Teresa Lupo walked through what looked like a small junkyard, with an old white sink stained with rust, an abandoned refrigerator, and a snake-like morass of ancient piping, and found herself in a patch of open ground a few metres out of the shadow of the bell tower above them. Pansies and miniature dahlias ran around the border of a bed of pale marble chips and gravel. A grey stone urn stood in the centre, filled with fresh scarlet roses. A green silk sash — the colour sent a shiver through her, it was so accurate, so familiar — was wrapped around the neck of the vase, new and shiny.
She stared at the headstone that stood over what could only have been a fake grave and felt her head might explode.
The inscription, worn by the years and only just visible, read, Carlotta Valdes, born December 3, 1831, died March 5, 1857.
“You’re supposed to pay a couple of dollars to see that,” said a man’s voice from behind.
She must have jumped. She wasn’t sure. This all seemed so curious: real, yet dreamlike, too.
“Sorry,” she stuttered.
There was concern all over his young face. He was pleasant looking, in his early thirties, wearing workman’s overalls, and sturdily built.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He smiled at them apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s our fault,” Hank said, taking out a ten-dollar bill. “Blame us. The lady came all the way from Rome to see this. There was no one in, but the gate was open.”
“You mean Rome, Italy?” the young man asked, amazed.
“There are others?” she wondered.
“Oh yeah,” he answered, nodding. He had a vigorous, simple demeanour, like that of a farmer. “Georgia, for one. Not that I’ve been there either. You came all this way to see that?”
“Not really.” Not at all, now that she thought about it. “I just wanted to put a name to a memory.”
She looked at the tower again. “It was in Vertigo, wasn’t it? Hitchcock. Nineteen fifty …”
“Shot in ’57,” Frank said, tapping his right temple. “Released the following year.”
“Sounds right,” the man in the overalls agreed. “I’m not a movie fan, to be honest with you. I just inherited all this stuff. If it keeps people happy and doesn’t cost a fortune, it can stay for all I care. I work construction for a living and it doesn’t get in the way. Besides, the last thing Chestnut needs is another yuppie bar. My uncle was a good old guy. He claimed he was a carpenter on the set, hand-picked by Hitchcock. That’s why we got to pick up a couple of props. Then he got the movie theatre when it went bust, built that stupid bell tower on it … Unique selling point, he always said. He was right about the unique part. I keep a few flowers on that fake grave there for any fans who turn up. Caught three this week, not including you.”
He leaned forward and, in a stage whisper, added, “Tell you the truth. My uncle was a terrible liar. I reckon the whole thing’s a fake. But what the hell. It’s the movies. Does it matter?”
“Are you showing it again soon?” Teresa asked hopefully.
“Vertigo? I only open the place up when someone comes up with the money. Too expensive to keep it open every day. We’ve got a little festival of fifties noir coming soon. John Huston. Nicholas Ray. Billy Wilder, Sam Fuller, Fritz Lang. Some bank is backing it, with a little help from the arts people. Those arts guys produce the program. They love this place for some reason. I just smile and hand over the keys.”
“I shall be here every night,” Frank insisted, then elbowed his brother. “He can go slurp beer and fart alongside his bar buddies.”
“Great.” The young man hesitated. He shooed away a couple of wasps buzzing around the place. “Damned yellow jackets. I came around ’cause one of the arts guys thought we had a nest somewhere. Guess he’s right. Anything else I can help you with?”
“I really need to see Vertigo right now,” Teresa said hopefully. “Tonight, if possible. Maybe a DVD. Or …”
Lukatmi, she thought suddenly.
“… I could download it off the web or something?”
Frank put the forefingers of his two hands together to form a cross, then pointed it in her direction, hissing all the time, like someone chasing down a vampire. “Jimmy Stewart would be turning in his grave.”
“I rather doubt that, sir,” the young man said very seriously, and removed the ten-dollar bill from Hank’s fingers. “I don’t know much about the movie business, but I’m guessing he’d rather be watched than ignored. No idea about all that Internet stuff. But there’s a Blockbuster down the street, if that’s any use.”
6
The private security men were easily shaken off. Maggie led Costa around the rear of the Palace, past the children’s museum, to a parking lot where she climbed into a dark green vintage Jaguar, then fired up the throaty engine with visible enthusiasm. He got into the passenger seat and felt himself sinking into soft, ancient leather.
“What kind of car’s this?” he asked.
“It’s a Betsy. That’s my name for her anyway. She’s a loan from some company trying to sell something or other. I dunno. Corporate bonds. Doughnuts. Who cares? She turned up yesterday morning. My agent said I can keep her for a week as long as I do a photo shoot at the end. It’s all by way of thanks for some romantic slush that came out a couple of months ago called On a Butterfly’s Wing. The boss liked me, apparently. Did you see it?”
“No.”
“Ever hear of it?”
“Vaguely …”
She slapped the leather steering wheel and giggled in disbelief. “You are the world’s worst liar, Nic. Here I am chauffeuring some foreigner around my hometown and he’s never even seen my movies. Will someone please explain to me why? Where’s the adulation? What’s my ego supposed to survive on?”
“It’s nothing personal. I just don’t go to the cinema much.”
She crossed the busy highway leading to the Golden Gate Bridge, then pulled off to enter the pleasant open space of the Presidio. Soon they began to climb uphill, winding through a network of narrow, empty roads, past a cemetery and both modest and palatial homes, mostly set against a backdrop of lush forest.
The windows were down. The ancient engine growled and roared as the vehicle tackled the steep inclines. Costa felt as if he’d stepped back fifty years into the frame of some old movie.
“Some stranger lent you this car? It must be worth a fortune.”
“That’s what I said. And yes, I guess it must be worth a fortune.”
“Isn’t that odd?”
“This life is odd. Haven’t you figured that out yet? I get given stuff all the time. I could have had three new kitchens last year if I wanted. And a condo in Orlando. Yuck. It’s business, not kindness. People hope the stardust will rub off and leave a little money behind. Occasionally it’s some kind of trick from some sleazeball who figures it’s the price of a date with a movie star. If that’s what I am …”
“I will watch every movie you’ve ever made,” he promised fervently. “When I have the time.”
That amused her, though in his heart he meant it.
“No need. Most of them are junk. No one’s called about Betsy yet, mind, so perhaps I’ll be spared that particular ordeal. What would you do? Send her back?”
He patted the upholstery and ran a finger along the gleaming polished burl walnut of the dashboard. “I’d still wonder why he really did it.”
She burst out laughing. “God, Nic. Don’t you ever relax? I checked. This is a Jaguar Mark Eight. She was made in 1957. Only in production for two years. Allow me one indulgence, please. It came with these, too. I should have put them in water but I forgot. I’m not house-trained. Not really.”