Deirdre looked around the living room. It, too, had changed over time. Couches and ottomans that had once been covered in a floral brocade were now cream-colored linen. The white grand piano was still there, but many of the other furnishings Deirdre recalled—carved and inlaid Versailles-inspired credenzas, tables, and chairs; massive bucolic landscape paintings—were gone. She wondered if the odd combination of opulence and minimalist elegance was some interior designer’s vision, or whether the furnishings had been sold off to pay bills.
One of the pieces that did remain was a towering portrait of Bunny, still hanging in an elaborate frame over the marble fireplace. She was sitting in one of the missing chairs and wearing a pale blue, diaphanous Greek goddess dress. Her black hair was brushed to the side, curls cascading over one shoulder. Standing at her knee was a very young Joelen looking like a stiff little soldier in a starched white eyelet pinafore.
Still there too, looking marooned in the half-empty room, was a white lacquered credenza that had held a stereo system. After school, Deirdre and Joelen used to hang out here and hope Tito would show up and demonstrate the fine points of tango. He’d been agile, electrically handsome, and he’d smelled of sweat and cigars and a musky cologne. Before he’d take Deirdre or Joelen in his muscular arms, he’d turn the stereo up so loud that Deirdre could literally feel the floor vibrate as the violin bow struck the strings. Then he’d stand tall, even though he wasn’t all that tall, and stick his chest out, his silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal a large medal hanging from a thick gold chain against a field of dark chest hair. His stance reminded Deirdre of a toreador addressing a bull. He’d offer her his hand, and she’d let hers float down to meet it. When it did, he’d twirl her once, twice, and then whip her close in time to the musical flourish, his palm anchored firmly against her lower back and his thigh pressed hard between her legs. “Eess not about the es-teps,” he’d whisper, his voice deep and intoxicatingly accented, his breath hot in her ear. “Eess about the co-NECK-shun.”
Later, the memory of him pressed against her had been enough to make her go all tingly. Deirdre wondered if there were still tango records stored inside the credenza on the shelf below the sound system.
“Bunny,” Joelen called out again.
The door at the far end of the living room opened, and Elenor “Bunny” Nichol entered, regal in a gold caftan, her black hair piled high on her head. At first she appeared tall, but as Deirdre got closer she seemed to shrink. Face-to-face, she was actually shorter than Deirdre.
“My dear!” Bunny held Deirdre at arm’s length and took in her leg, her crutch. Like Joelen, she hadn’t seen Deirdre since before she was crippled, but her gaze didn’t linger. She reached for Deirdre’s hand. “I heard the terrible news. I am so sorry about Arthur.” Her voice was low and resonant and there was real emotion in her eyes.
“Thank you. I—” Deirdre choked and the words caught in her throat. She swallowed. “Thanks, Mrs. Nichol.”
“Bunny, please. You know, your mother and I were pals. We were both chorus girls at Warner Brothers. We used to play hearts in full makeup and costume during our lunch breaks on the set.” Deirdre’s expression must have betrayed her because Bunny said, “Does that surprise you?”
“A little. My mother didn’t have many friends.” Deirdre didn’t add that although her mother had once aspired to act, she had come to dismiss actresses as self-indulgent narcissists. Talking to one, she used to say, was like getting trapped in a mirror.
“Your mother was whip smart,” Bunny said. In other words, never made it out of the back row whereas Bunny had quickly moved front and center. “And your father was a charmer. He made friends for both of them.”
Friends? Deirdre cringed. Like the women he’d photographed up in his office? Joelen saved her from a response by saying, “Bunny, the police think someone killed Arthur and they want to question Deirdre.”
The words left Deirdre momentarily stunned. It was true, of course, but she hadn’t let herself think about it in such stark terms.
“Oh dear,” Bunny said. “How can we—”
“She needs to call Sy Sterling,” Joelen said.
“Of course,” Bunny said. “Come. Use the phone in my office.”
Moments later, Deirdre was sitting at the glass-topped desk in Bunny’s study. Bunny knew the number and dialed for her. Joelen watched from the door.
“Attorney’s office.” The smoker’s voice of Vera, Sy’s secretary, brought back a memory of the second-floor law office in Westwood Village. Open the door with the pebble glass inset and there Vera would be at her desk, a pencil stuck in her hair and a stash of crayons and drawing paper hidden in the supply closet. The smells of Vera’s cigarettes and Sy’s cigars mingled in the dimly lit corridor where they used to let Deirdre ride her tricycle up and down while Sy met with Arthur in his office.
Deirdre breathed a sigh of relief when Vera put her right through. “Sy? It’s Deirdre. You said to call if the police came back? Well, they did. First they called and left a message that they wanted to talk to me. Then they came to the house. When I didn’t answer, they just sat out front and waited. Then TV news vans pulled up—”
“Where are you now?” Sy said, interrupting. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just rattled. My friend Joelen came and got me. I’m at her house.”
“Joelen?” Sy seemed surprised. “Elenor Nichol’s daughter?”
“She was my best friend in high school. Dad was supposed to meet with her to talk about selling the house.” Silence on the other end of the line. “She’s a Realtor now.”
“I know,” Sy said.
“Where should I go? I can’t stay here.” Deirdre swallowed, trying to tamp down the hysteria that threatened to envelop her. “What do the police want?”
“Probably just answers to routine questions. They are investigating a suspicious death. You discovered it. But I do not like them harassing you at the house. And I really do not like newspeople showing up. Schmucks, all of them.” Sy’s outrage was comforting. “We need to get out in front of this. Go in and talk to that detective.” He must have covered the receiver because she could hear muffled voices, then, “Can you meet me in front of City Hall in about an hour? I will call you when I arrive.”
Deirdre covered the receiver on her end. “Joelen, can you drive me over to City Hall? Not now. When Sy calls back in an hour.”
“Of course,” Joelen said.
“I’ll be there,” Deirdre told Sy, feeling relieved. She wasn’t eager to talk to the police, but taking action, any action, felt infinitely better than waiting to be mugged.
“Can you find a scarf?” Sy asked. “Or sunglasses? Just in case reporters are hanging around. I don’t want anyone to recognize you on the way in.”
“Recognize me?” Deirdre asked, startled. “Why would anyone recognize me?”
“There are already news vans at your house. Who do you think they are looking for?”
“My father was just a writer, for God’s sake. Why do they even care?”
“Your father drowned. And years ago he failed to save Fox Pearson from drowning.”
“Who remembers him?”
“No one would except that he died with so much drama. In a swimming pool. And your father tried to save him. The press loves it when history tries to repeat itself.”
Chapter 16
Scarf? Sunglasses? Pffft. Amateur hour.” Bunny Nichol rubbed her hands together, wiggled her fingers, and blew on the tips. “We can do better than that.” She threw open the door to her dressing room. It was half the size of the master bedroom, which itself was about the size of the entire first floor of Deirdre’s house in San Diego. Out wafted the scent of orange blossoms.
Instantly Deirdre was transported back to when she and Joelen spent hours in Bunny’s dressing room, sampling her skin creams and applying her lipstick—a strawberry red called Fraises des Bois—and trying on gowns and costumes. Chiffon and satin, feathers and sequins, leather and metallic lamé. Then adorning themselves with pounds of costume jewelry.