The Starlet

by Mary McNamara

  “I need to talk to you,” Mercy said, twitching inside her costume and breathing vodka fumes into Juliette’s face. “Jesus, what is wrong with this thing, it was fine yesterday and now it feels like it was made of steel wool. Seriously. We should go on break in about an hour. Can you meet me? I have to talk to you. About your cousin. Who probably thinks I’m a freak, since I threw up on him like seven times, but there’s something important I need to ask you. And don’t let Usher leave again, okay? And tell Dev I got his message, all right? And could you get them to give me some real tea, with honey, like we had that first day? It’s like no one listens to me in this place.” She gave a huge exasperated wriggle. “Can you just look down the back of this and see what’s there? I feel like there are a thousand hypodermic needles poking me in the back and you’re the only person here who understands anything.”

  There was nothing, of course, but a fine silk lining, and there was already tea and Cerreta honey on a small table nearby. As she helped settle Mercy into place, Juliette threw a sympathetic glance Michael’s way and was rewarded with a bright and blinding smile. Still, as Golonski called action, Juliette backed away, thinking of what Angie had said about the danger of being Mercy’s keeper; it would suck the marrow from your bones.

  “Did you follow them?” she asked Gabe, when she found him in the toolshed behind the fattoria.

  “No, I didn’t follow them,” Gabe said. “And I didn’t offer them lunch, either. Usher took them to see the wine cellar. Apparently, they want to buy some wine and have Michael and Mercy sign the labels. I don’t know how much stranger this setup can get.”

  “Mercy wants to talk to me,” Juliette said. “She says she needs to talk to me, about you, and that you probably think she’s ‘a freak.’ Any idea what that’s about?”

  “That I finally kissed her last night. Right before she vomited for the first time.”

  Juliette laughed before she had time to think.

  Gabe grunted as he heaved a wheelbarrow into place. “It was a mistake,” he said. “Kissing a drunk is always a mistake. I could practically taste the coke. In fact, it may have constituted a slip. I don’t know what I was thinking. She just seemed so sad, so normal, for a minute or two.”

  “That’s when they’re the most dangerous,” Juliette said. “That’s when you should turn around and run.”

  Juliette called Devlin’s cell phone again, but he did not answer, again. She called the Coronet and was told he had checked out. She called his cell phone again and left a message telling him about Usher’s reappearance and the existence of his two friends. “Are you even still in Italy?” she asked, and hoped the recording wouldn’t sound as trembly as her voice sounded in her ears. In a sudden rush of anxiety, she called the Roman police headquarters; Inspector Di Marco was not available, would she care to leave a message? If he had a moment, could he please call Juliette Greyson at Cerreta? Thank you.

  Then, after staring at her BlackBerry as if she could will it into ringing, Juliette went to meet Mercy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  HAVING CONVINCED THE COSTUME department to reline her dress, Mercy, now clad in camisole and shorts, wanted to go for a walk, “away from everyone,” she said. “I’m so sick of everyone looking at me, you know? Like they know something secret and horrible about me.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s thinking anything like that,” Juliette said automatically. “And they have to look at you. You’re the star of the movie.”

  “But they don’t have to look at me so much,” she said peevishly, picking her way down one of the trails that meandered through the forest from the back of the villa. “We’re almost done, you know.”

  “I heard.”

  “I don’t want to leave, Juliette. I just can’t imagine going back to L.A. Not now, not without my mother. There’ll be a funeral and I’ll have to talk to my dad and it’ll be all over the Internet and the magazines and then I’ll have to do publicity for this fucking movie and it will never ever end. If I leave here, it will go on and on like it always has until I just drop dead at some film festival or junket somewhere. You have to figure out a way for me to stay. Talk to Gabe. Tell him I’m sorry I puked on him. Tell him . . . I really like him.”

  “Gabe’s been puked on before, believe me,” Juliette said wryly. “And I’m certainly not going to tell him you ‘like him.’ I graduated high school years ago.” She paused, then added quietly, “You do? Seriously like him?”

