Ms. Martinez couldn't add much to the others' accounts. A squat woman in a navy- blue skirt and white hotel blouse, with too much plum lipstick coloring an ample mouth, she too found Ardennes sweet, dulce, she said. Yes, she had driven up the box of salts and left them on the door handle.
"How did Ms. Thrush seem when you last saw her?" the Detective asked.
"I would say she was a woman, how can I say it? Contained to herself."
The Detective nodded and thanked her. Christine had nothing to add. She hadn't even met Ardennes. The box from Bed Bath and Beyond held a small, glass- topped garden table. Detective Collins found nothing in the packing or contents relevant to the case; another waste of time that couldn't be helped. He thanked Sharif again.
He hadn't parked his car before the maids up top knew a police
man was coming to question them about a guest. Alma and Zaneda also sang Ardennes's praises. "Kind, y muy guapa, la señora!" Zaneda said. No, she hadn't cleaned the rooms in a day or two, and then it was her days off. "She do not all the time want me to clean. Her rooms almost did not need me. She like me to make the bed, and the bath."
They were standing in an unoccupied room in the wing opposite the one containing the Thrush- Lucerne suite. Detective Collins faced the open door. The women sat down together on the bed.
Alma was the blunter of the two. "I seen her with you, Señor. She get into your car."
"Did you see me before that?"
"I see you," Zaneda said. She looked down at her hands, nervously. "The day I come late to her rooms because she took the do- not- disturb off." She thought a minute. "She give nice tips, for my kids."
" Where did you see me, Zaneda?"
"I see you came that day and go to her rooms." She looked Detective Collins sharply in the eye, just once.
"And you, Alma? You haven't cleaned the rooms lately either, correct?"
"A German film team came to take up four good rooms, so they need us down below. They are good business below. Better tips. But I cleaned yesterday, late. Mr. Lucerne ask me to."
"Mr. Lucerne asked you to clean?" Alma nodded. "Okay, when did you last see Ms. Thrush?"
"I saw Mrs. Thrush go out with Mr. Lucerne and the Portuguese girl, Santosa— last time I saw her. Mrs. Thrush was driving."
"Did either of you see her limping?"
"Quale?" asked Zaneda. Alma translated. Neither woman had seen Ardennes with a limp. Then Zaneda remembered: Arturo had driven her up, and he'd told her about the ankle. "Sí, when she falled on her foot?" She pointed to her ankle. The Detective indicated yes. "No, not limp."
He pulled out a picture of Fits and showed it to the women. Alma had nothing to say, but Zaneda recognized him. "I see him in movies." She smiled.
"You like the movies?" He watched a dimple come to life on the left side of her small mouth.
Zaneda nodded, smiled shyly. "Sí, movies make me dream."
"Sure, dreaming's open to everybody, and it's free. How about here, at the hotel?"
"Como?" Alma translated. Zaneda giggled, covering her mouth. Alma looked at her. "Sí Sí, aquí, here today— yes. He comes with two policemens, just like in the movies." She laughed again. Alma's eyes went big.
"But not before that?" Fits might have been missed, slipping in behind the garbage truck.
"You have not been to her rooms since your day off ?" Zaneda shook her head. She looked at Alma, who shrugged. "Alma, this is important: Did you see Ms. Thrush drive her car away three or four days ago?"
"No."
"Did you see anyone else drive her car away?"
"No." She thought a minute but said no again.
"Okay. Last question: Do either of you clean Ms. Vernon's room, 304? It's okay, I won't tell anyone, but maybe she pays you cash once in a while?"
"That crazy old lady with the dog— she too cheap!"
"Why do you call her crazy, Alma?"
"Look how she dresses, like a old putana. People like that, they pretend they don't see us."
Zaneda asked her something in Spanish; Alma answered in Spanish. Zaneda said, "She not so bad. She talk sometimes to Señora Thrush. I don't know the mujer is loco, only old. I see Señora Thrush all the time walking, in the little gardens and down in the road. Always walking, always she is alone. Is good she have a friend, no?"
Detective Collins glanced out through the open door just in time to see Sylvia Vernon withdraw her head from over her balcony wall. Friend or foe? he asked himself. He looked each woman in the eye. "Neither of you knows where Ms. Thrush is?" Neither did. Alma was likely the less trustworthy of the two, but Detective Collins didn't see either of them involved in Ardennes's disappearance. He thanked them and let them go.
He'd already told Fits he was free to go. Fits had told him to shove it when he'd offered to have the uniformed officers, Mike Berry and Paul Bedford, drive him back to Universal City. He said he'd pay for his own cab. What he wanted Detective Collins to do was call the studio and say there had been a mix- up, that he— Fits— was not involved in any criminal activity. "I don't need those stiffs with anything to hang over my head. See?"
"Fine," Detective Collins said.
"And where are you, anyway, as in: Where's Ardennes? You're an amateur, Detective Collins, as in: You don't know what you're doing. I could act a better cop," he said before taking off.
While Detective Collins was harvesting clues, Andre made a quick trip to Century City, with Carola behind the wheel this time. He let Jonas Campion know his wife was missing and suggested they keep a low profile on the news since the circumstances were anything but clear. She may have, as Andre put it, "been encouraged to leave with someone not of her own choosing." His tone was impatient.
