Linda was falling into the trap too, and I felt increasingly helpless. “Right now there’s nowhere else I can go. Yet if Monica wants me out of her house—I’ve got to think of something.”
“She’ll come around. Monica likes you, really. And she wants her book to be written in a way she can control. Now I’ve something to tell you. I’ve just had a long talk with Saxon Scott, and a few things have been cleared up. That’s where I’ve been—at his house. And I know why he telephoned Monica. He actually asked her to go on the stage with him at the benefit affair, when Mirage will be shown.”
I couldn’t care very much. “What did she tell him?”
“That she wouldn’t do it, of course. But he’s being persistent. I don’t really know what’s got into Saxon. It makes me uncomfortable because it’s out of character for him to do this. Why now?”
I thought of the mutilated book I still held. “I found this in the Arlen room. The pages about Arlen and Scott have been torn out.”
I handed her the volume of Hollywood tragedies, and it fell open to the gap. Linda sat looking at it blankly.
“I checked the index,” I said. “The missing chapter is about Monica and Saxon. Do you suppose she tore them out?”
Linda clapped the book shut indignantly. “Of course not! But perhaps I can guess who did. Though I haven’t the faintest idea why.”
“Who do you think it was?”
“Saxon himself. He was here in this room a couple of days before you arrived. I brought him up to the house on the chance that I could persuade Monica to see him. I thought it might be good for her. Just to patch up old quarrels. I left him in the Arlen room to wait while I talked to her, because I thought he might be interested in looking through what we’ve collected. Only she went into a terrible tizzy and took to one of her retreats. It wasn’t just the telephone call he made to her later that upset her. It was because he came here, and she was furious with me for letting him in. I only did it for her. Their feud has gone on too long, and she’s unhappy. I didn’t know about the plans for the benefit then.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that Saxon had been here?”
“Oh, it’s all such a kettle of fish! You had enough to worry about without this upheaval Saxon was causing.”
“But why would he tear out those pages, even if he happened to see the book?”
“I haven’t a clue. I’ll have to ask him about this.”
“Could you get hold of another copy?”
“Probably not. It’s long out of print.”
She ran a finger down the index, checking names, and then looked up at me.
“There was something about Peggy Smith in the missing pages. Though that probably doesn’t mean anything. She was likely to be mentioned now and then in connection with Monica.”
“Her name keeps cropping up,” I said. “Today when Jason took me riding in the desert, he showed me where her body was found—not far from his ranch. And Monica hinted to me that her death might not have been suicide. There’s something awfully strange here. Do you have any of the old newspaper accounts of what happened?”
“Of course there was something strange!”
Startled, Linda and I looked around to see Monica in the doorway. She had changed from filmy azure, discarding the wig and the iris, and had put on tan slacks with a yellow shirt. She looked surprisingly trim and slender, and her natural pageboy hairstyle became her. She’d washed the makeup and tears from her face, and now that I’d stopped expecting her to look like the Monica Arlen of the screen, I no longer felt shocked by her aging. With the passing years she had gained a dignity, perhaps even an autocratic arrogance, that compensated in its way for the loss of youth and beauty. She was a personage—someone to be reckoned with—and now a smoldering excitement seemed to move in her.
“Have you been working on our book?” She regarded me amiably, as though she’d never ordered me from her house.
Her switches of mood left me more unsure of her than ever. Linda brought her a chair and she sat down, waiting for my answer.
“I’ve been looking through the files.” I glanced at Linda, who shook her head slightly—a warning not to mention the missing pages. “What do you mean, Aunt Monica, about Peggy Smith’s death being strange?”
She leaned back in her chair and let a trousered leg swing gently at the crossed knees. “Please, Linda.” She reached out a hand.
“You’re not supposed to smoke,” Linda said. “It’s not good for your heart. Oh, all right. Just one.” She opened a drawer in her desk and brought out a pack and a lighter.