  Mercy nodded. “He’s like the first actual man I’ve ever met,” she said. “I mean, he does things and says things just because he thinks he should, just because they’re true. No one I know just says things because they’re true or expects me to do something just because I should. It’s like he doesn’t understand how the world actually works or he just doesn’t care. He doesn’t even care what I think.”

  “Oh, he cares,” Juliette said.

  “Well, I know he cares, but he won’t change what he says or does because of it. It’s so”—Mercy gave a little shiver—“sexy. So unbelievably sexy. And then I puked on him.” She shook her head. “So I have to stay,” she said brightly. “To make up for it.”

  “I don’t know, Mercy,” Juliette said doubtfully. “I love Gabe and I love Cerreta, but it’s not like they’ve had the best effect on you. I mean, you almost took a header off a tower, not to mention what happened to your mom . . . well, I would think you couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

  Mercy broke a switch off a tree, stripped the leaves from it, and walked for a few minutes in silence. The forest seemed to arch around her, like the frame of a picture. Dust glittered in the golden light, crisscrossed with shadow and birdsong.

  “None of that seems real,” she said finally. “On location, nothing ever seems quite real, which is why so many people get in so much trouble. But here, especially . . . I guess I’m afraid that if I leave, it will become real. She’ll really be dead. Here it still seems fluid. Like it’s something that might have happened, but maybe not. I know that isn’t true but it just feels better. You know?”

  Juliette did. Juliette most certainly did. She pulled down her own switch, stripped off its leaves, and walked in her own silence, grateful for the hill they were climbing and the living, rustling breath of the woods around them.

  “Mercy,” she said finally after they reached the top. “If I thought you could solve any of your problems by staying, I would tell you to stay. Seriously. But all your crap, all your fear and shame and dread and whatever will show up, right here, every morning, sitting on the end of your bed, waiting for you to wake up. No matter where you are. Even here.”

  And when she said it, she realized it was true. Which meant it didn’t really matter where she, Juliette, went, either. It all followed her, too.

  “I think you’re wrong,” Mercy said blithely. “I think you can start over. And I think it helps to be in a new place to do it. In a new place, you’re a different person. Or at least you can be, if that’s what you want.”

  Juliette was about to continue her protest when Mercy stopped.

  “There’s the castle,” she said, pointing off the trail, down the slope. Juliette was surprised; in the past it hadn’t been visible from this trail. The production crew must have taken down some trees or bushes, must have cleared some of the undergrowth that surrounded it. Gabe would probably have a fit when he realized that. What was the point of having a hidden castle if it wasn’t hidden?

  Mercy meanwhile was sliding down the hill at an alarming pace, moving through the woods silently and almost invisibly like a dryad. “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “I want to show you something. There’s a door . . .”

  Juliette had to make an effort to catch up with her, but even with her long legs, she couldn’t. Mercy was lounging against the outer wall when Juliette emerged, flushed and breathless, from the woods. As she always did when she spent time alone with Mercy, Juliette felt she had entered a sort of parallel universe, a place without rules
that was both tantalizing and unnerving.

  “How do you move so fast?” she asked.

  “Magic.” Mercy laughed. “Didn’t you know? These woods are thick with it. And my own brand of pixie dust.” She cocked her head to one side, her eyes bright, and laughed again her beguiling wicked laugh. “You’re so pretty, Juliette. With your hair all over the place and those green, green eyes. You should marry Dev, you know.”

  “Mercy,” she said warningly.

  “You should marry Dev, and I will marry Gabe, and we could live here, in this castle, and run Cerreta as an educational foundation that also happens to be a world-class hotel. Seriously. We should. We could. Because I think I found your Giotto.”

  And with that she disappeared through a break in the wall that Juliette and Gabe had always called, for some reason she could not remember, the priest hole.

