Miramar Bay

by Davis Bunn

  Both Gerald and the AD gaped at him.

  Connor went on speaking. “All the director told you was, he wants me to be suave and deadly. And scarred. Right?”

  Christopher jerked a nod. “Pretty much.”

  “Okay. We’ve crafted this into an urbane killer whose good looks were part of his allure. His trademark. Then came the last gig before the film opens. This was the first time my character ever failed. And the failure cost him his beauty. So why doesn’t he go in for surgery and have it repaired? Because the scars constantly remind him of failure’s cost. It’s brilliant. It’s a role I can grow into. Thank you.”

  Christopher looked from one face to the next, as though expecting someone to laugh and reveal it was all a joke. When the room remained silent, he said feebly, “I had better go make sure everything is ready on set.”

  When the door sighed shut, Gerald lifted his hands and applauded silently. Connor smiled, then turned to the reporter and asked, “What would you like to talk about?”

  * * *

  The shoot lasted almost three hours, far longer than was really required. Christopher insisted on multiple takes and constantly fussed over everything. Connor grew weary of the process, and the heavy facial makeup began to itch terribly. Even so, he found the delays actually fit the event. Connor chatted with the reporter; he positioned himself for the news photographer; he introduced himself to the behind-camera crew. Most important of all, he experienced what it was like to work at star level.

  When they were done, Connor was standing in the MGM parking lot, seeing off the reporter and her photographer, when his phone rang.

  Porter said, “You’ve made me go and break my own rules. I’ve meddled in something that’s none of my business. Again. Carol says it’s just part of growing old, but I have my doubts.”

  Connor replied, “You do realize you’re not making any sense.”

  “I went ahead and asked the Kaufmans if they’re the least bit interested in selling.”

  Gerald stepped into Connor’s field of vision and pointed at his watch. Connor lifted one finger. Wait. “What did they say?”

  “They’re not ready to sell. Yet. But they’ll rent. For a year.”

  Connor watched a golf cart hum past, an aide driving a star to the set. He felt himself become distanced from everything that surrounded him, the studio lot and the screen test and Gerald’s impatience and the electric aftereffects of an on-camera performance. “Tell them yes.”

  “Don’t you even want to know how much?”

  “Is it a fair price?”

  “More than, for around here.”

  “Then I accept. Who can do up the lease?”

  “Carol got her realtor license a while back.”

  “Ask her to get things ready, I’ll swing by tomorrow.” Connor thanked the chief, then cut the connection and said to Gerald, “There’s something I need to show you.”

  “Ami is dying back there. She hates answering her own phone.”

  “Gerald, you really want to see this.”

  * * *

  Connor drove back from the studio with Gerald following in his own car. He opened the front door, cut off the alarm, then stood back and let Gerald take it all in. The man moved with the slow, drifting walk of an art lover entering a new gallery.

  Ten minutes later, Gerald found Connor in the kitchen. “It’s lovely, and I am terribly jealous.”

  “Thanks.” Connor opened the door to what appeared to be a second pantry. Inside was a wine room, crafted when the subcontractor redid his home, and one reason why the kitchen had cost him so much. The chamber was almost completely empty. Connor had nicknamed the room, Someday. He asked, “Will you take a glass?”

  “If it’s nice, I might even have two.” Gerald showed a rare smile. “It’s a perfect day for a stroll back to the office.”

  “White or red?”

  “Red is too somber. We’re celebrating.” Gerald lifted his phone. “Ami just texted. The studio and director both love your take. Houston, we have liftoff.”

  “In that case, we need something special.” Connor selected one of the few really fine bottles he owned, a gift from a star who had shone more brightly because of Connor’s work. He opened the Montrachet, filled one glass, and poured a trace into a second. He lifted the second and said, “Here’s to meeting new challenges.”

  Gerald clinked glasses, drank, then declared, “Marvelous. You’re not imbibing?”

  “Can’t. I need to head north. You should take this bottle with you, share the rest with Ami.”

  “Not on your life. This little bottle and I are soon going to be best friends.” Gerald sipped again, hummed a note, then said, “All right. I’m listening. Who do you need murdered?”

  Connor replied, “I want you to come live here.”

  Gerald knocked over his glass. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Connor reached for a towel. “It’s only wine.”

  “A Montrachet? Only wine?” Gerald watched Connor refill his glass. “Could you possibly ease me into what is coming next?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Well, at least try.”

  “I’m not happy here. I mean, in LA. At least I haven’t been.”

  “So you’ve found your nirvana on the central coast?”

  “Not hardly. I just feel . . .”

  “What?”

  “Like I’ve finally started asking the right questions.”

  Gerald drained his glass. Set it down. He tapped the rim with one fingernail. As Connor poured a refill, Gerald asked, “So that means what, exactly?”

  “Friends have found me a house I’d like to rent up there. And possibly buy. If the current owners decide to sell, and if I can afford it.”

  “With the Bond money.”

  “Right. But for now, it’s a tryout. And to swing it, I need to rent this place.” Connor gestured toward the house. “Ami mentioned your love of the Craftsman style. Find out what this would rent for. Knock off twenty percent. Let’s do a twelvemonth trial run.”

