Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  Rose pushes open the door. “Let’s do this.”

  Go. Rose.

  She strides around the car and I fall in step just behind her. Her chin is tilted up, her shoulders pressed back in what I call her I-am-the-queen posture. I'm not telling her this, but I've been studying her body language. She's formidable yet approachable, and that's a wicked good combination. One I'd like to figure out how to pull off because it's totally disarming and would be pretty darn handy when I'm interviewing witnesses.

  We reach the door and Rose taps the doorbell. A minute later, a man opens the door. He's tall with a rounded middle and graying hair in a horseshoe around his head. I tag him as being mid-sixties, but I could be off by a few years.

  "Edgar?" Rose says, sticking her hand out. "I'm Rose Trudeau. A pleasure."

  Edgar eyes me, then goes back to Rose, shaking her hand. "Hello." He lets go of Rose's hand and turns to me. "I'm Edgar Lonnie."

  We do the obligatory nice-to-meet-you thing. As soon as we’re done, Rose hops to it.

  "Rae is a friend of mine. She's a journalist working on a story about the Grande fire. Frankly, she's attempting to solve a cold case. May we speak to you about Loretta?"

  He stares at me and his blue eyes seem to darken. It's as if mention of the fire has snuffed out his inner light. Or maybe it's heartbreak. Or suspicion.

  I wouldn’t blame him for any of those options.

  "You're trying to catch the arsonist?"

  The question hits me like a rock slide. Days ago, all I wanted was a nice, safe retrospective. An anniversary puff piece and now, here I am, doing the one thing I swore I’d never do again.

  Investigative journalism.

  Go figure.

  "I am,” I say. “So many lives were lost and those people deserve justice."

  He lets out a huff. “Justice. I didn't think that would ever happen."

  "Well,” I say, sufficiently full of myself, “I intend on changing that. Anything you could tell us would be a help."

  He slides his gaze to Rose. "Your husband was a good man. I liked him. Trusted him. That's the only reason you're here."

  "I promise you," Rose says. "We will treat Loretta with the utmost respect."

  He stabs a finger in the air. Not necessarily at Rose or me. Sort of an all-encompassing stab. “No hatchet jobs. She deserves peace.”

  “You have my word,” Rose says.

  One that, according to legend, is solid oak.

  A long minute passes as Edgar swings his gaze between us. He doesn’t know me, but Rose? She might be my savior here. It takes everything I have to keep my mouth shut, to let the moment play out and not rush it. Patience, I’ve learned, sometimes yields fruitful returns.

  Finally, Edgar steps back.

  And waves us in.

  39

  Rose

  * * *

  I've not met Loretta's ex-husband and have no idea what to expect. Prejudging situations never amounts to much. Particularly in Hollywood, where anything and everything is possible. I suppose I’ve become hardened because nothing seems to shock me anymore.

  Except Edgar.

  Or more specifically, Edgar’s home. It’s a simple bungalow with mismatched couches and a chair with one of those slipcovers bought from a housewares store. Before Simon, I was broke. Living from check to check. I may be, as Simon used to say, a fantastic snob, but I’m not above a simple lifestyle. But given Loretta’s vast estate, Edgar could be living differently. At the time of her death, her house alone went for nearly four million.

  So, yes, the man has done the near impossible and shocked me.

  He gestures to the taupe, overstuffed couch and Rae and I sit while he takes a seat directly across from us in the slipcovered chair. There’s a lump under my right fanny cheek and I shift closer to Rae, finding a more suitable spot before tucking my purse beside me.

  Edgar holds his hands wide. "How do we do this?"

  I glance at Rae, nudging my chin at her. This one she'll have to handle. She's the journalist and will need to lay out her expectations before I dig in.

  "It's really whatever you're comfortable with," she says. "We can ask you questions or you can share anything you know about the fire, the investigation, Loretta. If there’s anything you don’t want used, just say so. This whole conversation can be off the record if you'd like. We can consider it research.”

