I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason (7 page)

I
am a biographer. I understand people the way secretaries understand file folders and doctors understand femurs. Okay, that's ludicrous. A file folder is a file folder any way you look at it, and ditto for a femur, but you'd have to be deluded, really gone, to think a person, any person, could ever really understand another. About as likely as turning base metals into gold.

Still, it's what I do. Given which you'd think I'd have some kind of feel for human nature. Woman's intuition, at least. It
is
my birthright. But as I drove away from Theresa Flynn's house, I had to wonder. Had I been dead wrong? What kind of man was Joseph Albacco, really? Had he been so in love with this Meredith Allan that he'd kill his wife for her?

That name, Meredith Allan. It sounded so familiar. It was an ordinary kind of name. Meredith Allan could've been somebody I went to school with back in Jersey, somebody who'd blackballed me from the cheerleading squad. Or a bank manager who'd denied me a loan. There'd been a lot of
those. Had that name come up in the transcript? I didn't think so. Something was nagging at me. And I couldn't help feeling that someone was playing me for a fool. What about Vincent—Vincent, the soul of kindness? Was it possible I had misjudged him, too?

As I merged onto the 101, I pulled out my phone book and dialed Annie at work, almost plowing into a tour bus in the process. Well, Gardner had been a bad driver, too. Worse than me. He'd smashed a brand-new Model T Ford right through the garage of his first Ventura house. I'd visited the spot on a previous trip. There hadn't been all that much to see. It'd been turned into a Mexican restaurant. Killer margaritas, though.

Unfortunately, Annie wasn't at work, though they had expected her that morning and had left dozens of messages because—hello!—they were shooting tomorrow, and the gold facade of the alien ziggurat was hideous, and if I got ahold of her, would I tell her to please, please, call Vanessa? I tried her at Lael's, but there was no answer. Then I called her at home and got the machine. I waited for the beep.

“Annie, it's Mom. Vincent stopped by yesterday. I'm trying to mind my own business, but I think we need to talk, sweetie—”

“Mom, don't hang up!”

“I'm here.”

“Sorry, I was out in the garden, weeding.”

Annie's garden meant everything to her. It always had. When she was in kindergarten, her class did a unit on plants. Most of the other kids could barely manage to send up a pea shoot. She grew peas galore, plus two twelve-foot sunflowers she decided were husband and wife. We documented them
with Polaroids. Annie's tastes were simpler now. A thriving bean tepee was cause for celebration. A patch of mutant, colorless watermelons, equally thrilling. She got it from me, though I've always been more interested in aesthetics than organics. To which end I've learned, under Javier's expert tutelage, to love and respect pesticides. I could never admit this to Annie. Watering, mulching, fertilizing, composting, harvesting, battling pests via alternative means—all were religious sacraments to her.

Before she could get a word in edgewise, I told her I'd be there in an hour with a quart of her favorite veggie chili and hung up. She and Vincent had discovered a rickety stand deep in Topanga Canyon run by an old hippie who claimed that Jim Morrison was one of her customers (still) and that she had invented scented candles. Her chili was delicious, so who was I to argue?

Then I remembered something I'd forgotten to mention to Theresa Flynn. I was on Pacific Coast Highway, waiting for a green light, and ostensibly less of a threat. I dialed the number and she answered with a wan hello. After thanking her again for the tea and cookies, I told her that the secretaries at the insurance company had made me promise to remind her about her sister's lockbox. Sighing audibly, she told me that on innumerable occasions she had explained to them and their myriad predecessors that she had no key and therefore no use for the thing, not to mention no place to put anything so heavy. But she promised to look into it and apologized for troubling me.

I hit the gas. How odd. Your sister is murdered, all that's left of her is one lousy lockbox, and you don't move heaven and earth to get it? You just let it sit around for almost half a
century, collecting dust? Maybe Mrs. Flynn didn't want to know what was inside. Maybe she'd had enough surprises. Suddenly I felt very sorry for her. She'd sounded weak and tired. I planned right then not to get old. Older.

By the time I got to Annie's, the Kombucha mushroom tea was ready. Lucky me. I called her place Tarzan's Treehouse because it was smack in the middle of what felt like a jungle, swinging vines and all. We sat outside under a canopy of Chusan palms with yellow flowers that tickled my nose, at least partially distracting me from the poisonous taste of the tea.

