Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (39 page)

O
KAY, THESE ARE THE FACTS SURROUNDING THE UNSOLVED
murder of Dexter Bryant Ramsey," Andrea said as she read to Beverly Burgess from her notes. "The victim was shot once through the head, although witnesses gave conflicting accounts of the number of gunshots they heard. Servants reported that at least thirty guests were in residence at the time, and yet none of those guests was still here when the police arrived. The police were not called to the scene until approximately fourteen hours after the murder was committed. The gun was never found. And"—she glanced up at Beverly Burgess—"Ramsey was castrated after he was dead. Do I have everything?

     Beverly was taking Andrea Bachman on a private tour of the one wing of the Castle that had been preserved just the way it had been left sixty years ago. Tours were offered to guests once a day, in the afternoons, and they were escorted by a guide who titillated them with outrageous tales as they peered into private apartments where screen legends once stayed. The air in the hallway was thick with the old, musty smell of pressed roses and
stale perfume; the furniture was dark and heavy; oil paintings of people long dead lined the walls. It was an atmosphere conducive to unsolved mysteries and romantic tragedy.

     "Yes," Beverly said, "I believe that's everything." Because this wing was not centrally heated, she and Andrea were warmly dressed: Andrea wore a cowl neck sweater, tweed skirt, and boots; Beverly wore a black fox bomber jacket and cashmere slacks. She also wore oversized sunglasses, despite the fact that they were indoors.

     Andrea flipped through her notes. "And one of the upstairs maids reported seeing someone run out of the house right after the gunshots. She said she couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman." She looked at Beverly. "The police believe it was Marion, but it could have been anyone, couldn't it? One of the guests maybe."

     Beverly nodded. "And this was the wing," she said as they walked past closed doors, "where the guests were housed that night. They were all staying in these rooms. All had access to the bathroom where Ramsey was killed." She pushed on a door and it swung silently away, revealing a stunning Oriental room with black lacquered furniture, Japanese tatami mats, silk pillows, rice paper lamps, and a pair of magnificent silk Japanese kimonos framed in glass, hanging on the wall.

     "Eerie!" Andrea said, speaking softly, as if afraid of disturbing the room's occupant—except that there were no occupants. No one had slept in this room since 1932, the night of Ramsey's murder.

     "I wonder which one of Marion's famous guests slept in this bed," she said. "Clark Gable? Cary Grant? They were on the list, weren't they?"

     She went to the window, parted flimsy gossamer drapes, and looked out at the wintry pine forest surrounding the Castle. Snow had fallen during the night, cloaking everything in a fresh, blinding whiteness, and the sunlight was so sharp and clear that Andrea could see Palm Springs and the other communities in the Coachella Valley below, stretching out in green and sandy patches to the vast desert beyond.

     She turned to Beverly, who was inspecting a blue porcelain bowl. There were those huge sunglasses again, the ones she had worn last night when she and Andrea had met. "An eye condition," Beverly had
said. So why did Andrea have the strange feeling that Beverly was hiding behind them?

     In fact, it was clear to Andrea that Beverly Burgess was hiding in general; as the owner of this resort, she was conspicuously
not
in evidence. Which was why Andrea had been surprised that morning to receive a phone call from the reclusive Miss Burgess, offering to personally show Larry Wolfe and his assistant around Marion Star's private apartments. Larry, of course, had no interest, his first words over scrambled eggs and bacon being, "I'm going to see what the skiing is like here. Maybe take in some tennis. Use the pool." In other words, go in search of Carole Page, who had left him panting in the cocktail lounge the night before after making it quite clear she wanted to be left alone.

     So Andrea had joined Miss Burgess in her office, where Beverly had been in the process of reviewing the day's menus with the head chef. Andrea had been struck by how comfortably authoritative Beverly was; clearly a woman used to giving orders. But who was she really? Where did she come from? What was her history? And how had she been able to afford a place like Star's Haven and then convert it into a luxury resort? It suddenly struck Andrea as ironic that Beverly Burgess, a woman of mystery, should take up residence in the home of another woman of mystery.

