“Something’s wrong with Nora.”
Del felt a surge of anger. The protective kind. The kind you feel the moment your car slides on icy pavement, seizes control of your destiny, and glides you into a collision. “Where is she? What happened?”
“Tristan called me. She’s at home, but he thinks she’s in danger, maybe unconscious. Do you know her address? Can you meet us there? I can GPS it.”
Del slammed the trunk shut.
“I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 67
WHEN DEL ARRIVED at Nora’s house, he found Tristan banging on the door, shouting her name at the top of his lungs. Felicia arrived five minutes later and joined them.
Del shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the neighborhood street. “I thought she had a security guy out here.”
“Who knows,” Tristan said. “Usually, she does, but maybe she gave him the day off. Perfect day to do that, huh? I told you she didn’t seem like herself when I called her.”
Del placed his hands on his hips, surveyed the façade of the house. “You’re sure she’s inside?”
“I’m positive,” replied Tristan. “She was in there when I called her thirty minutes ago, and I’m telling you, she sounded too spaced out to budge anytime soon.”
To Del, the scenario felt all too familiar. It reminded him of August 5, 1962. He recognized the prickling along his skin, the same sensation that had occurred when he’d heard the world had lost Marilyn Monroe.
Felicia bit her lower lip. Del saw genuine concern in her eyes, as though she felt the pressure of time passing faster than they could afford. She scanned the house, too, probably hoping Nora had left a window cracked open. “Did you try calling her again?”
“A bunch of times. She won’t pick up. That’s why I started banging on the door.”
“Maybe you should try calling her one more time.”
Tristan nodded. Retrieving his phone from his back pocket, he made a couple of taps with his thumb and held the device to his ear. Although they couldn’t have waited more than ten seconds, Del felt his stomach somersault.
Ten more seconds passed. Cursing under his breath, Tristan ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket. “No answer.”
“And you don’t think her phone might be in another room?” Del suggested. “It’s her cell phone, right? Maybe the battery ran down and she doesn’t know it.” But not even Del bought into those explanations. The foreboding sense sharpened.
“Something’s got to be wrong,” Tristan replied. “I’m sure she’s inside. Even if her phone was dead, she would have heard me beating on her door. Nobody could’ve slept through that, not for as long as I pounded at it,” Tristan replied. He angled his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice as he yelled for Nora once again.
Tristan glanced at Del and Felicia, his face drawn with worry. His hands fidgeted, as if they operated ten minutes into the future and had already gone into action. “I’ve gotta get in there,” he muttered to himself.
The helpless trio stood in thoughtful silence.
Del and Felicia wandered around the side of the house in search of a back door Nora might have forgotten to lock. Del eyed the neighbors’ homes, which appeared empty at midday, the homeowners at work, no doubt. If they were home, they would have wandered outside once Tristan started screaming like a madman.
“We’d better call 911,” Felicia said, fumbling through her purse in search of her phone.
A sudden thud startled Del. It came from the front of the house. It must have stunned Felicia, as well, because she gaped at Del with her hand still in her purse. They hurried back around the house to find Tristan lunging, shoulder-first, at the front door.
“What are you doing?!” Del shouted as he scurried up the front porch steps.
“Trying to bust through the damn door, but it won’t budge!” With a grunt, he battered the door once again, to no avail.
“Tristan, you can’t just—”
“Are you gonna argue or help me out? I can’t do this on my own!”
The three of them huddled together, with Tristan at the forefront, his shoulder angled forward.
“On the count of three!” Tristan shouted. “One…two…”
Del sucked a breath, then tightened his gut the way he did when he lifted a heavy box.
“Three!”
The trio heaved forward as one. The door remained in place, but they heard something split, maybe a hinge coming loose from the doorframe.
“I think something happened,” Tristan said. “One more time.”
On the count of three, they tried again. The door remained intact, but this time, Del could tell something had cracked. Even from his position as number two, he’d felt it.
