The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (116 page)

Marty snapped the phone shut.
 
“You’ll regret this, E.”

“I never regret truth.”

“Have a look at yourself and tell me that.”

“I’ll tell you this.
 
I’m incubating.
 
Tonight, I change.”

And without another word, E went to one of the plain white chairs in the center of the room and sat down.
 
He put his face in his hands and positioned his body in such a way that his limbs drew close to his body and appeared to make him even smaller.
 
The lines of his body shortened.
 
His will to vanish quickly became the strongest statement he’d made thus far.

There would be nothing more forthcoming.

Marty turned to leave.
 
But when he reached the door, E’s voice lifted and carried down the hall.
 
“Those rodents are going to eat you, too, Spellman.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

6:26 p.m.

Helena Adams’ home was four houses to the left of DeSoto’s and almost directly across from Wood’s.
 
It was three stories of bricks and shiny casement windows, black shutters pressed with winding ivy, a carved mahogany door with stained glass and reinforced, Marty suspected, with at least two inches of steel.
 

He looked down the street, toward the Park that was so close at the end of it, and watched the dozens of people rushing by on the sidewalk.
 
They were either hurrying up Fifth or hustling to move down it.
 
He pressed the glowing buzzer and waited while trying to clear his mind of the scene he’d just had with DeSoto.
 

“Those rodents are going to eat you, too, Spellman.”

As he played their conversation over in his head, there was a part of Marty that now thought DeSoto told him more about Wood than he’d originally thought.
 
The man spoke in code.
 
Who were the rodents?
 

A young Asian woman answered the door.

“Mr. Spellman?” she asked.
 
By her expensive, fitted pale blue suit, Marty guessed she was Adams’ secretary.

“Yes,” Marty said.

“I’m Theresa Wu, Mrs. Adams’ personal assistant.
 
We’re having tea in the library.
 
Mrs. Adams would like you to join us there.”
 

She stepped aside so he could move past her, then closed the door and motioned for him to follow her down a cool hallway lined with delicate antique tables and paintings on the walls.
 
Marty looked at the tables and saw without surprise the silver-framed, black and white photographs of film stars from another era.
 
Most were signed with love or affection, and none were studio shots.
 
These were from Adams’ personal collection.
 
Somewhere, a central air conditioner whirled cool air into the room.

They turned right at the end of the hall and entered a library whose walls were filled from floor to ceiling with books.

At the far end of the room, where the light was flattering, sat Helena Adams.
 
She rose from her seat to greet him.
 
“Marty,” she said.
 
“God, it’s good to see you.
 
Please, come in.”

Except for her hair, which was now a shorter, elegant silver bob that hugged her famous face, she looked no different from the woman he’d spent an evening with two years ago, at a fundraiser for AIDS research.
 
Tall and slender, still striking in her eighth decade, she had the kind of grace and elegance that could only be natural, not learned or practiced.
 
He took her hands in his own and squeezed them gently.
 
“Thanks for seeing me.”

“I had little choice,” Helena said.
 
“Gloria told me this was important.
 
Have you ever turned that woman down?
 
Awful.
 
All that tense silence.
 
I don’t have that kind of courage anymore.”

But of course she did, and they both knew it.
 
Throughout the 1940s, Helena Adams starred in nearly three dozen films, two of which earned her Academy Awards for Best Actress and turned her into a legend.
 
Hollywood occasionally courted her, but Helena turned her back on them forty years ago to marry Cecil Chadbourne, the billionaire investor.
 
In the few interviews she’d given since, she never explained why she gave up a career as promising and as powerful as hers was then.

“Theresa,” Helena said, turning to her assistant.
 
“Would you please get this kind man some tea?”

“Of course.”

Helena smiled at Theresa and they watched her leave the room.
 
“She’s a super girl,” Helena said.
 
“I’d be lost without her.”
 
She turned to Marty and asked him to sit in the embroidered chintz chair opposite her.
 
“I’m dictating my autobiography to her,” she said casually, sipping from her own cup of tea.
 
“Now that Cecil’s gone, I can finally tell everything.
 
We’re nearly finished and I can say this, Marty—I’ve had one hell of a life.”

“I don’t think anyone would question that, Helena.”

But Helena shook her head.
 
“You don’t understand,” she said gravely.
 
“I’ve done things no one knows about.
 
I know things about Hollywood and New York society that everyone is going to question—especially the FBI.”
 
She raised her hands.
 
“Oh, I can’t wait till they get their greedy paws on this book.
 