"Missing? Good God. Since when?" Jonas Campion asked. He glanced at the ever- poised and ready Cheryl Li.
"A day or so."
"Or so?" He composed himself, leaned back in his desk chair. "Listen here, Andre, first there was the Bouclé incident. A perfectly good actress. Now this. We have a bottom line to consider; there is an end to our patience."
"The police feel they are getting close," Andre lied. Carola studied the floor.
Jonas Campion stood up. "The police . . . wonderful. Cheryl! Get that idiot Thames on the phone— not up here; I do not want him in here— and tell him to get a piece in Variety ASAP: Andre Lucerne will begin shooting . . ." he fished the air for the title . . . "The Dance next week. Keep it under wraps who will replace Luce Bouclé. He's to drop a few actresses' names, get a little intrigue going. And, Cheryl, not a word leaves this office about Ardennes Thrush gone missing. Not a word." Cheryl nodded firmly: her high heels clacked efficiently past the carpeted portion of Jonas Campion's office onto the terrazzo flooring and out to her desk. To Andre Campion said, "You begin shooting first thing next week. I will assign a lead and work out the details if you haven't found one by then. Ardennes Thrush might be the best actress for the part, but we can't wait— of course we hope for her safe recovery. Find someone, Andre. Don't jeopardize that Aussie money. You see my point, I'm sure." He eyed Andre significantly.
Andre was quiet a moment. "Producers do not cast my films, Jonas. I cast my films." His voice was as icy as his native Alps. "Your concern for Ms. Thrush's well- being is touching. Good day, sir." And with that he took Carola's arm and led her out of the office, barely fifteen minutes after they'd arrived.
Jonas Campion sat down at his desk, the brown calf- leather seat emitting a deflating sigh. "Shit," he announced to the air around his desk. He reached for his phone but recradled it a few seconds later. "Shit," he said again, more emphatically. He sat a minute. "Cheryl!" he called out.
We’re running out of time, Miss,” Sylvia said when she finally returned. I was back on my pile of old clothes. I'd put on a pair of sweatpants after my sponge bath and was reasonably comfortable. I did not reply. What difference did the time make to me? "Ardennes?" The light was on, but Sylvia pointed a flashlight into my face.
"I heard y
ou. Turn that thing off !" I blinked. "Running out for what? Should I make out a will: 'All my worldly wealth goes to my good friend and jailer, Sylvia Vernon, in memory of our intimate time together'?"
"You have to decide; it's now or never: What do you want?"
I yawned. "I'm missing your point, Sylvia."
"What's wrong with you?"
"I must be getting Stockholm syndrome. I'm starting to like my little lair. Of course, my muscles are atrophying, my hair's a nest, I can't change my shirt, but all in all it's not too bad. The food is excellent. And something smells yummy."
"Why'd you shack up with that detective?"
"You weren't in my life yet."
"What are you doing married to the Swiss?"
"They make very precise timepieces, didn't you know?"
"Do all you actresses need to ruin yourselves?"
I leaned on my elbow, one hand hugging the other in my binding. I'd become a regular lazy little odalisque. I'm sure it was Sylvia's doping potion or I'd have been on the floor in a thousand crumpled nervous pieces by now. I snapped my fingers. "Why don't you audition for Andre's film, Sylvia? It's about a dancer whose legs get mangled in a carnival accident. Sound familiar? You could try for the body double if acting's not in your line. What a plot coincidence, huh: The character was a ballerina before her mishap. That'd be a lot safer than kidnapping. Isn't kidnapping a capital offense? Better make ransom contact with my husband soon, before the FBI comes on board, eh, Sylvia? He's worth plenty." Maybe the cob webs were clearing and I was actually on to something. I sat up. "I'm thinking you couldn't have pulled this little caper off all on your own. . . ."
"Shut up."
She looked agitated. I must have hit a nerve. "No need to get testy. I'm only trying to help."
"You sound like her. . . ."
"But I am not Lucy. Do you understand that, Sylvia?" I think I finally had her off balance.
She softened her tone. "You're lonely. I can help."
I laughed without mirth. "Is that what you told Lucy when you locked her up and set the closet on fire?"
"She was found in bed."
"So? You dragged her there after the smoke knocked her out. You took a chance; you could have been killed too, but it worked out, right, Sylvia?" She shook her head. "No? Okay, just a thought; can't hang a girl for thinking."
"They're looking for you. You haven't much time left to decide."
This was a bit of good news. But why tell me? "Oh, for God's sake, decide what, Sylvia?" We had begun to snarl. It seemed to me that neither of us meant to; well, I had the right, but why was Sylvia all worked up? I suppose she was on edge, an old lady holding a woman hostage. I looked at her. Nah, she was a pretty tough bird. Besides, she was keeping me docile on sedatives. " Whose idea was drugging me, Sylvia?"
She ignored the question. "What do you care about?"
"Me? I care about plenty."
"Name three things."
I thought about that. "No."
"You didn't care about acting."