Another count of three and the trio lunged. The momentum carried them through as the door fell forward and crashed, its hinges skidding across the foyer’s hardwood floor. All three individuals stumbled to the floor. Del felt a muscle twinge in his back and wondered if, once he slept on it, he’d spend the next week paying the price. But he didn’t care. He had to find Nora. Even if it meant hobbling through this house bent at the waist, he refused to give up.
CHAPTER 68
THE SHRIEK OF A SECURITY ALARM PIERCED the stillness. It echoed in the foyer and throughout the house.
“Spread out!” Del shouted. To his relief, he was able to stand up straight, though he felt a tad sore. “We’ll find her faster that way.”
Without another word, they parted ways and sprang into action. Tristan darted toward the kitchen, Felicia took the bathroom, while Del aimed for the living room.
When he reached the living room, the scent of alcohol hit him. Wine, nothing heavy. A wine bottle on the coffee table caught his eye, and he rushed toward it. Picking it up, he found it almost empty. He also noticed a small pill packet, its foil lining punctured and twisted in several spots, sitting beside the wine. Call it intuition, but as soon as he’d entered the house, he’d expected to find pills of some variety. Reading the label, he discovered they were sleeping pills and cringed.
Sleeping pills contain barbiturates, he thought. Barbiturates. Just like—
Worry overtook him. Tears glossed over his eyes but he forced them back. He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of emotions. Not now. Wherever Nora was, he had to find her. The room appeared empty, but he swore she had been here recently. The alcohol scent was stale, but not by much. He noticed a coffee mug and looked inside.
Wine.
When he tilted the mug, a bead of claret-colored liquid slid from one side of the surface to the other.
Still wet.
Tristan was right. She was in the house. And she had been in this room.
The sofa was empty, so Del scoured the room, searching for Nora’s body on the floor but found nothing. Where was she? Had they arrived too late? The taste of bile tinted his palate. Del had no confidence that these circumstances would turn out well.
He raced toward the staircase and darted upstairs as fast as he could. He had only visited Nora’s home once, but he had a vague memory of its upper-level layout. He veered left, toward the master bedroom.
When he reached the door, he halted and caught his breath. Nora was on the bed, curled in a fetal position, with one arm slumped over the side of the mattress. Though she had porcelain skin, even Del, from his vantage point, could see Nora’s complexion was too pale.
He ducked his head into the hall and shouted over the alarm. “Tristan! Felicia! Master bedroom upstairs! Get in here!”
Del raced to the bed and lifted Nora’s head.
“Nora!” She didn’t respond. Her eyes were closed, her face slack. Panicked, Del gently slapped her cheek a few times to try to awaken her. Nothing. “Nora!”
Felicia and Tristan arrived at the door. Felicia turned to Tristan.
“Call 911!” she shouted. “The security company will have responded already, so they’ll be on their way. But we need an ambulance too!”
With tea
rs running down his face, Tristan grabbed his phone and ducked out of the room to talk outside, where it was quieter.
Del had fallen to his knees by this time, shaking Nora’s whole body. Felicia shot over to the bathroom, and Del heard the faucet running. Felicia returned with a glass of cold water, which she splashed upon Nora’s face, to no avail. Del slapped her cheek again to try to prompt a response after the drenching, but Nora looked dead.
Felicia eased beside him and placed her forefinger and middle finger on Nora’s neck, beside her windpipe.
“She still has a pulse,” Felicia said, her forehead perspiring, droplets of sweat falling onto Nora’s shoulder.
The security alarm ceased. Del’s ears continued to ring. He heard the faint sound of approaching police sirens.
“I found alcohol and sleeping pills in the living room. Recently used. The wine remnant hasn’t completely dried in the mug she was drinking from.”