“It's also know as ‘Miracle Fungus,'” Annie said.

“It's a miracle I'm drinking it,” I said under my breath.

“I heard that. It's brewed from a symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast. If you say ‘SCOBY,' everyone knows what you mean.”

“Rikes, Shaggy! It's a rhost!”

Annie always ignored my pop-culture references. She had no use for such things.

“Mom, I've never seen you look so wrinkled.”

“That's not a very nice thing to say. I thought dappled sunlight was supposed to be flattering.”

“No, I mean your dress.”

“I've grown very attached to this dress. It may well become my new uniform. No more fuss. You just pull out the blue halter dress, and you're set. And on chilly mornings, you accessorize with the duck sweatshirt.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind, sweetie. Have you called back the people at work? They're frantic. The alien ziggurat looks hideous.”

“Thanks for the update.”

“Annie.”

“I'll deal with them later.”

“Fine.”

“So Vincent told you everything.”

“Not exactly.”

She picked up her garden shears and started to pace.

“It all started two Saturdays ago. Remember, that day it was so hot? I decided to stay in and organize the filing cabinet. Little Miss Perfect.”

She lopped the heads off two perfectly acceptable daylilies.

“There were tons of papers and old bills and stuff, and I was being ruthless about throwing it all away. I filled up every trash can in the house. And then I came across this letter, tucked way in the back, near the deed to the house and the pink slips for the cars. A letter addressed to Vincent.”

Two more daylilies down.

“I had no idea what it was doing there, so I read it, thinking nothing of it, that it was probably just more junk.”

“And it wasn't.”

“It was from this woman, Roxana. Vincent had had an affair with her before he met me. I knew all about her—she was an artist, she left town abruptly, a real flake. Never took her responsibilities seriously, that kind of thing. It was no big deal, their romance, or so I had always thought. As it turned out, after they split up, she found out she was pregnant. She had a son.”

“I can't believe this.”

“She never told Vincent. Not a word. She was already out of his life, they had never been in love, she thought it would be better to raise the boy on her own. She went down to Mexico, tried some different things, and then she changed
her mind. She said her son had a right to know his father. She had been wrong to keep something like this to herself. So she tracked Vincent down, wrote him this letter, and asked him to call or write so they could figure out what to do.”

“Well, what happened?”

“That's the thing, Mom,” Annie said, starting to cry. “I could have handled this. I could have loved Vincent's son. He could've been a part of our family.”

“He still can, Annie.”

“I don't think so.”

“But why?”

“The letter was dated a year ago. It sat in our house for one entire year, and Vincent never called this woman. He was afraid.”

“Afraid of what? Of being a father? Vincent is great with kids.”

“Afraid of
me
. Of what I'd say. What kind of monster does he think I am? How could he know me, really know me, and think abandoning his son would be something I'd expect him to do?”

“Did you talk to him about it?”

“I don't need to. I'm done with him, Mom. There's no excuse for this. I wish him well, I really do, but he doesn't know me like I thought he did. And I don't know him anymore.”

“So you're auditioning replacements?”

“It wasn't like that.”

“Oh, no? It sounds like you gave up on him as much as he gave up on you.”

Ignoring that last comment, she gave me an empty smile and headed back into the house, calling over her shoulder, “Let yourself out, okay?”

I did, realizing only when I was halfway home that I had never even bothered to ask the name of Vincent's little boy.

I
t had been four whole days since I'd had my last Gelson's fix, so I stopped in on my way home from Annie's to pick up a Chinese chicken salad to go. It was only a quarter past four, but I was projecting ahead to dinner and the sorry state of my larder. Somehow, I never seemed to have any of the staples you're supposed to have on hand to whip up a fabulous impromptu meal. My pantry featured various dusty cans, jars, and bottles of things that must have seemed like a good idea at one time or another, but never should've have made the cut: pureed cannellini beans, diet cauliflower bisque, unsweetened cranberry juice. Fodder for the earthquake kit, I suppose.

