Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  The first few pages are filled with Loretta's perfectly slanted cursive. My mother would call it Catholic school penmanship. I skim the pages, finding nothing exceptional. Musings about learning lines for an upcoming film, meeting with costume designers for fittings and—oh, this is cool—her thoughts on a dress for the Oscars. Something tight and low-cut. Beaded. Or crystals that would glitter under the lights and enhance her body.

  "Wow," I say.

  Edgar looks up from his phone. "What?"

  "Her attention to detail. She knew what she wanted."

  "That's for sure. It didn’t always work for her. She'd get tunnel vision. Couldn't see anything but the goal."

  "Not always good in Hollywood," Rose says.

  "That was her. Stubborn as the day was long."

  "Well, look at this."

  Rose is holding a stack of color photos and laughs softly. "This dress," she says, "almost ruined one of my events."

  I lean over for a peek. A woman in a second-skin burgundy dress smiles into the camera. "Who is she?"

  "The wife of a producer. Remember I told you we helped Jackson Harlan campaign? Well, George wanted to host a fundraiser at his home one night. One thing about George, he understands his limitations and organizing a major fundraiser was not in his wheelhouse. He asked me to serve as cohost. George offered his home if I would tend to the arrangements." She circles a hand in the air. "Invitations, caterers, decorations, you understand. We even got Simon involved. He collected all the money. We decided to really break the bank on this fundraiser. Tickets were $40,000 a plate. If you wanted a one-on-one meeting with the candidate, it was $60,000."

  Say what now? The weight of my head suddenly becomes too much and I drop my chin to my chest. "Forty? Thousand?”

  "Yes, dear.” Rose blows right by my awe. “I saw to every detail, right down to making sure no one wore the same color as Harlan's wife. The night of the event, things were going swimmingly. The band was lovely, the weather perfection, the food spectacular. Truly, one of my top five events."

  I roll my hand. “Why do I sense a but?"

  Still holding the photo, Rose points at me. "See? I knew you were a smart girl. Everything was going along splendidly until Loretta showed up."

  "Oh, boy," Edgar says. "Knowing her, it's gotta be a humdinger."

  "It is indeed." Rose flips the photo so Edgar can see it. "She showed up in this number. Same exact dress. It was supposedly made specifically for her by a double-crossing designer who shall be left unnamed."

  "Wow," I say. "Drama, drama, drama."

  “Hold your sarcasm. This is Hollywood, honey. You have no idea the brouhaha had I not intervened. Loretta, who had paid her $60,000 for a meeting with the candidate, would have been humiliated if she’d walked in there wearing the same dress as another woman. A producer’s wife, no less. Not even a star equal in rank.”

  Equal. In rank? At this, I have to laugh. I’m sorry. These people were nuts. "What did you do?"

  “By the grace of God, I happened to be standing near the entryway speaking with the caterer when Loretta walked in. I saw her in that dress and nearly had a heart attack. I intercepted her, explained the situation and dealt with the ensuing four-letter words that flew from her mouth—" She looks over at Edgar. "Who knew the woman had a mouth like a trucker?"

  For the first time since we walked in, Edgar unleashes a full-wattage smile that takes a solid ten years off him. “That was my Loretta."

  Gosh, he must have adored her.

  Rose lets out a laugh. “Since nobody had seen her yet, I grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and shuttled her straight up to a bedroom where she called her housekeeper."

  "Mrs. Lynwood,” Edgar says.

  “Yes. I'd never met her before, but she showed up within minutes, fresh gown and shoes in hand. There were photographers everywhere, so we smuggled her in through the mudroom door and up the back staircase. Loretta did a quick change and off we went." Rose brushes her hands together. "Problem solved."

  Edgar whistles. "I feel sorry for that designer. She probably ripped him one."

