Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 02 - Brilliant Actors

by Alex Ames

  Mundy groaned and hung up. I had told him the truth: I had not been involved in that heist, unfortunately, as the thieves had grossed about thirty-million-dollars’ worth of jewels. The black market would probably earn them about a third to a half, depending on the quality of the middlemen. I briefly thought about my ex-fiancée Thomas Cornelius, who had a secret identity as a fence of art and stones, and whether he was involved or not.

  The next “only in LA” moment came around noon, when Mrs. Otis left to bring over a pizza from the take-out place opposite my store. The problem was that the open kitchen of the pizza restaurant offered a view of a very cute new pizza maker who had constantly flirted with Annie and me over the last week. Annie’s and my hormones were raging, and when lunchtime approached, Annie won the flip of a coin—and the ability to walk over to order the pizza in person. And while she was at it, she decided to wait for it over there as well.

  I was in the middle of rearranging some displays when the wind chimes sounded their soothing noise and the door opened to bring in … Nicole Berg, this time with a small Mercedes SLK parked in front of the store, large sunglasses, and a scarf around her very recognizable hairdo. She wore regular designer jeans, a simple black cashmere pullover, and Holland’s shoes, not unlike some of my other better-off customers. I closed the display and walked over to her while she took off her sunglasses.

  “Nicole, nice to see you again.” We shook hands; she accepted a coffee.

  “Terrible what happened this morning, wasn’t it?” she started.

  “This morning? What exactly?” I asked carefully because I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to her lost boyfriend, the Beverly Hills jewelry heist, or the weak overseas box office numbers of her last movie, which had also been published this morning.

  “The break-in at Cooper-Morningstar … you must have heard,” she explained, sipping her coffee. A twinkle in her eyes told me that she could have meant her break-up with Allan as well.

  “Of course, of course. Terrible, a lot of beautiful jewelry gone, and some of Hollywood’s greatest without anything to wear for the ceremonies”

  Nicole sighed playfully—or maybe for real? I found it hard to distinguish between the actress and the real person and vowed not to go out with an actor, ever. Nicole said, “I am among those unlucky few.”

  “Oh dear, so do you plan to go naked?”

  Nicole didn’t laugh but said seriously, “Don’t be silly. Of course not. My good friend Ava…,” Ava Persson, last year’s supporting actress Oscar winner; never go into a friendship with a famous star if you can’t stand name-dropping, “…who is in the same situation has made an emergency order with Paull&Paull of San Francisco, and they promised to help her out.”

  “Have you found something already?” I inquired, suspecting the obvious.

  “Not unless you will show me your most spectacular pieces. Necklace and earrings. Got something that goes with that Panamericana bracelet?”

  My heart was beating fast; my mouth turned dry. Nicole Berg, screen legend, planned to wear my jewels at the Oscars award ceremony. Joan Rivers would comment on Nicole’s shoes and her dress and her hairdo. And would then mention my jewels! About one billion people behind the TV sets would stare between her breasts, and the females would see … my necklace.

  “You can help me out, can’t you?” Nicole asked.

  I downed my coffee, walked over to the door, locked it, and put up the closed sign—right into Annie Otis’ face. I gestured, shooing her away. Annie took it with good grace and went back to extend her pizza-boy flirt while I flirted with movie star fame.

  “Okay, let’s talk spectacular!”

  We spent about an hour together, with me presenting her the ten best pieces I had in store. The Panamericana set was too playful and too colorful for an important media event like Oscar night, so we had to turn toward serious diamond-based stuff. We quickly had it down to two combinations. One was an early version of a necklace I had manufactured for a Saudi family member. It was high in the six-figure range and matched very well with a pair of five-carat diamond studs for her ears. Nothing else would be needed; all eyes would be on the necklace all the time. The second option was a diamond rich choker necklace, 1.5 inches wide, that featured a fantastic, sparkling, twenty-carat stone as a focus. It came with two matching bracelets for the arms, fitted very tightly like sweat armbands, and a pair of earrings, each fashioned of five small diamonds on a platinum thread. I took two shots with my Nikon and brought them up on my Mac to give Nicole a basis for comparison. After two changes, she decided to wear the choker necklace with the matching accessories. It underlined her delicate features, and the tight fit gave a fleeting impression of expensive bondage.

