The Ticket Out (8 page)

He'd also talked to Stenholm's sister-in-law, the wife of her brother in Kansas. The parents were dead and the brother didn't intend to talk to the media. Heavy implication: we are private people, butt out. The brother had just left for L.A. to claim the body. The wife wouldn't give Mark his flight information or hotel.

I asked about the party guest list. Mark said that Barry wasn't around, and Barry's assistant refused to give it to him.

I told Mark to keep all this to himself, hung up, and started on the
Reporter
piece. It was dated May 21, 1996. It reviewed the SC information I already had, and added more.

Stenholm and Phillips shared an agent: Edward Abadi. I drew a fat box with stars around that name. It also listed two more outstanding students: Hamilton Ashburn Jr. from Georgia, and Penny Proft from Brooklyn, New York. I checked Stenholm's address book for an Ashburn or Proft. Neither of the names appeared.

A photograph of Stenholm had run with the piece. It was a picture of her making a movie in the rain. She stood under a canopy, leaning on the tripod of a Panaflex camera. Her hair was tangled, she wore gum boots and a wet poncho, but she looked radiant. She looked like she was queen of the world: she looked like she wanted to sing. I juxtaposed that picture with the woman I met at the party. The change was stunning. Five years—and a million Hollywood miles later.

I read down to the Stenholm section. The writer had given her a lot of play.

She was quoted praising mainstream American movies and defending people's right to escape and forget. She also defended the Industry's right to make movies about males for males, if that's what sold.

The piece ended with a rousing Stenholm speech:

“I want to be the next Steven Spielberg. Spielberg represents the very best of Hollywood with his dazzling technological and cinematic sophistication, and his basic emotions, universal in their humanity. He's had the privilege of maturing onscreen, and now he has the freedom to make whatever films he wants, whether they be light or serious. I aim for a career like his.

“Contrary to what people say, I believe that Hollywood is wide open to any woman who wants to direct commercial movies. But they can do more than domestic drama and romantic comedy. They can be trusted with big budgets and Oscar material. They can make action films, war films, crime films, adventure films, sci-fi films—any type of film. All you have to do is give them the chance.”

Stenholm had underlined the last sentence in ink. She'd crossed out “chance” and written “
CHANCE!!!
” in big letters in the margin. She pressed so hard that her pen ripped through the original page.

I ran a finger over the rip. It was a jagged black line on the fax page.

Stenholm had come back to this article after five years. I understood the impulse. She'd sold her
Thelma & Louise
sequel and wanted to celebrate the victory. But five years had changed her. In 1996 she defended escapist male entertainment. In 2001 she wanted the moviegoing public to know the truth about the condition of women.

The bell rang at the driveway gate.

I looked out the window, ready to hide my papers. But it wasn't Lockwood—it was a woman.

She rang the bell again. I knew I'd seen her some place recently. Then I remembered: the petite woman from Barry's party. She'd worn a black pantsuit and couldn't get Scott Dolgin's attention in the reception line at the end.

I walked outside to see what she wanted. The sunlight made my left eye water. I wiped it on my shirttail and shaded my eyes.

The woman waited for me to get close. When I was, she said, “What happened to you?”

She had a pixie haircut and a pointy freckled face that she powdered white. Her hair and lipstick were the same red. She wore a cutesy summer dress and carried a straw basket for a purse. Her car was cutesy, too, a little two-seat roadster.

I stopped at the gate. “Did you ever talk to Scott Dolgin?”

The remark caught her by surprise. “What? We haven't ... No, what do you mean? I never met Scott before the party.”

I made a note of that nonanswer. I said, “How can I help you?”

“Let's get out of the sun.” She rattled the gate.

“I'd rather stay here.”

“You're wigged about the murder, aren't you? You can let me in. I promise I'm not—”

“What do you want?”

She shrugged, reached into her basket, and passed a business card through the bars. Her name was Isabelle Pavich. She worked in development at a company in Studio City.

