The Twenty-Year Death (27 page)

I turned onto Highlawn Drive. They lived at the corner of Montgomery and Highlawn in a medium-sized house. The Montgomery side of the property was lined with a protective hedge two stories high, meant to afford some privacy, but the front lawn was open to view from the street. I drove past the house to the end of the block, made a K-turn, and parked on the street three houses down. Then I walked back along the sidewalk with my hands in my pockets.

Their Victorian was gaudy and ornate, and did not belong on the West Coast. The main color was purple, offset by white trim and trellises at every edge that could be decorated. The wide white pillars at the main entrance looked thick enough to
give Samson a challenge. They supported a flat second-story porch with a screened entrance. There were wicker lawn furnishings on the porch with rain-stained canvas cushions that looked unused. Anyone who wanted to get some sun at this house would use the backyard, out of view.

The flowerbeds were as gaudy as the house, a choice the landscape designer probably thought was complimentary. There were crocuses and lilies and daffodils and a few others that I couldn’t name. They were arranged in a concentric kidney bean pattern to either side of the walk. There was a detached garage that appeared to be a late addition. While it was also painted purple and white, its design was too utilitarian for the Victorians, practically a shed. The doors were open to reveal a maroon LaSalle coupe and an empty spot for a second car.

The backyard was much the same as the front, only the flowerbeds here were butterfly wings. An automatic sprinkler ratcheted around in a ticking pattern, keeping time with long arcs of water. Since I’d left my raincoat home, I decided to skip the backyard for now and check the garage first. It was built on a slab of poured concrete that looked practically scrubbed clean. There wasn’t even a spot of oil where the missing car should have been. The walls were covered in pegboards with hooks to hold every tool a servant might need around the property. A wooden bench against the back wall was lined with mason jars holding screws, nails, bolts, hinges, and other hardware. I went to the coupe and opened the door. The registration was in the name of “Clotilde-ma-Fleur Rosenkrantz.” I could see why she had chosen a stage name.

“That’s about enough,” a man said behind me.

I pulled out of the car, but didn’t close the door. A short,
squat Mexican stood backlit in the entrance of the garage. He wore a red velvet dinner jacket that was too big for him and matching pants that were cuffed at the bottom. His hair was combed straight back from his forehead and plastered in place. He was a young man, old enough to show a little class but not so old that he couldn’t best you in a fight. Just your average Mexican. The Luger in his right hand didn’t hurt his chances either.

I brought my hands around to where he could see them. “You know, if you point those things at people, somebody’s liable to get hurt.”

“Who are you?” He had almost no accent.

“My name’s Dennis Foster. It’s all right. I’m working for Miss Rose.”

“Nobody works for the Rosenkrantzes but me, and I don’t know you.”

“I just got hired today, at the studio,” I said.

His gun held steady. “Try another one.”

“I don’t have another one. That one’s the truth. You mind pointing that gun somewhere other than at me? This suit doesn’t need any more holes in it.”

“Move away from the car. Close the door. And then get off the property before I call the police.”

“I get it. You’ve got the gun, I have to do what you tell me. But if you were really to shoot me, whose side do you think the police would be on?”

His dark face grew darker.

“Look, we work for the same people. No need to act tough.”

“I’ve got my instructions,” he said. “Miss Rose was very clear: I am to watch for people that don’t belong here. Now I find you in her car. What does that sound like to you?”

“It sounds like the same thing the studio hired me for. To look for people that don’t belong around here. I’m a private detective.”

He was still unconvinced. “Nobody said anything to me about a dick.”

“Well, maybe you’re not privy to every last thing that goes on. Hell, maybe I should ask who you are. How do I know you work for the Rosenkrantzes?”

He didn’t like that. “Get going. Scram.” When I didn’t, his voice rose. “I said get out of here.”

“Sure. If they have you, what would they need to hire a dick for? You’re tough no matter which side of the bed you got up on.”

“Enough talking.” He moved the gun to call attention to it in case I had forgotten it was there.

