She’d held the phone’s handset up to Owen, and Max could have sworn his son addressed him as “father.” Which made sense, when Max thought about it. It was what the child heard his parishioners call him, after all; he’d have to work on winning him over to a less-formal “Dada.” This “father” was followed by incomprehensible shrieks of glee and pretend talk—although Max clearly heard him say the name of his dog, Thea. Owen was eight months old and Max felt his grasp of English was already superior to that of any eight-month-old of his acquaintance. Owen would be reciting poetry in no time. Perhaps they could introduce a few words of French into his daytime routine, which currently consisted largely of napping and eating. That he was now acquainted with a wide range of solid foods was a further source of pride to his parents. Awena was now working on a cookbook that incorporated all natural, homemade baby foods. The working title was Mush.
Awena had come back on the line. “Do you know,” she said, “I spent some time today looking up Margot Browne online. What a sad life she seems to have led.”
“Yes, and one leading to a bitterly sad end. They are trying to locate someone from her family with an interest in organizing a memorial service or at least in giving the coroner instructions on what to do with the body once it’s been released. She didn’t seem to have anyone who cared what happened to her, except possibly her stylist, and for his own self-preservation, he told me, he’d had to wash his hands of her years ago. Or at least, to keep a safe distance.”
“That would be Maurice … oh, what’s his last name?”
“Maurice Brandon. I suspect he’ll be the one to arrange some sort of farewell for her. But how on earth do you know about Maurice?”
“Oh, Max,” Awena sighed. It was her “I love you but you are hopeless” sigh. The sigh she used when Max demonstrated once again how out of step he was with what was happening in modern “culture.”
“Maurice Brandon—he’s known in most circles simply as Maurice—is probably the world’s most famous stylist. He’s worked on all the biggest stars in Hollywood. They call him the Miracle Worker. Believe me, most of those performers without makeup don’t even look like the same person. They look like a shorter, squatter, and balder missing link, if photos I’ve seen are anything to go by. It’s more than that, though: he’s their confidant. People trust him. He really does know where all the bodies are buried in the Hollywood Hills but he will never tell all or sell out. Not he. It’s how he’s built up his clientele and his reputation.”
Max suspected Awena was telling him all this for a reason. “Are you saying he would keep these women’s secrets, even during a police investigation?”
“Men’s and women’s,” she corrected. “He styles both sexes. But yes, he probably would. I mean, I don’t know the man but from what I’ve read he would want to be absolutely sure of his ground before he ran around spouting his suspicions. He really is the soul of discretion, known for his integrity.”
Max had said with a tinge of exasperation, “That’s exactly the sort of behavior that can earn you lots of attendees at your own funeral—keeping secrets from investigators in a case like this. It is commendable he has such integrity but if he’s keeping something back, it’s dangerous for him and for everyone.”
“I know. You might try him again, Max.” After a pause, she said, “I’m glad you’re there to find out who did this. To put a stop to any more of it. She deserved better. Margot had this sort of zany gift, I suppose you’d call it—that star quality … people cared about her. Just not enough, it would appear, or in the right ways.”
It was odd, reflected Max. While nearly devoid of talent, Margot had managed to build a loyal following of people who could quote at length from her movies—usually exaggerating her already exaggerated manner, it was true. She was still credited with the popularity of things like the Margot haircut: a style of thick waves curling about the shoulders, a style that harkened back to the days of studio stars like Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell. Possibly Maurice had had something to do with inventing the hairstyle.
“I’ll do what I can,” Max had told Awena. “Must dash now.”
“Have fun, if that’s the right term. Oh! And Destiny wants to know where you keep the gluten-free wafers.”
Max described where the communion wafers could be found in the vestry. He didn’t understand why but more and more of his congregation were asking for the alternate wafer.
“Got it. Catch this person! See you soon,” Awena had said, ringing off in a typically breezy Awena manner. Here was her husband surrounded by professional beauties and all the excesses Hollywood could provide—he would be wading this night through a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah—but there was not a question in her mind that Max’s presence was essential, much less that he would or could be led astray. She seemed to have forgotten all about Patrice, which also was typical. She knew there was no need for worry, even before learning Patrice was somewhat out of commission in that regard, anyway. Max doubted if anything he’d said on the subject of Patrice had rankled or had remained with Awena for long. She certainly knew her husband had a past—a past that had been at times riotous—but felt, as he did, that his life and hers had not really begun until they’d met in Nether Monkslip those few short years ago.
Glancing now around the glittery ballroom—yes, there was Maurice. Surrounded by sycophantic young people; it was good to see that his star wasn’t dimming.
Max rubbed a hand down the left side of his neck, where the muscles were tightening from the strain of the investigation—from days of disturbed sleep and catch-as-catch-can meals. He wished Awena were there with him, with her seemingly magical ability to heal by “channeling energy.” He had experienced the truth of her talent himself on more than one occasion. And of course she credited her own miraculous recovery following the explosion with her capacity to attach herself to the swirling light energies that surrounded her. Max pictured this light being drawn to her in somewhat the way lint attached itself to felt. When he had shared this rather prosaic image with her, she had enthusiastically agreed. “Yes,” she’d said solemnly. “It’s exactly like that.” She also claimed that every person carried about them a sort of musical aura, and that some people were chimes and other people were clankers. She assured Max that of course he was one of the chimers, as was Owen. Max had long since given up understanding Awena, but he would love her with his last breath.
