Young men and women came out to enjoy themselves. Abra felt lonely watching them, half-hoping someone would recognize her and want to talk, half-afraid they might. She sat on a bench and watched teenage girls in skimpier suits than hers spread hot-pink and yellow beach towels before lathering their bodies with lotion. The air was scented with Coppertone. They all reminded her piercingly of Penny and Charlotte, Pamela and Michelle, and lounging on the banks of Riverfront Park.
Franklin haunted her. “We have to take advantage of your day in the sun, Lena.”
He hadn’t meant sunlight, but press coverage. He’d always hoped for a headline. How ironic, considering she’d started her life as a headline story in the Haven Chronicle, after Reverend Ezekiel Freeman had found an abandoned baby under the bridge.
More and more people came to the beach. Most stretched out on towels, soaking up the sun. Abra loved the warmth on her shoulders and back, the salt breeze in her face.
She had come to the right place: Santa Monica, named for the devout mother of St. Augustine, who prayed for years for her wayward, feckless son until he finally repented and became a saint himself. Abra thought of her own life and what a mess she’d made of it.
Did her mother ever wonder what happened to her?
Did Pastor Zeke, or Joshua, or Peter and Priscilla?
Hungry, she broke another of Franklin’s cardinal rules and bought a hot dog, french fries, and a Coke from a concession stand. She could almost hear him yelling. Just thinking about him made her angry. She intended to waste time judiciously and break every rule in his book. She bought an ice cream sandwich on the Santa Monica Pier and rode the carousel four times. It took that many rides before she snagged the brass ring, and then she was too sick to go on the free ride. She gave the ring to a little redheaded girl in pigtails. Had she ever looked that innocent?
Free and finally out from under Franklin’s thumb, she didn’t know what to do. She wanted to get farther away than Santa Monica. But where? She wished she could get a car and just start driving. She’d go all the way across the country to the Atlantic Ocean if she knew how to drive. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t even have any form of identification. The only legal document in the safe with a name on it was that marriage certificate, and it said Lena Scott, not Abra Matthews. Was the marriage even legal?
Lena Scott didn’t exist anymore. Neither did Abra Matthews, it seemed.
She wanted to talk to someone, but the only person who came to mind was her manicurist, Mary Ellen, and she’d have to call Murray and ask for her number. And if she called Murray, he might call Franklin. Her mind went round and round.
Call home.
What home?
Sunset splashed red, orange, and yellow across the western horizon. On the way back to the hotel, she bought a hamburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, and couldn’t stop thinking about Joshua. Her eyes burned and her throat closed up so much, she threw away most of the meal.
She spent her time wandering the beach, trying to decide what to do and where to go. She had thought it would feel good to be alone. To be Abra again, invisible. Instead, she felt vulnerable and scared when people looked at her, a flicker of recognition lighting their eyes. Franklin said fans had ripped clothing off Elvis Presley’s back and tried to grab hunks of hair. “Sometimes their devotion is dangerous. They want a piece of you. That’s why I have to protect you.”
Franklin hadn’t wanted a piece of her; he’d wanted everything. He’d wanted her mind, body, and soul to belong to him. He had been her biggest fan—and more dangerous than everyone else combined. He would share her on a movie screen, but in real life, she belonged to him and he wouldn’t share, not even with a baby.
Sleep came fitfully. She heard a soft tap and found a newspaper just outside her door. A partial headline caught her attention. Heart in her throat, she brought it inside and unfolded it on the coffee table.
AGENT FOUND DEAD, STAR MISSING
Franklin Moss, well-known star builder, was found dead in his apartment . . . apparent suicide . . . His mistress, rising star Lena Scott, is missing . . . The doorman of the apartment house said Miss Scott left the premises soon after Franklin Moss departed that morning. “She was carrying a suitcase, but dumped it on the sidewalk across the street and ran when I called out to her.”
