Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (77 page)

     And Frieda, so damned smug that she wished Syd Stern were here so she could say, Tough luck, Charlie, to him, said, "Soon, soon."

     The big surprise of the evening, she knew, required perfect timing.

     It was nine o'clock and the glittering event was under way. Simon Jung greeted the arriving guests in the main hall, which had been turned into a reception area for the spillover from the ballroom. Although Simon had tried to persuade Beverly to attend, she had declined. So he smiled now at one of the ceiling-mounted cameras, knowing that she was watching him on her private monitor. She had asked him to come to her apartment after the ball; there was something she wanted to tell him.

     Carole Page arrived and moved among the celebrities, smiling and nodding to people she knew. The last time she had seen such a showing of famous faces was at the post-Oscar party at Spago. She was just starting to enjoy herself when Larry breezed past her with a martini in his hand. He gave her a smarmy wink that made her stomach lurch. And when he murmured, in passing, "At midnight," she said, "Yes," with a sick feeling.

     In this crowd where the gowns had names as famous as the women wearing them, Danny Mackay, in a tuxedo and blending in, moved about unnoticed. He went up to a security guard in a Star's blue blazer, the bulge of a walkie-talkie on his hip, and said urgently, "There's something outside that I think you should see."

     The guard followed him out, and what he saw, behind a massively leafy oleander bush, was the flash of a knife and the sudden crimson stain on his shirt. He gave Danny a startled look before sinking to the snow, dead.

     Danny hurriedly changed into the man's blazer and slacks, made sure the body was well hidden, and went back inside, this time to mingle as a respected and trusted security guard.

     Andrea came nudging up to Larry, who was trying to flatter the panties off some vacant blonde. "Can I have a word with you?" she asked.

     "Not now, Andrea."

     When she said, "Yes,
now
," in a way that got his attention, he told the blond that he would be right back and followed Andrea to a relatively quiet spot beneath one of the humongous portraits of Marion Star, so that they were partially hidden behind potted palm trees. "Well?" he said impatiently. "What is it that can't wait?"

     "Me, Larry," she said. "I can't wait."

     "Huh? Can't wait for what?"

     "Your public apology. For the snub at the Oscars. Followed up by your public confession that
I
am the writer and you are not. Do it here, tonight."

     He stared at her as if she had just said Martians had landed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

     Andrea couldn't believe how much she was enjoying herself. Champagne was fizzling in her veins, and she had called Chad McCormick earlier and he had been so excited to hear from her that he had said he was coming up to Star's right away to see her. It was amazing how, when things started to go right for you, they went right with a vengeance.

     "I am talking," she said, "about the fact that I have written all the screenplays that you have taken credit for. And I am finished. I want what's coming to me."

     "And just what the hell is that?"

     "Credit, Larry. You got the Oscar that rightfully belongs to me."

     "You mean you're in a wad over a fucking statue?"

     "No, it isn't just the Oscar. It's the way you've treated me for all these years. When you told me not to marry Chad McCormick, you said it would break us up as a team. But that wasn't it, was it? We could still have been a team. You were just afraid that Chad would find out the truth. So you made me give up Chad for you."

     When he saw that she was serious, he laughed and said, "This is rich! Entertain me some more. Just how do you intend to force me into making such an admission? You have no proof. You and I are the only ones who know the truth, and who will believe you over me?"

     "You're right. So I guess this is where we part company."

     "What?"

     "I'm resigning from the team. As of now. Good luck with Mr. Yamato tomorrow. And with writing the screenplay."

     "Hey, wait a minute. You can't walk out on me like that."

     "Sure I can. Watch."

     He blinked. He suddenly felt moist under the collar. "Okay, fine. Go. But just remember, you can't do the Marion Star story because I own the rights to it."

     "You own the rights to your version," she said. "But anyone can come up with their own version, can't they? So long, Larry."

     He grabbed her arm. "You walk out on me and I'll sue."

     "Oh please do! Because then it will all come out at the trial.
I
can prove I'm a writer—can you?"

