Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (21 page)

     There were other mysteries surrounding the murder as well, certain tantalizing facts that hadn't been reported in the papers but that had nonetheless made the rounds of the gossips—something about Ramsey's body having been mutilated in a symbolic way.

     As they drew up in front of the mansion, where two doormen greeted arriving guests, Andrea thought again what an exciting screenplay Marion's story was going to make. She couldn't wait to get hold of the long-lost, recently discovered diary, which Larry had paid an enormous price for and which Andrea was going to start reading that very night.

     One of the doormen came down the icy steps to assist Andrea onto the red carpet. "Good evening, madam," he said, and she saw that he was a good-looking young hunk in his twenties. She couldn't recall when they had stopped calling her "miss" and had started with the "madam."

     Although her fear of life past forty wasn't as acute as Carole Page's, all the same, when she had celebrated her forty-second birthday, Andrea had momentarily felt the chilling specter of time's passing.

     "Excuse me, sir," said the young doorman, who was dressed in a heavy woolen overcoat with a Russian-style fur hat on his head—William Hurt in
Gorky Park.
"Aren't you Larry Wolfe, the screenwriter?"

     Larry gave him a bored look and said, "Yes, I suppose I am."

     "Gosh, this is a great honor, Mr. Wolfe. You really deserved the Oscar."

     Larry walked past the doorman without a word.

     The young man hurried up to the heavy doors that led into the Castle. As he drew them open, he said, "Would you have any tips for a struggling young screenwriter, Mr. Wolfe? I mean, I know I could never hope to be half as good as you, but—"

     Larry said, "I'm on vacation," and waved him off.

     "Don't take it personally," Andrea said gently to the crestfallen young man.

     "I suppose
he
never struggled or needed a break."

     "Please, don't let it bother you. Mr. Wolfe is cranky when he's hungry." She reached into her purse and brought out a twenty-dollar bill. "Perhaps another time," she said, pressing the bill into his gloved hand. "When he's in a better mood."

     As she entered the brightly lit entry hall where young women in uniforms were relieving guests of their coats and scarves, Andrea watched her handsome employer smile graciously at a pretty young thing, showering her with the attention that the doorman could never get from him, attention of an entirely different kind. Larry Wolfe was the sort of man who attracted women with uncanny ease; they seemed to throw their souls at his feet. Women everywhere seemed to be in love with Larry. This had once been the cause of endless anxiety for Andrea, back when she had been a secret member of those ranks, when she had sometimes thought her lust for her boss could fill a stadium, before her eyes had been opened and she had realized what a true son of a bitch he was.

     Back before she had decided to take revenge on him.

     As she handed her coat to one of the maids, Andrea found her thoughts returning to a smoggy evening on the UCLA campus, seventeen years ago...

     The night air had been hot and perfumed; the moon, big and orange. Couples were wrapped in lustful embraces, and twenty-five-year-old Andrea, trying not to look at them, was so engrossed in thoughts of sex and love that she did not see a young man suddenly step out into the path in front of her, causing her to jump and drop her books.

     "I'm sorry," he said, bending down to retrieve her things. "I didn't mean to startle you."

     Andrea realized that he took the evening screenwriting course with her. His name was Larry Wolfe, and she thought he was one of the most gorgeous males she had ever set eyes on.

     "I'm sorry," he said again with a smile. "I thought you saw me." She noticed that a curl of black hair had fallen onto his forehead. "I'm Larry, I'm in the screenwriting class with you. I've been wanting to talk to you."

     That floored her. Andrea harbored no illusions about herself; she knew she had unremarkable features and an equally unremarkable personality. Guys did not go out of their way to encounter Andrea Bachman. Especially handsome, muscle-bound jocks like Larry Wolfe.

     "What about?" she said, wishing he would give her books back to her. She had nothing to hug to her chest, nothing to hide behind.

     "Well, I've got a problem, and I thought you might be able to help me. If you wouldn't mind, that is."

     Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in Ship's Coffee Shop on Wilshire Boulevard, sharing a plate of french fries and two coffees beneath garish bright lights. During the walk from UCLA, through crowded Westwood where couples strolled hand in hand, Larry had told her about himself. He was twenty-six, a Southern California native, worked as a waiter at the Spaghetti Factory in Venice, and his ambition was to get into the movie business. He had candidly confessed to Andrea that he didn't have the knack for acting; he didn't have the patience to learn technical stuff like editing and special effects; and he didn't want to take the time to get a degree in motion picture arts.

     "Finally, I decided that writing a screenplay would be the easiest way to break into entertainment," he said. "That's why I signed up for the course. And when our instructor praised your screenplay tonight, I was impressed."

     Andrea blushed. She hadn't thought Larry was paying attention at the time.

     "I'm interested in this contest they're having," he said. "The best screenplay of the class will win five thousand dollars, plus it will be shown to important directors and producers. I need to win that competition, Alice."

     "Andrea," she said. She knew all about the competition, because she was going to enter it herself. And she was planning on winning. It was vital that she won.

     A shy young woman who lived with her parents in a plain stucco house in Santa Monica, Andrea Bachman had been what they called a
"late in life" child, having been born in an era when it was unusual for a woman over forty to have a baby. All her life, Andrea had been made to feel that she had been living with elderly people; now that her mother was seventy-two and her father eighty-six, Andrea's few acquaintances thought she lived with her grandparents. She had an unfulfilling job as a secretary with an insurance company in Culver City, where she felt as if she faded into the bland walls and file cabinets and went unnoticed by everyone, including her boss.

     Andrea had to escape; she was determined to excel in some way, to make herself distinctive. She had always wanted to be a writer; she had even sold a few short stories to magazines and had been told that she had promise. And so when she had seen the ad in the
L.A. Times
for the screen-writing course, which was limited to twenty students, she had thought that this might be her chance. Now, seven weeks of studying and writing later, the instructor had told Andrea, in front of everyone, that her screenplay showed incredible promise. Andrea had glowed. Just as she glowed now, under Larry Wolfe's attention.

     "I mean," he said, popping a French fry into his mouth, "what a great profession to get into. I read that William Goldman got four hundred thousand dollars for his screenplay for
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
How long do you suppose it took him to crank it out? A few weeks maybe?"

     Larry stopped and stared at Andrea then, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. "So," she started. She coughed, said, "Excuse me," then asked, "So what is it you want me to do?"

     "Nothing, really. I mean, I don't want to impose on you. A talented woman like yourself must be pretty busy..." He let the words drift away on the air-conditioning currents.

     And Andrea fell in love.

     Now, as she handed her coat to one of the maids in the Castle's medieval foyer, she put those memories aside and looked around at the riches exhibited in Star's main hall—display cases containing mementoes and Marion's personal effects; enormous blown-up photographs of Marion, her sad gaze fixed for eternity. What
did
happen that night? Why was the murder never solved?

     Andrea had to hurry after Larry as he strode across the Castle's main hall toward the dining room, where the mâitre d' greeted him as if he were a long-lost brother. Men were as taken with Larry Wolfe as women were, but for different reasons.

     When the mâitre d' explained apologetically that there would be a wait for a table, Larry instructed Andrea to send a note of complaint to the resort management, then he turned and headed for the cocktail lounge, with Andrea dutifully following, as she always did. She needed to keep up the masquerade for a few more days; she didn't want to arouse his suspicions.

     Carole walked up the steps of the Castle's entrance nervously toying with the chain of her evening purse. She should turn away right now, she told herself, and go home, go back to Beverly Hills and her husband and her failed career.

     "Good evening, Miss Page," the doorman said.

     She summoned up her dazzling smile and saw on his shining young face that she still had what it took. Inside, as she slipped out of her Russian sable coat and handed it to an attendant, she looked around to see if Larry Wolfe was there yet.

