“You’ll have to excuse Cassie, Mrs. Whitecastle,” she said after Emma was settled in a chair and she had taken a seat behind her spotless desk. “We so seldom see anyone but applicants here in the office.”
“You don’t see potential clients here?”
“Most of my clients are very famous or powerful people. They expect me to go to them.”
“Of course.” Emma set her shoulder bag down on the chair next to the one in which she sat. From it, she pulled her small notebook and a pen. “Let me get right down to why I’m here, Mrs. Hyland.”
“That’s Ms. Hyland, if you please. My married name is Kilgore, but I never use it professionally.”
“Fine, then, Ms. Hyland.” Emma cleared her throat. She had no doubt that Fran Hyland was efficient at matching employers with employees, but she worried that Fran would be too formal or concerned with protocol to dish any useful information about Tessa. Only plunging ahead with questions would tell. “As I said on the phone, I’m here about some research I’m doing on Tessa North. You knew her when you were both acting, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I knew Tessa. We were both blond and pretty and, well, rather curvaceous. We often auditioned for the same parts.”
Studying Fran Hyland, Emma could see that in her youth she must have been a knockout. Even in her sixties, the skin on her lined face was beautiful, and her eyes clear and bright. Her figure, dressed in an impeccable navy blue St. John knit suit, was still fairly trim, and her smartly cut hair was a glossy silver. Her only jewelry consisted of a fine gold watch, diamond stud earrings, and a gold circle brooch fastened just below her left shoulder.
“How long did you remain in acting?”
“I stopped acting shortly after I turned twenty-five. Parts became scarce when I became too old to play a sorority girl or beach bunny. Truthfully, I didn’t have the talent for anything with more substance. I was a pretty face and figure, and not much more, I’m afraid. Soon after, I got married. I started Hyland Staffing nearly twenty years ago.”
“Did you know Tessa well?”
“Well enough. It wasn’t unusual for a group of girls to share an apartment. I didn’t room with Tessa myself, but one of my best friends did, so I saw her frequently.”
“Do you know whatever became of Tessa North?” When speaking to Fran Hyland on the phone, Emma had edited out the part about ghosts on Catalina Island. In meeting the woman, Emma felt it had been a wise decision. The woman definitely didn’t appear to be ghost friendly. “From the records, it looks like she’d been getting steady work, then disappeared in the late sixties.”
Ms. Hyland folded her hands on her desk and leaned forward, one eyebrow arched like an ash-brown rainbow. “Why the interest in a girl who was only in Hollywood a few years?”
“I’m doing research for a show, and her name came up a few times. I found it curious that she simply disappeared. Tessa was in several of the beach movies in the sixties; so were you. In fact, the two of you worked on a movie for George Whitecastle, my former father-in-law, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we did.” Fran Hyland leaned back in her chair and swiveled to look out the window. “I always assumed that Tessa left Hollywood and went back home. She was from somewhere in the Midwest, I believe. She talked about it all the time when we were all together.”
“Was there any specific reason why she might want to leave?”
Ms. Hyland swiveled back around to face Emma. “It was a very tough business for a young woman, especially a pretty one. A lot of predators, drugs, broken promises, and shattered dreams. It’s still pretty much the same way now.”
“Your friend, the one who roomed with Tessa—is she still in Los Angeles?”
“Yes. She’s still doing some acting, too, though mostly she waits tables. She’s sixty-three years old, no family, lives in a crappy apartment in Culver City, and still thinks she’s going to make it big.” Ms. Hyland tossed Emma a cynical smirk. “Over the years, I’ve tried to offer her better paying positions, but she says she’s happy where she is.”
“I’d like to talk to her, if I could.”
“Her name is Denise Dowd.”
Emma nodded in recognition. “I believe I came across her name at the same time I found yours.” It was true, Emma recognized Denise Dowd’s name from Jackie’s list of actresses. “I left her a message but haven’t heard anything back yet.”
“Doesn’t surprise me that you already have her name. There was a core of us in the mid to late sixties that were always hired whenever they needed a chorus of jiggling sexpots in the background. Offscreen, many of us lived together, like our own little sorority.”
“What about some of the others, Ms. Hyland? Do you know where they are now?”
Fran Hyland shook her head slowly. “The only ones I kept in touch with over the years were Denise and Cynthia Small. Cynthia died a couple of years ago. She landed a small recurring part on a soap that lasted several years. After that, she drifted out of the business, got married, and settled in the valley.”
Hyland swiveled around in her chair again and studied the view for a moment. When she turned back to Emma, she seemed to have made up her mind about something.
“Denise works second shift at a restaurant on Pico Boulevard near Sawtelle—a place called Bing’s. You might try her there. She always enjoys rehashing the old days.”