  He bobs his head and the skin under his neck wiggles. Instinctively, my thoughts go to my own neck and the lift I had ten years ago. We’re aging, Edgar and I. At some point, I accepted it. Even if it doesn’t settle well.

  He reclines, resting his hands on the chair arms, his fingers draping over the edges. He’s trying to appear casual. Trying. His right index finger is in motion, drumming against the fabric. Tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap.

  "You can ask me questions,” he says.

  "Thank you," I tell him. "I know this must be difficult for you. I lost my dearest friend in that fire and frankly, it's taken me this long to even be willing to discuss it."

  "It's gotten easier over the years. I still miss her, though."

  Beside me, Rae slides her notepad from her messenger bag. I half expected her to produce her tape recorder, but smart girl that she is, she hasn't broached that yet.

  Now that my young cohort is ready, I give Edgar my full attention. “Do you mind if I ask how long you and Loretta were divorced?"

  "Just short of eight years. We were high-school sweethearts. I was two years older than her, so I was twenty when we got hitched. She was eighteen."

  "So young," I say. "It must've been difficult to sustain a marriage, given her career."

  "The first few years were okay. We didn’t have a lot.” He looks around, scanning the room. “We bought this house on a wing and a prayer. I still can’t believe we got a mortgage. I worked as a line cook and she got a few modeling jobs and waitressed. Modeling is what she really wanted."

  Loretta? A model? Fascinating. She certainly had the looks for it, but she’d never mentioned it. “I didn't know that. How did she get into acting?"

  "A guy came into the restaurant, said his brother was a director. I didn’t believe it at first. Come on. This is Hollywood. Everyone tells a pretty girl they know someone.”

  He’s not wrong. This town can be downright predatory. “I don’t blame you.”

  “When a woman looked like Loretta, guys tried all kinds of stuff. Plus, she was an easy mark.”

  “How so?” This from RaeLynn.

  He shrugs. “She was nice. Had a sweetness to her. That’s why I worked nights. I wanted to go on calls with her. The scumbags would see me coming and knew not to try anything. When she told me about this director, I figured the guy was full of crap. But she wanted to go and it turned out to be legit. The director liked her look and gave her a small part. As a waitress, no less. After that, she was hooked and started acting lessons. That's how it all started."

  "The camera certainly loved her," I say.

  "The camera and everyone else." He lets out a huff. "Two years later, she had an affair with that director.”

  Oh, Loretta. I’m tempted to give Rae a sidelong glance, but force myself to keep my gaze fixed on Edgar. I’ve given him my word I’d be respectful and I’m not about to do anything, even showing disappointment, that will violate that promise.

  “I couldn't take it anymore,” Edgar continues. “I told her I wanted a divorce."

  Rae finally moves, drawing Edgar’s attention and freeing me from his focus.

  “I think," she says, "the Hollywood lifestyle must be hard."

  His index finger is in motion again. Tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap. There’s a rhythm to the drumming. Nervous habit. Has to be.

  “I wanted her home. Cooking meals and waiting for me. I was—still am—old-fashioned. Sue me. What I didn't want was my wife going to parties while I was working. She liked the attention. I never could figure that out. Why she needed so much attention from oth
er people. Not just men. Everyone. She wanted everyone to love her. I wasn’t enough.”

  My God. That marriage was doomed. Having spent nearly forty years in Hollywood and witnessing the demise of countless marriages, I learned a few things and trust was paramount. Which I suppose, is why Simon’s newly-revealed secrets are so devastating. He and I, we were a team. A fantastic, successful team.

  I certainly didn't expect dishonesty.

  "She must've loved you terribly," Rae says, "if she left you as executor of her will."

  He frowns as he ponders Rae’s statement. “We loved each other, sure. She knew I’d take care of her no matter what. Her parents died right after she graduated high school. That's why we got married."

  So young. What on earth did a couple of kids know about marriage? Between that and the pressures of the limelight, the constant photographer attention, the tabloid stories, I imagine marriage wasn’t what either of them expected.

  “Did you know you were still her executor?" I ask.

