Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (7 page)

     Her hair wasn't the only thing that had changed; she had a new name as well. Many years ago, to hide her identity, she had changed her name from
Rachel Dwyer to Beverly Highland, naming herself after two streets in Hollywood. And then, three and a half years ago, Beverly Highland had "died." Now she was Beverly Burgess; she had borrowed her mother's maiden name, but kept the Beverly.

     The hair and name changes had been made to protect her identity once more, but while the first disguise had fooled people for many years, she suddenly had reason to fear that she might not have been successful this time.

     He knows who I am, she thought again as she turned away from the window and looked at the book that lay on her desk. It was called
Butterfly Exposed
, and the man she was afraid of was its author, the tabloid journalist Otis Quinn, who had claimed during a recent television interview that Beverly Highland was still alive.

     How could he possibly know? She had been so careful! The staged death—the car going over the cliff and plunging into the ocean—the funeral and burial at Forest Lawn. Beverly had left no traces of that former life, when she had lived for the destruction of one man in revenge for what he had done to her.

     Beverly had come out of hiding three years ago, after a brief sojourn on a Pacific island with a young lover named Jamie, where she had spent a few months living totally for herself, indulging in every pleasure from food to sex. But when Beverly had grown tired of that existence she had decided to see the world. Carefully constructing a new identity and a new look for herself, she had traveled to exotic places, and she had felt the old hunger return—the desire to create a place where people could find happiness among beauty and luxury. That was what Butterfly, the establishment she had created above an exclusive men's clothing store on Rodeo Drive, had been—a place where women could seek sexual fulfillment in complete safety and anonymity, and in elegant surroundings. When Beverly had discovered that she yearned to do that again, to offer pleasure to people, she had searched for just the right place, and she had found it at Star's Haven, high up the slopes of Mount San Jacinto.

     The heart of Star's Haven was a huge gray stone estate house, built like a castle, with turrets and towers and battlements, and even a draw-bridge—a romantic setting plucked right out of medieval England. Built
by the silent-movie queen Marion Star, it was a replica of the set used in one of her movies,
Robin Hood.
It had stood boarded up for many years after her death, but had come onto the market a few years ago. Now the forty-two-room mansion was called the Castle, and here Beverly had her executive offices. The resort's main restaurants, ballroom, cocktail lounges, boutiques, and private clinic were also located here, as well as luxury suites for the guests, including four tower apartments that were accessible only by private key-operated elevators. Everything had been going well; the resort was a big success, Beverly had kept her old identity a secret, her past completely unknown. And then this Otis Quinn had decided to exploit the story of Danny Mackay and Beverly Highland and conduct his so-called investigation.

     She stared at the book. Although the word
butterfly
was in the title, Beverly regarded it as if it were a deadly spider. The pages were filled mostly with speculation. Quinn hadn't really been able to prove anything; he hadn't found any hard evidence linking Beverly to the brothel on Rodeo Drive. "He claimed to have interviewed women who had patronized the rooms above Fanelli's, having sexual liaisons with the men who worked at the place—"companions" they had been called—who had performed a variety of sexual acts for money. But Quinn hadn't named any of the women he had supposedly interviewed, claiming that they all insisted that their identities be kept a secret, and so Beverly believed he had made the stories up. Nonetheless, the book was sensational enough to keep it on the bestseller lists for months. Everywhere Beverly turned, it seemed, the black and white cover with its pink butterfly was there to mock her. And bring back memories from years ago...

     Young Rachel Dwyer, ten years old, finding a photograph of her mother with two babies in her arms. "Who was the other baby, Mama?" she had asked, and Naomi Dwyer had said, "Your twin sister. She died shortly after you were born."

     And then Rachel, fourteen years old, all alone while a fierce New Mexico storm battered the old trailer the Dwyers lived in. Her father coming home drunk, attacking her, inflicting a pain on her body that she hadn't thought possible, and shouting, "We got rid of the wrong one!"

     Later that night, Rachel getting ready to run away, asking her mother what her father had meant by "the wrong one," and her mother explaining: "Honey, when I was in the hospital to have you and your sister, we were broke. We didn't have a dime. There was a depression on, and there we were with twin babies and no money to pay the hospital bills. So when a man came to the hospital and said he knew of a nice couple who would pay us a thousand dollars for one of our babies..."

