Pie A La Murder (5 page)

Later, in my Jeep on the way home, Liddy said, “You should have seen Nick’s face when he heard Celeste tell me she wanted to be an actress. He looked as though he’d just been sucker punched.”

“She has the looks.” My newly awakened suspicious nature made me think that she could act, too—at least offscreen. I prayed silently that she was sincere in wanting to be with her father, and that she hadn’t come here only because he lived in Hollywood.

“What’s this about the Film Society luncheon?” I asked. “You’d never mentioned it to me. And don’t you have to buy tickets in advance?”

“I go every year, but as soon as you told me about the daughter coming to town I bought two more tickets. She’ll have the excitement of seeing some famous faces, and I thought if she believed it was both our ideas it might help your relationship with her.”

“That’s very generous of you, but I don’t want to buy her goodwill toward me.”

“Don’t be silly. Stepparents do it all the time. Once Celeste gets to know you, she’ll love you for yourself, but there’s no reason not to use whatever we can to start things off on the right foot. Between Bill’s celebrity patients, our social life, and what I laughingly call my own career, I do have a few important contacts. Tomorrow, when we’re at the luncheon, I’ll introduce Celeste to some people who could help her. She might even”—Liddy made quote marks in the air—“ ‘be discovered’!”

At my house, Liddy picked up her Range Rover and drove to her home in Beverly Hills, taking with her the big piece of apple pie I’d saved for Bill, her husband of twenty-plus years.

Using the remote control clipped to my sun visor, I opened the garage to put my Jeep away and saw that the little red VW wasn’t there. It belonged to Eileen O’Hara, my semipermanent houseguest and partner in our walk-in and mail-order business, Della’s Sweet Dreams. Eileen had lived with me for much of her life, during her mother’s periods of mental illness. Now, thankfully, Shannon was on medication that kept her stable, but because Eileen and I worked together, Eileen still spent most nights at my house. I really hadn’t expected to see her car there; usually on Thursday evenings she did the inventory with our store’s manager and made up the list of what needed to be ordered.

As usual, Tuffy and Emma were in the living room, waiting for me. I greeted them both with affectionate petting, and checked their food and water bowls to see what needed refilling. After changing into my “Tuffy-walking” shoes, fastening his leash to his collar, and slipping the house key, my cell phone, and plastic bags into my pockets, Tuffy and I went out into the crisp night air.

While Tuffy decided which bush, tree, or patch of city grass was worthy of his attention, and I scooped up anything he deposited, I thought about Nicholas.

When I first met him, Nicholas had been dating a succession of twenty-something blondes. Seeing Celeste tonight had been a bit of a shock because she was a slightly younger version of those young women he had dated. I wondered if he had been drawn to blondes before he and I fell in love because they resembled his ex-wife. Had he been trying to recapture what he’d lost? Liddy’s question, “Does he still have feelings for her?” came back to me.

Inside my pocket, I felt my cell phone vibrate.

Before I saw the caller ID I knew it was Nicholas.

“Hey, babe. Where are you?”

“Enjoying the night air.” I heard loud music in the distance behind his voice. “Where are you?”

“In the parking lot outside Cuba Libre.”

“Isn’t that a drink?”

“We’re on the far side of the generation gap, honey. It’s a Latin dance club Celeste wanted to check out. I miss you.” He made his voice low and husky. “What are you wearing?”

“What I usually wear when I walk Tuffy: a white seethrough nightie, black stockings, a garter belt, and stilettos.”

“I wish I could rush right over.”

“Me, too. How are things going with Celeste?”

“She’s amazing, Del. Speaks four languages.” Pride warmed his voice. I imagined his full lips curling in a genuine smile. “It was a little awkward, because we don’t know each other. I wasn’t happy to find out she wants to be an actress, but she’s serious about it. She told me when they were living in London last year she studied at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. Probably the best drama school in the world. I would have preferred it if she wanted to go to UCLA, but she’s not one of those empty-headed girls who think they can become stars without bothering to learn the craft.”

I wondered if he was trying to convince me or himself.

Before I had a chance to respond, he said, “I better go back in and check on Celeste. Make sure nobody’s coming on to her.”

“Go ahead.”

“I promise we’ll see each other soon, but you understand that I’ve got to spend as much time as I can right now with my daughter?”

“Of course I do.”

“Until she settles in and learns her way around LA. For one thing, I’ve had to teach her how to drive on our side of the road—she got her driver’s license in England.”

“It’s all right. Really. I agree that you need to get to know each other.”

“I love you,” he said, and disconnected.

“Back at you,” I said to the dead line.

On Friday Liddy arrived at my house at noon. Half a minute later, Nicholas drove up with Celeste in the four-door Maserati he’d bought at an FBI confiscation auction.

Celeste looked spectacular in a short brown leather skirt, knee-high brown leather boots, and a sleeveless vest that looked as though it was made out of red fox fur, worn over a cream silk shirt. I hoped the fur was faux—there are some that look amazingly real—but I hadn’t known her long enough to ask, nor to share my negative feelings about wearing real fur south of the Arctic Circle.

As always, Liddy resembled a fashion magazine cover, today in an authentic navy blue Chanel suit, with the also authentic shoes and classic bag.