“Look, I’ll show you my license. I’m going for my wallet here.” He held the gun out further as I reached for my pocket. I got out the Photostat of my license and held it towards him.

He took a few steps forward, turning his body so that the gun stayed out of my reach as he took my license. He resumed his position and then looked at it. “This doesn’t prove anything. You could have gotten that anywhere, and even if it’s yours, it doesn’t tell me who you’re working for.”

I held my hands up in defeat. “You’re right. I didn’t know they made Mexicans as smart as you. I thought you were just good for a little music and handing out drinks.”

“You think that’s funny?” His accent showed more when he got angry.

“Not especially,” I said. “Listen, if you’ll aim that peashooter somewhere else and give the license back, I’ll be on my way. We can sort this out later when your boss is at home.”

He twitched the gun in the direction of the open garage door but didn’t lower it.

“My license?”

He tossed it at my chest. I caught it on the rebound and pocketed it.

“Out,” he said.

I edged along with my back to the LaSalle and my hands held high. I’d left the car door open. He followed me with his gun. He was intent on his job.

When I stepped out into the sun, the Mexican seemed to disappear in the shadows of the garage. I assumed the gun was still trained on me. I wondered what his duties actually were. He wasn’t driving the car that was gone and he wasn’t dressed for yard work. He made a good watchdog, though. It kind of made me wonder why they needed me.

The sprinkler had finished its artificial rainfall, and now it was just a quiet neighborhood without a sound except for the occasional car going by or airplane overhead or delivery being made. It was a nice part of town to live in, safe but not too presumptuous. I strolled along the drive, taking my time about it, just to give the Mexican something else to be angry about. I heard the LaSalle’s door slam and then the sound of the garage doors closing. Out on the street, there wasn’t a single person in evidence. The whole neighborhood looked like a set. I walked along to my car, got in, and started the motor.

North of Sommerset were the Hills. The more money you had, the higher up you got to dig your foundation. Here there were landscaping teams in canvas slacks and bandanas at work on every third yard, and that was just counting the yards that could be seen from the street. There were probably gardeners working on half of the homes that were hedged or walled or gated too. These were the winter palaces of Hollywood’s royalty, large Spanish-style mansions dating back to the silent era, southern plantation-style homes from the rise of the talkies, angular mesa homes clinging to precipices for the newly rich. There might have been competition between the residents, but to an outsider, the whole enclave represented those who had the money. To the moneyed, it was probably a much too thin line of defense against the masses.

Several blocks into the development, I stopped along the side of the road, idling in the shadow of a hedge. I only had to wait a few minutes before an open-topped tourist bus drove by, the amplified voice of the tour leader pointing out the homes of the stars. I pulled in close enough so I could hear the tour guide’s patter, a cheerful droning of names sprinkled with months-old gossip that had been de-clawed for the out-of-towners. The bus wove its way along the narrow curving street, intent on covering every inch of pavement that had been blessed with the magic of the movies. When the tour guide eventually said John
Stark’s name, I tapped the brake and let the bus pull on ahead of me. I was glad to be rid of it. I had swallowed enough exhaust for one day.

Stark’s home was open to view. There was a lush expanse of emerald grass venturing up a hill to the house. A circular drive was hidden from the street, which gave the impression that the grass went right up to the mansion’s front door. The architect had placed two white columns on either side of the door, and had probably thought it added a touch of antiquity, but mostly it made him look like he was angling to see his work memorialized the next time they re-did the back of the five-dollar bill. The house behind the columns was little more than a sprawling box. It was painted white with decorative black shutters pinioned to the left and right of every window. It was the kind of home that would have a candle lit in each window at Christmastime and a big imported wreath on the front door. It was a modest abode. No more than thirty rooms at the outside.

I pulled up the steep drive until I was even with the front door. There was a short step up to a platform made from a single slate slab. I rang the bell and heard the distant sound of chimes within. The light hanging from the top of the portico looked as heavy as a car, and I made sure to be out from under it as I waited for someone to answer the door.

