Grace Doll (8 page)

“You can leave us, Roger.” Solomon’s crow-black eyes lock on me. He dismisses his assistant. “Tell me,” he says. “What made you change your mind? The money?”

My mouth opens to answer, but his appearance is so disgusting and distracting, words flee my brain. His eyes narrow.

I nod.

Puckered skin on his neck shifts when he moves, opening and closing craters left by the scarring. I steady my breath, the sight is so revolting. My gaze flicks to my sketch, then back to this scarred piece of flesh in front of me.

“Your sketch,” he says. “Is one of my favorites.”

“You’re the collector?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He gestures to the walls surrounding us, covered with Grace Doll’s image. “My favorite subject. Sit.” He points to a nearby chair. I lower into the seat.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

“I tried to save my wife from a fire. Did your father ever speak of me?”

Dad hadn’t talked about him. Mom had in passing. But if I wanted to milk this guy for money, I’d have to elaborate. I lift a shoulder.

Moments crawl by. His lips open, a line of saliva dribbles out one side. I feel like I’m at a circus freak show, not a mansion in Beverly Hills sitting with an old Hollywood legend. He digs into the pocket of his black slacks and pulls out a white hankie, dabs at his mouth. “I’m not paying you to stare. Did your father ever talk about me?”

“No.”

“Did he ever talk about my wife, Grace Doll?”

I lie.“Sometimes, yeah.”

“What did your father tell you?

I swallow. “He was her makeup artist.”

His eyes are shark-like. “And?”

Two hundred bucks.
Can I stretch it to four?

“And he liked working for her. She was the best in the biz.”

What used to be an eyebrow lifts. He’s not amused by my answer and can see right through me.

“He was married,” I spit out in my defense. “He didn’t spend a lot of time talking about other women.”

More long, tense moments drag by. His stare sends a dagger down my spine. “How often did you see Jon?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Jon was a workaholic. I imagine that left little time for being a father.”

“He was retired by the time I was born,” I snap.

“What else did he say about Grace?”

Lie, lie, lie. “Like I said, he had great times with her back in the day.”

“You’re not telling me everything. Jonathan was devoted to Grace. Without question she was the most magnanimous star the world has ever seen. I find it difficult to believe he didn’t say more about her.”

My fingers dig into my knees. I itch from head to toe with discomfort. I hate lying, even for the money. It’s not worth it. I want to get out of here.

“Your father didn’t spend much time with you, did he?”

I avert my gaze for a second. Anger and disappointment sprint through my system. I lift a shoulder. “He remarried.”

“Did he ever go away for extended periods of time? Without explanation?”

Breath steams in my chest. I don’t have to admit that to this guy.

“This may seem insignificant to you,” Solomon continues. “But it’s very important to me.”

I swallow again—he eyes my throat. I start to sweat. My gaze flicks to the wall, covered with Grace’s photos, paintings—then to my sketch. “Why do you care what Dad did?”

“Anything at all you can tell me about Grace.”

“Okay, okay. He said that he liked doing her makeup over all the other actors. He said she was nice. Really sweet. They were good friends. Pals. ” How long can I continue to blow smoke? In reality, Dad only got a far off look in his eyes if Grace was mentioned. Solomon remains eerily silent. “He said she was a hard worker. Talented. That everybody loved her. He wished she hadn’t died.”

His knuckles whiten on the arms of the chair. “Do you think I’m stupid, Mr. Lane?”

“You asked, I’m answering.”

“You expect me to buy this cockamamie crap?”

“You’re the one who called me.” I sit forward. “What did you think I was going to say?”

“Jon was Grace’s confidant. He spent hours with her day after day, year after year. She was his priority over everyone else in his life.
What did he tell you
?”

A sudden surge of anger races inside of me. This man is sick. “Yeah, he did spend hours a day with her—
a billion years ago
. He moved on. Had a family. He had a life.” The lie about family is bitter on my tongue. “Something you should think about doing.”

I’m done.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His pocked skin begins to redden like a fire burns beneath the surface. Pleasure trickles through my veins.

I stand, glare down at him. His eyes widen. “He also told me you finally got what you deserved.” Another lie, but this one isn’t bitter. I relish the shock on his face.

The air in the room thickens with his rage. But I feel powerful. This guy’s no threat. He’s an invalid. And he’s not going anywhere looking like a monster. “Actually, he didn’t tell me that,” I say.”I figured that much out by myself.”

“Roger!” Solomon’s voice booms.

Before the hound appears, I step closer. “Keep your money. You need some serious plastic surgery.” I start for the front door. Solomon curses. And curses. I steal glances at the photos and portraits of Grace, hanging on the walls because I have to. It’s as if her voice calls out to me in distant whispers, and I can’t look away. Her haunted eyes, her beauty. No wonder Dad loved her.

Roger enters the room just as I exit.

“Leave me the hell alone,” I bark over my shoulder.

The scent of flowers in the entry hall brings the funeral to mind.

Dad, what else did you know about Grace Doll?

* * *

I drive to Dad’s. I’m still broke, but I’m glad I told the man off. On the other hand, deep inside my gut, panic swarms like wasps when I think about Solomon’s rage. Have I kicked open a nest?

Whatever.

I zip through constant traffic on Sunset Boulevard. The trip was a waste. Now, the gas tank is half empty and I don’t have any money to put more fuel in it.

My stupidity grinds on me.

I’ve been gone four hours, not long enough to go back and face Judy.

My cell phone rings. Solomon. He wants more? Bring it on.

“What?”

“You have something I want.”