She knew how to cut the fat off the meat, get right to the gut of the matter, didn't old Sylvia? Maybe this was what I would have tried to tell Harry if his heart hadn't given out, but Sylvia was doing the asking now: "I probably cared too much."
She was quiet. Mucho was looking at me, his head cocked. It seemed like he was smiling. I coughed and looked up at Sylvia. She looked stricken. "Sylvia? What makes you so certain I'm not in love with my husband?"
She waved a hand impatiently.
"Bluffing? Well, you could be right. We married in a mood: a snowy night . . ."
"I am right."
I leaned back on my chaise of old clothes, the stale smell of them no longer bothersome. I was hungry; we'd skipped lunch.
" Maybe I just wanted to be in love. . . ." I heard myself and wanted to laugh, I sounded that drifty— that was my mom's word, drifting. Well, well, revelation upon revelation. She was always say ing, "Be clear, Ardennes; be clear." When I was small I thought of windows and Windex. Or like when Grandma would say, "What a perfectly clear day we've been given today; we should learn from it." Which also confused me because I didn't know who gave us the clear day— nor did I have a clue what we were supposed to learn from it. Later I figured my mother meant clear à la the March Hare: Then you should say what you mean. But I don't think that was it either, but more like some tall- order wisdom that I would have to catch on to when I got a little wisdom of my own. In other words, I forgot about it.
Sylvia put Mucho down. "Is it girl talk now?"
"Your turn at sarcasm, Sylvia?" I shot back.
"Ah, whaddaya mean by love anyhow?"
"I don't know." I looked up at the closet ceiling, the bare light fixture that had been my sun for the past couple of days. "Shooting stars? The kind in the sky, I mean."
"Fireworks, huh?"
"Sure, except fireworks don't last; then I think moving on to something deeper is the trick." I thought about Billy. He was good on the floor but maybe not so stellar on the job; why hadn't he found me yet? On top of everything else, had I slept with a second- rate cop?
"How's the deep part going so far?"
I shrugged. "I'm better at theory. What about you, Sylvia?"
"What about me?"
"Didn't you ever fall hard?"
"Lucille . . ."
I sat up again. "You had it bad for lame little Lucy, huh?" She nodded. "So you were a lesbian stripper?"
"I had men. One I liked, only he was my uncle and that was a no- no. Didn't stop us, but it couldn't go anywhere, and I was in far more over my head than he ever was. He liked consuming my flesh all right. Not to mention he had a wife."
"Why your uncle, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Who knows? My mother's brother; maybe it was father desire— mine took off before we were introduced. I was barely fifteen when I seduced Uncle Jack."
"Oh." Right about the time in my life when I was innocently pining for literary Mr. Russell. My daydreams hadn't gotten past kissing; I didn't know enough to go any further.
"He was a stinker to let me, not a man of principle, but that type never worked out for me as it turned out. I started dancing and found I enjoyed the girls in the dressing room— ladies' bodies more. Being on stage with nearly naked women was a real turn- on. Imagine my little secret— not that I was the only gal to ever try and climb the harem walls." She massaged her neck. On her right middle finger was a chunky garnet ring. She had a habit of twisting it while holding on to the gun. I wondered if it was glass or the real thing. If real, who gave it to her?
" Maybe the men I wanted to love were just too clumsy with me. Or we're all just too clumsy with each other . . . who knows?" I said, unintentionally mimicking her.
Sylvia's head shot forward. She looked at me with total concentration, her expression stern— or maybe alert, animal- alert. It lasted a matter of seconds. "All this reminiscing isn't getting us anywhere." Her tone turned hard as rocks.
I looked at her, not the way she looked at me but seeing her clearly the way it sometimes happens when you think you're seeing but then, when you do look— really look— you see you haven't seen at all and are only just in that moment seeing what is before you. It was her looking at me the way she did that made me look back at her the way I did. " Where are we trying get to, Sylvia?" I asked softly.
She pushed herself off the doorway. "Too much chatter! We leave here tomorrow morning."
I felt a shiver of panic, a snake of fear slithering down from my heart to my gut. The announcement seemed sudden. Where would she take me, to another hideout? Or was she going to dump me somewhere? Were they getting close to finding me?
I made my voice sound unconcerned. I'd cooked up a plan and decided now was the time to play it. "Ah, gee, I was just settling in. Must we leave?" She didn't react, seated now in her chair with the gun at her side, in her right hand. "Sylvia, listen." I made myself sound embarrassed. "I had my little bath earlier, and there was spotting
." No response. "Did you hear? I'm about to get my period. Could you go to the pharmacy and get me tampons? I'll pay you back. Sylvia."
She just stared at me. For a minute I thought she was going to ask for proof. I was lying. In fact, I was a day or two late and trying not to panic, though I didn't see how it could be possible. I'd thought of that too, to ask for a pregnancy test, but decided not to jinx myself. My plan, once she was gone, was to bang on the walls with her shoes. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. The subterfuge was the only way I could be certain she'd be out of the way. But she just kept on staring. My little trick, this entirely unanticipated piece of information, had her stumped. She looked seriously flummoxed. "Sylvia?"
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