  Gerald took exaggerated care in setting down his glass. “I positively insist upon paying you fair market value.”

  “Come on, Gerald.”

  “Oh, all right. Ten percent below. You are such a hard bargainer.”

  “Write up a lease. Include a clause that if I sell, you get right of first refusal.”

  Gerald turned and stared at the sunlight falling upon the sliding glass doors. After a time, he said, “When Ami took you on, I told her I thought she was making a terrible mistake. Ami said you merely needed one thing to bring your full potential to the table.”

  “A heart,” Connor said.

  “Actually, she said you needed a reason to move beyond your comfort zone. But I suppose a heart will do.” Gerald smiled at the sunlit glass. “When I tell her she was right and I was wrong, Ami will crow. I hate crowing.”

  Connor gave that a beat, then said, “I need to ask your help with something.”

  “It’s not often I utter this word and actually mean it. Anything.”

  “I need a detective. Somebody who can hunt out dirt on a person, and fast.”

  “Is the individual you want investigated here in LA?”

  “Central coast.”

  “Let me make a few calls.”

  “Thanks.” Connor slid over an envelope he had prepared while Gerald had toured the home. “Keys to the house and alarm codes.”

  Gerald looked down, but did not touch it. “You don’t mean to say that I can move in now?”

  “Whenever you like. Long as you don’t mind me coming back for my things. I’m packing a couple of cases and hitting the road.”

  Gerald was still standing there, staring at the envelope, when Connor returned from the bedroom, set his suitcases in the Beemer’s trunk, and set off. As he drove north along the freeway, he reveled in the sensation of having gotten at least one thing right.

  CHAPTER 45

 
On Thursday, Connor signed the lease and then slowly toured the Kaufmans’ home. They wanted to rent their place with all the furnishings, right down to the antique Baldwin baby grand piano. While Connor was making a mental list of the things he wanted to bring up from LA, his new phone rang. So few people had the number he was obliged to answer. “This is Connor.”

  “I hear you need a hunter.”

  The voice was heavily accented and carried a raw, dark edge. Connor asked, “You’re a detective?”

  “Your guy said you needed information fast.”

  “My guy,” Connor said, “was right.”

  “Then no detective.” The man was definitely Slavic of some persuasion, with a gravelly voice scarred by vodka and harsh black tobacco. “Your detective, he is most interested in building up the hours.”

  “Hours I don’t have,” Connor agreed. “You’re Russian?”

  “Me? No, man, I’m from Alabama.”

  “Do I get a name?”

  “Sure. Jones. How’s that?”

  “Jones works for me. How much do your services cost?”

  “That’s between me and your guy. He says call, I call.”

  “I don’t like involving him in my business.”

  “What business. This is a favor I do for a friend. Nothing more. No payment, no paper trail. I do this, I go back to being a happy Jones in Alabama. Now tell me what you need.”

  Connor realized he had just two choices: accept the man’s terms or hang up the phone. He said, “There is a guy in Santa Cruz. At least I think he’s based there. His name is Phil Hammond.”

  “Spell the name.” When Connor had done so, Jones said, “There are many Hammonds in this city. Nine with first names Phillip or P. What else can you tell me?”

  “He owns part of two motels on Ocean Drive in Miramar.” Connor spelled the name.

  “He a big shot?”

  “Phil definitely likes to think so.”

  “Okay. Here. Phillip Jackson Hammond. CEO of Hammond Enterprises. They are . . . Okay, they own parts of many companies. He’s rich, this guy. Big bucks. Wait, let’s have a look at his IRS filings.... Okay, last year he paid Uncle Sam one point three mil.”

  “Do you see among his holdings a restaurant in Miramar—”

  “Castaways. Thirty percent.”

  “That’s our guy,” Connor said. “But why would somebody that rich worry about owning a restaurant?”

  “You like, I give you his number, you make the call. Otherwise, you ask questions I can answer.”

  Connor paced down the main hall and across his living room.

  “You still there?”

  “Thinking.” He rounded the kitchen’s center island, then retraced his steps. “What else does he have going on around Miramar?”

  “Okay, that I can work with. Hold on.” There followed several minutes of furious typing. Then, “Lots of activity, this guy. He thinks this activity is hidden. You meet this Hammond fellow, you tell him to hide better next time.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, yeah. This company owns another, and that company has permit requests, okay, so many. Two new hotels, one oceanfront and a big development inland. Complex with name of Rancho Santa Maria. Hotel spa. Two hundred houses. Big.”

  Connor felt a subtle adrenaline rush. It was nothing like the nuclear high he experienced on his bike, or before the first take of a new film project. This was a different sensation, something so unique it took him a moment to fashion a name. He was moving toward an answer to the core mystery plaguing Sylvie. He was doing right by a good woman, a lady who deserved better. Connor said, “Tell our guy you just earned your check.”

  “That’s all you need?”

  “Oh, no. We’re just getting started.”