     There were quite a few guests milling around the lobby, standing in front of the massive fireplaces or sitting on brocaded sofas and chairs among potted palm trees, helping themselves from the trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres brought around by cute waiters. She went to the cocktail lounge, where she paused to assess the crowd.

     Who's minding Hollywood? she wondered as she recognized familiar industry faces.

     The lounge was romantically dark, with stained glass behind the bar, medieval shields on the walls, and deep booths to hide in. Christmas lights twinkled along the wainscoting, and the pianist was playing something vaguely holiday sounding. Carole's heart jumped when she saw Larry Wolfe and his assistant, Andrea Bachman, in the far corner.

     She wondered for a moment how to orchestrate a chance encounter, but she finally decided to just glide by, all glitter and white satin, pretend to just happen to recognize Larry, and then congratulate him on his Oscar win.

     Larry did not see Carole coming, he was so consumed with his thoughts. For one thing, Marion Star's diary was going to be sensational, certain to earn him another Oscar, this time for Best Picture, because the producer always got that. For another, he was looking forward to meeting the owner of this resort, Beverly Burgess, who he had heard was something of an enigma. Nothing interested him more than a mysterious, unattainable woman; in fact, they were the only kind of women he could relate to or get sexually aroused by. He would single one out and commence to explore her, like a dark continent, thrilled with the chase and discovery. He could become so fascinated by a woman's mystique that it sometimes bordered on obsession; the more elusive she was, the more unattainable, the greater Larry's attraction. Which was why, when a director friend had told him about the owner of Star's, Larry's interest had been captured at once. "Beverly Burgess is quite a looker," the director had told him upon returning from a week at Star's during the summer. "I only caught a glimpse of her, she doesn't socialize much. But she's just how I like them, tall and thin and classy. And as near as I can determine, there isn't a man in her life."

     Larry Wolfe was very much looking forward to taking a tour of the Castle with the elegant and unreachable Miss Burgess.

     "Well, hello," a silky voice said. "You're Larry Wolfe, aren't you? Congratulations on your Oscar."

     Larry looked up, startled. "Hello," he said, taking in the ash-blond hair, the glitter of diamonds, the deep plunge of her evening gown. His eyes settled upon the necklace of soft, fat pearls that lay between her breasts. "Miss Page, this
is
a pleasure. Won't you join us?" he said.

     Carole hesitated. "Well, I'm really waiting for a table in the dining room." She looked around the lounge and was relieved to see that there were no vacant seats.

     "Then join us until you're called," Larry said.

     "Well," she said again, uncertainly. But finally she did sit down, sliding into the booth and saying, "This is my first time here. I have the most marvelous bungalow. It even has its own pool."

     "What a coincidence," Larry said with a smile like an ad for dental implants. "I'm in the other bungalow. So I guess that makes us neighbors.
How long will you be staying here?"

     "Just a few days. I'm here for a rest. And you?"

     Larry wasn't subtle about his inspection of her cleavage as he said, "You've heard of the murder that took place here, Dexter Bryant Ramsey, the movie director in the thirties? I'm going to make a movie about it. Write it and produce it."

     "Really," Carole said, declining the macadamia nuts Larry offered to her. After seeing Marion's photos in the lobby and remembering that she had been twenty-six when she disappeared, a young sex goddess who had always worn slinky, clinging clothes with no bra or panties underneath, Carole realized that she was going to have to go on a starvation diet to get down to the right weight. She'd done it before. Any actress whose career depended on looks had to accept the torture that went along with achieving those looks. She could tell by the way Larry was assessing her tonight that he thought she looked sensational. He didn't know the suffering she had gone through: the tedious hair weaves, eyebrows painfully waxed, pores scraped, lips pumped up. It didn't seem fair. Larry was only two years older than she, and all he had had to do to look good tonight was comb his hair.