That’ll be an especially trying day.
 
But I’m old and I don’t care.
 
Keeping secrets can be a terrible burden, don’t you think?”
 

He nodded.
 

“Yes, in your business, I thought you might.
 
It can ruin you, make you give up your dreams, throw away your life for one that doesn’t matter.
 
It can even make you marry someone you hate.
 
I’m ending that cycle now.
 
I’m telling the truth about both towns.
 
I’m burning my bridges and I love it.
 
It’s something I should have done years ago.
 
This is my ‘60s liberation five decades later.
 
I’ll never eat lunch in either town again.”
 

She smiled at him, mysterious as ever.
 
“You’ll have to read my book to know what I’m talking about, dear.
 
I’m being vague on purpose.
 
Part of my charm, I’m told, this vagueness of mine.
 
Cecil told me that just before his accident.”

She stared openly at him and Marty had to wonder.
 
Cecil Chadbourne died in a freak fall late last winter.
 
Broke his neck after slipping on a patch of New York ice.
 
Helena the widow had been too upset to attend her husband’s funeral.
 
After all, right in front of her, she watched Cecil bleed out through his smashed head, take his last few breaths and die.
 
Friends understood her absence, particularly when the business and entertainment media started camping outside her door.
 
In an effort to get away from them, she flew to Paris to comfort herself in the lush confines of their apartment overlooking the Seine.

Theresa returned with a silver tea service.
 
She put the tray down on the table between Marty and Helena, poured Marty a cup of the steaming tea, offered him milk, sugar, NutraSweet, the works, and then asked Helena if she would like another cup.

But Helena shook her head and waved her hand expansively.
 
“I’m fine, dear, fine.
 
Really, you’re like a well-paid, attentive nurse, rather than an assistant.
 
Why don’t you sit down and join us?
 
Mr. Spellman here is about to ask me to help him with something important—I can see it on his face—and I’m curious to know what on Earth that could be.”
 

Theresa sat in the chair beside Marty and crossed her legs.
 
She was a fit, beautiful distraction with hair that dipped past her shoulders and a face that reflected intelligence and something else.
 
A mild flirtation?
 
She tilted her head and smiled at him, her eyes lowering a bit.
 

Helena straightened.
 
“Well?” she said.
 
“Come on, Marty, you know I hate suspense.
 
What’s this all about?
 
Somehow, you managed to get Gloria involved, so it has to be good if you were willing to go there.
 
Are you reviewing one of my movies?
 
Did you want an exclusive interview?
 
Is that what you’re seeking?”

Marty looked away from the smiling Theresa Wu and said:
 
“Actually, it’s about Judge Wood.
 
Did you know her?”

Helena touched the diamond brooch fastened to the pocket of her white silk blouse and looked disappointed.
 
“This is about that Wood woman?”

Marty nodded.

“Nothing else?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Not even one of my movies?”

“You know I love your movies.”

“Obviously, not enough to review them.
 
I read your blog, you know.
 
The young people who leave all those enthusiastic comments should know about my work, don’t you agree?”

“I do,” he said.
 
“‘Private Affair’ is coming out on Blu-ray next month.
 
I plan to cover it.”

“That would be nice.
 
And, you know what?
 
It’s held up well.
 
I was nominated for it, of course, but lost to that Crawford bitch when she started her smear campaign against me.
 
Meanest person I ever met and there she was winning for being slapped across the face by that brat in ‘Mildred Pierce.’
 
Davis and I used to talk about her for hours.
 
We’d rage against her.
 
Bette would say that she wanted to snatch her bald, whatever that meant, though I expect it had to do with the fact that Crawford had trailers filled with wigs.”
 
She waved her hand again.
 
“But that’s all in the book and obviously my career isn’t why you’re here.
 
Why are you interested in Wood?”

“I can’t say, Helena.”

“Not even to me?”

“Not even to you.”

She shrugged.
 
“Well,” she said.
 
“It was worth a try.
 
Don’t you think, Theresa, dear?
 
Always try.
 
But I suppose it doesn’t really matter, anyway, because I know nothing about the woman.
 
I told the police that this morning.
 
A very tall detective with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen came here to question me.
 
Beautiful.
 
What was his name, Theresa?”

“Hines.”

“That’s right.
 
Hines.
 
Those shoulders of his were
incroyable
.
 
I wanted to make up things just so he’d stay, but that would have been illegal and I’ve broken enough laws in my life, as you’ll soon find out.
 
So, I played it smart and told him the truth.
 
I didn’t know her.”