I put the card in my pocket. She said, “I'm always on the lookout for original stories and I heard through my SC connections that Greta wasn't your average murder victim.”

I called up the names from my research. “Let's discuss USC, then. What can you tell me about Edward Abadi, Neil John Phillips, Hamilton Ashburn Jr., and/or Penny Proft?”

She ignored the question and smirked at me. “I heard she was killed in the pool house.” She pointed across the patio.

I said,
“Get lost.”

She grabbed the bars and shook them. “Talk to me, Ann! We can write a treatment together and I'll get us a development deal. Who do the cops think did it?”

I said,
“Get lost.”

She smacked a bar with her hand and turned to leave. Then she turned back. The movement made her dress puff out. She noticed the effect and twirled on her toes to repeat it. She checked to see if I was watching, and smiled. “I know something you don't know.”

I started to walk away.

She said, “Friends of Greta Stenholm tend to get dead.”

I stopped. “What?”

Pavich laughed, swung the straw basket around, and skipped back to her car. She made a big deal of backing out, smirking the whole time.

I leaned against the bars and watched her drive off.

Jesus, I thought. I'd found the body thirty-six hours ago, and I was already way out of my depth.

F
ATHER WAS
bombed. My sister had mashed herself into the corner of the booth and was picking at a piece of cheesecake.

The Pacific Dining Car was an old-fashioned steak house on the edge of downtown. It catered to business and City Hall people, and the movie stars who still ate meat. My father's Dining Car routine never varied. He always sat in the darkest room. He always sat on the same side of the same booth, so he could see into the bar and catch the game on TV. He always ate a shrimp cocktail, a T-bone, and onion rings; and when he paid the check, he always told the waiter he'd rolled a drunk for his credit card.

They both spotted me as I came in. Father said, “Well, if it isn't my long-lost daughter, by god! Hello, stranger!”

I shook his hand and slid in next to Sis. She said under her breath, “You came—I can't believe it.”

I said, “Howdy, pardner. Texas still hot to secede?”

Father said, “It sure the hell is. You still writing for that commie rag?”

“‘You have nothing to lose but your chains.'”

Father laughed and I took a good look at him. He'd aged since I'd seen him last. He was going red in the face, and running to fat on his scotch and fried-everything diet. More and more he looked like what he was: an old-style Texas oilman.

Father signaled the waiter. “Name your poison, child.”

I said, “Just a Perrier. I've eaten.”

Father rolled his eyes and pointed to his half-empty scotch. “Put this up on its feet, Diego, and bring two
Perriers
for the girls here.”

The waiter took Father's glass away. I was bored already; I wanted to be somewhere else, thinking about other things.

I'd stopped by the paper on my way to the restaurant. Mark was in and I asked him to help check the computer archive for murders in Greta Stenholm's circle. I searched Vivian's filing cabinet for more Lockwood background. But everything she had, I already had. I raided Barry's office and struck out: the guest list for the party was nowhere.

Sis nudged me under the table and pointed at my bruised cheek.

I dipped my head in Father's direction, then shook it. That meant he wasn't responsible. Sis glanced at him and blinked three times. That meant he was so loaded that we could talk in code all we liked. I nodded and ate a strawberry off her plate.

My sister looked bad.

I watched her pick at her cheesecake. She hadn't looked happy or well for a long time. Two years to be exact.

Two years ago she tried to commit suicide. It was the second time she had tried. The first time was right after our mother's inquest. We were both flipped out; I quit college and wanted to leave the country, and Sis took a bottle of sleeping pills. When she recovered I asked her to come to Europe with me. She wouldn't because she thought Father shouldn't be left alone. So she'd lived with him for the next ten years—until she'd tried to kill herself again. I had flown to Texas, sprung her from the hospital, and brought her back to L.A. by force.

She and I used to resemble each other. We were both blueeyed and built small, and we had curly brown hair that we didn't like to comb. My jaw was stronger than hers, which always made her the “pretty” sister. I could only be “attractive” because, as our mother had liked to say, there were too many opinions on my face.

