Hollywood Boulevard (20 page)

    I scanned but found no further news about the accident. I mean, did her dad subsequently die of his wounds? Did Lucille graduate on time after months of surgeries and traction? Nothing. Two back- arrow clicks brought me to the movie magazine link again and a tiny notice I'd missed: the Lucille Trevor Fan Club. How sweet; a B- movie actress with a homegirl fan club. I never had a fan club, not that I knew of— do they exist anymore? The link led to Jody Pechard, Lucille Trevor Fan Club president. There was a studio head shot of Lucille and a listing of five movies, walk- ons or minor characters. The text said, "Nearly every member went Friday night to the Arcade Theater to see Lucille's latest Hollywood venture." No mention of a limp, a wrecked dancing career, twisted legs, or a handicap. Lucille had healed. Ballet was over, but Hollywood beckoned. Was that what happened?

    What did it mean that Andre was directing a script about a ballerina whose legs are mangled in a freak accident? Nothing. The earth was safely on its axis, the sky was only nighttime black and objects were not floating free in the hotel room. And Andre's Anne didn't go to Hollywood; his Anne quit. . . .

    Just a small world of zany coincidence, I told myself, about as convinced as that Santa and the Tooth Fairy had the same mother; something didn't fit. I had only one lead left to locate: Lucille Trevor's obituary—

    
"Ah!"
I gasped, feeling a hand on my shoulder.

"At work on your book?"

    "You scared hell out of me, sneaking up like that, Andre!" I glanced at the computer clock: one a.m.

    "Did I sneak?" In fact he had a glass of brandy in his hand.

    I quickly bookmarked the site and clicked back to the main screen. Andre walked to the sitting room, I followed. One look at his face told me his mood was even darker than earlier. "Any more of that brandy?" I asked.

    Andre poured me a small glass, and I sat down on the couch. He stood over me and placed a hand on top of my head and left it there for a minute while he looked down at my face. "What is it?" I asked.

    He shook his head and removed his hand. I bit my lip, thinking about telling him about Eddie Tompkins and having called Detective Collins; maybe he could use a diversion, and maybe I should tell him I'd been riding a roller coaster ever since Harry died, that I was noticing strange coincidences. But that would be a big load on him when he was clearly already overloaded. Trouble is, I was no good at it anyway; true confessions of my private fears hadn't worked with Joe the few times I'd tried, and I'd given up on that route of personal revelation. Anyhow, except for Harry, what was there to really tell? One of the reasons Andre had gone through two actress wives was that they didn't know how to shut up. Somehow he hadn't taken that into account before he married them. I was the exception. So talking now probably wouldn't help either of us. I decided to let things lie quietly— if unsettled— where they were.

    "I hope this works out for you, Andre."

    "Ah, yes. You did a wonderful reading this afternoon." I stiff ened. "Carola thought me remiss not to say so. Now I have. Thank you."

    "Was she with you tonight?"

    "Carola?" I nodded. He hesitated. "No, she was not." He gave me that look again, like he was drilling past my head into some other part of me, searching for something that was lost. "It's late," he finally said. We turned out the lights and headed for the bedroom, leaving the brandy glasses where they were.

    As we brushed our teeth at our separate sinks, I thought of Harry again, and I remembered what I'd wanted to ask him. "Andre, why were you so glad that day I was going to lunch with Harry?"

    "Was I?" he asked, neatly spitting toothpaste suds into his sink.

    "Yes. C'mon, you were gleeful."

    " Harry was good for you."

    "
For
me or
to
me?"

    "Both."

    " Harry Machin, deal- maker of the earth?"

    "Perhaps you underestimated him."

    "You didn't think I was going back, to sign—"

    He touched my neck, stopping on his way to the bedroom. "I was glad for an old comrade,
if
I was glad."

    I finished my nightly face routine and went to bed. Andre was already asleep. I lay in the dark thinking about Lucille, then about Eddie Tompkins, and then Detective Collins's image stood in front of me. They drifted in and out as I slipped off to sleep. One thought stuck: It was only by accident— or coincidence— that I overheard Sharif in the lobby, when my passkey died, and learned of the fire and Lucille Trevor's fate. On that unresolved note, I fell asleep.

I 
lingered in bed next morning. Andre was up; I barely heard him make a pot of coffee, and then he was gone for the day. The sun sneaked past the curtains in a single blinding beam trained right on my eyes. I sank deeper under the down quilt. As usual all was quiet around me. I could stay in bed all day if I wanted, nestled in warm nothingness. Eventually I jumped up to open the curtains and skittered back into bed. I could see a bit of the hills past the coral tree, nearly denuded now of red flowers. Birds were busy chirping and doing whatever they did all day. I felt safe in bed, on a fluffy island that would dissolve once my toes hit the carpet. I finally got up for good to put on a pot of tea. It was ten o'clock.