  “There’s a door,” Mercy said, drawing Juliette into what must have been, and what had indeed been filmed as, the kitchen. It was larger than most of the rooms in the castle, with two levels of shelves built into the stone along two of the walls. A five-foot-high fireplace stood at one end. The prop department had left the terra-cotta oven they had used in the shoot, as well as the bundles of flowers and herbs hanging from the ceiling. The floor had been swept and a large iron pot had still hung in the fireplace. Again Juliette was struck with a wave of almost painful nostalgia. How many picnics had she and Gabe shared in here, how many small smoky fires had they built, promising themselves that this time they wouldn’t bother going back to the villa, to their parents? They would live here, in their hidden castle, forever.

  “Look,” Mercy said, tugging at Juliette’s arm and pointing to a small wooden door in the corner formed where the stone oven met the wall. “This was covered by a pile of bricks.”

  “Mercy,” Juliette protested.

  “And they wouldn’t let me go down while we were filming.” She pulled open the door and disappeared inside. “Wow,” she said as the darkness engulfed her, “it’s really dark in here.”

  “It’s a pantry,” Juliette said. “There’s nothing in there but spiders.”

  “I should have brought a flashlight,” Mercy said. “Let’s find a flashlight. I bet the crew left one around here. I saw some Giottos when I was in Florence, you know. His people actually look like people, even the saints.”

  “Mercy,” Juliette said. “I don’t want to go grubbing around in there. I’ve been in there a hundred times and it’s not there. It’s not anywhere. I’m pretty sure my father made up the whole thing. To keep us busy. So we wouldn’t be underfoot while they drank themselves into a stupor. Or to make himself believe there was something wonderful here because what he had wasn’t enough. Was never enough.”

  Suddenly Juliette could see her father, his brown eyes shining as he fingered the letter and leaned over her and Gabe, discussing the various places the painting might be, just as if he believed in the future, though he so clearly did not. Her lungs grew tight and her stomach soured and she remembred how often she had felt this way as a child. Overwhelmingly anxious, waiting for the next bad thing to happen, the next screaming fight, the next weeks-long silence. She didn’t want to be here looking for something that didn’t exist, had never existed, not with Mercy, not ever again. “Let’s go back. I want to call Devlin again and there’s no reception out here.”

  “He’ll be home in time for dinner,” Mercy said, pulling Juliette out into the courtyard. “What? He left me a message to tell you he would be home for dinner. Don’t look at me like that. Just five minutes, we’ll explore for five minutes. Wait,” she said, becoming suddenly still. “Did you hear that?”

  Somewhere outside the castle walls men were talking. “Shhh,” whispered Mercy, crouching now, and pulling Juliette along with her into one of the front rooms where the windows looked out onto the forest beyond the castle walls. “If it’s Golonski, let’s pretend we’re wild boars. What do they sound like?” She was smiling and trembling in the dim light, still hunched like a child in a cupboard during a game of hide-and-seek. Despite all the memories and desire to get away, Juliette had to smile. Mercy’s excitement was infectious and the simple action of pressing herself against the damp cool wall and peeking through the window made Juliette’s heart beat harder in childish anticipation.

  But it wasn’t Golonski, or at least not as far as she could see. Outside, Steve Usher was showing the castle to the men Juliette had met that morning. They looked up at the turret, admired the gate, gazed around at the woods, nodding and silent as Usher chattered on. Juliette couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but enough—“just perfect,” “pay through the nose for privacy”—reached her that she figured he was still pitching them the place, which made her very nervous. You couldn’t steal an estate, so she wasn’t quite sure what Usher had in mind, but she could see he hadn’t given up. The three were now walking along the trench that Carson had mentioned, and Juliette, tiring of the game, was heading for the door when she heard a sudden intake of breath and Mercy yelled, “Hey, asshole,” and rushed past her.

  Following her around the curving wall and through the entrance, she encountered a most unexpected tableau. Usher was on his knees on the edge of the trench. The man called Walter held a gun to his head, the other was pointing his gun in the direction of Mercy’s yell. All three men were momentarily frozen, their faces turned toward Mercy as she marched out of the castle, despite the fact that Frank’s gun was pointed now at her.