  “Then you make a terrible negotiator, saying that now.” But he sounded like he was enjoying the exchange. “Me, I listen to clock. It says, ticking.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Sylvie passed the next three days wrestling with a dilemma. She was tempted to retreat into the sort of haze that her father had lived in much of his life. Throughout her teenage years, as Sylvie had gradually taken on more and more responsibility for structuring their home and lives, she had often accused him of living in a blind bubble of his own making. But now, she thought that perhaps she had gotten it completely wrong. Maybe there was a point beyond which an individual simply could not cope, and her father’s tolerance level for crises had simply been lower than most people’s. Whatever the reason, his response to the bad times had been to immerse himself in his work. But instead of using his art to express his anger and frustration, as did so many of his fellow artists, he used his palette to heal his heart. Sylvie wished she could speak with him now, discuss the clarity that had come through her current impasse. No doubt her father would have enjoyed hearing her apologize. He relished anything that closed a distance between them. He would have heard her out and said something about how much he admired her. Then they would have selected an album, and their home would again be filled with the smooth sounds of swing.

  The music that Connor had performed so very well.

  Throughout Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, as she debated over her next step, Sylvie found it impossible to dislodge the man from her thoughts.

  Each day, Porter came by to check on her as she was opening up the restaurant, then again as she ushered out the last patrons. Sylvie had to fight against the burning urge to ask about Connor.

  Sol Feinnes called daily and assured her he was doing everything possible, which was not a great deal.

  By Friday, Sylvie had the distinct impression that many of the Miramar locals were caught up in some secret drama. Everywhere she went, she felt eyes tracking her. But her internal debate isolated her. She had a decision to make. Whatever it was that had people so worked up would just have to wait.

  As Sylvie descended the stairs on Friday evening, she finally accepted the inevitable. Thankfully, the front room was empty, so no one was there to see her as she walked to her favorite painting.

  She stood there a long time, studying the hands fashioned from the sea and the hills and the night. She remembered the day he painted it, and what it meant to know they would both be calling Miramar their home.

  She reached out and lifted the painting from the wall. “Sorry, Pop.”

  Sylvie carried it back upstairs and set it on her desk, where she could visit with it at the end of the shift, and again over morning coffee. Gradually growing used to the idea that one more fragment of her former world was gone.

  CHAPTER 47

  When Sylvie returned downstairs, the empty space on the wall was mirrored by the void at heart level. She found Rick and Marcela and Aubrey and their stand-in waitress, clustered around the bar. They straightened at her approach, and must have seen something in her face because Rick demanded, “What’s the matter?”

  She knew she couldn’t tell them without bawling. That she was going to sell her favorite painting, the only one worth real money, in order to pay for a lawyer to protect her from going to jail for a crime she didn’t commit.

  But she was also not going to lie to them. These were her friends. They were as close to family as she had these days. They deserved to know.

  Only not now.

  “More of the same,” was all she said. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not go into details.”

  “Sure thing,” Rick said. “Where’s the painting of the bay?”

  “I moved it upstairs. Just temporarily.” That was most certainly true. “What were you talking about when I came in?”

  “We’ve invited Estelle for dinner,” Marcela replied.

  “What? Here?”

  Now that the news was out, they seemed genuinely thrilled by the prospect of Estelle coming for a meal. Sylvie found herself unable to process their reaction. She endured their chatter as long as she could, then excused herself. She walked to her hostess station, gripped the sides of her podium, and inspected the night’s bookings. S
ure enough, there it was. A reservation for one, booked by Marcela, with the note that she wanted Estelle to have her finest table.

  * * *

  Throughout that busy Friday evening, Sylvie grew increasingly certain that she was the clientele’s primary topic of conversation. She felt eyes track her every time she passed through the restaurant. She saw half-hidden smiles and heard discussions quickly stifled at her approach.

  Then Estelle appeared, standing in the doorway. Sylvie thought she had prepared herself. Even so, crossing the floor required a special effort. “Welcome to Castaways.”

  “Thank you so much.” Estelle was dressed in a pleated skirt and jacket of pale gray with narrow lavender stripes so subtle they were almost invisible in the restaurant’s lighting. “This is such a thrill. I can’t tell you how delighted I was to hear you wanted me to dine here. I’ve so wanted to see what you’ve created.”

  Sylvie was still digesting the news that Marcela had included her in the invitation, when the waitress rushed over and embraced the older woman. “You’re here! Great! I’ve got an order waiting. See you!” And she was gone, leaving Sylvie to follow with an embrace of her own. Then she picked up a leather-bound menu and started to lead Estelle through the restaurant.

  Only to be halted by yet another surprise.

  Everyone seemed either to know Estelle or know about her. Table after table rose and introduced themselves. Time and again, Sylvie saw groups of locals smile and invite Estelle to join them. Sylvie realized the subtle excitement was rising up now, revealing itself. She had no idea how involved Estelle had become in this community.

  Sylvie felt distinctly threatened by this realization. Miramar was her town. Her home.

  By the time she seated Estelle by the window, Sylvie felt as though the power of choice had been taken from her.

  She stood and smiled as Marcela went through the night’s specials. Estelle then said, “You decide. They all sound wonderful.”

  Sylvie said, “The fish is especially nice.”