We didn't look like each other anymore. Sis was sober, but boozing and depression had ravaged her. She was sallow, limp, and too skinny, and her spine had settled into a permanent curve. She looked older than me, not younger, and so sad.

I hated to see her like this, but I was also tired of worrying. I'd done what I could to help; after that, I figured it was up to her. She was an adult—her happiness was her responsibility. But she wasn't getting better and it had put a strain on our relationship.

The drinks came. Father lit a cigarette and took a swallow of scotch. He said, “Sara Lucille, tell your sister what we were discussing.”

Sis sighed. “Daddy wants us to move back to Fort Worth.”

“It is a mystery why daughters of mine would live in this armpit.
Hollywood,
for Christ's sake. It's nothing but Hebrews and homosexuals—”

I stuck my fingers in my ears; Sis copied me. It was one of our oldest gags. Father shook his head. “I have raised two bleeding hearts, to my undying chagrin.”

I dropped my hands and changed the subject. “Sis says you're here about gas leases.”

“I'm scouting properties for an old boy in Houston.”

Sis piped up. “Better California than Alaska.”

Father guzzled more scotch and launched into a rant about the state of the oil business. He had been on the skids ever since the domestic oil industry went bust. He refused to work for the big companies, so he'd wildcatted dry wells and flopped a string of get-rich-quick schemes. Natural gas was his latest inspiration. I didn't know how bad business was until I went to pay for Sis's rehab. I found out that he'd been looting our trust fund for seed money. I called him on it, and Father's response was that
rob
and
loot
were strong words: he preferred
borrowed.
Sis and I used to joke about being minor-league heiresses, but there was nothing to inherit now. Our money was gone.

Father took a swipe at environmentalists and stood up without a pause. He leaned against the booth for balance.

The waiter saw Father stand up and came over with the check. Father signed the credit card slip and left a gargantuan tip. He said, “I count on seeing you next Wednesday, Elizabeth Ann.”

I said, “Have you heard from our lawyer?”

Sis looked at me and frowned. Father said, “I had the authority to borrow from you girls.”

“You know you didn't. You forged those releases.”

“Oh, horseshit, Ann!”

He turned away too fast and had to grab the booth again. He steadied himself, focused his eyes, and walked out of the room using the booths as his plumb line.

Sis was still frowning at me. I said, “I called a lawyer. I knew you wouldn't go for it, so I didn't tell you.”

“I won't sue him, Annie.”

“I'm not talking about a lawsuit, I'm talking about a crime. DA, grand jury, prison—groovy stuff like that.”

“I'll never—”

“Don't get upset, it's probably a waste of time. What's this about next Wednesday?”

Sis sighed. “He wants to take us out to the San Andreas Fault, you know, one of his famous geological expeditions. He leaves next Friday.”

“That's easy—I'm not going and neither are you.” I looked at my watch and slid out of the booth. “I've got things to do.”

“You have to drive me home first.”

“Where's your car?”

“I sold it.”

I leaned against the booth. “Sold it? Jesus—why?”

“I needed the money.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Sis reached up and rubbed my arm. “They cut back my hours at the bookstore, and I've just started with a new therapist, but she's expensive and my insurance only covers partial psychiatric, and I...”

She hung her head.

I said, “How much do you need?”

Sis kept her head down. “Five hundred. They're going to cut off my phone, and I don't have the rent for next month.”

Christ,
five hundred.
Something in me snapped. I'd bailed her out for two years and suddenly I wanted to slap her.

“Sis—”

“Please don't call me that. I'm not a baby anymore.”

“Then why don't you get a real job? Why don't you get on with your life instead of trying a new shrink every other minute? You're paralyzed by too much therapy.”

Sis got her know-it-all look.
“Any
therapy is too much therapy, according to you.”

“Don't we have the same past, and don't I earn a living? Don't
I
function in the world?”