  “This is it! It looks fabulous, Calendar,” she said, studying her impression in the mirror with shining eyes.

  “It looks fantastic on you. Would you mind if I took a more few photos?” I held up my digital Nikon camera again.

  “No, go ahead,” she said and did some serious and silly poses for me, while I was snapping away like a pro. We had to break out into laughs several times, giggling like schoolgirls imitating super models at a fashion shoot.

  After my last frame and a particular silly expression on her face, she said, “Allan never ever photographed me,” a sudden sadness coming over her face. “He used to carry a small camera with him all the time, for snapshots. And he used to draw it out at the most inconvenient times when someone famous had an embarrassing moment or something strange or beautiful happened.”

  “You want another coffee, or a tea? Might soothe you,” I tried lamely, knowing I was not very good at this empathy thing.

  She shook her head. “But he never took a photo of me. I mean, not that he needed to. All he had to do was pick up any magazine on the newsstand and see my current haircut.”

  “Did he ever tell you why?” I asked.

  “You will laugh, just like I did, but by now I think he said what he really felt. He said, ‘I do not want to steal your soul.’” A tear trickled from her eye, so I pulled out a tissue, and she sneezed.

  “I am sorry. You had been a very … nice pair,” I commented. Jesus, did I really say that?

  “Thank you, Calendar, you are most kind. And your work is so beautiful.”

  I saved the moment by becoming all business again. “Usually you film folks only rent the jewelry for Oscar night and don’t buy it. Any opinion on that? I am new in this field.”

  Nicole looked in the long mirror, turning left and right, bringing up her hands to her face, marveling at the many rows of small, brilliant, white-fired stones. “Can I afford it?” she asked, deadpan, with a small smile playing around her mouth.

  I picked up Mrs. Otis’ Hollybiz Magazine and thumbed through it. “According to informed sources, you got 18.5 million dollars for your last movie. That covers it.”

  “You should hear my financial advisors on what is left after taxes and other costs of stardom living. How much is the set?”

  “To buy?” I had never put a price tag on it yet but decided to go for it. “I can make you a good offer if you take the whole set. It is seven-fifty.”

  She looked up, surprised. “Seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand bucks?” She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, confirming whether it could possibly be worth that much. But fire sparked from each of the four-hundred-and-fifty small diamonds and the few big ones of highest quality and melted away every female hesitation like ice in the sunshine. “And rent?”

  This question took me somehow by surprise, and I had to give a quick guess. Go for it, girl. “For Oscar night, I would charge a one-time fee of three percent of the sales value plus an insurance fee which is around four-thousand dollars. That brings it to about twenty-four-thousand dollars including tax.” Which was likely a better deal for both of us because I would probably be able to sell it after the media exposure for a million bucks. “Plus, you have to provide a guard for the transfers to and from the shop to your home and
to the event. Not my idea, but the insurance wants it,” I explained.

  Nicole looked into the mirror again. “All right, deal. I rent with an option to buy within the next two weeks.”

  Done deal. We filled out some forms required by the insurance, she covered the rent with her black Amex, and I prodded and fingered around her precious famous neck and arms to make the jewelry even a better fit.

  Nicole said, “Say, do you know a good place around here to have lunch? After all that jewelry hunting, I am ravenous.”

  I cocked my head. “If you’re into Italian, I know a place just three minutes from here on PCH. A good dim sum Chinese is just around the block. Your pick.”

  “Let’s do the Chinese. Would you like to join me?”