     Beverly closed her eyes against the memory. She turned away and looked out the window again at the dark December night. She could make out the lights in the valley below, the sparkling spread of Palm Springs—fabled playground of the super rich, home to three former U.S. presidents, where it was said there were more golf courses than anywhere else in the world and more plastic surgeons per capita than any other city. A place where streets were named Bob Hope Drive and Frank Sinatra Drive; desert oasis affectionately known as the Backyard of Beverly Hills.

     And Beverly Burgess—once Beverly Highland, once Rachel Dwyer—was eight thousand feet above it all.

     Beside the window, which was narrow and deeply recessed like the window of a medieval castle, photographs hung on the wall. There was one small one, in a silver frame, black and white but yellowing with age. It had been taken in 1938 and it showed a young woman in a hospital bed with a baby cradled in each arm. One of those babies was Beverly. The other was the twin sister her parents had sold, who had been given the name Christine Singleton, and whom Beverly, after many years of searching, had ultimately not been able to find.

     She couldn't help herself; she was drawn back to the hateful book on her desk.

     Beverly had been shocked when she had first seen
Butterfly Exposed
in a bookstore. She had thought it a coincidence that the book should be named for the operation she had established above Fanelli's. And then she had thumbed through it and, in shock, purchased it. One night's reading had brought back all the old nightmares: Danny Mackay befriending a frightened fourteen-year-old runaway, gaining her trust, telling her he loved her, and then installing her in a cheap whorehouse in San Antonio. And Rachel,
terrified and homesick, unable to service Hazel's customers, wishing that Danny would take her away from it all, and Danny coming back and sweet-talking her into performing sex with strange men. "Just lay back, darlin'," he had said, "and imagine it's me who's doin' it to you."

     And then, when she was sixteen and she thought they were going to get married, Danny taking her to a back-alley abortionist and forcing her to kill her baby. She had begged and pleaded with him, and afterward he had kicked her out of his car, telling her she was ugly, and that he had never loved her, and that she was to remember his name, because he was a man who was going places. "Danny Mackay," he had said. "Remember that name."

     And remembered it she had, almost to the exclusion of all else. The rest of Beverly's life had been a quest for the perfect revenge against Danny Mackay, and when it had finally come, three and a half years ago, she had thought that their secret, twisted story had come to an end at last.

     But now there was this journalist, making up lies and outrageous speculations about the relationship between the wealthy socialite Beverly Highland and the Reverend Danny Mackay, who had controlled a multi-billion-dollar TV ministry and who had been one step away from the Oval Office. Everyone in the country, Beverly knew, was either reading
Butterfly Exposed
or talking about it. And she had heard that a TV miniseries was in the making. But something even worse than that had happened.

     Otis Quinn had declared during a TV interview that he believed Beverly Highland, who was supposed to have died in a car accident the night she had destroyed Danny Mackay, the woman who was in fact responsible for Mackay's death by suicide in the L.A. County Jail, was still alive. And he claimed to have found her.

     And now, Otis Quinn was coming to Star's.

     Beverly was brought out of her thoughts by a discreet knock at the door. She looked at her watch. It would be Simon Jung, her general manager, making his daily report.

     "Come in," she said.

     Simon Jung, Swiss born and educated, was a smoothly handsome man in his late fifties, impeccably trim and tailored, whom Beverly had met in Rio de Janeiro at the swank Amanha Restaurant. Simon had an impressive
background of over thirty years of hotel management experience, having worked in only the finest establishments around the world. There was nothing he didn't know, it seemed to Beverly, about human nature and pleasing guests, and he was the one person in all the world she felt she could trust.

     But even Simon didn't know about her past, that she was the Beverly Highland whom Otis Quinn had written about in
Butterfly Exposed.

     "Good evening, Beverly," he said as he closed the door quietly behind himself.