Monica inhaled deeply and with pleasure. “There was a lot that was kept out of the papers at the time. Of course Saxon and I talked to the police and told them what we could. Or at least we pretended to.”
She paused, her bright look tantalizing me.
“You might as well go on,” Linda said.
“Yes, perhaps it’s time. Peggy died at El Mirador.”
“But she was found out in the desert!” Linda cried.
“She was taken there, and her car left nearby. Of course by the time she was discovered by the Desert Patrol—that’s the sheriff’s mounted posse, not the Palm Springs police—the wind had shifted the sands, destroying any evidence that might have been left. Anyway, it happened at El Mirador.”
“Why are you so sure?” Linda asked.
“We’d just filmed a scene for Mirage on location there. In those days nearly everything was still built on the sound stages or the back lots, so that both lighting and sound could be controlled. Now, I understand, that’s all been changed because of fast film and better recording methods. Pictures can be made anywhere.”
Linda nodded. “Though it’s come full circle. Some companies are going back to those big sound stages and back lots in order to save money. Go on, dear, please.”
“Well”—Monica seemed to collect her thoughts—“our director had a thing about realism, and he decided to use the real El Mirador. He wanted to catch that feeling of vanished glamour and nostalgia. Of course this was after the war, remember. It wasn’t a hotel anymore.” She sighed, thinking back.
I wished she would return to Peggy Smith, but there was no hurrying her.
“El Mirador means the lookout,” Linda said. “It became Torney General Hospital during the war. It’s owned by Desert Memorial Hospital now.”
A fire of high excitement burned in Monica’s eyes, and when she went on, it kindled in her voice, whispery no longer.
“Linda, we must take Carol to El Mirador! I can show her just where those Mirage scenes were shot. Then she can write about them properly. Besides—I want to see it again.”
“That’s a good idea,” Linda agreed. “When would you like to go?”
“Why wait? Tomorrow morning would be perfect. Carol really must see the place firsthand. For our book!”
I noticed that the possessive pronoun had changed. She would help me all the more willingly if it began to seem her book. Besides, whatever role I played, the story really did belong to Monica Arlen.
“I’d like to go,” I said. “But after what’s happened, I don’t want to leave Keith alone, and I don’t want him away from the house.”
Monica regarded me sympathetically. “I understand how you feel. But Ralph won’t try anything else. I’ve had a talk with him. And now that I know who that man is who came here, I won’t have him in the house again. So it will be all right. Linda, can you make arrangements with the hospital so we can get in?”
“I know someone I can call at home,” Linda said, and picked up the phone.
Monica sat watching me with that curiously bright look that made me uneasy. “I’m sorry you were disturbed about Mr. Barenklovich coming to see me, Carol. But it really has nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me! Owen tricked his way into this house because his one purpose is to get hold of Keith. He was stopped this time, but he won’t give up. You have to understand that what he told you w
as entirely false. He will never carry out any of his promises.”
She waved a thin hand at me, unperturbed. “It doesn’t matter. I can see him away from Smoke Tree House if I want to. What I came down here to tell you is something else. I’ve made up my mind.”
Linda had hung up the phone. “About what?”
“I’ve decided that I will appear at the Annenberg Theater. So you can tell Wally that, Linda. At first, when Saxon phoned me, I was terrified. I simply shut everything out. But I’ve had time to think about it now, and I’m sure I can put on a good show.” She looked a little mischievous. “After all, I’ve been trying out for you lately, Carol, and it’s worked, hasn’t it?”
“Beautifully,” I admitted. “You can create the old illusion whenever you wish.” Nevertheless, what she was saying worried me.
“I’ll do it better on a stage, of course, with proper lighting and makeup. I’ll show Saxon! He doesn’t really believe I can do this!”
She was beginning to tremble with excitement, and she’d smoked her cigarette to a stub. In spite of my concern, I didn’t think anyone had a right to stop her if what she wanted to do was bringing her to life.