Franklin Moss has been estranged from his wife since his affair with Pamela Hudson, now married to director Terrence Irving. Close friends say Moss was a perfectionist, great at his job, but often suffered deep depression. Mrs. Moss filed for divorce when the story of his affair with Pamela Hudson reached the press, and then withdrew the petition in hope of reconciliation.
Neighbors of Moss report overhearing loud arguments between Moss and Lena Scott, who have been living together for three years. The doorman hadn’t seen her for several weeks. “Mr. Moss said she wasn’t feeling well.”
Dropping the newspaper, Abra fled into the bathroom and threw up.
“Be careful he doesn’t pull you over with him,” Pamela Hudson had said.
Abra had escaped, but had she pushed him over the edge? I hate you! she’d written. She remembered the gun she’d left on the desk. Abra heard an awful sound, like an animal dying, and realized it was coming from her.
Joshua stepped around the counter and picked up the freshly brewed pot of coffee, delivering five mugs to the new customers taking stools.
“Well, ain’t you a handy man to have around!” Clarice grinned as she stacked plates of meat loaf and mashed potatoes up her arm.
“Figured you could use a little help.”
“I’m thankful for the packed house, but I need more hands. Only happens when a movie company comes to film something at the Rocks.” She whisked past him and delivered the meals. Rudy hit the bell again and she called out, “All right, all right, I’m coming; I’m coming!” Shaking her head, she bumped past Joshua. “I’d hire you if I didn’t know you already had a better-paying job. But I sure could use someone around here. Not enough local girls interested.” The sound of men’s voices filled the place. By seven, the place was emptying fast. Four a.m. start-up time came mighty early.
Joshua lingered, in no hurry to go back to his hot, dusty motel room. Rudy came out of the kitchen and sank onto a stool at the counter a couple down from Joshua. Clarice poured him a tall glass of water. He chugged it. “I feel like a horse rode hard and put away wet.” He took a cloth from his apron pocket and wiped his perspiring face.
“Well, enjoy it while it lasts, you old coot, ’cause six weeks and the crew will hightail it out of town, and we’ll be right back wondering why we ever thought we could make money on this place.”
“I’m getting too old for this.”
“I’m no spring chicken myself. I should share my tips with this gentleman. He poured coffee and bused tables.”
“My pleasure, Clarice.” Joshua smiled at Rudy. “You serve a good, hearty meal.”
“He learned to cook in the Army,” Clarice volunteered. “World War II.”
Rudy snorted. “You won’t get anything fancy, but I can fill you up.”
“Only thing he refuses to cook is Spam, and I love the stuff.”
“You didn’t have to live on it for four years.”
Joshua laughed and said he’d felt the same way after Korea. They shared experiences while Clarice cleaned the counter and took another plastic bin of dirty dishes into the kitchen. Rudy looked around. “Where’s the newspaper?”
“Hold your horses!” She pulled it out from under the counter. Rudy separated the sections, found the sports, and left the front page on the counter.
A headline caught Joshua’s eye. Agent Found Dead, Star Missing. His heart took a fillip. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Help yourself.” Rudy rattled the paper as he turned it inside out. “You can have the sports page as soon as I finish it.”
Joshua read the cover story and dug for his wallet. “Can I have change for the telephone?” He pulled a few doll
ars out.
Clarice handed him nickels, dimes, and quarters. “Something wrong, Joshua?”
“Just need to call home.” He went outside to the phone booth and closed himself inside. The heat was stifling as he dialed. The phone rang once, twice, three times before Dad answered. He gave Dad the news.
“You think she might come back to Haven?”
“Maybe. Keep an eye out for her. I don’t know, Dad.” Joshua sighed. “It’ll be now or never.”
“What are you going to do?”
He’d already given his word. “Stay here and finish the job.”
Someone knocked on the door. “LAPD, Miss Scott. Please open the door.”
As she did so, she expected to be arrested and hauled away in handcuffs. The officer looked at her face and the open newspaper and said they just wanted to ask some questions. It felt like an interrogation, despite Officer Brooks’s gentle manner and Officer Gelderman’s offer of a glass of water from the bathroom.