     "Do you think there was a cover-up?" Andrea asked. "I mean, all those guests who were here that night for Marion's big party, really famous Hollywood celebrities, and yet they weren't here when the police arrived. And then the police not being called until fourteen hours after the murder was committed, long after other people had come here and gone—the head of Ramsey's studio, two big-shot producers, a studio lawyer, and Ramsey's brother—all of whom had been telephoned by someone in the early morning hours and who had made the long drive from Los Angeles and up the mountain road to take care of whatever needed taking care of before the authorities arrived." She paused, "like removing the murder weapon or tampering with other evidence."

     They left the Oriental bedroom and continued down the hall, following a plan of the house that Simon Jung had drawn up, showing the locations of the management offices, the ballroom, dining rooms, gift shops, forty-seat
theater, medical clinic, and patient rooms. Another wing comprised the private suites where management and permanent staff lived and, on the third floor, the ultra-luxury guest suites. Andrea stopped in the middle of the hall and frowned. She looked up at the ceiling.

     "That's odd," she said.

     Beverly looked at her. "What's odd?"

     "The floor directly above us—it isn't shown on this plan. What's up there?"

     "Just empty rooms," Beverly said. "We use them for storage. There was no need to include them in the plan."

     Andrea gave her a look and was about to say something more when Beverly pushed open a pair of padded doors studded with copper and stepped into the opulence of outrageous art deco. Pale peach and sea-foam green were the dominant colors of the enormous bedroom, whose walls were covered in striking murals of racing cars, greyhound dogs, and lightning bolts, all giving the dizzying effect of speed. Marion's bed stood upon a raised platform, and four statues served as bedposts—slender Erté-like nudes with long hair streaming out behind them.

     "It's amazing," Andrea said as she slowly looked around. "How could anyone get any sleep in a place like this?"

     Beverly pushed a button by the door, and the parquet floor began to move.

     Or so it seemed. Andrea instinctively grabbed for the bed draperies as the floor rolled away under her, leaving her suspended on a transparent glass plane. "Now this is something I don't care for!" she said with a laugh as she looked down into the room below, where there was a large swimming pool, filled with shimmering green water.

     Andrea walked cautiously out to the center of the floor, finding the sensation both frightening and exhilarating, as if she were walking on air. "Mr. Jung showed me this last night. Can you imagine it? People up here could look down on the swimmers below, and people below could look up and watch whatever was going on in this bedroom. It would make an incredible scene in a movie."

     As they watched a few guests swimming back and forth along the length of the pool, unaware they were being observed, Beverly said, "May I ask you something, Miss Bachman?" She turned those dark sunglasses to her
and Andrea saw twin reflections of herself looking back. "When Mr. Wolfe writes his screenplay about Marion Star...will he be fair to her?"

     Andrea didn't know how to respond; the question was so unexpected. She certainly couldn't tell Miss Burgess what Larry's instructions had been that morning: "See what you can find out about Marion's porno collection. I've heard she had quite a stash of raunchy films and books. Also, get as much as you can on the orgies and opium parties she was rumored to have. And that story about the USC football team, when she entertained them in her bedroom, find out how she did it. I mean, was the whole team in the bedroom at once, watching each other fuck her, or did she call them in one at a time?"

     "Is it important?" Andrea asked now.

     Beverly walked over to the fireplace, which was taller than she, and ran a hand along the deco molding that included nude women, suns, and planets. From this distance, Beverly, so slender and carrying herself well, looked to Andrea like a woman in her thirties. It was only when you were close that you saw the fine lines around Beverly's mouth, the creases in her forehead, the silver strands highlighting her dark brown shag cut. Andrea placed Beverly in her late forties and wondered if she'd ever been married. A woman like that, of such obvious wealth and refinement, surely must have an interesting background. And yet, as far as Andrea could determine, Beverly Burgess seemed to have no background, no past at all.

     "Is it important?" Beverly echoed. "Yes, it is. I would hate to see Marion's story sensationalized. I would hate to see her...her life exploited or trivialized. Will Mr. Wolfe do an honorable job?"

     Andrea's perplexity deepened. Why should Beverly care? "I do contribute a certain amount of input on each of Mr. Wolfe's projects," she said.
In fact, I do all the work.
"I'll see what I can do."