Now Max accepted a glass of red wine from a passing waiter—he’d never cared much for champagne, even Veuve Clicquot—and carried his plate of bread, cheese, and olives over to where Maurice held court.
“Of course,” Maurice was saying, “Marilyn was everyone’s favorite, but even someone like Margot would not be foolish enough to try to go head-to-head with her legacy. There was something about Marilyn—you could see how fragile she was. So very shy, really. Possibly the last person to go into show business but aren’t we all grateful she—Oh, hello, Max. Let me introduce you.”
Max nodded, recognizing many of the headline names and finding it interesting to see these eminences in person. They looked—normal, for lack of a better word. And shorter than expected. He chatted lightly with them, storing up anecdotes to share with Awena on his return, wondering, as the conversation turned to articles in the most recent issue of Variety, what on earth they were talking about. They drifted away, chatting about box office returns. He had Maurice to himself for the moment.
“You can’t be old enough to have met Marilyn Monroe in person,” he said.
“What a lovely compliment!” said Maurice. “No, no, you’re quite right. It was my mother who knew her. She did Marilyn’s hair for some of her films, you know, and she was absolutely wrecked by the news of her death. She wouldn’t leave her bed for weeks. You should have seen my mother’s house before she herself died, twenty years later: it was a positive shrine to Marilyn. My mother never believed for one moment Marilyn died of a deliberate overdose, for what it’s worth. My mother was very much plug
ged in to all things Hollywood, so she would know. But all she ever did was hint darkly: Marilyn was full of plans for the future and never would have done away with herself. My mother held that it was better to say nothing when nothing could be proved, and that gossip wouldn’t bring her back, anyway.”
Like mother, like son. “Have you,” Max asked, “heard anything more?”
“About Margot? You mean, like a full confession by someone to her murder? No, but if I did, you’d be the first to know.”
Why did that have such a ring of falsehood about it? Perhaps it was Maurice’s expression, that butter-wouldn’t-melt look. What on earth was the man playing at?
“I know this goes against your grain,” Max said. “And that you’re known for your discretion. Most commendable that is, too. We should all have such a reputation. But if you have an inkling, a suspicion, even a wild, fleeting guess … Because I don’t mind telling you, the police are not finding anything much to go on. There’s no real physical evidence that wasn’t washed away from the body—no DNA, no fingerprints. Sometimes they can raise prints when the victim has been throttled, you know.” The color began to drain slowly from Maurice’s face; champagne sloshed over the lip of his glass and he had to step back as a few drops fell onto the tips of his shoes.
“Please!” he said.
“Someone needs to answer for her death,” Max continued, unrelenting. “It was a horrible, frightening way to go. She was shown no mercy.”
Maurice assumed an expression of the utmost severity, a completely changed man from the happy, fawned-over celebrity of just moments before.
“I agree. In this case, I have to agree completely that the seal of the confessional—something about which you may know a thing or two, Father?—will have to be broken. Yes, Addy told me about you—did you really think he wouldn’t? I owe it to my clients, in life and in death, to live up to their trust in me.”
“This is a special case,” said Max. He was growing alarmed. What had seemed an admirable stance amounting to an affectation had grown into some monstrous and intractable position that might do more than derail the investigation. For the first time, Max had a real concern that Maurice was putting himself in danger.
He was also impressed by the speed of the Hollywood grapevine. He hadn’t realized Addy was that close to Maurice.
It was as if Max hadn’t spoken.
“I have a suspicion, yes, but I need to confirm it,” Maurice said. “Because I might be on completely the wrong track and just playing a hunch, a guessing game. With someone’s life! It’s only fair, you know. If I’m wrong—quel désastre! Now, I must bid you good night. I may turn in early. It’s all catching up with me.”
“Very well,” said Max, seeing the man would not be moved, and privately deciding on ways to protect Maurice from himself. He would get Cotton to have someone posted outside Maurice’s hotel door and to have him followed. The waste of manpower chafed but Maurice seemed immovably contrary. He considered having Cotton threaten him with a charge of obstructing justice, but turning Maurice into a martyr didn’t seem the way to go. He decided on one more try: “But,” he said, “can’t you at least give us a hint?”
Ah, good! Max could see Maurice hesitate. It was then Max realized that along with Maurice’s undoubted integrity he was enjoying exercising a certain sense of power. After years of operating behind the scenes, here was Maurice in the spotlight, and he was going to play it for all it was worth. He leaned over and spoke into Max’s ear.
“… ‘The play’s the thing, Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.’”
Oh, surely not. Hamlet now.
“Don’t forget, ‘One may smile, and smile, and be a villain,’” Max quoted in his turn. “For heaven’s sake, do be careful, Maurice. There is such a thing in this world as pure evil.”
One of the young sycophants returned just then, and Max allowed Maurice to be swept away. Not without a final warning glare, which was returned with a light-hearted, no-worries smile.
