My mouth dropped open. “What?”
“You got a great calling plan on this phone.”
“You’re making this up.”
She shook her head. “Almost all of the calls to or from that number came from one phone number, in Studio City. That is, up until about two months ago.”
I sat back in my chair. “And the phone calls stop when he leaves Vegas.” Anne nodded at me. “Perhaps he didn’t need to call that number so often because he was talking to whoever he’d been calling in person.”
Anne tapped the side of her nose. “Exactly.”
“Who was he calling? Spit it out, Anne, or I’ll throttle you.”
“Guess. All right, fine. Here’s a hint: Studio City.”
“Where in the name of Zeus is Studio City?”
“Oh. It’s on the other side of the hill. In the Valley? Lots of TV people live there.”
“Penelope lives in Venice.” Although she had just moved, hadn’t she? Her big move out of the house.
She smiled. “But you’re close. The number belongs to Eileen Gurevich.”
“Penelope’s…”
“Mother.” Anne leaned back in her chair again. “Who, if you read magazines such as People, isn’t getting along with her famous daughter so well at the moment.”
There weren’t many scenarios that would make this all better, but the one she was hinting at was awful. “He wasn’t calling Penelope? Colin was helping Eileen blackmail her own daughter?”
Anne didn’t like that idea any more than I did. “It might explain where those photos came from.”
The mother having the pictures made sense. I mentally slapped myself for even thinking that, but it was true. Someone had had to take the pictures and then hold on to them for insurance. Or whatever they planned to do with them. Since Penelope only had her mother growing up, Eileen was the logical candidate.
Parents can do awful things sometimes.
“Maybe I should have a little chat with Eileen. And tell her I have the pictures. Find out what she knows.”
“When?”
“No time like the present.”
Anne stood up. “I’ll go with you. For one thing, she’s known me since I was in eighth grade. She’s far more likely to talk to me than to you. And for another…” She looked at me. “I don’t believe he’d do something like that. That he’d start blackmailing someone.”
She must not have known anyone is capable of anything, if you push them hard enough. She’d learn.
That was not a fun line of thought to follow. So as I do with all unpleasant thoughts, I forced myself to think about other things. I stared at the crockery lining the counter under the glassware cabinet.
She picked up her phone and called that number in Studio City. After a few rings, she said, “Eileen? Hi, it’s Anne da Silva…Hey, listen, would you mind doing a quickie interview with me?…Great. Is today good?…I’ll be there at ten.” She hung up. She shook her head. “Publicity gets them every time.”
“But Penelope’s mother isn’t famous.”
“Everyone’s convinced they’re really the famous ones. Have you hired your PR person yet?” Anne laughed. Then she looked thoughtful. “Do you really think Eileen knows something?”
I nodded. “How do we get there?”
“Take the 101 north.”
“What is that? Everyone says ‘the’ 101.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just how we do it in LA. Maybe saying ‘the’ alerts everyone that the conversation has turned to driving.”
“As far as I can tell, most conversations in LA are about driving.”
She nodded. “True enough. Whose car?”
So I ended up driving over to the Valley with my husband’s girlfriend to find out if a TV star’s mother had murdered him and maybe knew anything about the blackmail-worthy photos of her own daughter. I fit in so well with the vibe around here I began to wonder if I’d been an Angeleno in a previous life.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WE HEADED “OVER the hill” to the San Fernando Valley. Anne told me about how Los Angeles was divided up: movie people lived in the Basin, on the West Side (Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Westwood, Brentwood, Pacific Palisades), and TV people, who had less prestige than movie people, lived on the other side of the Mulholland ridge, in Studio City or Sherman Oaks or Encino.
Growing up, Anne’s family had been movie people and lived in Westwood. Penelope was TV and lived in Sherman Oaks. The girls had attended the same school, the exclusive and expensive Hargreaves Prep. The kind of school that would mold the girls into high-achieving, well-educated members of society.