     He stared at her, suddenly introduced to fear. But he kept his voice in a couldn't-care-less mode as he said, "So tell me what it is you want."

     On the other side of the main hall, Carole happened to look their way and see Andrea and Larry in an intense conversation. She wondered what it was about. Again the thought of going to bed with him made her skin crawl, but she wasn't going to turn him away when he came to her bungalow tonight. She
had
to have that role.

     As she continued to circulate in the main hall, she spotted a short, fat, balding man helping himself from one of the champagne punch bowls. His suit wasn't a perfect fit, his tie didn't go at all with the color of his jacket,
and his socks, she noticed, were two different shades of gray. And when he turned her way, she saw that he had spilled a bit of champagne on his shirt. The sort of man people say, when they see him, Who let
him
in? Or they don't see him at all.

     "Sanford!" she cried.

     He looked up. "Carole! My darling!"

     She rushed to him and into his arms. Kissing the top of his shiny head, since he was shorter than she, she said, "What are you doing here!"

     His face was red, he beamed so. "I came to surprise you, my beautiful movie star! When you left me five days ago, I had a feeling that something was wrong. It bothered me all week. I couldn't work. And this is an eight-million-dollar account I've got!"

     "Oh, Sanford," she said, filling her eyes with the sight of him. A small man, perhaps even an insignificant-looking man, but the marvel of the age when it came to the bedroom. "I'm
so
happy to see you!"

     "It was bothering me all week, what might be upsetting you, and then I decided to have a talk with your agent. He said the new picture was a dog. Is that true?"

     When she hesitated, he said, "My poor baby. You wanted to spare me from it. Do you think I don't know what's going on? Do you think I don't have eyes? You think I don't love you more than life itself?" He rose up on his toes and kissed her full lips.

     "I thought you would leave me if I was a failure."

     "Leave you? The best thing that ever happened to me? My sweet baby, you could dig ditches and I would still worship you."

     "Oh, Sanford..."Her eyes filled with tears.

     "But as it turned out, I've come with some good news for you. The biggest miniseries since 'Winds of War.' And you have the lead."

     "What? Sanford!
Miniseries?
Tell me about it!"

     "Financed by your very own husband, my dear. But I'll tell you in private," he said with a grin. "Where's your room?"

     They headed for the front door, where Sanford retrieved his wife's fur coat, and they went out into the night to celebrate Christmas, and Carole's new contract, in their own private way.

     Andrea was saying to Larry, "Just make an announcement to everyone here, tonight, that the Oscar was rightfully mine. That the idea was mine, and so was the screenplay—"

     "You must be out of your mind."

     "If you agree to do it, then I will continue to work with you and no one need ever know that all your previous screenplays were ghostwritten."

     "You can't be serious! Hand over an Oscar to someone else? It's ludicrous!"

     "Is it? Remember Milli Vanilli? They gave their Grammy back, didn't they? For lip-syncing their songs. Well, let's just consider this a case of write-sync. Give me the Oscar, acknowledge me as the winner, and I'll leave it at that. Otherwise, I walk."

     "Fine, go ahead, bitch. See if I give a fuck. I'll survive."

     She turned back to him. "You know, Larry, seventeen years ago you told me that William Goldman got four hundred thousand dollars for 'cranking out'
Butch Cassidy.
Well, let's see you
crank
one out."

     Larry watched Andrea go. When he saw Carole go out with a man he recognized as her husband, it occurred to him that maybe this was not his night after all.

     In the security blazer and carrying a walkie-talkie, pretending to talk into it, Danny made his way through the crowd unimpeded; celebrities like these were used to such men. When he saw Philippa, he stopped and watched her for a moment. She was standing with a group of people, her watchdog Aussie boy at her side. Danny did some quick thinking.

     Up in her apartment, Beverly monitored the progress of the ball, switching from one camera to another. She saw Carole Page leave with a rather short man and Andrea Bachman walk away from Larry Wolfe, who seemed to have a dejected look on his face. Beverly was pleased to see her security guards in profusion, but not obtrusive. At gatherings such as these, it was important that the guests were well protected.