  “What the hell?” she said. “What do you think this is? Miller’s Crossing? Get up, Steve. You’re ruining your pants.”

  Obediently, Usher began to rise. Walter shoved him down.

  “You cannot be serious. What, do you owe these guys money?” Mercy asked. “He’s got the money. Just take it and leave. If it’s not enough, I’ll write you a check.”

  “Mercy,” Juliette said, sidling up to her, “I don’t think it’s just about money. I think they’re trying to make a point.” She could not imagine a scenario in which this would end well, certainly not one in which they would actually be allowed to go, but she figured it was worth a try. “Let’s go.”

  “It has to be about money,” Mercy said. “Look at these guys. It could only be about money, drugs, or prostitution, and . . .” She stopped and looked at Usher, illumination dawning on her face. “And it’s not prostitution, is it? Shit. Lloyd was right. I can’t believe it.” She threw back her head and laughed. “He totally said more people went to Resurrection to get high than to get sober and I thought he was just being paranoid. So let me guess,” she said, strangely at ease. “You’ve been running drugs out of Malibu and now you want to do it here and these guys aren’t happy about it.”

  Usher looked at her, stricken. “So, I’m sorry, so you didn’t know? Until just now? But I thought Lloyd had told you. You had his book and everything.”

  “What book?” Mercy said. “Lloyd never told me anything about you. I mean, he wasn’t your biggest fan, that’s for sure . . .”

  “But I thought you were the one who had contacted the DEA.”

  “Me?” Mercy asked, astonished. “I didn’t know you were dealing drugs. I knew whatever it was you were trying to do there didn’t work—I mean, look at me—but I figured it was because of, you know, the yoga on the beach and lame equestrian therapy.”

  Walter and Frank laughed appreciatively.

  “I resent that,” said Usher, with a remarkable amount of dignity considering the circumstances. “Equestrian therapy is very popular and effective and Resurrection has as high a recovery rate as any center. Which isn’t very high, I admit, but it’s not like we don’t help people. We do. We just also offer certain services to the nonaddict as well. If you would only read my book—”

  “Shut up about the book,” Walter snapped. “Without the book, none of this would have happened.”

  “The book,” Mercy said. “Oh, that book, Lloyd’s Little Book. He did say it was all in the book, but I didn’t
pay any attention. He said a lot of things when he was messed up, and he was messed up a lot. Which wasn’t my fault, you know. I didn’t give him any of my drugs.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Steve said, still speaking just as if he were not on his knees in the mud with a gun at his head. “You didn’t have to. There are drugs in this world; it was up to Lloyd whether you use them or not.”

  “That’s true, you know,” said Frank. “You need to take personal responsibility.”

  “Shut up, Frank,” said Walter, who, clearly awed by Mercy’s presence, seemed to be struggling to grasp the situation.

  “If my clients wish to become and remain sober,” Usher continued, “I am committed to their sobriety. One hundred percent. That’s why his threats were so personally hurtful to me . . .”

  “Which is when you should have picked up the phone, called our mutual friend, and explained the nature of the problem,” said Walter, attempting to take control. “Instead of relying on your own big ideas and squirrelly outside contacts.”

  “If I had told ‘our mutal friend’ that our mutually beneficial operation was about to blow up in my face, it would have been the last call I ever made.”

  “Probably,” Walter conceded. “But it would have saved a lot of time, and Lloyd Watson would still be alive. He had a pretty promising career, if you ask me.”

  “Wait,” said Mercy. “This is crazy. You work for who?” she asked Walter. “His supplier? Who is what, a drug lord? Who has people killed?”

  “That’s right, princess,” Frank said. “Where do you think all that coke you snort comes from anyway? Saks Fifth Avenue?”

  “Shut up, Frank,” Walter said again, before turning his attention back to Mercy.

  “Could you put the gun down for a second?” Mercy said. “Just a second?”

  “Listen,” Walter said, not lowering his arm, “I think you’ll agree that we’re doing everybody a service here. We’ll be gone in a few minutes and you heard the lady; they’re filling in this trench this afternoon.”