I attended schools like that. Didn’t help develop me into a better person than I was turning out to be anyway. I doubt it did with any of the other girls, either.
Penelope’s mother Eileen now lived in Studio City, in a ranch-style house south of Ventura Boulevard. That was the cushier area, so Eileen was doing well. On the Basin side of town, the important address was “north of Sunset Boulevard.” Everything I heard about this place told me living in Los Angeles seemed to be all about 1) where you lived and 2) what you drove.
The house wasn’t anything fancy. Every house on the block looked almost exactly like it, except for the new McMansion at the end of the block, rising from the ashes of a previous ranch house. Eileen’s house was a pale yellow, with giant rocks forming the exterior shell of the fireplace. The front lawn was neatly mowed, and there were fences marking each side of the property, as there were between every two houses on the block.
I wondered what Penelope’s mother would be like. If Anne’s guess was right—and she seemed right enough I had gone along with her on this expedition—Eileen had participated in pimping her own daughter out for the low, low price of her daughter getting a few guest shots on crime dramas and some material for blackmail at the same time. Those pictures were in focus, with the participants’ features and what they were doing clearly visible. As any photographer will tell you, getting that kind of photo right once is a miracle—getting them right every time takes careful, meticulous planning. Or a massive coincidence.
And we all know how I feel about those.
It’s easy to assume that a parent who would exploit their own kid in this way or in any way is some kind of obvious monster. It would be so nice if we could easily spot them. Maybe they’d have slavering jaws. Or clawed hands. Definitely a hunchback. But the thing about monsters is they look like you and me. That’s how they move among us for years, continuing the evil they do. They always have really good reasons for what they’ve done, of course, because everyone is always the hero of their own story.
Hey, my father is extraordinarily wealthy and wears really nice suits and gets thousand-dollar haircuts. Most people want to get to know him, not throw him in a maximum security hellhole, which is exactly where he belongs, for reasons other than what he did to his own kids. For what he let happen to Stevie, he deserves nothing less than being tortured repeatedly, and revived immediately when he passes out so that he can be tortured again.
I’ll be happy to help with the torturing. You just have to ask. I’ll keep my schedule open.
I’m not very “turn the other cheek” about my father.
Between Anne’s first speculation that Penelope’s mother was involved and Eileen opening the door, my imagination had gone crazy picturing her as some demented lowlife with morning whiskey breath and a cigarette dangling on her lower lip. Or maybe some evil dominatrix, ready to hurt and use any innocent that crossed her path.
The woman who opened the door, however, was someone you might see at any supermarket. Mid-forties, very pretty, with long blonde hair, crow’s feet setting in but makeup expertly applied, still in shape. She wore capri pants and a plaid shirt with three-quarter sleeves. Her toenails were painted purple. You could definitely see the resemblance between her and her daughter.
Anne smiled. “Hi, Mrs. Gurevich, I don’t know if you remember me—”
“An
ne da Silva! Of course I remember you! Come on in, please.”
“This is my associate, Dru,” Anne said.
“Hi there,” Eileen said. She didn’t pay me much attention, as I wasn’t the one with the byline.
She led us into the living room, where Anne and I sat on one sofa, which sat catty-cornered to the sofa Eileen sat on. The house was neat and tidy, with no clutter visible and knickknacks expertly arranged on the side tables. Eileen offered us Diet Cokes, which both Anne and I passed on. Then she asked, “What exactly is this article about?”
Anne leaned forward as she set up her recorder on the coffee table. “I did an article on Penelope about a year ago, when the show started, and I was struck at the time about how she talked about you.”
“Oh?” Eileen said, puffing up a bit.
“She didn’t mention you at all,” Anne said.
Nice one, I thought, as Eileen deflated.
“When Penelope and I were in school together, the two of you were the closest mother-daughter pair ever. So I’ll come right out with it: I want to do a story on how parents and children become estranged when the children become famous. One of the interesting aspects is how Penelope’s been famous twice in her life, and why things are different this time around.”
