Unfinished Symphony (5 page)

"Yes, ma'am," he said and winked at me as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.
With all that had happened, I hadn't even looked up at the magnificent blue sky. We shot into traffic and we were soon on one of California's famous freeways. I was really here, and somewhere, not far away, my mother might be, too. If I ever needed her, I thought, I need her now.

3
Hopes Dashed
.
Traveling through Los Angeles was very

different from traveling through New York City. Everything seemed so much farther apart and there weren't nearly as many tall buildings, even though there seemed to be many more streets. However, Spike obviously knew his way around because as soon as we ran into a line of heavy traffic on the freeway, he took an exit and began to wind the limousine through the city streets. Dorothy said it wasn't the nicest area of Los Angeles, but even the poorer areas looked bright and dazzling to me. Sidewalks glittered and giant billboards advertised new movies. However, I did notice there weren't as many people walking the sidewalks as there were in New York. Here, everyone seemed to be in cars. Minutes later, Dorothy eagerly pointed out the sign that read CITY OF BEVERLY HILLS.

"Home," she declared with a deep, grateful sigh. The way she spoke about it made it seem as if Beverly Hills were an island on which she felt safe and secure from the rest of the world.

Spike drove up to the front of The Vine, a restaurant with a hunter green railing smothered in vines and bright pink and red bougainvillea. There was an outdoor patio that looked nearly filled with patrons. Waiters and busboys in starched white shirts and black pants with black suspenders scurried about gracefully, moving like invisible people past the obviously well-to-do clientele, all of whom were thick in conversation.