  And that is how we ended up spending the afternoon together, the actress and the jewelry designer. Two successful women in LA making ends meet. I interrupted Annie Otis’ extended lunch break and told her to mind the shop while I had my lunch break. She followed me over to the shop again, constantly looking over her shoulder, where our common pizza friend was winking at us, blowing kisses and forming new pizza dough.

  “He is soooo cute. I wonder if he has a girlfriend. She must be so lucky. I wonder how he is in bed….” A constant waterfall coming straight out of her overcharged hypothalamus.

  “Mrs. Otis, he may be gay,” I interrupted her.

  She looked back for a minute, squinting through her eyelids, and was rewarded with a wave of his hand. “You think so? I don’t think so. He hasn’t made that impression on me. I think he is interested in me….”

  Nicole had been waiting for me outside the store, and Annie Otis was too pizza boy engaged to notice, so she went into the store and reopened it for regular business while Nicole and I went to lunch.

  A couple of dim sum baskets, jasmine teas, and rice wines later, we had covered childhood, movies, and jewelry making. We had very different backgrounds, me with my hippie commune parents and her with a typical American small town simple world. We had both cut our ties with the past, overcome obstacles along the way, and were now famous and rich—rich with experience and rich with money. Well, destiny had dished her a little bit more of each than me.

  “Cal, I can’t believe that my Hollywood colleagues have not discovered your works earlier. Your work is very good, and that you have some on display in major European museums is fantastic—and on the head of a European queen! Just a fairy tale come true.”

  “But that doesn’t buy me anything in America, necessarily,” I pointed out. “I am considered an artist, not a fashion star. It is like Vivian Westwood versus Giorgio Armani. They both cut mean stuff out of cloth, but Giorgio hits it with the scene and the commerce, while Westwood remains….”

  “…too playful and eccentric. I know exactly what you mean,” Nicole completed my self-evaluation. “We have to change that. Giorgio is a good friend of mine, and he told me that most of his success was hard work, pure luck, and knowing the right people.” Nicole waved toward the vely nelvous Chinese waitress who was undecided whether to ask for an autograph or to faint right away. She came forward, and Nicole asked for the check.

  “You know … we really do have to change that.”

  I asked, “Change what exactly?”

  “Throw away that Vivienne Westwood image of yours and remake you into a Giorgio Armani of the jewelry world, of course.” Nicole snapped shut her little Prada purse and put down the bill and a generous tip.

  “Thank you, but—”

  “No, thank you, this is what you deserve.” She gave me a generous smile. “And we will start right away on Monday. Would you join me for the Academy Awards ceremony?”

  And that was that. Of course it didn’t stop with the ceremony. There was a pre-show lunch hour, the walking down the carpet hour—and, most important, the after-show party.

  Mundy’s mouth fell open. “Oscar. Nicole Berg. Swan Collins’ party.”

  I was jumping up and down excitedly in front of my collected wardrobe spread on my bed. “I have nothing to wear! Nothing! Emergency shopping, now!”

  “Wow, my girlfriend is becoming a superstar. Will you still know me tomorrow?” Mundy actually looked a little dubious, and I wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not.

  Mundy and I had a strange and complicated relationship. He was in love with me; I wasn’t with him. It fortunately did not put a large strain on our relationship. We had met at Berkeley University first, lost sight of each during my East Coast jeweler apprenticeship years, and had met again, right here in Redondo after I had opened my shop. He was one of the few people who knew about my clandestine hobby, the result of a strange affair involving one of his former bosses and a story scoop that had been suppressed but had needed to be published in order to clear Mundy’s name. I had broken into the publisher’s home, had stolen the evidence, and Mundy had been able to prove his story. Over time, Mundy became my good conscience and confidante, trying to keep my feet grounded. At least sometimes! As I said, I was not in love with him. He simply was not my type of man. I wasn’t into the 1969 Jimi Hendrix Afro look, baggy corduroy trousers, and trusting, puppy-dog eyes.

  I turned to Mundy. When he got sarcastic, he was usually trying to make a point. “What is it?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Come on; what is there not to like?”