Her hand shook so hard, water sloshed over her wrist. “I didn’t know he’d kill himself! I just wanted to get away from him. I couldn’t breathe anymore. Did he take pills? He kept sedatives in his pocket.”
“Sedatives?”
“He said they were barbiturates. He said the doctor prescribed them for me.”
“Did you know he had a handgun?”
She stared at him. “No. Don’t tell me he used the gun. Don’t tell me.” She covered her ears and rocked back and forth.
The two officers waited and then asked if she knew anything about the papers torn up and left strewn around. She told them it was the contract between her and Franklin and the wedding certificate from a chapel, which probably wasn’t worth the paper it had been printed on since she’d read that he wasn’t divorced from his first wife after all. She’d also left the ring he’d never let her wear and a note. She could tell they’d read it.
Did they blame her for his death? Even if they didn’t, she knew it was her fault. She’d never considered what Franklin might do if Lena Scott left him. Abra just wanted to get away.
Officer Brooks spoke in a soothing tone. The other officer called the front desk and asked in hushed tones if the hotel had a doctor on call. They didn’t want to leave her alone. A bubble of laughter rose before she regained control. Maybe they were afraid she might kill herself, too. Another headline. Wouldn’t Franklin be happy? No, he wouldn’t be happy. He wouldn’t feel anything ever again. Because of her.
She scarcely heard what Officer Brooks was saying about no question of guilt. “You’re not a suspect, Miss Scott. We confirmed what time you checked in here.” He put a hand over hers and squeezed gently. “Try to calm down. You’re not to blame. We just needed to ask a few questions and have the information on record.” He went on to explain.
“The doorman heard a shot fired an hour after Franklin Moss returned to his apartment. He called the police and opened the apartment when they arrived, finding Franklin in the living room, dead.”
Had his blood splattered his precious paintings of Pygmalion and Galatea? She clutched her hands together, her fingers as cold as ice. “How did you find me?”
“We received several calls from people who recognized you.”
It could have been the cabdriver who gave his word, or the teenage girl looking for movie stars on the palisades, or a staff member in the hotel eager to protect the reputation of the Miramar. If the police hadn’t come to her door, would she have called them? Or would she have run away like she always did?
A doctor came. Officer Brooks spoke to him quietly before he and his partner left. Dr. Schaeffer suggested a few days in the hospital. When she refused, he gave her a pill and spoke comforting banalities until she wanted to scream at him to shut up; he didn’t know what he was talking about—she wasn’t Lena Scott; she wasn’t anybody. The shaking stopped and he took her pulse. “It’s still fast.”
She assured him she was fine now. She gave an Academy Award performance. How many had she given over her lifetime? No one had ever been able to guess what she was really thinking or feeling.
I see you. I know.
“I’ll be all right. Thank you for coming.” She saw him to the door.
He hesitated. “I’ll check on you in a couple of hours.”
The front desk called and asked if she wanted to make a statement. Reporters waited in the lobby. She asked how many reporters and the lady said three, but more were expected. Abra said she wasn’t ready to talk about it and hung up.
Guilt gnawed at her. It didn’t matter anymore what Franklin had done to her or why she’d run away. She’d sent him over the edge. If only she’d left a simple note of gratitude and apology. She couldn’t be Lena Scott anymore. She couldn’t be his Galatea. Maybe then he’d still be alive.
She awakened at every sound. She dreamed of Haven and Pastor Zeke and Joshua. She stood in front of the congregation. Everyone she’d ever known in Haven sat in the pews, looking at her, waiting for her confession.
Franklin sat in the front row. “It would have been better for everyone if you’d died under the bridge.”
She woke, sobbing.
Other words came like a whisper from the past. If you go to the bottom of the ocean or climb the tallest mountain, there is nowhere that I will not find you.
