Orchestral fanfare and long, sustained applause exploded as Bunny, her eyes wide, red lips glistening against white teeth, stood framed by the curtain. She wore a slinky black gown. A diamond brooch sparkled at her slender waist, and diamond chandelier earrings grazed her porcelain shoulders. Her black hair was piled high on her head, with tendrils curling down her back.
“She looks spectacular,” Deirdre said, watching the show from the bed she now shared with Tyler in their arts-and-crafts bungalow in Los Feliz Village. Deirdre’s share of the income from her father’s book and the movie deal had been enough for half the down payment on the house and a year’s rent on a storefront on Hollywood Boulevard where she’d soon open her own art gallery. Deirdre and Henry had given a share of their earnings to Gloria, who’d opened a yoga and meditation studio at a hot springs resort between Death Valley and Las Vegas.
On TV, Bunny put her hand over her mouth as the applause continued. She seemed genuinely overwhelmed. Carson got up and offered her his hand, then gave a mock bow all the way down on one knee, like he was waiting to be knighted. Bunny smiled as he stood, offered her his arm, and led her over to the guest chair.
When the applause died down, Carson sat and rested his arms on his desk. “As you can hear, you’ve been missed.”
“Thank you. This means so much to me.” Bunny leaned forward as if sharing a confidence, her cleavage swelling. “You’re all so kind. You know, I never really meant to leave Hollywood. I just needed time.” She shifted in the chair, crossing her leg so that her thigh peeked through a slit in the skirt. “Time to find myself.”
“And I trust you have,” Carson said, glancing at her leg and giving the audience one of his trademark smirks. Then he smiled graciously at Bunny. “We’re glad to have you back. You’re a true movie star legend.”
“You make me sound like an anachronism.” She gave him a sly look. “But I am happy.”
“Is it your work or something personal?”
“Probably the work. But who can tell? Regret can be very disabling. It took me a long time to learn to let it go.”
He smiled an impish grin. “Screw regret.”
Bunny gave a naughty boy shake of her head. “Am I being good? Am I being bad? Am I this? Am I that? Who cares? Let it all go. I’ve learned to live with my past. But I do have a few scars.” She widened the slit in her skirt to expose her knee. “Can you see my boo-boos?”
“You want to show them to us?”
The audience howled.
Bunny smiled. Blushed.
Carson spread his arms, like he couldn’t help himself. “Might there be a new man in your life? Because behind every great woman is a great behind.”
The audience laughed, and Bunny turned to them. “Now you all have to stop egging him on.”
As the audience response faded, Johnny’s look turned serious. “Okay, so you’ve let it go. You’ve . . . um . . .” He bounced a pencil on the desk.
“Finished my film.” Bunny turned to the audience, spread her hands, and was rewarded with applause.
“You want to talk about your film? What’s it called?”
“You know what it’s called.”
“Notorio,” Carson said, and music swelled, violins in a syncopated tango with flourishes from a snare drum. A movie poster came up. There was Bunny in the same long black dress, waves of long black hair framing her face, wrapped in a dance embrace with her Latin lover. Deirdre could hear Tito’s voice whispering in her ear. Yes, it was about the connection.
“Notorio,” Bunny said. “With Tito Altavista.”
“Tito?”
“Just a coincidence.”
“In Hollywood, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
“He’s a young Fernando Lamas.”
“Fernando Lamas.”
“It was a great experience.”
“With Tito Altavista?”
She looked toward the audience. “Yes.”
“Have you ever worked with Fernando Lamas?”
Bunny ignored that. “The movie opens in Los Angeles tomorrow.”
“And are you having fun with this new movie?”
“I never do anything I don’t enjoy,” Bunny said without a hint of irony. “Not anymore.”
Johnny raised his eyebrows. “I can certainly relate to that.”
Bunny tucked her knee demurely back into her skirt.
On the screen now was the cover of Arthur’s book. Johnny said, “I understand the movie is based on a book written by an old friend of yours.”
True to Sy’s word, as soon as Deirdre had given him the manuscript, Shoshanna/Susanna had showed up to confirm Deirdre’s story. Shortly after that, the shovel mysteriously disappeared from police evidence, and a few months later, Arthur’s death was ruled by misadventure. Six months later, Arthur’s memoir, One Damned Thing After Another, was published. The movie’s publicity rollout had pushed it onto the New York Times bestseller list.
“Yes. Arthur Unger is”—Bunny gave her head a sad shake—“was a writer. A huge talent. One of Hollywood’s greats. And one of its most underappreciated. Maybe now the Academy will recognize his work.”
The book cover faded and was replaced by a head shot of Arthur himself taken back in the early days, the kind of black-and-white publicity still that the studio had taken of all its contract talent. Then the picture of Arthur faded, replaced by a still from the movie, Bunny and Jerry Orbach in Bunny’s pink bedroom with the actor Tito Altavista dead on the floor with a knife sticking out of his abdomen.
Jerry Orbach wasn’t Jack Nicholson or Dustin Hoffman—not A-list enough to share the limelight on the Tonight show with Bunny, which was probably just as well. But he was smart, handsome, and a terrific actor. A Broadway song-and-dance man, too. Arthur would have appreciated that.
On TV, Carson asked Bunny, “I understand you worked with Mr. Unger on his book.”
“Yes. We collaborated before his tragic death.”
Collaborated? That made Deirdre laugh out loud.
“In fact, we talked about it the very day he died. Ironic, don’t you think?” Bunny pursed her lips. That brazen admission took Deirdre’s breath away.
“And I understand Arthur Unger was not just a friend of yours,” Carson said. “His book gives an inside look at the most tragic event in your life, a murder almost twenty-five years ago that got worldwide headlines. People still haven’t forgotten. It’s something you have never talked about publicly before.”
“And I’m not starting now.”
“So if we want to know—”
“Go see the movie. It’s always better than real life.”
The camera held for a moment on Carson’s face, his eyebrows raised in dismay. “You heard what the lady said. See the film. And with that . . .” he said and pointed off camera.
The TV went to commercial, and there was Bunny again, wearing another low-cut, slinky black dress adorned with diamonds. Deirdre had the odd sensation that she was in Bunny Nichol’s dressing room again, the mirrored walls reflecting and reflecting back infinite images of the glamorous star. It wouldn’t have surprised her if the doorbell rang to reveal yet another Bunny, this one in person. Except Deirdre hadn’t seen or spoken to Bunny Nichol, not since Bunny had pretended to toss the bloodied dress and the knife into her pool. Joelen had ended up brokering the sale of Arthur’s house for $1.1 million. That someone had died there in mysterious circumstances only increased the interest in the property. It was, after all, Hollywood. Deirdre and Joelen hadn’t spoken since the closing.
During the commercial for Cerulean, violins, piano, and finally an accordion swelled to a tango rhythm. A tall, slender man dressed all in black moved slowly away from the camera toward Bunny, took her in his arms, twirled her once, twice, then bent her backward. The scene dissolved to a close-up of Bunny raising a bottle of Cerulean as if in a champagne toast, arching her head back and spraying her neck with the perfume. In smoke, words wrote themselves out on the screen in front of her.