  "Oh, yeah. What can I say? I knew I’d always love her. And like I said, I was all she had. When she needed something, she called me. For a while there, about a year before the fire, we talked about giving it another go, but…” He shakes his head. “I couldn't handle her lifestyle. It was too much for me and she’d come too far to give it up. Didn't mean we didn't love each other."

  A heaviness takes hold of me, drawing me deeper into the cushions. It’s almost painful. To love someone fiercely—something I understand so well—yet not be able to find a solution had to be devastating.

  "I'm so sorry, Edgar."

  He conjures a pathetic smile. “It was a long time ago. In the beginning? The what-if's made me insane. What if she was late as usual and missed her flight down there. What if she was out of the hotel when the fire broke out. What if she wasn't afraid of heights."

  Loretta? Afraid of heights? I glance at Rae and she nods.

  "I read that somewhere," she says, apparently reading my mind as well as responding to Edgar's musings. "That's why she always stayed in a suite on the third floor, right?"

  He nods. "It was the lowest she could get."

  How ironic. Everyone else, including Simon and myself, wanted the suites on the highest floor for the spectacular view of the Caribbean. Loretta was one floor up from safety and died in that inferno because her room was over the closet where the blaze had started.

  "After the fire," Rae says, “did the detectives contact you?"

  He gives her a look. “Pfft. I was just the ex-husband. For a year, I called for updates, but they never had any. The whole thing made me sick and I had to move on. Plus, I was trying to figure out how to handle her estate. I had to clean out her house, catalog everything." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "I got a six-foot safe in the extra bedroom that has all kinds of stuff of hers. Pictures, old contracts, personal paperwork, memorabilia, it's all in there. It's been years since I even looked in that thing. The rest of the stuff is in storage. Every now and again, someone wants to auction something. That stuff I keep in storage. The important stuff is in the safe."

  When I peer over at Rae, she gives me the side-eye as she wags her pen between two fingers. I sense a shift in her energy. Impatience, perhaps.

  As much as I wanted to lead this interview, Edgar is doing a fine job of offering information. Clearly, the need for me to ease our way in wasn’t necessary. It's time for me to unleash my pit bull of a reporter.

  40

  Rae

  * * *

  I see it. That gleam in Rose's eye and the slight, almost nonexistent tilt of her head. She wants me to take over and I am all too happy to oblige. This slow pace is getting on my nerves. And old Edgar seems to want to talk.

  A lot.

  I set my pad and pen on my lap. Notes? What notes? It’s a little trick I learned that gives the impression I’m not cataloging every word. I hold my hand over the pen, keeping it from rolling, and make eye contact with Edgar. “The weekend of the fire—do you know why Loretta went that particular weekend?"

  "Nah. I hadn't spoken to her in a month. That usually meant she was seeing someone. When there was a guy in the picture, she didn't call as much. I thought maybe she was down there with the guy." He looks at Rose. "You sure she was alone?"

  "As far as I know. I spent time with her on the beach and she mentioned traveling by herself."

  "I don't know, then," he says. "Mrs. Lynwood would know. That was her housekeeper. She and Loretta were close. Loretta left her half a million, plus she paid off her house. She didn't want her worrying about paying her mortgage if something should happen to her. It was weird."

  This whole thing is a bit twisted, so why Loretta being kind to someone she cared about should bug him, I have no idea. “What?"

  “She paid off the house three weeks before the fire."

  Okay. He’s right. Weird. Call me a skeptic, but few things in life are that much of a coincidence. Not that I think this housekeeper set the Grande on fire and killed all those people so she could pay off her house, but what was going on in Loretta's life that she was getting her affairs in order? "Is Mrs. Lynwood still around?"

  "Far as I know. She's in her seventies now and widowed. Last I heard, she'd sold the house and moved into an assisted living somewhere around Brentwood. I think her kids live in that area."

  I pick up my pen, jotting a note to find Mrs. Lynwood. I'm curious about the timing on Loretta paying off the house and the man in her life. Gossip magazines tended to link Loretta with everyone from foreign diplomats to corporate moguls to pool boys from the Beverly Hills Hotel. Ninety percent of it, I'm sure, came from the movie studio’s PR department to drive curiosity. If people were talking about Loretta, maybe they were dropping some cash to see her latest movie.