I was just reaching for the bell again when the door opened. A pretty young man with fair hair and a perfectly even bronze tan stood in the entry. His jaw and his eyes showed that he was fully grown, but there was something about him that remained boyish. Maybe it was the unmarked skin and the hint of down on his cheeks or maybe it was his slender body. He was dressed
in pale blue suit pants but with no jacket or tie. It was hard to tell if he was a member of the house staff or a guest. His expression was of minor annoyance. “Yes?”

“Dennis Foster.” I held out one of my cards. He didn’t reach for it. “I was hired by the studio over a matter of security. I wanted to ask Mr. Stark some questions.”

His expression changed to boredom, and he closed the door without a word.

I stood still for a moment, the door too close to my face. I considered ringing the bell again. The man hadn’t said that Stark wasn’t at home. Then I turned to look down the hill to the street. Everything was green. No one was in sight.

I was considering my options when the door opened behind me. It was the same young man, his expression of boredom now extending over his whole body. I decided he must not be a member of the staff with such an unprofessional disposition. He moved to a position alongside of the door and waved his hand towards himself. “Come on. Come in.”

I stepped inside and he closed the door behind me. The entry hall’s ceiling went to the roof. The floor was gray marble, and it kept the room cool. It was just large enough to walk your dog without having to go outside. There were two large archways on either side of the hall, and a massive marble staircase directly across from the front door that went up to a landing and then divided, continuing up to the right and the left. He walked around me and started diagonally towards one of the farther archways. His footsteps gave a dull echo.

“You don’t go in for much security here,” I said.

“People know better than to come.”

“Much trouble with the staff?”

He ignored that question. He led me through a sitting room decorated in white and yellow, through a music room with floor-to-ceiling wood slat shades along two walls, and then through a small doorway onto a verandah that looked out on what would have made a good eighteenth hole.

“Presenting this guy, Johnny,” the pretty man said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He went to the edge of the verandah and leaned against one of the white pillars, facing me, with his arms crossed. Definitely not a member of the staff.

Johnny Stark, the face loved by millions, sat in Bermuda shorts and a lemon-colored golf shirt on a large white wicker chair, his bare feet on a matching wicker ottoman. Leather sandals lay neatly on the floor beside him. His dark hair, his cleft chin, his white teeth were all perfect, just like in the pictures. He didn’t even seem smaller. He had an open manuscript on his lap, the already-read pages bent back behind the pages remaining to be read. A glass on a table beside him could have been iced tea with a twist of lemon or iced tea with a fifth of vodka. I wasn’t close enough to tell. He looked at me with a wide smile and raised eyebrows.

“Your man tell you why I’m here?” I said.

That got a rise out of the fellow holding up the pillar. His hands went to his hips and his mouth opened wide. “Now what is that supposed to mean?”

“Greg,” Stark said, making a calming gesture with his hand, and then I knew how it was.

“So are you on the payroll?” I said with a smile.

Greg’s hands went up in exasperation. “Johnny—”

“Shhhh,” Stark said. Greg crossed his arms again and made a show out of his sulk. Stark turned that gorgeous smile on me. How many women had it made fawn over him? How many men?
“Mr. Foster, Greg
is
on the payroll. He works in the kitchen. But the staff is off this afternoon. Can I get you a drink? We don’t usually get unexpected visitors—”

“Even with no gates on the drive?”

“Mr. Foster, the gates are invisible and they’re much further away than just my drive.”

“I’ll make do without the drink, thank you.”

He shrugged with indifference.

“The studio hired me to look after Chloë Rose, Mr. Stark. Apparently she’s being followed and she’s worried for her safety. I’m trying to find out if anyone else has seen this man she says is following her. You notice anyone hanging around the set that doesn’t belong?”

“Well it takes a lot of people to make a movie...”

“It could even be someone who works for the studio, but doesn’t work on your picture, or someone on your picture that would make Miss Rose nervous for some reason.”

He smiled at that and shot his eyes across at Greg who had let his indignation go, but still held his arms across his chest.