Lucky Stars (23 page)

t
wenty-nine

A
fter I recounted to Jack how Maura and I had overheard Rosa and Carlos m
aking derogatory remarks about
Victor, Jack suggested that they might hold the key to our plan.

“They’re close to the situation,” he said, “so our job is to get close to them.”

“How about if I cozy up to Rosa?” I said. “I’ll make up a story about how I’m playing the role of a chef on an episode of
Law and Order
or
Frasier
or
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
, who cares. I’ll explain that I’m not much of a cook, which is true, and that I’d like her to be my technical advisor.”

“I think you’re onto something. If you can spend time with her in the kitchen, whip up some refried beans together, engage her in a little girl talk, we might get information out of her.”

“I’l
l do it. She can cook more than refried beans, by the way. She’s actually a pretty talented chef. Mexican, French, Italian—you name it, she can make it.”

“Great, but the main thing is to schedule all this for a time when Victor and your mother aren’t around.”

“Right.”

When I made my pitch to Rosa, she was flattered. “I’d love to be your technical advisor, whatever that is,” she said and told me to come by the house that very next day.

“Are you sure you’ll have time to spend with me?” I asked. “I wouldn’t want Victor or Mom to be upset with you.”

“Mr. Chellus will be playing golf,” she said. “And your mother will be
doing one of her tuna fish com
mercials.”

“Perfect. See you tomorrow.”

“
N
o,
this
is how you hold the whisk,” she instructed me as we stood together in Victor’s kitchen, studying a bowl of egg yolks.

Even I knew how to hold a whisk, but I was feigning total ignorance in order to stretch out my meeting with her. I had asked her
to show me how to make a soufflé
— the hardest thing I could think of—also in the hope of keeping her talking. “Okay. I see now. Thanks, Rosa. My character is supposed to have trained at one of the best restaurants in France, so your input is essential.”

“My pleasure,” she said. “I’m very excited to be involved with a television show. Will I get to visit the set while you’re shooting your scenes?”

“I’ll ask the producer and get back to you,” I said.

“I appreciate that. I might as well admit that I’ve always wanted to be an actress.”

“You’ve always wanted to be an actress?” God, was there
any
woman in Hollywood who didn’t?

“Yes. Carlos and I acted a little bit before we were married. We would give anything to do it again.”

I dropped the whisk, a lightbulb going on in my head. They’d give anything to act again. That’s what she’d said.
Anything.

I tried to remain calm as my mind danced with possibilities. “Is that how the two of you met Victor? Through your work in the movie business?”

“Yes. I was an extra in a movie Carlos was in—the one and only movie he was in—and Mr. Chellus had something to do with the financing. The movie never got finished, because the money ran out, but Mr. Chellus offered us part-time jobs and we were grateful to have the security, knowing how difficult it is to earn a living as full-time actors.”

You’re telling me. “And you’ve been with Victor ever since?”

“Yes. Our part-time jobs here became full-time jobs.” Suddenly, her eyes moistened and her cheeks flushed. I had struck a nerve, apparently.

“What is it, Rosa? Is everything all right?”

She shook her head, fought back tears.

I patted her hand. “You can tell me. Is it that you want to leave your job here but can’t for some reason?”

She nodded, then pointed to the egg yolks. “They’re getting runny. We should continue to whisk them.”

“Forget the eggs,” I said. “Why can’t you and Carlos leave your jobs here and pursue
your dreams in show business?”

“Because
…”
She
censored herself.

Well, I knew about the illegal immigrant thing, but surely that wasn’t what was keeping them under Victor’s roof. Or was it? “Go on,” I encouraged her. “Maybe I can help. Are you afraid of leaving Victor because you think he might turn you in to the immigration authorities?”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know about that?”

“It was just a guess,” I said. “Breaking the immigration law is so common in L.A.”

“It is,” she agreed, “but if he turned us in, we’d be out of work and out of money.”

“Not if you got other jobs—jobs in acting, for instance.”

She brightened. “That would be wonderful, but how? We’re in this country illegally, remember.”

“Victor must have wrangled phony documents for you, didn’t he?”

She nodded sheepishly.

“Then what’s the problem? Hollywood is full of people with phony
something.
”

“Also, we’re not young anymore. We don’t have much practice at acting. And, as I said, Mr. Chellus could be so angry if we left him that he’d have us arrested. He threatens to do this on a regular basis.”

He’s good at threatening, I thought, flashing back to Jack and the horrible way Victor had treated him. And then I recalled that Rosa had mentioned some sort of “evidence” that night when Maura and I had overheard her in the library—evidence she could use against him if he threatened her. What was it and how could I get her to confide in me about it?

“Look, Rosa. I’m going to be honest with you. There’s no time to pussyfoot around.”

“Pussy what?”

“Never mind. What I’m saying is that I might as well come clean.”

Again, she seemed puzzled and handed me a paper towel. I realized that, despite the many years she had spent in America, she hadn’t solved the mysteries of American slang.

“The point I’m trying to make is that I sense that you and Carlos have a more complicated relationship with Victor than one would suspect and that, while he exerts a certain hold over you, you have evidence that could incriminate him, too. Am I right?”

Now she sobbed in earnest. I handed the paper towel back to her, so she could wipe her face with it.

“Why are you interested in such things?” she said during a break in her crying jag. “Your mother and Mr. Chellus are close to marrying.”

“That’s exac
tl
y why. I’m looking for a way to prove to my mother that Victor is all wrong for her, and your evidence could be the answer. Please tell me what it is, Rosa. What do you have on him? You’ve been dying to use it. Why not give it to me and let
me
use it?”