“Good skin maybe?”

Silence.

“Your father had something to do with Grace’s disappearance. I’ve spent the last sixty years putting pieces together and—”

“Look, if you want to spend your time chasing ghosts, go for it. My dad is dead. So is Grace. If you want to see her so bad, go walk into another fire.” I click off the phone, toss it into the empty seat next to me.

My hands shake. I’ve just thrown a log onto a blaze.

Chapter Seven

At the house, I find the garage empty. Judy’s black Jaguar is gone. Since I’ve lived here I’ve noticed she takes off a lot. Maybe it was her way of getting back at Dad for all the years he took his mystery trips. Not that I care. I just don’t want her giving me crap because I take off, when she does the same thing.

Dad’s black ‘69 Camaro sits abandoned in the third car spot. Dad loved that car; it still gleams in showroom condition.

The house is tomb quiet and just as dark. The sky outside is matted with clouds. The scent of carnations, roses, and lilies soaks the air. Judy’s put all of Dad’s flowers—the ones that didn’t fit around the grave—in every room. I’m breathing in the funeral all over again and it reminds me of my visit with Solomon. Of his scarred face. My stomach rolls.

A cold draft slithers through the empty halls. I take advantage of the privacy and head to Memory Lane. I never feel like I can linger and look at the photos hanging on the wall, not with Judy lurking at my heels. So many faces are recognizable. It was outrageously cool, what he did for a living. Secretly, I’m glad I inherited his artistic talent.

But what should I do with it?

He encouraged me to explore the arts, with the honest warning to stay away from the entertainment business. “It’s not what it looks like,” he’d said.

What it looks like, as I stand staring at the wall of black-and-white and color eight-by-ten glossies, is a great time. It’s easy to tell someone not to do something, but what if I could follow in his footsteps?

I can think of worse things to do with a day. Or a life.

There are no pictures of Grace Doll here. Up until today it hasn’t occurred to me why. She was his big claim to fame. No doubt Judy couldn’t stand for having the famous star’s photos in the house. Which explains Dad locking up the old picture in the safe deposit box. But he must have had other pictures of her. They had a history, even though it was decades ago.

A craving eats at me to know more about Grace. Her vulnerable gaze had stared back from those images hanging on the walls of Solomon’s place like she was there in the flesh, captured.

What exactly did Solomon think had happened between Dad and her?

My hands go clammy. Was Mom right? Had Dad been in love with Grace Doll? Maybe they’d had an affair. Even if that was true, Solomon was demented if he carried a grudge this long.

But Grace isn’t dead
. And Solomon thinks I know something. Did he have any inkling she was still alive?

Stepping into Dad’s office, I suck in a deep breath. His scent—Old Spice cologne—is quickly fragmenting. My hands open and close.

All that I missed…

I can’t be in the room any longer.

I head to the guest room and stop in the jamb, breath stalling in my chest. It’s a shamble of upturned bedding, tossed books, drawers and closet. The crank windows are wide open. I’d left them closed.

I dig my phone out of my pocket, dial Judy.

“So now you’ve decided to call me?”she chirps.

“Someone broke into the house.”

“What?” she shrieks. “When? How? I just left. The Oscars. Did you see if the Oscars are still—”

“I’m looking now.” I run through the halls until I’m in the living room. Oscar one for
Paradise Found
. Oscar two for Lifetime Achievement. Everything is else perfect. Untouched. “They’re okay.” My gaze sweeps the house as I walk through each room, heart pounding. What if the intruder is still here? “It doesn’t look like they did anything but trash my room.”

“Your room? What would anyone want in there?”

“I don’t know, but it’s upside down. I’m calling the cops.”

“I’ll be right home.”

Hands shaky, I dial 911. The dispatcher instructs me to wait outside, so I stand on the driveway. My nerves are peeled back. The adrenaline surging through my veins leaves me jumping at every bush moved by the wind, any branch scratching walls. Down the street, a dog barks.

What would anyone want in my room?

I have no idea if Judy keeps any money here, but I’m pretty sure Dad doesn’t have a safe. Still, the house has plenty of collectibles. And nothing was out of place on Memory Lane.

Then it dawns on me. The key to the safe deposit box. Judy knows something exchanged between Dick and me, but would she cannibalize her own?

After my visit with Solomon, I wonder if he somehow knows about the safe deposit box, if he knows it has something do with Grace Doll.

Whoever’s done this is serious. What would have happened if I’d been here? If Judy had been here? Fear needles me. I pull the safe deposit key from my pocket. Long, narrow and cool in my fingers, I’m blown away at the secret this key has kept locked away.

Dad, what have you gotten me into?

Down the street, colored, flashing lights cut through night. Two police cars zoom to the curb and park. Officers emerge. I slide the safe deposit key into the front pocket of my jeans and stand, body still shaking with raging adrenaline.

The next few minutes zip by in a blur of questions and answers. One officer does the interrogating, the others spread out and disappear in and around the perimeter of the house. After I tell the uniformed man all that I know, I feel useless.

Judy’s voice barbs the air. I hadn’t even noticed that she’d pulled up and parked behind one of the cop cars. She flurries through the twilight like a bat, dressed in all black leggings and a poncho. “Is there anything missing? What did they take?”

“Your son’s safe,” the officer calls after her.

Without responding, Judy disappears in the house.

* * *

After a thorough check of the house and its exterior, the officers go. It’s eerily quiet. Judy leaves a handful of lamps on, saying she’s spooked. I stay in my room, trying to figure out where to begin cleaning up the mess.