Linda responded by applauding. “Good for you! Of course you can do it, if you decide to. And tomorrow we’ll visit El Mirador. It’s all arranged. This time, Carol, you can bring a camera, if you like.”
“Not to take pictures of me!” Monica said quickly. “Cameras used to love me, but not anymore. It’s too hard to fool a camera.” Suddenly she began to wilt. “I’m tired. This has been an exciting day.”
Too exciting, I thought—in all the wrong ways. But I couldn’t let her go without finishing what she’d opened up about Peggy Smith.
“You were going to tell us about Peggy’s death,” I reminded her.
She looked piteously at Linda, who shook her head at me and spoke firmly. “Another time. Monica needs to rest now. I’ll help you upstairs, dear.”
For once Ralph wasn’t around. Perhaps he was sulking in his balcony chair, after Monica’s scolding.
I watched them leave, Monica leaning a little too heavily on Linda’s arm, and felt more uneasy than ever because of Monica’s frailty and the possibility that she was taking on more than she could handle. Apparently she had some difficulty with her heart, and sometimes she seemed far older than her years. There were also my growing doubts about what Saxon Scott might be up to.
When they’d gone, I turned again to the damaged book. Peggy Smith’s name was mentioned only once in the index among those pages that were missing. Tomorrow, when we were on the scene—if we really went to El Mirador—it might be possible to question Monica and get an answer.
The phone rang in Linda’s office, and after three unanswered rings, I picked it up. The voice was Jason’s.
“Carol? I’ve had an uncomfortable feeling about you—so I thought I’d check it out.”
“Linda’s upstairs with Monica,” I told him. “Shall I buzz her?”
“No, it’s you I want to talk with. Is everything all right?”
I liked the sound of his voice on the phone, and I liked his concern. “It hasn’t been all right. Owen Barclay managed to fool everyone by using his real name to get into Smoke Tree House. When I came back this afternoon, he was with Monica, waiting for me. He’s offered to buy Cadenza for three million dollars. He won’t stop. He’ll never stop!” I could hear my voice rising.
“Easy does it,” Jason said quietly. “You have friends here. I’ll talk with the police chief tomorrow.”
“If Owen breaks any laws, he’ll do it fast and get out of the state before anyone can stop him. I doubt if your police chief will help. But thank you anyway, Jason. I wish there were something practical to do. Linda says no one else is going to get in here, and that it will be all right.”
“She’s pretty dependable,” Jason said. “Stay away from places where you’ll be alone.”
“I will. I’m glad you called, Jason.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot since you were here,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”
I hung up and went back to the Arlen room. I would pick out some books and a file and carry them upstairs, so I could read in my room after dinner. More than anything else, I needed to throw myself into work. No more walking in the garden at night.
Yet I stood before the shelves for a long while without seeing the titles, remembering my ride in the desert with Jason. Out there I’d been able to pretend that everything was fine and that I was free to enjoy whatever I liked. All of which was just the sort of fantasy that had brought me to disaster. There could be no more such self-indulgence.
I put the desert—and Jason—firmly from my thoughts and looked for the files I needed to begin my task of writing about Monica Arlen.
ELEVEN
That night I worked—tried to work—until nearly eleven, while Keith slept quietly across the room. There had been fewer nightmares for him since we’d come to Smoke Tree House. He still didn’t know about the new danger, and the nightmares were all mine.
That evening, Linda had tried to assuage my worries by taking me down to the lower gate. The night guard had just come on, and the day guard was about to leave. She introduced me to both men, and explained the situation to them carefully. No one who was a stranger and unauthorized by Linda herself was to be allowed through the gate. Miss Arlen was in an emotional state right now, and if she gave any countermanding orders, they were to be checked with Linda first.
I began to feel more reassured. Clearly it was Linda who ran things at Smoke Tree House; she who hired the guards and made the rules. Neither man questioned her authority, and both were sympathetic when she explained the danger that faced me and my son. They assured us that no one would get through, and they had direct contact with police headquarters, so I needn’t worry. There would be no more episodes like the one today. Not with Mr. Barenklovich or anyone else.