    I turned the computer on and washed up. My plan was to find Lucille's obit and any other scraps I could on the ill- fated actress. The miserable house phone rang as I was dressing. The call was from the front desk, not Sharif— Phil, I think it was— letting me know I had a package and did I want it sent up to the room. I said yes and quickly finished dressing. Arturo knocked on my door a few minutes later with a box, the long kind you'd expect to see flowers come in, only this was a brown box that had gone through the mail. Inside that box was a long white flower box, and inside that were two dozen roses, but the roses were burned dead and three Mexican Day of the Dead dolls lay next to the long, thorny stems. One doll was in a tux, another in a white gown, à la Carol Channing in
Hello, Dolly!
with a wide- brimmed satin hat and feathers, and the third was a sexy Barbie- doll type with a pile of big brown hair.

    That trip to Mexico with Fits was the first time I'd seen Day of the Dead dolls. I fell in love with the idea of celebrating the dead: Mexicans partying on graves. lighting candles, eating cake and candy shaped like skulls, playing music and singing and dancing the whole night, a fiesta for the buried. I bought my first doll on that trip. Every time I've been down since I've picked up a few more. There's a small collection in the New York loft. Who here besides Andre and Fits knew that? I looked for a card. There was none.

    Was Fits playing a joke? Or was Eddie taking revenge on me for calling the cops? Why the seared rose petals? They broke apart when I touched them. It looked as if they'd once been red and yellow passion roses before someone took a blow torch to them. Ow! I pricked my finger on a thorn. I watched a globule of deep red blood form and widen, and sucked it out.

    I walked out onto the balcony, then walked quickly back inside again. The day was warming nicely, a lovely spring morning. I wanted to let the fresh air in but closed and locked the balcony door. As I was drawing the glass curtains closed— which I never did during the day— I noticed White Shirt hanging two sets of sheets out on his line. I watched until he was done. He leaned over the railing, over his garage, before turning and moving out of sight. I'd been neglecting White Shirt. When Andre was on nights I sometimes sat outside with a candle lit on the balcony table, bundled in my coat to enjoy the night. It would be colder in New York, I'd tell myself, so I might not feel as chilled sitting there. Most nights one or two of the searchlights were busy sweeping the Hollywood sky, suggesting red carpets and glitz. I'm sure White Shirt could see me those nights, or at least my little candle flickering in the dark.

    Could White Shirt have sent the roses?

    I decided the strange delivery qualified as "getting the hairs up" and dialed the Detective. He was quiet a minute on his end. "No idea who sent the flowers?"

    "Look, they were burned on purpose; this isn't a friendly
Think
ing of you
delivery. . . . And it's not my anniversary." I heard a hint of something like alarm in my voice, but I didn't feel alarmed. If I felt anything it was way underneath, and it ran along the lines of wanting something to go away or not be true, like information I didn't want but that wanted me.

    "Yeah. All right, I can get there around noon, maybe sooner." Was he coming on his lunch hour? "Meantime, sit tight. Don't go out or let anyone in. And don't touch the roses. Got it?"

    I said yes, and we hung up.

    I went to the kitchen to put on a second pot of tea, mostly for something to do so I wouldn't have to stare at the dead roses. As I stood, breaking the rule about watching the pot boil, I replayed the tape of Eddie Tompkins calling out to me:
"Miss Thrush! Ardennes!
Please, a minute . . . I only want to talk. . . . I'm a good actor. . . ."

    The first time that happened, someone calling out to me so familiarly in public, I jerked my head around to see who it could be, what unexpected friend had shown up and was calling me. It was at an affair in New York, the Museum of Modern Art's Film Department. I was becoming a known entity and, as a New York actor, had been invited as a VIP guest. All the New York actors were out that night for whatever the gala or charity was all about. It was autumn, a crisp evening with golden hues. I was in three- inch heels beneath a new at- the- knee- length dress and light cashmere coat. Harry had been after me to advance my wardrobe for just such evenings and to quit saying no to every invitation I received. I'd spent some money on my hair too. The do at the MoMA that night must have been pretty special because Joe was with me. He turned his head too when my name was called. I was holding on to him for dear life, not to break my legs in the shoes (he'd mocked them the whole way across town in the cab I'd insisted on taking— he would have put us on a crosstown bus with a free transfer to the downtown bus). The voice sounded familiar, but it turned out to be a press person, a paparazzo calling from the middle of the street, from behind the flimsy police barricade at the museum entrance. He wanted me to turn around for a photo. I stopped. I was terribly polite then, inexperienced. He yelled, asking what my plans were: "Any big movies coming up, Ardennes?" I shook my head, and Joe pulled me inside. The guy was instantly on to the next personality. I think I remember it was Susan Sarandon coming in after me.

    "What bullshit!" Joe let out once we were inside. "There's a bar here, right?"

    I was startled. I'd bet my jaw was hanging open in the photo. "I thought he must know me, calling like that. That's really very rude."

    "Rude, yeah. You're a public commodity now. This is what you wanted, right?" Of course he disapproved and it was my fault and I wasn't able to get him to go to another event like that again, except Cannes. I never got used to that unwelcome familiarity. So when Eddie called me by my first name I had the same sensation of invasion, of ownership just because I worked in the movies, only Eddie was more persistent.

    I turned the tea water off and phoned Fits.

    "Hey, darlin'," he said in a too- loud voice.