  But what about the other 10 percent? The legit news about Loretta. Someone outside of Loretta, the boyfriend, and Mrs. Lynwood had to know who she was seeing.

  I drop the pen again. “Thank you. I’ll see if I can locate her. You mentioned you have some photos and documents that were Loretta's. I know this is a lot to ask, but is there any way you would let us look at them? Just for background?"

  He pauses for a long moment and there’s a thickness in the air that closes in on me, sending my pulse thumping.

  I don’t dare look at Rose. The woman is a pro. She has to sense what’s happening here. Come on, Rose. The team needs you.

  She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and holding her hands out. “Edgar, let me reiterate. Nothing will be used without your approval." She swings her head in my direction. "Right?"

  "Absolutely. I honestly don't know what I'm looking for, but sometimes going through random items will spark something."

  He takes a few more seconds, ping-ponging between Rose and me. “Okay,” he finally says. “But none of it leaves my house. Got it?”

  "Of course," Rose says, busting out her Haughty Rose voice as if Edgar has just laid the world’s biggest insult on her.

  Rose. I may love her.

  "Agreed," I chime in.

  Edgar rises from the sofa and gestures to the dining room table. “Have a seat at the table. I'll go get some stuff from the safe."

  While Edgar disappears down the narrow hallway, I grab Rose’s arm and squeeze so tight she winces. Yikes.

  “Sorry,” I say sotto voce. “But holy crap.”

  She peels my hand free, then shoos me from my seat. She follows me to the table and we cop a squat next to each other. Seriously, this cannot be happening. Loretta Lonnie’s personal belongings?

  It’s…it’s…freaking miraculous. I’m basically a newbie reporter who hit the motherlode of journalism jackpots.

  I peep over my shoulder, checking on Edgar's whereabouts. No Edgar. I lean closer to Rose and tilt my head up getting close to her ear. "Something is bugging me about this mystery man she was seeing. And then there's the whole thing about paying off the house right before she died."

  "I agree. Ve
ry suspicious."

  Edgar appears in the hallway. He marches toward us lugging a stack of clear plastic shoeboxes and what looks like flexible folders.

  My pulse continues to pound and I draw a deep breath. I’m here. I’m doing this. All because I never gave up.

  Thank you, Rose.

  After this, I’m doing something for her. Something special. I’m just not sure what.

  Edgar drops the boxes, and through the clear plastic I see photos.

  He taps the top box. “Pictures. She organized them by date. She always said she wanted to write a memoir. I guess she wanted everything organized when the time came.”

  Jackpot. Jackpot. Jackpot! Since I don’t know how much time we have, I’m going right for the months prior to the fire.

  I point at the folders. “What are those?”

  “Notebooks. She was keeping track of things. A diary, I guess."

  A diary. If this keeps up, I will, without question, wet my pants.

  My fingers literally start to itch and I drum them against my thighs to keep from diving across the table and snatching up those folders. “Thank you,” I say, cool as a frosty margarita. "How about I start with the folders and Rose can look at the photos? I think that makes sense because Rose may recognize people in the pictures."

  Edgar shrugs and drags out a chair across from us before plopping into it. Seriously? He's going to sit there and watch?

  “Have at it,” he says.

  I take a second to just breathe. Inhaling and exhaling to clear my thoughts. If the situation were reversed, and it was my loved one’s personal items being handed over to a near stranger, I’d do the same thing. Heck, I might not even let me look. That alone I consider a gift.

  “Thank you,” I repeat. “This is very kind.”

  “If it’ll help find her killer, I’ll be thanking you.”

  With that, he takes his phone out and starts scrolling while Rose and I go to work. Rose digs into the first shoebox and I reach for the notebooks. One-subject spirals. No fancy journal or leather-bound diaries here. I think I would've liked Loretta. A movie star known around the world for her extravagant lifestyle and yet she seemed like a simple girl.