For my part, I’d put on my best skirt suit: an apple red lightweight wool that I’d bought when Neiman Marcus had one of its rare sales. The suit didn’t have a famous label inside, unless you counted Neiman Marcus, but Liddy had approved of the color and cut. I admit that I did feel pretty. The first time Nicholas saw me wear it, he said I reminded him of Sister Sarah, the Salvation Army heroine in
Guys and Dolls
, and that the outfit gave him the urge to undo my buttons. I had batted his hands away and told him to wait until after dinner.

I didn’t expect any such romantic exchange today. When he got out of the car to follow Celeste up my front walk, he addressed all three of us collectively.

“You look gorgeous,” he said. “Who’s driving?”

Liddy raised her hand with the keys to the Range Rover in it. “I am.”

“I’ve got to go to the paper for a while. After the lunch, do you mind taking Celeste back to my place?”

“Not at all.”

He said to Celeste, “I’ll try to get home before you do, but if not, you’ve got a key and your phone and all my numbers?”

“Yes, I do, Daddy. Don’t worry about me.” She gave him a light kiss on the cheek.

Nicholas told us to have fun. With some reluctance, he gave us a good-bye salute and got back into the vehicle I called his silver Batmobile.

Celeste watched him drive away. “He’s going to buy me a car tomorrow. I need one for going to auditions.”

Surprised, I asked, “Oh? Have you met someone in the business?”

“Not yet,” she said.

Behind Celeste’s back, Liddy rolled her eyes. “Then we’d better get going,” she said.

This year’s Hollywood Film Society luncheon was being held in the main ballroom of one of the most glamorous hotels in Southern California, the Olympia Grand, on Wilshire Boulevard, in Westwood. Secretly, I hoped that this location wasn’t a bad omen, because the last time I’d been in the ballroom, a few months ago, it had been the scene of a murder.

Liddy turned off Wilshire Boulevard and steered her Rover into the driveway leading to the hotel’s entrance. A few chauffeured Town Cars—Liddy called them “daytime limos”—and a stream of expensive private vehicles were ahead of us, but the hotel’s parking staff was so efficient that we had to wait only a few minutes before she handed her car over to one of the valets.

A doorman in a dark green uniform coat stood in front of the glass and brass entrance. Even though I’d read that the hotel had acquired a new owner, the name remained the same, as did the large entwined letters “O” and “G” etched onto the glass door in ornamental script.

The first visible indication of new management was the lobby. Gone were the pagan temple scenes and the wall frescoes depicting Greek gods and goddesses at play. They had been replaced by live trees and wall paintings of a lush forest and men in Shakespearean costumes. I realized that we’d walked into
As You Like It
when I read the words on the large scroll on the wall among the painted trees:

What the name “Olympia Grand” had to do with Shakespeare I didn’t know, but I found the new design attractive and tranquil. I preferred it to the former owner’s gaudy decor.

The
As You Like It
theme continued in the main ballroom. Previously, it had been called the Elysian Room and the tables had been encircled by two dozen artificial palm trees; now it was the Arden Room, and the palms had been replaced by a virtual forest of trees with thick green foliage.

Just inside the double doors to the ballroom was a table with three women sitting behind it, checking guest lists.

Liddy stepped up to the nearest woman. “I’m Lydia Marshall. These are my guests, Della Carmichael and Celeste D’Martino.”

“Oh, no,” Celeste protested. “It’s not D’Martino. I’m Celeste Fontaine.”

“Fontaine?” I said.

“I use my mother’s maiden name. It’s less . . .
ethnic
.”

At that moment, I felt a stab in my heart for Nicholas.

Liddy picked up the little envelope of tickets that had our table number on it, and led us through the maze of tables in the ballroom to our assigned seats.

Celeste followed Liddy, and I followed Celeste, which allowed me to see how many male heads turned toward her as we passed.

We were the first to arrive at our table of eight, but the majority of members of the Hollywood Film Society were already there, milling about, looking for their seats and talking to each other.

Liddy placed Celeste between us and began pointing out some major names in the industry. “See that man with the red hair? He’s the creator-producer of
Medical Cops
, the top-rated show on CBS. The man he’s talking to is the top director of sitcoms in the business.”

“TV’s fine, but I’m only interested in films. Who’s here that does those?”

Liddy indicated a slender man with a shock of hair that stood up straight, giving him the appearance of having just suffered a powerful jolt of electricity. “That’s Brian Grazer. He’s produced some of the most successful movies in the last ten years. The man with him is the director Francisco Mantillo—they call him the new Fellini.”

Celeste wrinkled her perfect nose in distaste. “His movies don’t make much money. Anyway, he’s gay.”

Liddy’s eyebrows rose. “You’re not going to do very well in Hollywood if you don’t like people who are gay.”

“That’s not it—half my friends in London and Vienna are gay. It’s just that he stayed with us at Freddie’s chateau in Gstaad last winter and wasn’t interested in me at all.”

Liddy asked, “You live in a chateau in Switzerland?”

“Only during the winter so we can ski.”

I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Who’s Freddie?” Celeste wrinkled her nose again. “Mummy’s prince.” She straightened up, good posture making her even more striking. “Oh, look. There’s Chad Moody!”