     Beverly switched on the mezzanine camera just as Frieda was stepping out of an elevator with—

     Beverly gasped.

     She couldn't believe her eyes.

     "Why are we getting off here?" Bunny said. She had thought they would ride the elevator all the way to the ground floor.

     "It's more dramatic this way, sweetheart. We'll wait a few minutes before you make your entrance. To get the full effect and all."

     When Danny saw the blond boy leave Philippa for a moment to fetch a drink, he decided to make his move.

     "Excuse me, sir?" he said to Ricky. "May I have a word with you? It's very important. It concerns Miss Roberts."

     Ricky looked over at Philippa.

     "It's best not to alarm the lady, sir." Danny said. "I think we can work this out without upsetting her."

     Ricky followed him out the front door and down the red-carpeted steps. "It's just around the corner here," Danny said, bringing Ricky to the place where the security guard's body was hidden.

     When Ricky saw the body, he dropped down to one knee. "I don't understand," he said, feeling the man's cold neck for a pulse. "What happened? What does he have to do with Miss R—"

     Danny's quick, sharp knife did the rest. A bright red track went from ear to ear, and Ricky's white tuxedo shirt was soon spreading crimson.

     Danny went back inside and joined the crowd, wishing he could whistle, he felt so good.

     Frieda and Bunny waited at the top of the grand staircase, away from the light, hidden in the recess of a closed door. A few people stared at them as they walked past. "When?" Bunny said for the thousandth time, she was so excited and nervous. And Frieda, just as excited and nervous, said, "When I say so. We want to be sure everyone is here."

     Judith and Smith were walking through the snow and enjoying the stars overhead, neither of them inclined as yet to join the stars inside. She had her arm through his, and she was talking. "Mort was an artist. A free spirit. He created beautiful things out of dirty clay. But he had a problem with the fact that he worked at home while I went out every day to my office or the hospital. Someone called him a house husband once and he greatly resented it. When Kimmie died, Mort blamed me for not being there. I was the mother, he said. I was supposed to be around when the kid was sick. Looking back now, I think he was just venting all his bitterness at the inequality in our two stations. There were times when our mail came addressed to Dr. and Mrs. Isaacs."

     "And so you came up here to bury yourself."

     "In a way, yes."

     "Well, I'm afraid I cannot allow that."

     "What do you mean?"

     "I intend to rescue you. Unless you have any objections to marrying a man so much older than yourself?"

     "You have the dialogue backward," she said with a smile. "You're supposed to tell me you're too old for me, that I'm a young woman with my whole life ahead of me and shouldn't want to be saddled with an old—"

     He stopped and took her by the shoulders. "You don't think I'm serious about this, do you? I mean to have you, Judith Isaacs. I'm going to court you and woo you in every way I know how, until you say yes."

     "But—"

     He put a finger to her lips. "Please say my name—my real name. I want to hear you say it."

     She did, and then he was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, and as they held tightly to each other, she knew she was going to say yes.

     Danny sidled up to Philippa and said, "Miss Roberts? I don't wish to alarm you, but will you come with me, please? A friend of yours is hurt."

     She looked around. Where was Ricky?

     "Oh my God," she said. "What happened?"

     "We don't wish to alarm anyone. Just come with me, please. The general manager will explain."

     He led her to an elevator that required a key, but Danny had it—he had a ring of master keys on his belt. As they rode up, she gave him a curious look. He didn't look like the other security guards she had seen around the resort. For one thing, none of them wore glasses or had a beard. For another, he seemed older than the rest.

     The elevator doors opened, and he stood aside for her to go first. They walked down a long, chilly hall, where suits of armor stood in rigid silence and an old, musty smell pervaded the air. She had no idea where they were going.

     "Can't you tell me what happened?"

     "The general manager would prefer to explain it to you himself, ma'am. I was just sent to get you."