The restaurant's valet hurried to help us out once Spike came around to open the door.
"Merci," Dorothy said with a wave of her glove.
When Spike got back into the car, I wondered where he would go to eat, but I didn't have time to ask. Dorothy swept us down the cobblestone path to the gate of the patio, where a very attractive young woman waited at the hostess station.
"Mrs. Livingston," she said, flashing a smile made for toothpaste commercials, "how are you?"
"Starving, Lana. Meet my sister's young friend, Melody. She's just flown in from New York. This is her first time in Los Angeles and I thought I would introduce her first to The Vine. So get us a good table," Dorothy insisted.
Lana turned and studied the patio.
"I have number twelve open," she declared as if it were an amazing accomplishment.
Why was it so important where we sat? I wondered. All of the chairs looked the same and the patio with its fountain and bright flowers looked beautiful no matter where you were sitting.
"Bellissimo," Dorothy approved. Lana started down the cobblestone patio and we followed until she stopped at a table nearly perfectly centered. Dorothy beamed with satisfaction and after we sat Lana handed us the menus encased in leather folders the same hunter green shade as the railings.
"We have an angel hair pasta special with red peppers and portobello mushrooms today, Mrs. Livingston."
"Oh, that's good. Merci."
As soon as Lana left us, Dorothy leaned toward me.
"This is usually a table reserved for movie stars," she said. "It's where everyone can see you."
"Oh." Why did she want everyone to see us? I wondered. It made me feel more self-conscious about my hair, my clothes, everything I did.
I looked at the menu. The prices were shocking. Everything was a la carte and the salads were almost as expensive as the entrees. Simple things were described so elaborately, I wasn't sure I recognized them. What was a heart of celery?
"Don't you think a second about the prices," Dorothy said, anticipating my reaction. "My husband Philip writes off everything I spend one way or another." She laughed. "He says since I do so much to help the American economy, the least the government can do is subsidize me."
"What does your husband do?" I asked. "I don't remember Holly telling me."
"He's an accountant and a financial manager with some very impressive clients," she replied, lifting her eyebrows. Then her face filled with the excitement of a starstruck little girl. "Oh, I think that's somebody sitting in the corner over there," she said, nodding right. I turned.
"Somebody?"
"A television star, right?"
"I don't know," I said.
"I'm sure it is. Well, let's see," she said, turning back to the menu. "Why don't we have the angel hair special after the goat cheese salad, okay? Do you like iced tea? They make it with a touch of mint."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Please don't call me ma'am, Melody." She gazed around nervously to see if anyone nearby had heard. "That makes me sound so old. Call me Dorothy."
"Yes, ma' . . . Dorothy," I said and she smiled and nodded with approval, holding the brim of her hat as she did so. The waiter came. He spoke with a thick Spanish accent. I had trouble understanding what he said, but Dorothy had no problem. She gave him our order and added, "For favor," the Spanish for "please." I already had noticed how she liked to throw French, Italian and Spanish expressions into her conversation, flicking her wrist as she did so.
"I don't imagine you ate very well on the plane, did you, you poor thing?"
"I was too nervous," I admitted.
"That's okay. I'm always too nervous to eat when I travel. Philip's never too nervous to lose his appetite over anything. Now, let's get right down to your problem," she said, pausing only when the busboy brought us our iced tea. "As I understand it, you want to find out if this woman is your mother, a woman who came out here to be a movie star. You were told she was killed in a car fire and they even shipped her body back to Provincetown?"
"Yes."
"It sounds very, very complicated. I discussed it with Philip and he agrees we should simply hire a private detective. After all, why should a young girl go investigating such a thing?"
"Oh no," I moaned. "This is something I have to do myself. Thank you, but I do," I insisted.
"Really?" She stared at me a moment and then rolled her eyes. "Well, I suppose you can start yourself. I'll have Spike take you around. He's very good when it comes to weird things, as you saw, but you must listen to him," she admonished. "I wouldn't want anything to happen to you while you're my guest," she said. Then she thought about what she had said and added, "I wouldn't want anything to happen to you under any circumstances."
"Thank you, Dorothy. I do appreciate your concern for me and what you're doing," I said.
"Now, now, let's not think about it. I'll become deaf," she threatened again. I started to laugh. "So," she continued without catching her breath, "tell me more about my dear little sister. Does that crippled man still live with her in the rear of that hole-in-thewall shop?"
"I don't think of Billy as being crippled," I began and described my trip to New York and what Billy and I had done together in so short a time. She listened, a small smile on her face. I had the feeling she was studying me rather than paying attention to the things I said.
"It's so wonderful to be young and
impressionable," she declared with a sigh. "It's almost a shame to introduce you to the hard realities of the real world. Holly always refused to face them. But you saw how my sister lives, like some hippie, some gypsy. And she's so pretty and bright when she wants to be. I could find her an adequate husband in a heartbeat, if she would let me, but que sera, sera."
I was about to protest and explain that I thought Holly was happy as she was and lived a good life, but our salads arrived. They looked delicious. However, the portions made me smile and shake my head. A half dozen forkfuls would clean the plate. I felt guilty having her pay for it.
"It seems like a lot of money for this small amount of food, Dorothy."
"Nonsense. It's more than enough. You've got to watch your diet, especially here, my dear. Just look around at these women. Look," she ordered and I realized she really wanted me to do it now.
I looked around the restaurant as subtly as I could. There were many attractive women, all with beautiful hairdos and expensive-looking clothes. It was obviously a place for the rich and beautiful.
"Everyone watches her figure. Competition, competition, competition, my dear. Every woman is competing with every other woman here."
"For what?" I asked.
She laughed.
"For what? For the eyes of a man, what else? Many of these women want to be in pictures or with powerful men. But don't worry, I'll explain it all to you later. Just from the little you have told me about your background, I know you have so much to learn, and I do enjoy helping a young woman become . . . sophisticated," she declared. "Now don't eat too quickly. You don't want to seem like some naive young girl from the Midwest. Besides, this is the best table. We should enjoy our moment in the spotlight. See, people are wondering who we are already," she said, nodding at people at other tables. She was right-they were looking our way. Dorothy adjusted her hat and smiled at someone.