“Then we definitely don’t have much time, if it’s not too late already.” She moved her hair out of her face. “It’ll take the ambulance a few minutes to get here. Move aside. I’ll monitor her, and if she stops breathing, I’ll be ready to take action. I know CPR.” As she hovered over Nora’s body and checked her pulse again, Felicia said, “Pray, Del.”
Del stuttered. “I—I don’t pray.”
“This would be the perfect time to start.”
Helpless, Del stared at what looked like a corpse on the bed—and feared he already knew how this would turn out.
His heart sank.
CHAPTER 69
NONE OF THE THREE WANTED to leave the hospital. A staff member, upon recognizing Del and recalling he had attended the Oscars ceremony with Nora, had led them to a small, secluded room, where they could avoid unwanted attention from passersby. Del had thanked her but couldn’t find words to express his true gratitude.
Hours passed without much chitchat as the trio awaited updates. Once, Felicia had offered to pray, which both Del and Tristan had welcomed. From time to time, Del glanced at Felicia, who sat in one corner of the room, staring out a window, her lips in motion. Though she didn’t utter a sound, Del guessed she hadn’t stopped praying all afternoon.
In an attempt at diversion, a restless Tristan had turned on a small television. He kept the volume low out of respect for the others, but nobody paid attention to the broadcasts. Not even Tristan himself.
The pain must have numbed Del’s friends the way it had numbed Del himself.
Urgent music erupted. The evening newscast commenced and an anchorwoman’s voice sailed over Del’s head. As one might expect, Nora was among the top stories.
“Actress Nora Jumelle is recuperating this evening after suffering what authorities say was a near-lethal combination of sleeping pills and alcohol. Jumelle was rushed to the hospital after being found unconscious in her home by three acquaintances, including actor Del Corwyn…”
All eyes flicked toward the television.
Del shook his head with regret. When tragedies unfold, events that involve someone close to you, you wonder if you could have done something to prevent it, or if you should have recognized a warning sign and taken action on what you had seen.
“The incident occurred less than a week after Jumelle’s Oscar loss surprised many. Physicians remain optimistic she will recover from the overdose, after receiving medical attention in sufficient time. We will report further details when they become available. The actress remains in critical condition.”
Anxious, Del turned off the television. He couldn’t handle more chatter. Thoughts of what could have happened tormented him.
Tristan must have felt the same way. He shook his head and meandered to the door, mumbling that he needed to get some fresh air. All Del could muster in reply was a sympathetic, halfhearted grunt.
As Del zoned out, he felt an arm slide around his shoulder and pull him close. He recognized the scent of Felicia’s skin and covered her hand with his own. Settling onto his lap, she rested her cheek against his.
“Are you doing okay?” she whispered.
“What if we hadn’t arrived in time?” Del murmured in reply. “That’s the thought that churns in my mind.”
“Thank God, we did find her in time.” She rubbed his hand with her thumb.
Del shifted in his seat, sensing discomfort from a nerve he had pinched when they stumbled through Nora’s front door. Now he pondered his surroundings, the hospital room dim despite sunshine peeking through the windows, and wished he could relive the last two months.
“Nothing was supposed to turn out this way,” Del said. “I can’t help but think I might have played a role in what happened to her.”
Felicia removed her cheek from beside his. With a furrowed brow, she touched his shoulder.
“This isn’t your fault, Del.”
“The rational part of me understands that.” His heart shuddered. “But the coincidence seems too obvious. All that’s happened these last few months—the script nonsense and the media circus I created—Nora got dragged into it. She already faced enormous pressure in her life before this. Then the speculation started to swirl around her playing the lead role.”
“Did you plant the seed of speculation, Del?”
“Of course not.”
“Then this isn’t your fault.” She swiped a stray hair from Del’s forehead. “It was just a coincidence, people doing what they do.”
“The parallel, though—it replays in my mind.”
“What parallel?”