  "Oh, she sure did. I heard all about it. I can't believe these photos are here. I didn't even see her with the camera, but these are most definitely from that fundraiser." She hands over another photo, then two more. "Look dear, this is Myles. And, my God, look how young George was. Here he is with Jackson Harlan."

  Ignoring the notebooks filled with Loretta’s thoughts, I concentrate on the photos. There's no way Edgar will let us keep these, so I’ll have to commit it all to memory. I pass the four photos, including the one with the woman in the scandalous dress, to Edgar.

  He takes them, lingering over the one of George and Myles with the candidate. His lips tug into a downward turn. "Hopper and Garner."

  He tosses the photos back at me. "Those, you can keep."

  Whoa. “Keep? Really?"

  “If I'd known they were in there I would've shredded them."

  Now this? Fascinating. “Not a fan?”

  "They used her."

  Wait one second. These were the two guys that invited her to their hotel all the time and gave her VIP treatment. I look over at Rose, whose gaze is pinned on Edgar. She gives me a sidelong glance, but stays quiet.

  All right. I’ll take this one. “Used her how?"

  “She was the sideshow. All she ever wanted was for people to love her. They took advantage. Invited her to parties so people would show up. Took her to dinner to get their pictures in the news. Sons of bitches manipulated her. Hell, they slept with her for the bragging rights and I had to clean up the mess. She was devastated."

  Holy, holy cow. I swing my gaze back to Rose. Did she know all this?

  A flash of anger rips through me. No. Wait. What right do I have to be angry? I’m a reporter she’s just met and these men—George specifically—have been in her circle for years.

  But hadn’t she just told me she trusted me? Not enough, I suppose. The thought stings. I shake it off. I have to. We still have a lot of reading to do.

  Later, I’ll deal with the Loretta and George issue. More than likely it’ll require a confrontation.

  With Rose.

  41

  Rose

  * * *

  After roughly ninety minutes, Edgar shoos us from the table. He might be generous with a peek into Loretta’s private world, but he’s not about to offer us endless time.

  Rae packs up her notepad and phone along with the few photos Edgar allowed her to keep. She wants to ask me about them. I can sense it in the curious glances she tosses my way. Her body language, as well, is an indicator. She’s stiff, her movements deliberate. Pissy, as Phillip would say. I personally loathe the term, but when it fits, it fits.

  We bid our goodbyes to Edgar, promising to keep him in the loop, and march down the concrete walkway to my car.

  “Rae—”

  She halts and whirls on me. “I thought you trusted me.”

  One thing is for sure, my ability to read people is still razor sharp. I am, however, in a pickle. Do I owe it to Rae to share George’s secret affair with Loretta? I’ve promised my cooperation on this story, but to what extent? How much of myself am I required to compromise?

  My word is gospel in Hollywood. I intend to keep it that way. “I do.”

  “Clearly not, because I think you were aware of…something…concerning George and Myles and Loretta. You’re a smart, savvy woman, Rose. In the last few days, I’ve watched you open doors that were otherwise glued shut. If there was something going on with George and Myles and Loretta, I think you knew.”

  She’s not wrong. However, I’m not about to stand in front of Edgar’s house, drawing his—or anyone else’s—attention. “Let’s talk in the car, dear.”

  “Great. We’ll talk. In the car.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She opens the rear door, tossing her briefcase on the seat. “This whole Hollywood thing. The secrets, the phony airs. It’s b
ullshit.” She shuts the door with enough force to make it an exclamation point. “Who cares if we make a scene on the sidewalk? People you cared about are dead. D.E.A.D. and you’re worried about what we look like? Come on, already.”

  I stifle a sigh. I love her idealism and her passionate pursuit of it, but there’s a line.

  She’s crossed it.

  I survey the area. Neighbors’ houses, Edgar’s front window, sidewalk. All empty. Still, I step closer to Rae and peer down at her. “Listen well. I’ve spent half my life building a reputation for honesty and loyalty. With that comes responsibility. And difficult choices. People make mistakes and they’re not always about right and wrong. It would be lovely and a whole lot simpler if it were, but life holds gray areas. Until you’ve survived sixty-three years in those gray areas, I will not have you lecturing me.”