"You can be friendly," she said, still nodding and smiling at people, "but don't speak to anyone first. Let them come to you. Always wait for them, and never tell anyone too much," she warned. "The more mysterious you are, the more your stock goes up. That's the way Philip would put it." She nodded at someone to our right. "Don't worry, you'll learn. After a while," she assured me.
"I'm really not here for any of that, Dorothy," I said softly. "I'm just here to see about my mother."
"Of course, but like everyone else who comes here, you'll soon fall in love."
"Fall in love? With what, with whom?" I asked.
"Why, with yourself, dear. Who else?" she said and laughed. "I'm sure," she added when I just stared at her, "that that is exactly what happened to your mother."
After what proved to be one of the longest lunches of my life, our meal followed by cups of cappuccino and fruit tarts that cost as much as the meal itself, we finally left. Spike was right there with the limousine, waiting. He held open the doors and I did feel like someone very special because of the way pedestrians paused to look at us and the way the hostess and other staff members fawned over Dorothy. She was like a sponge, soaking up their artificial smiles and growing fatter on that than the miserly portions we had been served. I did get a glimpse of the bill and Holly wasn't far off when she had told me what it would cost. Dorothy had paid over seventy-five dollars for lunch!
We rode past other expensive-looking restaurants, up Santa Monica Boulevard to what Dorothy announced was the world famous Rodeo Drive.
"I'll take you there tomorrow, my dear, to find you something adequate to wear."
Spike made a right turn and drove us past beautiful large homes, one more elaborate than the other with their Grecian columns and tall hedges. As we drove, Dorothy rattled off the names of movie stars, singers and dancers I had seen in films. She also knew the names of film directors and producers who lived in various houses because her husband Philip had some of them for clients.
Finally, we slowed before a two-story English Tudor bigger than any house I had ever seen. It had a steeply pitched roof, side-gabled, with tall, narrow windows with multi-pane glazing. There was a massive chimney on the left crowned by three decorative chimney pots. The walls were brick contrasted with wooden claddings. It was the sort of house I had seen only on the covers of romance novels.
"Home sweet home," Dorothy declared as Spike turned into the pink tile driveway lined with Tiffany glass lamps. The lawn looked like an emerald carpet, with every blade cut perfectly. There was an enormous weeping willow on the left, its tearful branches nearly reaching the ground, and on the right was a thick oak that looked proud and majestic as it towered over the flowers, rock garden and yellow, white and pink bougainvillea that clung to the tall wooden boarder fence beneath it.
"Your house is so big!" I exclaimed. "I didn't think houses could be so big in a city. It's a mansion!"
"I suppose it is a mansion. We do have twenty rooms," she said, "if you count the help's quarters, Philip's office, Philip's gymnasium . ."
"Gymnasium. Twenty rooms!"
Dorothy laughed.
"Philip complains that it's never big enough, especially when I host my women's club meetings."
Alongside the house was a three-car garage, but because the entrance was on the side, it made the house appear even longer. I saw windows above the garage, too.
Spike parked in front of the arched doorway and quickly came around and opened Dorothy's door, As soon as she stepped out, he rushed around the limousine to open mine and reached in to take my elbow and help me out. I felt silly having someone do the simplest things for me, but I was afraid to make a social error.
"Take her bags to the pink room, please Spike," Dorothy commanded. "We have many guest rooms, but I think you'll enjoy this one the most. It suits young people," she said. Spike glanced at me with a small smile on his lips and then opened the trunk.
"Let me acquaint you with our house before you settle in for what I'm sure is a much needed rest," Dorothy told me. I followed her to the front door, which seemed to open magically as we approached.
A short, stout, bald-headed man with bushy gray eyebrows and a pug nose greeted us. He wore a dark blue suit and tie and had a light complexion with rust-tinted spots along the crests of his cheeks and the base of his forehead. His skull was peppered with what looked like freckles dropped randomly along the middle and down his temples. His thick lips were almost the same shade of orange.
"Hello, Alec. This is Melody. She will be staying with us for a while."
He nodded.
"Very good, madam," he said in sharp, clipped tones with just the slightest nod. His light gray eyes swept over me, making me feel as if I had to pass inspection before entering the house. After a moment, he stepped aside and we entered.
The entryway had dark, rich-looking brown tile that complemented the walls paneled with dark cypress. Above us a teardrop glass chandelier glowed. The stairway, winding up with a mahogany balustrade and detailed spindle work, was polished to a pristine glow.
Spike started up with my bags, Alec right behind him, but I followed Dorothy deeper into the house.
On the right was a very large living room with a dark pine grandfather's clock that bonged the hour of three. All of the pieces of furniture were oversized to fill the great space. Light blue satin curtains draped the windows and the marble floor was covered here and there with large Persian oval area rugs in a matching blue. There was so much to visually gobble, I could only shake my head: great oil paintings depicting scenes in cities like Paris and London, as well as grand gardens, all in elaborate gilt frames, glass sculptures that looked like they cost hundreds of dollars, porcelain figurines so dainty and perfect they were surely hand-painted, silver and gold candelabra, antique swords . . . how could anyone be so rich?
"Cozy, isn't it?" Dorothy asked proudly.
Cozy? It was a room in which one could run tours, not relax, I mused, but only nodded.
She showed me the den, with its rich, plush leather sofas and chairs, Philip's office, the dining room with a table that could seat twenty at a time and the kitchen that looked more like a kitchen for a restaurant. She was especially proud of her ovens, although she was quick to say she never even boiled water for tea.
"That's Selena's job," she declared and introduced me to her cook, a very short and very plump Peruvian woman with eyes as dark as peat moss. "Selena lives in the rear of the house," Dorothy explained. "Spike has an apartment over the garage, but my maid, Christina, lives in West L.A. She arrives here at seven in the morning and leaves after dinner, usually about eight. Philip pays them all off the books," she added in a whisper.
"Off the books?"
"Things accountants do to stave off the greedy government. Let's go settle you in. I'm sure you want to shower and freshen up after your trip."
"Yes, I do. Then I'd like to visit the address."
"The address?"
"Where my mother might be," I said.
"Right away?" She grimaced. "Surely, you want to wait until tomorrow."
"I'd rather do it as soon as possible. It's why I'm here," I emphasized. She raised her eyebrows.