The minute I walked into the house, I pulled my now-oppressive blue dress over my head and fantasized about burning it. But I was loath to do so. It was by Claire McCardell, who had singlehandedly founded American ready-to-wear fashion in the forties. And in a size ten, with those oversize patch pockets, it was a rare find.

As far as I know, no one except yours truly has advanced a
theory as to why vintage clothing tends to be found only in fours and sixes. At five-eleven and 144 pounds (naked, first thing in the morning, and definitely not between Thanksgiving and New Year's), the only thing about me that's a size six is two-thirds of one foot. I like to think it's because throughout history, voluptuous girls like myself tended to be ravished by impatient mates, their dresses shed in the heat of passion, while our petite counterparts, being inherently less desirable, had ample time to hang up their garments neatly, thus preserving them for posterity on eBay.

A crock of shit, I know. Nevertheless, it does explain why, after checking my messages (“Cece, get your butt over here. Someone your size has died!”), I abandoned my salad and hightailed it over to Bridget's. Like the Duchess of Windsor, I'd rather shop than eat. But it was a tough call.

I considered myself lucky to call Bridget Sugarhill a friend. The sole proprietor of On the Bias, the premier vintage clothing shop in Los Angeles, Bridget wielded power equivalent to (and during Oscar season greater than) that of your average studio head. Bridget knew everything about clothes, and everything about everyone who liked them. Who makes no career move before consulting her Chinese herbalist? Who is really the boss at Sony Pictures Classics? Who ran over her agent's dog? Oh, if the tabloids only knew.

The bell tinkled as I opened the celadon and gold door of the otherwise ordinary brick building located on a small stretch of Burton Way in Beverly Hills. Bridget appeared instantly, a tall African-American woman wearing a swath of kente cloth cut with the precision of a Balenciaga frock.

“Hello, Cece, come in and join me,” she said grandly.

Bridget was not exactly old Hollywood royalty, but she was
definitely old Hollywood. Her grandmother, Jeanie Sugarhill, had been a seamstress at MGM in its glory days, renowned both for her moxie and way with a needle. Every good fashionista knows that padded shoulders came into vogue in the 1940s because the great costume designer Adrian decided they offset Joan Crawford's hips. But Jeanie Sugarhill was famed on the MGM lot for even greater subtlety. She could trim fat off your thighs in half-inch increments, deflate your dowager's hump, or give you a D-cup overnight, as the occasion warranted.

Bridget's mom, who was born quoting Voltaire, couldn't be bothered with such frivolities. So Bridget got Grandma's full attention. The girl may have grown up in a cramped apartment in Culver City, but she always looked divine. The night of her senior prom, she was outfitted in a pitch-perfect copy of Rita Hayworth's strapless
Gilda
gown. The year before, it had been Marlene Dietrich's muted yellow satin sheath from
Morocco
. No wonder the woman put on airs.

The bell on the front door tinkled again. A young matron in a red coat walked in. Without missing a beat, Bridget's dachshund made a beeline for her crotch. As the poor woman looked around for help, Bridget told me to hold on for a minute and sashayed over.

“I see you've met Helmut,” she said, pleasantly enough.

Now for the rap. I'd heard it maybe a thousand times.

“You've never been here before, have you? Well, we carry only vintage designer pieces. Some of them are very fragile.” Bridget turned toward a rack filled with silky tops and soft sweaters spangled with beads. “We do not handle the clothes like this,” she demonstrated, yanking a peasant blouse from Yves St. Laurent's Ballet Russes collection by its ultra-puffy
sleeve. “We touch only the hangers. Thank you so much for your attention. Do let me know if I can be of futher assistance.”

Bridget returned to her reproduction Louis XVI desk and seated herself noisily in her not-reproduction Louis XVI chair.

“You are such a bitch,” I said.

“Don't I know it,” she replied. “But god save me from the amateurs. Do you know what happened yesterday? Some skinny-assed starlet came in looking for something to wear to a premiere. She grabbed my favorite Schiaparelli gown, the one with the square neckline and floral appliques, hustled into a dressing room, and came out scrunching the waistline between her fists, whining about how big it was. Scrunching that fabric, can you imagine? You can't iron it, for heaven's sake! Anyway, I would've thrown her out if her stylist didn't bring me so much business.”

I made sympathetic noises.