  Mundy went over to me, put his hands on my shoulders, and walked me over to the dining table. “Okay, your old wise friend Mundy Millar is going to tell you a story from the vaults.” Mundy was neither old nor wise; he was my age and worked for the local paper. “When I used to work for the Washington Post, I had the pleasure of interviewing Swan Collins once. It was about five years ago, and she was on top of the heap with her first blockbuster under her belt. Imagine shy young reporter Mundy on one of his first assignments. Man, was I nervous.” He sat down opposite of me. “So, I was ushered into this presidential suite in the Waldorf Tower after a trip through a sequence of assistants and different management spheres. Mrs. Swan Collins was sitting on a beige sofa, her legs tucked away at her side. She wore a white dress and looked like a goddess ready to be painted. I sat down on the low chair in front of her, introduced myself, and asked my questions—probably the very same questions she had heard before all day, only this time asked by a stuttering black hippie.”

  “She was acting the bored actress bitch?” I asked.

  “That was the amazing part; she didn’t. She was answering each and every question with total enthusiasm and honesty. After I was through with my list, we were chatting about the weather and New York, and she asked about my background.” Mundy had to smile at the memory. “I told her about San Francisco, Berkeley U, and the hard fight to get a job at the Post. And she looked interested and gave me feedback, her thoughts on difficult jobs. This little impromptu personal exchange took less than a minute, but when I left the hotel room after my interview slot was over, I had the feeling that we had formed a very special bond.”

  “You had the feeling that she had wrapped you around her finger?” Why was I so negative about this? Could this be … jealousy?

  Mundy shook his head, “No! The opposite. I left with the impression that we had become friends and that if I called her in four weeks’ time she would not only remember my name but would also be glad to hear from me. Yes, I had the feeling I had found a friend.”

  “So call her. Maybe she did indeed. You are a special person, you know. At least for me you are. Get yourself invited to the after-show party. We could party together.”

  Mundy didn’t smile and held up a finger. “The story is not over, yet. When I was back in the lobby, I went into the bar and had an immediate post-interview drink to compensate the female superstar exposure and get my hormone level back to normal. I met my colleague from the New York Times, who had had the interview slot right before mine and was cooling down, too. And guess what. We shared the very same impressions. Both of us were new best friends of Swan Collins.”

&n
bsp; Mundy and I were sitting opposite each other, and he was holding my hands now.

  I may have sounded a little defensive when I finally said, “So, what do you want to tell me through your little story?”

  “Simply that: remember that your new friend Nicole Berg is an actress just like my BFF Swan Collins. And that both ladies use their talents not only to make great movies and dazzle on the big screen but to influence people, pull them to their side, and make them allies. And there is no way but to pry open their skull and look into the brain to see what they really think of their world. To you, it may feel like a newly formed friendship, but it may be just that: an act or a means to an end.”

  “You mean that Nicole was dishonest with me? I don’t buy that. What does she have to gain?”

  Mundy patted my hands. “I am not saying that she has something evil in mind. Maybe she really likes your stuff; maybe she is a closet lesbian and is trying to seduce you; maybe she is a jewelry art buff. We don’t know. All I am saying is: don’t expect to be a real close part of her life, and don’t put too much true faith from your side into that friendship until she has built up a certain credit with you.”

  I nodded. “Fair enough, Mundy.”

  Mundy said, “There are two things I would hate to see happening to you. One is to see you get hurt.”

  “I am a big girl and have been hurt in relationships before. And second?”

  “Second is to see your butt, your beautiful butt, in jail.”

  “Is it really that beautiful?”

  “Beyond compare!”

  “And you really like the lesbian option, don’t you?”

  “Beyond com—”

  I slapped the back of his head.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Getting Away With It

  Mundy’s words were echoing in my ears as I sat in the party tent of Swan Collins’ Beverly Hills estate, looking at my pending doom in the handbag.