     As always, the sight of Simon in the Armani or Pierre Cardin suit that had been made just for him caused an unwanted reaction deep inside her. Beverly had sworn off men long ago— except for her brief interval with young Jamie. In her travels, when she had stayed at such exclusive places as the Mount Kenya Safari Club in East Africa, Raffles in Singapore, the Hotel du Cap on the Riviera, and she had met such handsome and impeccable men as Simon, she had been immune—they didn't move her.

     But somehow, during her two and a half years of working with Simon in a strictly professional relationship, making Star's a place for the best people to come to, Beverly had found her defenses starting to crumble. And she had discovered an odd new sensation come over her every time she saw Simon. It was vaguely reminiscent of something she had known once, long ago, like the scent of a rare flower or a song once heard. Simon Jung reminded her of something, but she couldn't figure out just what.

     "Our latest guests have arrived," he said as he deposited the list on her desk. "You will be familiar with some of the names," he added, speaking with the faintest Lucerne accent. "There is Carole Page, the film actress, who has just finished making a movie and is here for a rest. She was escorted to one of the bungalows and was assured of complete privacy. There is a Hollywood agent named Frieda Goldman, who is here for only one night. Dr. Judith Isaacs, our new resident physician, arrived also. She has gone to inspect the clinic and meet her patients. She said she is pleased to accept your invitation to dine with you later this evening."

     Simon went on about the others who had come up on the evening tram: a well-known movie director, a studio executive, two producers, another famous actress, a wealthy realtor and his wife, an oilman from Texas and his
female companion, a gemologist from Tiffany, and various others who were distinguished in one way or another. He added, "Mr. Larry Wolfe is due to arrive with his secretary on the next tram. They have requested one of the bungalows. Mr. Wolfe is an avid swimmer and prefers a private pool."

     Larry Wolfe, the Academy Award-winning screenwriter, was coming to Star's to write a movie about Marion Star, the mysterious woman who had built this place back in the twenties and then vanished. Beverly had found a diary written by Miss Star and had put it up for auction, and it had gone ultimately to Larry Wolfe, who was not only going to write the screenplay but co-produce the film as well.

     Beverly listened as Simon gave his report, and when he was finished, she said, "When is Otis Quinn due to arrive?"

     Simon's eyes flickered to the book on her desk. He had not read
Butterfly Exposed
, and he had been surprised to come upon Beverly reading it one day. He knew that the book disturbed her, as did the imminent arrival of its author.

     "His reservation is for four days from now. We've booked him into one of the cabins. Do you have any special instructions regarding Mr. Quinn?"

     Beverly glanced at the book on her desk. She had read it so many times she had practically memorized it. Quinn had gotten the police to open up the rooms above Fanelli's and let him look around.

     "
They were like hotel rooms
," he had written, "
closed doors off a long corridor. Each room was decorated with a different theme. One was made into a western-style saloon, complete with sawdust on the floor, where women paid to have sex with men dressed up as cowboys. Another room was outfitted to look like a cheap motel room, and there was a four-poster bed ...
"

     "No," she said to Simon Jung. "No special instructions for Mr. Quinn."

     Simon continued his report, going through his notes with smooth, perfectly manicured hands, a gold ring glinting in a flash of blue lapis, the insignia of a military academy in Zurich. "Prince Habib el-Mahdy has requested a trilingual secretary. And here is a list of the guests who have reserved for the Christmas ball—President and Mrs. Reagan send their regrets."

     He then went on to inform Beverly that housekeeping had reported a shortage of bathrobes again. "Many of the guests are taking them when they
leave," he said. "Accounting has requested again that we charge for them."

     When Beverly had decided to create a special resort of her own, she had traveled around the world, staying in the most exclusive places, such as the Regent Hotel in Hong Kong, the Bel-Air in Los Angeles, and the Pierre in New York, studying them, selecting the finest qualities from each, and incorporating them into her new hotel. There were designer toiletries in the bathrooms, fresh flowers daily in every room, baskets of fruit and cheese for each guest upon arrival. And, of course, the complimentary bathrobes. Beverly had been surprised to discover that some of the most luxurious establishments posted notices in the rooms explaining that the bathrobes were for the use of the guests during their stay, that the robes could be purchased in the gift shop should a guest desire to keep one. If a robe was taken, however, it would be charged to the guest's account. There were no such notices in the guest rooms at Star's.