Hollywood Boulevard (38 page)

    "That was the last contact?"

    "She had a delivery . . . flowers, it looked like— a long box."

    "Who delivered?"

    "The post office. Now I think of it, she had another delivery yesterday. Mr. Lucerne asked me to hold on to it."

    "What was it?"

    "A large box from Bed Bath and Beyond."

    "Who delivered that?"

    "UPS."

    "Okay. I'll need to take a look at that box, and I'd like to speak with Ms. Martinez."

    Sharif pressed a button under the desk, and the other clerk, Christine, materialized. Sharif asked her to locate Hermie, and he and the Detective waited, the silence between them burdensome. Sharif started to say something, but the Detective got there first. "How did you find Ms. Thrush that last time you saw her, aside from the ankle?"

    "She was, she seemed— not unhappy, too much
to
her for that— but a little sad. Maybe that day with the ankle, a little anxious. To me she was never less than gorgeous."

    The Detective thrummed the desk, studying poor, pudgy Sharif, guessing at sweaty palms and a fumbling love life. But what was up with the ankle? Detective Collins put two and two together, and it added up to the second sighting of Eddie Tompkins. Ardennes had told him about it but must have skipped some details, like a feigned injury. He remembered seeing a blue and white box of Epsom salts on the kitchen counter. That was when he placed the cheap perfume on Sylvia Vernon for sure. It had to be.

    Ms. Martinez couldn't add much to the others' accounts. A squat woman in a navy- blue skirt and white hotel blouse, with too much plum lipstick coloring an ample mouth, she too found Ardennes sweet,
dulce
, she said. Yes, she had driven up the box of salts and left them on the door handle.

    "How did Ms. Thrush seem when you last saw her?" the Detective asked.

    "I would say she was a woman, how can I say it? Contained to herself."

    The Detective nodded and thanked her. Christine had nothing to add. She hadn't even met Ardennes. The box from Bed Bath and Beyond held a small, glass- topped garden table. Detective Collins found nothing in the packing or contents relevant to the case; another waste of time that couldn't be helped. He thanked Sharif again.

    He hadn't parked his car before the maids up top knew a police

man was coming to question them about a guest. Alma and Zaneda also sang Ardennes's praises. "Kind, y
muy guapa, la señora
!" Zaneda said. No, she hadn't cleaned the rooms in a day or two, and then it was her days off. "She do not all the time want me to clean. Her rooms almost did not need me. She like me to make the bed, and the bath."

    They were standing in an unoccupied room in the wing opposite the one containing the Thrush- Lucerne suite. Detective Collins faced the open door. The women sat down together on the bed.

    Alma was the blunter of the two. "I seen her with you, Señor. She get into your car."

    "Did you see me before that?"

    "I see you," Zaneda said. She looked down at her hands, nervously. "The day I come late to her rooms because she took the do- not- disturb off." She thought a minute. "She give nice tips, for my kids."

    " Where did you see me, Zaneda?"

    "I see you came that day and go to her rooms." She looked Detective Collins sharply in the eye, just once.

    "And you, Alma? You haven't cleaned the rooms lately either, correct?"

    "A German film team came to take up four good rooms, so they need us down below. They are good business below. Better tips. But I cleaned yesterday, late. Mr. Lucerne ask me to."

    "Mr. Lucerne asked you to clean?" Alma nodded. "Okay, when did you last see Ms. Thrush?"

    "I saw Mrs. Thrush go out with Mr. Lucerne and the Portuguese girl, Santosa— last time I saw her. Mrs. Thrush was driving."

    "Did either of you see her limping?"

    
"Quale?"
asked Zaneda. Alma translated. Neither woman had seen Ardennes with a limp. Then Zaneda remembered: Arturo had driven her up, and he'd told her about the ankle. "
Sí
, when she falled on her foot?" She pointed to her ankle. The Detective indicated yes. "No, not limp."

    He pulled out a picture of Fits and showed it to the women. Alma had nothing to say, but Zaneda recognized him. "I see him in movies." She smiled.

    "You like the movies?" He watched a dimple come to life on the left side of her small mouth.

    Zaneda nodded, smiled shyly. "
Sí
, movies make me dream."

    "Sure, dreaming's open to everybody, and it's free. How about here, at the hotel?"

    
"Como?"
Alma translated. Zaneda giggled, covering her mouth. Alma looked at her. "
Sí Sí, aquí,
here today— yes. He comes with two policemens, just like in the movies." She laughed again. Alma's eyes went big.

    "But not before that?" Fits might have been missed, slipping in behind the garbage truck.

    "You have not been to her rooms since your day off ?" Zaneda shook her head. She looked at Alma, who shrugged. "Alma, this is important: Did you see Ms. Thrush drive her car away three or four days ago?"

    "No."

    "Did you see anyone else drive her car away?"

    "No." She thought a minute but said no again.

    "Okay. Last question: Do either of you clean Ms. Vernon's room, 304? It's okay, I won't tell anyone, but maybe she pays you cash once in a while?"

    "That crazy old lady with the dog— she too cheap!"

    "Why do you call her crazy, Alma?"

    "Look how she dresses, like a old
putana
. People like that, they pretend they don't see us."