“Oh, cut it out. So, you want to see this dead woman's clothes?”

“I'm ready,” I said, salivating.

The next forty minutes were bliss. I stripped plastic bags off dresses like there was no tomorrow, and Bridget knew enough to stay out of my way. Of course, there were a few corkers: a peasant/wench gown in transparent floral chiffon with a foot-wide elasticized waistband, perfect for going-amilkin' at Studio 54; a Rudi Gernreich trompe l'oeil woolen suit that made me resemble a human checkerboard; and the requisite half-dozen Halston Ultrasuede coatdresses, in shades as mystifyingly popular as mushroom and burnt orange.

But I forgot about those fashion faux pas as I luxuriated in
a 1930s bias-cut gown in fuschia rayon crepe with a thick velvet belt in a slightly contrasting shade of raspberry; an Oscar de la Renta silk sari printed with a pattern of periwinkle, sage, and gold; a 1960s Nina Ricci empire-waisted gown with the thinnest shoulder straps (more cappellini than spaghetti), constructed out of a single piece of accordion-pleated chiffon dyed into stripes of chartreuse, tangerine, hot pink, and lime.

And then there was the masterpiece, the dress to end all dresses. It was by Ossie Clark, the guru of rock-star girlfriends, the king of King's Road, the designer who could make a woman feel like an angel while she was inspiring wanton lust. It was a cherry-red silk chiffon A-line from the seventies with signature Ossie bell sleeves and a keyhole neckline that plunged from the nape of the neck to the waist. I would need an engineer to construct a bra I could wear under it, but what the hell. When I put it on, I made myself swoon. After recovering, I told Bridget to wrap it up.

While I was seated at Bridget's desk, waiting for my package, I flipped through one of her books on fashion history. Oh, what I would do to own a Claire McCardell Popover. These were wraparound, unstructured denim dresses to be worn over more elegant clothes, you know, while you whipped up cherries jubilee for your husband's boss and his wife. Popovers were produced in response to a request by
Harper's Bazaar
for appropriate clothing for women whose maids had selfishly abandoned them for wartime factory work. For some odd reason, they loomed large in my fantasy life.

I picked up another book on style icons. Talitha Getty, sprawled on a Moroccan rooftop in a floaty caftan. Slim Keith, the ultimate cool blonde. Coco Chanel, the crimson-lipped
revolutionary. And Meredith Allan. Ohmigod, Meredith Allan. I
knew
I recognized her name.

“Bridget,” I demanded, “what do you know about this woman?”

“Meredith Allan? Why? Did she finally die? Oh, please say yes. I'd give anything to get a crack at her closet.”

“I don't think she's dead. Well, she might be. I think I might know someone who knows her. Or knew her. Actually, two people who know her. Or knew her. This is
so
strange.”

“Meredith Allan is a legend, darling. You've seen pictures of her, Cece. The cascading ringlets? The kohl-rimmed eyes? The jewel-tipped cigarette holders? She invented the whole gypsy patrician thing, an armful of huge Navajo bracelets, rugged leather sandals, and an haute couture gown. A sleek Chanel suit and an embroidered peasant blouse, topped by a real Tyrolean hat. That was when she lived in Austria. And London, she took that town by storm. Oh, honey, she loved Ossie Clark. Just like you. Would wear one of his butterfly-sleeve things with a gargantuan gold necklace she'd designed herself. Looked like a torture device, studded with lapis as big as your fist. And she'd go out barefoot. Wearing patchouli. She married young, I think, divorced, and took oodles of lovers. Her father was a famous tyrant. Rich as Croesus. Oil.”

“What happened to her?”

“Last thing I remember hearing she was in Ojai. Meditating. Throwing pots. Wearing Indian skirts with petticoats, her arms covered with that massive turquoise jewelry. She was sick as a child, you see. Heart trouble. Those bracelets were therapeutic. They were her weights. She wore them to strengthen her weak arms.”

As the celadon and gold door slammed shut behind me, I had a thought.

Maybe Meredith Allan was still in Ojai. Ojai was not so very far away, just half an hour inland from Ventura. Maybe the woman was lonely. Maybe she'd like a visitor. Named Cece Caruso.

It should be noted that I've always believed that under the right circumstances pigs could fly.