He turned to her. “I’ve been through this before—or something like it. Think of who wrote the script, then look at Nora’s career on the rise, just like that blond starlet of the early sixties. Both actresses misunderstood, both hiding their pain, both under enormous pressure they can’t put into words. And both succumbing to it all in a similar way,” he said. “Except one didn’t die.”
“That parallel would have existed regardless of the events in your life. You didn’t cause this, Del.”
“It’s difficult to see it that way. It doesn’t stop the taunting.”
“Have you considered that maybe the script is the reason Nora is still alive?”
Del couldn’t hide his stunned reaction. “In what way?”
“Consider when you discovered the screenplay and Marilyn’s letter in your home,” Felicia replied. “Think about the chain of events that followed. It refocused your memories on your long-lost friend and on her importance in your life. If your heart hadn’t turned toward those memories at the right time, would it have been sensitized enough to recognize that Nora might be struggling?”
“Perhaps not.”
“You put the pieces together regarding Tristan and convinced him to talk to Nora. Think about it, Del: That was the reason Tristan made the phone call when he did. And it ignited a chain reaction that led us to Nora’s home in time to save her life.”
“A lot of coincidences.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Del gazed into her eyes and, as tired and red-rimmed as they appeared, he detected a glint in them. A fire that refused to die.
“So maybe the script’s emergence played a key role,” she added. “Rather than causing a tragedy, what if it prevented a worse one from occurring?”
She rubbed his hand, and Del enveloped her fingers in his.
“It was sunny, much like today,” Del murmured. “Warmer that day, though.”
“What day?”
“August 5,” he replied. “Back in 1962. That was the day they found her in her home. Unconscious.”
As he allowed himself to relax, the commotion of Nora’s circumstances settled in, and the residual stress caused his vision to blur. He closed his eyes, and visions of the past flickered on the screen of his mind like a classic film, the film he had seen too many times to number.
“I heard about it on the news, like everyone else.” Del clasped his hands in his lap and hunched forward. “It was a Sunday morning. I’d attende
d a party until the wee hours of the morning but, miracles of miracles, I’d avoided drinking too much and didn’t have a hangover like I often did. I got into my car around eleven o’clock, about the same time Tristan called this morning, and I cruised north on the Pacific Coast Highway, watching the ocean glisten on my left and the mountains tower on my right. Not a care in the world.
“I turned on the radio and caught the final bars of that Neil Sedaka song ‘Breaking Up is Hard to Do.’ It was the number-one hit that week. When the song wrapped up, the station played one of those call-letter jingles, followed by ‘The Stripper,’ which was also in the top ten at the time. About halfway through the song, the deejay interrupted the broadcast and announced the latest details of Marilyn Monroe’s death, which was the first I’d heard about it.” Del trembled as he inhaled. “They’d found her at home in her bedroom. The police suspected suicide. Some people in the industry believed that report; others thought it was an accidental overdose. Still others suspected foul play, even government involvement. Bear in mind, Joe McCarthy had dragged her into the Red Scare, and she had been romantically involved with the Kennedy brothers. But whatever happened to her, it remains a mystery today.” He paused. “All I know is, I wasn’t there when she died. That’s what haunts me most: I wasn’t there to stop whatever agony she endured before she took her final breath.”
Del peered up and found Felicia focused on every word he spoke. Listening.
People seldom listened to him anymore.
He closed his eyes again. The pain felt as fresh as it had in 1962, as though someone had stabbed him in the soul.
“Can you imagine? Interrupting ‘The Stripper’ to announce a woman’s death—a woman people had taken advantage of? A woman who had been, dare I say, the victim of emotional abuse since childhood? The context of the announcement, coming in the midst of that particular song, seemed so disrespectful to me.” Del shook his head and released a heavy sigh. “I drove several more yards until I rounded a bend and no traffic coming. Then I veered onto the shoulder and made a U-turn, as fast as I could on the narrow road, which didn’t feel fast enough. She lived in Brentwood, so I sped southbound along the coast. Hard to believe I didn’t get a ticket along the way.
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