    Zaneda asked her something in Spanish; Alma answered in Spanish. Zaneda said, "She not so bad. She talk sometimes to Señora Thrush. I don't know the
mujer
is loco, only old. I see Señora Thrush all the time walking, in the little gardens and down in the road. Always walking, always she is alone. Is good she have a friend, no?"

    Detective Collins glanced out through the open door just in time to see Sylvia Vernon withdraw her head from over her balcony wall. Friend or foe? he asked himself. He looked each woman in the eye. "Neither of you knows where Ms. Thrush is?" Neither did. Alma was likely the less trustworthy of the two, but Detective Collins didn't see either of them involved in Ardennes's disappearance. He thanked them and let them go.

    He'd already told Fits he was free to go. Fits had told him to shove it when he'd offered to have the uniformed officers, Mike Berry and Paul Bedford, drive him back to Universal City. He said he'd pay for his own cab. What he wanted Detective Collins to do was call the studio and say there had been a mix- up, that he— Fits— was not involved in any criminal activity. "I don't need those stiffs with anything to hang over my head. See?"

    "Fine," Detective Collins said.

    "And where are you, anyway, as in: Where's Ardennes? You're an amateur, Detective Collins, as in: You don't know what you're doing. I could
act
a better cop," he said before taking off.

W
hile Detective Collins was harvesting clues, Andre made a quick trip to Century City, with Carola behind the wheel this time. He let Jonas Campion know his wife was missing and suggested they keep a low profile on the news since the circumstances were anything but clear. She may have, as Andre put it, "been encouraged to leave with someone not of her own choosing." His tone was impatient.

    "Missing? Good God. Since when?" Jonas Campion asked. He glanced at the ever- poised and ready Cheryl Li.

    "A day or so."

    "Or
so
?" He composed himself, leaned back in his desk chair. "Listen here, Andre, first there was the Bouclé incident. A perfectly good actress. Now this. We have a bottom line to consider; there is an end to our patience."

    "The police feel they are getting close," Andre lied. Carola studied the floor.

    Jonas Campion stood up. "The police . . . wonderful. Cheryl! Get that idiot Thames on the phone— not up here; I do not want him in here— and tell him to get a piece in
Variety
ASAP: Andre Lucerne will begin shooting . . ." he fished the air for the title . . . "
The Danc
e next week. Keep it under wraps who will replace Luce Bouclé. He's to drop a few actresses' names, get a little intrigue going. And, Cheryl, not a word leaves this office about Ardennes Thrush gone missing. Not a word." Cheryl nodded firmly: her high heels clacked efficiently past the carpeted portion of Jonas Campion's office onto the terrazzo flooring and out to her desk. To Andre Campion said, "You begin shooting first thing next week. I will assign a lead and work out the details if you haven't found one by then. Ardennes Thrush might be the best actress for the part, but we can't wait— of course we hope for her safe recovery. Find someone, Andre. Don't jeopardize that Aussie money. You see my point, I'm sure." He eyed Andre significantly.

    Andre was quiet a moment. "Producers do not cast my films, Jonas. I cast my films." His voice was as icy as his native Alps. "Your concern for Ms. Thrush's well- being is touching. Good day, sir." And with that he took Carola's arm and led her out of the office, barely fifteen minutes after they'd arrived.

    Jonas Campion sat down at his desk, the brown calf- leather seat emitting a deflating sigh. "Shit," he announced to the air around his desk. He reached for his phone but recradled it a few seconds later. "Shit," he said again, more emphatically. He sat a minute. "Cheryl!" he called out.

W
e're running out of time, Miss,” Sylvia said when she finally returned. I was back on my pile of old clothes. I'd put on a pair of sweatpants after my sponge bath and was reasonably comfortable. I did not reply. What difference did the time make to me? "Ardennes?" The light was on, but Sylvia pointed a flashlight into my face.

    "I heard you. Turn that thing off !" I blinked. "Running out for what? Should I make out a will: 'All my worldly wealth goes to my good friend and jailer, Sylvia Vernon, in memory of our intimate time together'?"

    "You have to decide; it's now or never:
What
do you want?"

    I yawned. "I'm missing your point, Sylvia."

    "What's wrong with you?"

    "I must be getting Stockholm syndrome. I'm starting to like my little lair. Of course, my muscles are atrophying, my hair's a nest, I can't change my shirt, but all in all it's not too bad. The food is excellent. And something smells yummy."

    "Why'd you shack up with that detective?"

    "You weren't in my life yet."

    "What are you doing married to the Swiss?"

"They make very precise timepieces, didn't you know?"

"Do all you actresses need to ruin yourselves?"

    I leaned on my elbow, one hand hugging the other in my binding. I'd become a regular lazy little odalisque. I'm sure it was Sylvia's doping potion or I'd have been on the floor in a thousand crumpled nervous pieces by now. I snapped my fingers. "Why don't
you
audition for Andre's film, Sylvia? It's about a dancer whose legs get mangled in a carnival accident. Sound familiar? You could try for the body double if acting's not in your line. What a plot coincidence, huh: The character was a ballerina before her mishap. That'd be a lot safer than kidnapping. Isn't kidnapping a capital offense? Better make ransom contact with my husband soon, before the FBI comes on board, eh, Sylvia? He's worth plenty." Maybe the cob webs were clearing and I was actually on to something. I sat up. "I'm thinking you couldn't have pulled this little caper off all on your own. . . ."