Wow. Anne won points for creativity. Coming up with story angles was her forte, I suppose.
Eileen nodded. “It’s gotten a lot more difficult since she became an adult.”
“You and Penelope’s dad divorced when she was three?”
“Two.”
“And the two of you lived together until Penelope turned twenty-one.”
The older woman shook her head. “Until a few months ago, actually.”
Aha. Penelope had moved out on her own, and she’d moved about as far as she could within the same geographic region.
“Were you involved in Penelope’s career when she was a kid? I mean, besides being her mom.”
“I was her manager,” Eileen said. She looked around the house with pride. “My money bought us this house.”
“What happened to all of her money she earned as a kid?”
“There are really strict laws about that. You know the Jackie Coogan laws, of course. Everything she earned was put into a trust. She got everything when she was twenty-one.”
“You’re not involved with anything she’s doing now, though.”
Eileen tapped the top of her can of soda idly. “Penny won’t even talk to me anymore. She said she wanted to work things out a couple of months ago, so we took a vacation to Las Vegas together, but it was terrible.”
“Whose idea was it to go there?” Anne asked.
“Mine,” Eileen said, which knocked one theory of mine dead. “Well…it was my suggestion that we go away somewhere. She suggested Vegas.”
And just like that, my theory revived on the spot: Penelope had set all of the pieces in motion.
“When were you there?” I asked.
“Excuse me, who are you again?” Eileen asked.
“She’s with me,” Anne said. “That is an interesting angle. When did you go to Vegas?”
“We went there for Labor Day weekend. She was supposed to appear at a nightclub. It was a promotion thing.”
“At the Marrakesh?” I asked.
She nodded. “You look familiar.”
“I recently lived in Las Vegas myself. I worked at the Marrakesh.”
She smiled. She had beautiful teeth. Then the corners of her mouth dipped a little and she sat back. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. Drusilla Thorne.”
It took her a few seconds, and then the look of recognition entered her eyes. “Oh my God.” Eileen looked at Anne. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s about Penelope,” Anne said.
“And a few other things,” I added.
Eileen stared at me. “Is this about Colin? You’re his wife, right?”
“Yes. Did you know Colin?” My voice stayed theatrically mild.
Eileen smiled again, this time a nervous, embarrassed smile. Amazing how few of her teeth were on display that time. “Um, I’m not really sure—”
“Don’t be embarrassed. I’m sure Colin told you that we had married for practical reasons.”
“Yes, he said you needed a green card.”
I blinked. “More or less. So, should I assume you were one of his many girlfriends?”
At those words, Anne, next to me, tensed. I put my hand on her forearm, briefly: don’t freak out about this, not now.
“We had a relationship, yes.” Eileen couldn’t decide whether she was annoyed or embarrassed to talk about this. “Is it important? I haven’t heard from him for a while.”
“When?” I asked.
“Is that important?”
“It might be,” Anne said.
“Did you know that Colin knew Penelope?” I asked.
Eileen laughed, embarrassed. “No, Penny never met him. I mentioned him, but she never met him.”
I looked at Anne. “I have a theory about this.” To Eileen I said, “When did you meet Colin?”
Eileen was about to argue with me again, but then she gave up and thought about it. “Labor Day weekend. I saw his show, and I met him afterward, and we had drinks.”
Anne looked at me. I shrugged. “Colin had drinks with a lot of women, if you know what I mean. How did you end up at the show?”
Eileen rolled her eyes as she nodded, and then she laughed. “We were at the hotel. They comped us rooms.”
“And you went to Colin’s magic show.”
“I had free tickets, why not? Look, what is this about?”
“Have you seen Colin since then? Since that weekend in Vegas?”
“Yes. Look, I don’t want to get in the middle of a problem between the two of you.”