  Simon, George, Loretta. They’ve all left me with their secrets and now I’m being judged by a cub reporter?

  I don’t think so.

  Once in the car, I reach back and set my purse on the floor behind Rae’s seat. She’s still standing on the sidewalk, apparently stewing, so I tap the ignition button and stare out the windshield. The quiet of the car combined with the low hum of the engine settles my simmering anger. I despise emotional outbursts. Who has that kind of energy to spare?

  After a minute, Rae is still on the sidewalk. So this is how it will be? I press the button on my door and lower the passenger window.

  “Rae, you’re more than welcome to take one of those Ubers you’re so fond of, but I will not sit here all day.”

  She bends at the waist, staring at me through the open window. Did she just bare her teeth at me? Little spitfire. Even mad at her, I like her spunk.

  I like even more that she’s gotten her tail moving and is climbing into the passenger seat.

  I ease the car into drive and set both hands on the wheel, pulling away from the curb. “Obviously, you’re upset.”

  “Ya think?” She buckles up and angles her body to face me. “I mean, Rose, what are we doing here? You said you trusted me. We’ve been running all over the freaking place talking to people when you had information about Loretta that could have been useful.”

  “I disagree.”

  She gawks at me, her mouth an open hole I could drive this car through.

  “All right,” I say, “calm down. Please.”

  “I’ve got news for you, Rose. This is calm.”

  If I weren’t driving, I’d spear her with one of my looks Phillip says could stop a charging rhino. “What specifically would you like to know?”

  She flaps her arms. “You’re unbelievable. How can I answer that when I don’t know what you know?”

  Well, she has a point there. Up ahead, there’s a sign for the 101 and I make a production of reading it while I align my thoughts. I’m stuck. I’ve offered my help to Rae in hopes we’ll finally find those responsible for the Grande fire, but somehow, our research has driven us off-topic. We’re suddenly dissecting the private lives of my friends and I don’t see how those salacious, intimate details matter.

  I make a left at the intersection and merge to the right lane, anticipating the on-ramp ahead. “Are we not trying to find an arsonist?”

  “Of course we are!”

  “Then what does that have to do with Loretta and George? And Myles, of course.” I hastily add that last part, hoping she won’t pick up on my tongue slip.

  “Loretta and George?”

  “And Myles.”

  “Oh, come on, Rose. You added that bit about Myles to throw me off. It’s not working.”

  “It’s—”

  She puts her hands up. “Forget it. I’m gonna make this easy and tell you what I think. The union guys have been suspected of starting this fire, but I think that’s false information. Now, before you start with your whole Haughty Rose bit, this is just a theory. I’m not printing it. At least not until I can prove it.”

  Haughty Rose? I should be insulted. Somehow, I’m not.

  “I think,” Rae continues, “it was convenient that the union was in the middle of negotiations and they’d set smaller fires around the island. We already know none of those fires were the inferno the Grande was. They were started in sinks and wastebaskets and were easily contained. Why would they suddenly deviate with the Grande?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s because they didn’t, Rose. I think Myles was freaking out over this counterfeiting scheme and the Secret Service and a possible twenty-year prison sentence. It’s a pretty happy coincidence that the fire started above the casino, where a lot of cash was flowing. And the count room was just below that. The majority of the cash was confined to that front corner of the building. Did you realize that?”

  No. I hadn’t. I keep my focus on the road while I mull this over. It’s not out of the question, of course, but why would Myles burn down his own building? Even with the insurance payout, the financial loss would be astronomical.

  “I’m guessing by your silence,” Rae says, “you didn’t think about that.”

  I merge onto the 101, but quickly throw my counterpart a glare. “Don’t be a smart-mouth. But to answer your question, no, I hadn’t made that connection. You think Myles started the fire to destroy the counterfeit cash they were laundering through the hotel?”