I felt as reassured as it was possible to be. Of course there was always the possibility that Owen might make a bold move, send in his armed goons, storm the gate, and take Keith by force. However, I didn’t think he’d chance that at this time. He’d been in some hot water lately, with an investigation pending, and while he considered himself safe enough, he wouldn’t want to call down the law on his head by so open a move. His action, when it came, would be more subtle. Like sending someone in to drown me? But Monica had said it was Ralph, and I couldn’t allow myself to be made a prisoner in this house—not if I was to work.
This evening I’d begun to fill in items concerning Monica’s Hollywood years. Already a more detailed picture was evolving, and my old star-worship was giving way to solid interest and respect.
From the letters of friends she was emerging as a generous, kind, and admirable woman—which made her present state all the more pitiable. What had hardened her? What had happened to change her? When I had the key to that, I would know how to write about her. The years, of course, had taken the toll they did with everyone. But something in particular had happened to Monica, and I had a growing feeling that it dated back to the taboo subject of Peggy Smith’s death. Today Monica had almost opened up about it, and that was something I must work toward—getting her to tell me the whole story. Or if she wouldn’t, perhaps Saxon Scott would.
Before I turned in, I pulled together my museum notes and set down further impressions. After my day at Jason’s ranch, I wanted more than ever to write about the Desert Museum. Not only because it was remarkable in itself, but because I wanted to please Jason.
Just as I was putting my notes away, I heard a car coming up the mountain. I turned off the light in my room and stepped out on the balcony to watch as it drove past to the garage. The terrace was lighted, and I could see Linda at the wheel. She got out and the car door slammed. Keys clinked as she turned off the alarm system to let herself in from the garage. Quickly, I went out my bedroom door and stood in the glassed upper passageway. Linda, of course, must have her own social life, and th
ere was nothing to be uneasy about. Nevertheless, I waited as she came upstairs. She looked both excited and angry, and when she saw me waiting she came toward me at once.
“Come in my room for a minute, Carol,” she said, pushing open the door. “We need to talk again.”
It was the first time I’d been in her room, and I saw that she had the same rather simple tastes her brother had, with an emphasis on the Southwest. There were authentic ornaments of Indian pottery and basketwork, and the painting of a local canyon scene.
I sat down, while she threw herself wearily on the bed.
“I’m glad you’re still up,” she said. “I went to see Saxon again tonight, and I don’t want Monica to know. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone, but I had to. Wally is all steamed up about this affair at the Annenberg, and I was beginning to feel good about seeing Monica come out of her shell. When you found those pages missing, however, I started to feel uncomfortable about what Saxon might be planning. So I phoned him and he said I could see him tonight.”
She moved restlessly and sat up, once more driven and nervous, the way she’d been the first time I’d met her.
“I asked him straight off about those pages. He said he hadn’t touched a thing the day I left him in that room. He didn’t own the book himself and had never seen it. I can’t be sure he’s telling the truth. I’ve seen him lie expertly when it pleased him. He’s behaving rather strangely, and I’m worried about what he may be scheming. I’ve known him longer than I have Monica, and as I told you, he sent me to this job. I’ve always liked him, but now I’m not sure I do. He can take care of himself, and I’m not sure that Monica can. I have to look out for her. We have to look out for her. She may walk straight into some trap of Saxon’s, and I won’t have that.”
“What do you mean—trap?”
“That’s the trouble. I don’t know, and he isn’t talking. It wasn’t a pleasant visit this time. I’ve always thought him a kind and sensitive man. Now a sort of hardness is coming out in him that I’ve never seen before. In the past, even when I knew sometimes that he was lying, he’s done it in a light, rather appealing way. You know the man he used to be on the screen. But now it’s as though something he’d been brooding about for years has surfaced, and it’s pushing him into action. I’m afraid for Monica.”
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