Sob sob sob sob sob sob. I wished she’d stop already so we could wrap up the conversation before Vic came home from his day on the links and Mom came home from her day on the set.

“It’s true about Mr. Chellus,” she said. “He’s a bad man. But Carlos and I have been bad, too. He made us do bad things.”

“Like what?”

She waved me off.

“Okay, let’s go back to the evidence. I’m begging you to give it to me.”

“If I gave it to you, it would help your mother but
not Carlos and me. We’d be out on the street once Mr. Chellus was punished for his crimes.”

“What if I made sure you weren’t on the street?” I was winging this.

“How?”

“You said you and Carlos always wanted to be actors. What if I guaranteed you jobs in a movie? My boyfriend is Jack Rawlins, the host of
Good Morning, Hollywood.
He’s a famous movie critic, Rosa.”

“Are you serious? Carlos and I watch his show all the time. We’re his number one fans.”

“Okay, then you know how influential he is. He could arrange for you two to meet with casting directors. They respect his opinion. It’ll be fabulous, you’ll see. You’ll give me the evidence, and you and Carlos will be up there on the silver screen where you belong—a regular Penelope Cruz and Antonio Banderas. In other words, I’ll help you if you help me. Or, as Jack would say, one hand washes the other.”

She was confused yet again and passed me the Palmolive liquid. After I explained what I meant, she promised she’d talk to Carlos and then call me. But I knew they’d fall in line. After all, they’d had a taste of showbiz and were, therefore, seduced by even the remote possibility of stardom.

“Just one thing,” she said as we were about to refocus our attention on the now-decomposing eggs.

“Yes?”

“If I went back to work in the movies, I’d need someone to give me a makeover, especially to my hair. It’s long and flat and few: the camera it should be short and poufy.”

“Consider it done. But before I arrange for your
makeover, you’ll have to give me the evidence. No proof, no pouf.”

I
waited a couple of days for Rosa to call me with her answer. When she didn’t, Jack and I decided that he would call her, to add a certain luster to our campaign.

After she gushed that she really was his number one fan, she listened to the elaborate story he’d concocted for her benefit. It involved a movie that was being shot in Vancouver by a veteran director friend of his, and its script featured two scene-stealing parts that would be perfect for her and Carlos. He went on and on about the roles themselves, about the millions of people around the world who would see the movie, including their friends and family back
in Mexico, and about this once-
in-a-lifetime opportunity for her and her husband to sever their ties with Victor and make a fresh start.

Rosa was sufficiently dazzled that she agreed to turn over her supposed evidence. She was, however, extremely nervous about Victor finding out about her traitorous plan, so she wouldn’t allow Jack or me to come near the Beverly Hills manse to collect the
incriminating
whatever-it-was. She was even afraid to risk being seen with us at a public place. As a solution, we decided on a drop-off location—a bench in Roxbury Park in Beverly Hills. She would leave her goody there, in a brown paper bag after dark, and we would zip by and pick it up.

At the appointed hour, we cruised by the park and found the designated bench and waited in the car for her to make her deposit.

“This feels like a drug deal,” I
r
emarked, as we sat at the curb, engine running.

“It could be a drug deal,” he said. “For all we know, Victor’s into that stuff, too.”

“Look, she’s over there,” I said, pointing at the woman who, at that very minute, was walking briskly toward the bench, the brown bag in her arms. She kept glancing to her left, then her right, checking to make sure she hadn’t been followed.

When she had left the bag on the bench and returned to her car, we pounced.

“Let’s wait until we get to my house to take a look at it,” said Jack once we had the bag in our possession and were driving away from the park.

“Not a chance,” I said firmly. “Let’s pull over and take a look at it now.”

“It’s dark,” said Jack. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to be able to actually
see
it, since we’ve gone to so much trouble to get it?”

“Good point,” I conceded.

I sat with the bag on my lap during the twenty-minute ride to Jack’s. I was so curious about its contents it felt like it was burning a hole in the leg of my jeans. When we finally got there, we hurried inside, turned on the lights, and brought the bag into the kitchen.

“Here goes,” I said as I opened it. What I found was your basic cheapo leatherette scrapbook into which Rosa had glued photos along with captions and assorted handwritten musings. “If this is her wedding album, I’m throwing it in the garbage.”

“Let’s take it one page at a time,” said Jack. “She wouldn’t have given it to us if it didn’t
l
ink up with Victor in some way.”

Ironically, it
was
a wedding album, only Rosa didn’t appear in any of the photos.

“How odd,” I said as we viewed the first one. It was
of Victor dressed in a tuxedo and holding the hand of a bosomy blonde in a bridal gown.

“She must be Mary Elizabeth,” said Jack, “the one who drowned.”

I shook my head. “Victor was in his fifties when he married her, if I remember correctly from the obit in the
LA. Times.
This picture is more recent.”

“You’re right,” he said after reading Rosa’s caption. “The bride isn’t Mary Elizabeth. According to this notation, her name is Karen Sweetzer, and she and Victor were married four years ago.”

I did a double take at the photo. No, a triple take. Then I read and reread Rosa’s scribbles, which were in English but only sort of. Apparently, she, along with Carlos and Vincent, Victor’s chauffeur, had been a guest at the wedding and was, therefore, able to give a firsthand account of the event, which, she noted, had taken place in a small ceremony at the Pfister Hotel in Milwaukee, Karen’s hometown.