Someone tapped softly on the door. “It’s me, baby.”
Dylan!
She opened the door a crack. He gave her his bright-white smile and told her to take the chain off; he’d just come to help her out. When she did as he asked, he stepped inside quickly as though she might change her mind.
He closed the door and took her in his arms, all sympathy and pretense. “I’m so sorry, baby.” He drew back, cupping her face and kissing her. She felt nothing but the hard press of his lips against hers. His hands moved, digging into her flesh. She’d forgotten how rough he could be, but she hadn’t forgotten how he’d handed her over to Franklin Moss.
She pulled away. How had he found her? One of his many spies, most likely, or one of Lilith’s. That wretched woman was probably already at work on a column about her and Franklin. What was Dylan doing here?
“Ah.” He read her face so easily. “You haven’t forgiven me.” He came close again. “I tried to put you out of my head, baby, but here I am.”
Abra brushed his hand away and put distance between them. “You dumped me, remember? You practically shoved me into Franklin’s car.”
“Go ahead and blame me. I have broad shoulders.” He didn’t look the least bit remorseful. In fact, he looked amused. “The truth is, I set you up with Franklin. I was looking out for you, baby. And you’ve done pretty well for yourself, with his help, of course. A star on the rise. Just like Pamela Hudson.” His soft laugh grated her nerves. “I should’ve warned you the guy was crazy as a loon.”
She could see the malicious gleam in his eye. “Franklin was a good man, Dylan.”
“Really?” His dark eyes flared. “Don’t expect me to mourn. He despised me and my mother, but he didn’t mind swilling our champagne and playing polite to get his protégé’s name in her column. I don’t know why he came around that first time after Pamela took off, but I knew what kept him coming back. You. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you.” He gave a cold laugh. “I knew he’d become obsessed. I also knew he’d have his hands full with you.” He grinned. “A little birdie told me Franklin took you to Vegas and put a ring on your finger. You fell for that sham wedding, didn’t you?”
“What little birdie?”
“Oh, baby. I have friends everywhere. You know that. I have one or two right here in this hotel. I got a telephone call two minutes after you stepped inside the Miramar. And you paid cash.” He raised a brow. “You’re paid up for one more night.”
She blushed. “It’s money I earned, Dylan.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did.” His smile was filled with provocation. “That’s why you ran away. That’s why you dumped your suitcase on Hollywood Boulevard and took of
f like a scalded cat with a pack of dogs on your heels. How much did you take out of his safe?” He tilted his head, eyes unblinking as they surveyed her face. “You’re looking pale, baby. Conscience troubling you again?”
She could feel a headache coming on. He’d always loved baiting her. “Why are you here, Dylan?”
Dylan’s expression softened. He sat on the sofa and patted the seat beside him. “I have a proposition for you.” When she didn’t sit beside him, he leaned back, watching her with those dark, glistening eyes. She wondered how much he’d paid for his Italian loafers. “I want to be your manager.”
“What?”
“Don’t look so surprised. I have more contacts in the industry than Franklin ever did. And I know how to get what I want out of them.”
Blackmail. Abra remembered how he and Lilith worked, collecting stories and secrets, twisting facts, making innuendos. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.
“Don’t look so down in the dumps, baby. We can turn this whole scandal around and make it work for you. There’s a script making the rounds, about a woman with a secret past who marries a wealthy man, then takes a lover.”
“I’m not interested.”
“They’re still looking for backers, but with you on board, the sky would be the limit. It’s the perfect role for you, baby.”
“No, Dylan. I’m not going to act anymore.”
He stood, all masculine beauty and grace, eyes like black pits. He’d never been able to sit for long. “Sure you will. What else can you do? Go to work as a carhop? You’ve already been discovered. Listen to me. Reporters are going to be all over you the minute you show your beautiful face in the lobby. Weep. Wail. Cry your eyes out. Tell them all how sorry you are Franklin Moss blew his head off over you.”
Bridge to Haven Page 34