     She felt Beverly's eyes watching her from behind those sunglasses. It was almost as if they enabled her to look inside a person; Andrea had the unsettling feeling that Beverly was aware of her true relationship with Larry. But of course no one could really know about that because Andrea had worked hard to conceal the truth. It shamed her now to look back to seventeen years ago and see how gullible she had been, how eager for his attention, like a lap dog with no pride.

     When Andrea heard that Larry Wolfe had won the screenplay competition, and the top grade in their screenwriting class, she was not surprised. It was a good script; Andrea had personally made it so. What surprised her was that he didn't call to tell her, but that she had had to learn about it in the school newspaper.

     Andrea felt awkward about calling a boy, even though she was twenty-five years old. She hadn't had any experience at it, and her mother had always taught her that it was something nice girls didn't do. But, as days and weeks went by and she didn't hear from Larry, Andrea finally got up the courage to dial his number. "Hey, Alice!" he said. "Wow, so you heard my news. Isn't it great? I couldn't have done it without you. I've told everybody that. I'm glad you called; I lost your number. I've been dying to see you. What do you say we get together and celebrate?"

     Andrea's heart was in her throat, her virginity lurking somewhere behind it. Even her feet were two little puffs of cloud that she knew would never touch earth again. "Yes," she said. "I would love to. Where?"

     "How about our usual place, Ship's? Are you free?"

     
Our usual place...Are you free...
It was as if they already had a relationship. This was how it was between people; this was what love felt like. The excitement of it! The sudden, intense desire!

     Larry arrived forty-five minutes late, but Andrea didn't mind. Love meant forgiving, she decided, and sexual desire meant patience. I would wait forever for you, she thought as she ran down to his car after hearing the honk.

     Instead of going straight to Ship's, they drove to Malibu, where they sat in the car and watched the waves roll onto the moonlit beach. A green luminescence floated on the water, making the inside curve of each wave glow beautifully. The Chevrolet parked next to them had fogged-up windows and was rocking.

     They listened to KRLA on the car radio, and Larry told her all about himself, while she paid rapt attention, trying to ignore the Chevrolet. As Larry munched on a box of Jordon almonds and covered the complete subject of Larry Wolfe, Andrea wondered wildly if he had brought her here to neck. Was she about to be kissed for the first time? Were they in fact going to
go further, like the couple in the next car? A lot of girls lost their virginity in cars, she knew; maybe one was being lost right now, in that rocking Chevy. When Larry stretched his arm along the back of the seat, her heart jumped. He was about to make his move!

     "The reason I brought you here, Alice—"

     "Andrea."

     "Is to tell you my great news. I've sold the screenplay to a producer. He wants to make a movie out of it."

     "Oh Larry, how wonderful!"

     "Yes, well, unfortunately, they're asking for some rewrites."

     "Rewrites? Which parts?"

     He smiled sheepishly. "Well, to tell you the truth, I don't know because I didn't read it."

     "You didn't read it? You mean you turned in that script without looking at what I had done to it?"

     "Hey, I trusted you."

     Andrea was nonplussed. She had worked so hard on that screenplay, staying up late, calling in sick, drinking gallons of coffee while she agonized over plot, characterization, pacing, wanting to do a good job, fantasizing about how grateful he was going to be, maybe even hugging her and telling her she was wonderful, working so hard on it and devoting so much of her time to his screenplay, because it needed so much work, that she hadn't had time to do a good job on her own, ultimately receiving a mediocre grade in the class. And now he was admitting that he had never even read it.

     "Will you help me?" Larry said, and when she hesitated, he said, "Never mind, I understand. Hey, I still owe you dinner. Come on, let's celebrate."

     They went to Ship's, which, it being Friday night, was crowded with college kids and movie patrons. Larry couldn't seem to sit still. He would take a bite of his burger and then jump up to hurry away and talk to someone who had just come in or was just leaving. Andrea sat in the noise and glare of the coffee shop, feeling the currents of life eddying around her as people pushed by, laughing and calling out to one another. She let her corned beef hash go cold as she watched her unbelievably handsome escort charm people at other tables. She put raisin bread in the toaster and accidentally burned it
because she couldn't keep her eyes off Larry. His energy was infectious; she fell more and more in love with each whirlwind moment, not wanting the evening to end, not wanting this to be her last time with Larry. By the time he came back to their table to finish his burger, Andrea found herself saying that she would love to help him with the rewrites.