, unfortunately - Brimstone was acutely aware that she was a native and they were forever trying to get her to appear at town functions, act in their little theater, or be the guest of honor at parades and tiny conventions. She countered all of it by avoiding conducting business in Brimstone.
She reapplied her eyeshadow, mascara, and lipstick. Even at fifty-six, her skin remained relatively smooth, relatively flawless. And she needed no foundation, nothing but a light dusting of translucent powder, though if she went out by day, she always wore a little feathered cap and veil to soften gravity’s torture.
5
The Bellhop
“This is all for me?” Holly looked at Meredith, who had left the desk in her assistant’s care in order to bring Holly and her mother to their rooms. First, she had opened Cherry’s room on the other side of the hall. It was nice, with a bed, a table and two chairs, a tiny kitchen, and a window that looked out on the mountainside not more than five feet away. Then, leaving Cherry, she had taken Holly across the hall and unlocked room 429.
“This is all yours, Holly. Your grandmother has given you one of the nicest little rooms we have - and she said that I should tell you that if your mother tries to switch with you, to say no and to immediately let her know.” She smiled. “Or let me know, if that’s easier.”
“Okay.” Holly loved the room. It had the same furnishings and kitchenette as Cherry’s, but big triplet windows looked out over Brimstone, the desert, and the northern mountains. There was a glass-paneled door with a crystal knob next to the windows. Holly glanced at Meredith.
“Go ahead, open it.”
Holly did - and stepped out onto a long balcony that ran the length of the building. In front of each room was a little wooden table with a pair of matching chairs. “Wow! How come I get this and Cherry doesn’t?”
Meredith shook her head. “I don’t know, but Miss Delilah was very specific. I’m sure there’s a good reason.”
Holly wondered what would happen if Cherry came to her room and saw the balcony. She could close the drapes over the windows. But the door … “Um, is there any way I can cover the door so you can’t see the balcony? Like drapes or something?”
Meredith considered, then nodded. “That’s a good idea. I’ll measure the door and cut down some extra window drapes to fit it. It’s pretty easy. Do you like to sew?”
“I don’t know how.”
“This evening, we’ll make you a drape. How’s that?”
“Really?”
“Really. What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
“Nothing. My grandmother, I mean Miss Delilah, said I could eat with the employees.”
“What about your mother?”
“She won’t care. She likes to go out to eat.”
“Maybe she wants to take you out to eat.”
Holly laughed. “That’d be a first.”
Meredith smiled gently. “Do you think she’d let you come to dinner at our house - it’s almost right next door? You could meet the rest of our brood and you and I can hit the sewing machine after that.”
“Cherry won’t care. She was hardly ever home in LA. She let me do whatever I wanted.”
“Really? So, what did you do?”
“I made my dinner and did my homework and read or watched TV. Sometimes I spent the night at a friend’s house. It was okay.”
Meredith hugged her. Just like that, and Holly, for probably the first time in her whole life, hugged back, and didn’t want to stop.
“Come on, let’s go get your mom and we’ll go downstairs and bring up some of your luggage. Or all of it if the elevator has been cleared. How’s that?”
“Great!”
“Why, you’re just a little squirt, aren’t cha?” Arthur Meeks said to the girl as he hefted her mother’s massive bags out of the Falcon’s trunk. Although the bellhop was six feet tall and no scarecrow, lifting the blonde’s luggage w
as a real chore. “You bring your anvil collection, Miss Devine?”
The bitch couldn’t have heard him, but her sudden laugh jeered into his ears. She looked to be making eyes at Jared-Bob Benderson, the pretty delivery boy in a white Stetson who was climbing back in the Gower Pharmacy Metro. Too bad, lady, you ain’t his type.
Arthur swung out a small bag as heavy as three bowling balls and plunked it on the luggage rack. He’d have known exactly who this woman was the moment he laid eyes on her even if Meredith hadn’t said her name before she sent him out. The blonde with delusions of Marilyn Monroe was Delilah Devine’s daughter, who grew up to be a porn star - and while he admired the body, he didn’t much like the baggage that came with it. He chuckled at his pun. There’s luggage and there’s luggage!
Arthur was good at pegging people. After a dozen years as a bellhop all over town - the last several here at the Brimstone Grand - he was a real expert. Cherry Devine might have a great rack and an ass that could shoot sunshine - Lord knew he’d seen it often enough at the X-E Lady Theater downtown - but she was a bitch.
Again, he looked at the little girl watching him load the cart and wondered if she knew what her mother did for a living. Don’t look like it, but you never know, nosireebob. He pulled another bag - one printed with stars and moons and adorned with a U.S.S. Enterprise sticker - that had to belong to the kid. He wondered if she’d grow up to be a slut like her mommy or a queen douchebag like her granny. The girl had just the beginnings of tiny boobs, nothing but buds really. He gave his desert-dry lips a little lick and wondered if she’d grow melons like her mother’s. He hoped not; Arthur liked a girlish figure more than a zaftig one.
He grabbed another bag - it obviously held a big hair dryer. It slipped from his hands and even though he caught it before it touched the ground, Cherry Devine swore at him. “Watch what you’re doing, or I’ll have you fired.”
“I’ve seen your movies,” Arthur muttered.
Brimstone Page 5