Chapter 26
DELPHINE
Max stood looking about him, hoping to find others from the ill-fated ship. Finally he spotted Delphine Beechum grazing by one of the buffet tables. Delphine—in charge of fun times on the yacht, whatever that job title might entail. A bit more than organizing offshore excursions, apparently. Since she was not a starlet, he wondered if perhaps she, too, was a party crasher.
She stood happily alone, confidently observing the glamorous crowd and taking small sips of her champagne. Max strode over to her side. She brightened visibly at his approach, and once again he was reminded he was operating without the protective shield of his collar. He had in fact dressed down for the occasion, knowing that in a Hollywood crowd jeans and a roll neck jumper would help him blend in.
“Well, hi,” Delphine said cheerfully. “I don’t recall seeing you in these parts before. You’re not one of the actors in Romero’s new film?”
“No, no,” said Max. “Actually, I’ve been engaged to look into what happened on board the yacht. To Margot Browne, you know.”
“Oh! For real? You’re like a private eye?” Max didn’t have the chance to correct her before she gushed on, “I was wondering when someone would get around to having a real talk with me. I think they assume because I’m part of the staff and below deck half the time I must know very little.”
“Oh?” She had Max’s attention. As he had noted previously, Delphine’s ability to move seamlessly between two worlds made her an obvious source of information. That and her presumed ability to tune in to nuance. She would have made a good spy. “And you think you know something?”
She nodded energetically; her long earrings shimmered in the subdued light from the chandeliers. “Some sergeant or other spoke with me for half an hour but I had scads more I could have said. He sort of gave me the once-over—name, rank, and serial number, you know—and moved on.”
“But you think you know something more—something relevant to the investigation?” He didn’t plan to question her about her likely drug involvement, nor even mention his suspicions—not before she’d told him what she knew about life on board the yacht. He would leave that thread of the investigation for others to follow up. Margot was his focus.
“Yes and no.” With a flutter of one hand, she signaled a passing waiter and, handing him her champagne glass, said, “Could I have some water, please?” To Max she confided, “All this drinking is so bad for the skin. I usually don’t indulge, you know, but given the past few days … well.”
Max asked the waiter to make it two glasses. He wasn’t worried about his skin so much as he needed to keep a clear head for what might be a long night ahead.
“I can understand,” he said. “It must be quite upsetting.”
“Well, there’s all the drama—and no one can do drama quite like a troupe of actors, of course—but there’s also the fact we’re just stuck here. Becalmed, so to speak, until the police say we can go. And they’re being very cagey about when that might be. I’ve offered to host yoga sessions in my room to keep everyone calm, and a few of the people from on board the ship have taken me up on it—you should join us; you’d love it!—but it’s not like it’s a full-time job and I’m getting worried…”
“You’re worried Romero might decide it’s time to scale back on the payroll. Of course, I can see that. He’s got deckhands and people like that who have to be paid regardless. But I’m sure the authorities will release most of you soon and you can continue your voyage.” Max was being disingenuous—Delphine might well be detained, particularly if hard evidence turned up against her. “Where was the yacht headed next, anyway?”
“After Weymouth, we were sailing to Amsterdam and back to France. Romero was waiting for it to get a bit warmer before starting to scout locations for his next movie.”
“Which is—I mean, what’s the movie about?”
She seemed to pout as she thought this one over, her glossy pink lips scrunching into a thoughtful, p
rovocative moue. She was dressed in a sort of mermaid costume: a tight green sequined number that hugged her curves before flaring out in waves of ruffles at the knees. She had piled her golden hair on top of her head and held it in place with a small tiara. She was, in a word, gorgeous. If you overlooked the slightly calculating cast to her eyes, you’d conclude she was from a higher realm, some sort of angel or goddess sent to earth.
“God, who knows,” she said at last. “I can’t remember the title, but does it matter? It’s the same old thing, except this time set in ancient Gaul. Soldiers raping, pillaging, feasting. Repeat. Sometimes they set fires to villages after defiling all the maidens and toppling all the temples and things. It’s pure dreck. He’s done the same movie over and over in different settings and time periods. The First Boer War, World War II, the Intergalactic Whatzit.”
“People seem to like it.”
“People seem to like being stabbed repeatedly in the eye with a needle, if you ask me. It’s the anti—antith—it’s the opposite of everything I stand for, you know. Yoga is about peace and harmony. About Love with a capital L.” She rounded off this last sentiment with an otherworldly smile and a flutter of thick eyelashes in Max’s direction. She was flirting with him, he recognized, but in what seemed a highly superficial way. He recalled Patrice’s comment that Delphine flirted just to keep in practice, and he thought he understood now what she’d meant. He gained the impression Delphine would flirt with any male who crossed her path.
“It’s interesting that Romero felt the need of a yoga instructor—a good sign, perhaps?” said Max. “Maybe he’s starting to feel there isn’t much to a life of filming blood and gore all the time.”
“He wants to get away from it, I know. But the stupid stuff—that’s all they’ll let him do, he says. The producers, the money guys. More of the same old, same old. So he uses yoga to, like, balance out his life.”
“And how about Tina? Is she a devotee, as well?”
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