“Believe me, Colin and I don’t have any problems between us. Did you see him here, in Los Angeles?” I asked her.
She nodded. “He stayed with me a couple of times, okay? He was doing some consulting work on a show about a magician.”
Anne leaned back on the sofa, her entire body sagging more than relaxing. “No, he wasn’t,” she said softly.
I reached over and patted her hand. “It’s not what you think, sweetheart. I’ve figured out what he was doing.”
Eileen looked from me to Anne and back. “This isn’t about an article, is it? Look, if you’re upset about Colin seeing other women—” Eileen’s voice was rising in pitch. She was starting to get nervous. Good.
“If a little thing like that upset me, I wouldn’t be hanging around with her.” I tilted my head toward Anne. As my meaning finally dawned on Eileen, I said, “So we all have something in common, okay? Let’s move on. There’s really no pleasant way to say this, so I’ll just tell you. Are you aware that Colin died the other day?”
Eileen’s hand flew to her mouth as her eyes widened. Comically, her forehead didn’t move, reducing the surprise somewhat. “Are you kidding? Oh my God, what happened?”
“While going through some of Colin’s things, we found some photos of Penelope. Bad photos,” Anne said.
Eileen stood up. “I want you to leave now. I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing.”
Anne had laid the manila envelope between us on the sofa. Her hand kept reaching for it, and then backing away. I made it easier on her by sliding one of the photos out. “This is the game, Eileen.”
Eileen stared at the photo for a moment, and then she became enraged. “Jesus Christ! Where did you get those?”
She lunged for the photo. I yanked it out of her way and she grabbed my arm in the process. I grabbed hers in return and pushed out of my seat, forcing her backwards, forcing her up against the wall.
I leaned in close. “Don’t do that.” Then I let go, stepping backwards. I waggled my index finger at her. “That’s rude.”
Eileen looked at Anne, her eyes wide. “Call the police!”
Anne still sat on t
he sofa, stunned—whether by Eileen’s outburst or by mine I couldn’t tell. She didn’t move and she didn’t call anyone. I sat back down beside her and slid the photo back in the envelope.
Most middle-class people’s first reaction is to call the police, like it’s a magical incantation. Too many television shows telling them the police can and will solve all problems, I suppose. “Excellent idea. As I told Anne this morning, please call Detective Samuel Gruen. He’s really dishy, Eileen. Seriously, I look at him, and I have visions about doing nasty things in dark alleys. Also, he works Robbery-Homicide and he would love to talk to you about your photographic works of art here.”
“I’ve never seen that garbage before in my life! Why are you doing this to me?” Eileen yelled.
“Do shut up,” I told her. “Your phone’s over there. By the way, Gruen is a homicide detective.”
All the air got sucked out of the room in a hurry. Eileen’s head tilted. “Homicide?” she said.
“So instead of calling the police, you should possibly consider finding yourself a good lawyer instead.” I looked at Anne. “Today’s been a raging success. We’ve accomplished one major goal.”
Anne looked at me. “What’s that?”
“You guessed correctly, she’s the photographer.” I looked up at our erstwhile hostess. “Why don’t you sit the fuck down now and shut it?”
“How do you know?” Anne asked.
“Well, I could get technical and say, her body language or she has some sort of tell or something. But all it was is that I showed her photos of her daughter being raped and her first concern was for herself.” I glared at Eileen. “So sit down and shut up.”
Eileen shook her head. “You said homicide.”
“When’s the last time you talked to Colin?” Anne said.
The woman froze. Her mouth opened and closed once. She was more shaken by Colin’s death than she was by these photos.
Maybe I should set her up on a blind date with my father.
I held up my hand out as a stop sign toward Eileen. “Wait! I love guessing games. About a month ago.”
She looked at me, all the fight draining out of her now. “How did you know?”
“Because that’s when he managed to finally steal the negatives from you.”
You Know Who I Am (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries Book 2) Page 19