  “It’s a theory.”

  “Fine. What does that have to do with Loretta?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Edgar said Myles and George used her. Was she somehow involved in this counterfeiting thing?”

  Oh, now she’s reaching. Loretta, a counterfeiter? Please. “I doubt that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she had nothing to gain. She was a simple woman. Yes, she led an extraordinary life, but she had more money than she could spend. She still shopped the sale racks because that’s what she knew. Money was not a driving force for her. At least that I could see.”

  “So you’re saying it was just her bum luck that she was wasted in the middle of the afternoon and passed out in her room? Right above where the fire started.”

  “Oh my God, RaeLynn. Now it’s a conspiracy to kill Loretta?” This girl. Too much. “Stop this. Loretta was not involved in the counterfeiting. She and George were having an affair. According to George it ended months before the fire. That’s the big secret you’re so angry with me over. We all knew it—or at least suspected it. They didn’t flaunt it, but there were signs.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like George’s wife never coming to the Grande when Loretta was in residence. Then there was the flirtation. Loretta was a flirt, but there was something more with George. Touches here and there, a physical closeness she often resorted to that she didn’t have with other men. I’m sorry, dear, but that’s all there is. An affair. As far as her being in a room above the casino? She was afraid of heights, so she stayed in the most luxurious suite on the lowest floor possible. That’s it. Loretta was not murdered.”

  42

  Rae

  * * *

  I’m staring out the window, watching the cars whoosh by. LA traffic is like a giant blur of colors that only adds to my chaotic thoughts.

  Why do I keep doing this? Pushing and pushing and pushing, over and over again, thinking I’m on to something really big. Something important that will elevate me to a bigger stage and let me…

  What? Prove myself?

  Ha. I did that with Charlie Carter and what a mess that turned into. If I’d just stayed the course with my original plan for a retrospective on the Grande, I wouldn’t be sitting here arguing with Rose over who killed all those people.

  At this point, it’s not about ego—not entirely. I’m a good journalist. Charlie Carter being in prison proves it. This frustration I’m feeling? This absolute war with myself on whether or not to follow my instincts?

  It’s doubt and fear and every stupid thing I never wanted to feel. It’s every nasty e-mail and death threat and snu
b from my supposed friends.

  “Once again,” I tell Rose, “I got ahead of myself.”

  She keeps her eyes on the road and I’m thankful for it because I can’t look at her right now. I might be a hack and I’ve roped her in with me.

  “You didn’t get ahead of yourself. Maybe I should have told you about Loretta and George. Honestly, I didn’t believe it was relevant. I suppose, thinking back on it, everything should be considered relevant until we determine otherwise.”

  I’d like to lie to her and tell her I understand.

  I’d like to.

  On some level, maybe I do. For days, she’s been talking about loyalty and her reputation for keeping her promises, so I should have expected a certain level of hesitation on her part.

  But this could be a honking big story and I need all the facts. Everything. No matter if Rose thinks it’s relevant.

  After only a few days, do I have the right to ask her for that when she’s had relationships that have been longer than my lifetime?

  I shake my head and continue studying the cars whooshing by. It’s so much easier.

  My cell rings—thank you—and I reach in back for my messenger bag, digging around inside until my hand lands on the phone. Bel-Air number. Who the hell is this now?

  “Hello? This is RaeLynn.”

  “Hi. It’s Drew. From the photo store?”

  I glance at Rose, who is maneuvering into the left lane to zip around an SUV. “Hi, Drew. What’s up?”

  “Your prints are ready. And, just so you know, I checked everywhere around here and I didn’t see the first set. We have the digitals in our files, so they were definitely processed.”

  “O-kay.”

  “Plus,” he continues, “I talked to Sandy, she’s the one who handled the order, and she said she counted out thirty-six prints.”