Emma jotted the name and location of the restaurant in her notebook. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me, Ms. Hyland. A few more questions and I’ll be out of your way.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Whitecastle, and if you find out what happened to Tessa, please let me know. I’d love to get in touch with her again.” Fran Hyland gave Emma a tight smile as she handed her an embossed business card. “And, of course, if you ever find yourself in need of hiring an assistant or other type of help, please keep me and my company in mind.”
Emma took the card and nodded graciously before posing her final question. “Do you recall if Tessa was involved with anyone romantically?”
Ms. Hyland frowned, noticeably agitated around the edges by the question. “Difficult to remember anyone specific. We were all very young and attractive. There were always lots of men flocking around us.”
“What about someone in power, say, like George Whitecastle or Paul Feldman?”
The frown turned ugly as Fran Hyland sat up straight in her chair. “Is that what this is all about? Are you trying to pin some ancient peccadillo on George Whitecastle? According to the trades, he’s nearly at death’s door. Are you planning on writing some tell-all book now that he’s dying?” She stood up, sending her chair sliding backwards. “Is that your idea of revenge for what his son did to you? Or didn’t you get enough money in the divorce?”
“Calm down, Ms. Hyland. That’s not my intent at all.”
“I’ve built a thriving business keeping people like you away from the rich and famous, and now you’re here pumping me for information?” Fran Hyland’s voice had transformed into a low growl laced with outrage. “You’d think you’d know better, seeing that you’re a TV personality yourself these days. I only talked to you because you’re part of the Whitecastle family.”
“I promise you, Ms. Hyland, this has nothing to do with a tell-all book, movie, nothing like that. I simply want to know what happened to Tessa North.”
“Get out, Mrs. Whitecastle.” When Emma tried to say something more, Fran Hyland pointed toward the door, the long painted nail at the end of her index finger showing the way like an emergency beacon. “Leave now or I’ll call security.”
Back in the car, Emma called Phil again. “Guess what?” she asked as soon as he came on the line. “I was just thrown out of an office in Century City.”
“Why are you surprised, Fancy Pants? When we met, I threw you off my property. You just have that initial impact on folks.”
It was late in the afternoon, and Los Angeles traffic was turning asphalt ugly as people started leaving work. Emma calculated that if s
he headed home right this minute, she might be ahead of most of the freeway snarl. Another hour and she’d be crawling all the way back to Pasadena. According to her GPS, the intersection of Sawtelle and Pico wasn’t far from Fran Hyland’s office. Emma had a decision to make—head home and call it a day or push on to Bing’s and hope to catch Denise Dowd before Hyland got to her and poisoned the well.
She turned out of the parking garage and headed south on Century Park East. At Pico Boulevard, she turned right. She gave herself until Overland Avenue to make up her mind. Turning left on Overland took her to the 10 Freeway and the way home. Going straight took her to Sawtelle. When she got to Overland, she kept her vehicle straight.
Bing’s was located on the south side of Pico, just beyond the 405 Freeway overpass. Emma turned left into its parking lot. Before getting out of the car, she called Milo. When he didn’t answer, she left him a voicemail with the latest updates, knowing Celeste’s revelations alone were going to set his internal senses tingling like high-voltage antennae.
Bing’s was an old-fashioned restaurant that, according to its sign, had been in Los Angeles for over sixty years. The inside was dark, its booths made of tufted red vinyl, and the walls were paneled. Emma stepped inside and let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The restaurant didn’t look like it had had a makeover in those sixty years either.
Straight ahead, she saw a few booths; beyond them, a long, old-fashioned bar at which several patrons were enjoying cocktails. To her right was a large room with more booths. Even though it was a little early for dinner, the place was hopping and nearly full. Upon closer examination, Emma noted that almost every customer in the place appeared to be a senior citizen, including most of the waitresses that bustled by.
A middle-aged man came to the front desk. In his hand he clutched several menus. “One for dinner?” he asked.
“Um,” Emma stammered, not sure what to do. She had expected a diner, the type of place with a counter where she could chat up Denise Dowd while she worked. “Is Denise Dowd working tonight?”
“Yes, Denise’s here.”
“Would it be possible to sit at one of her tables?”
“Hold on a moment,” the man told her before scurrying off to the dining section to the right. When he returned a second later, he said, “Yes, there is a small booth available in her station. Follow me, please.”
Emma was led around a dividing wall inset with fish tanks to where several small booths just large enough for two were set. A few feet across from the booths was a real wall. It felt cramped yet cozy, and semi-private, which, Emma thought, might be perfect for talking with Denise away from prying eyes. She slid into the booth, which was already set for two, and took the menu. Only one other booth on this secluded side was filled, occupied by a single man two booths down, munching a salad while squinting at a newspaper in the dim light.
“Denise will be with you shortly,” the host said before dashing off.
Soon a waitress, one hand holding a plate of steaming food, passed her. “Be with you in a sec, hon,” she said to Emma.
Emma’s mouth watered as her nostrils picked up the scent from the passing plate. She’d eaten four hours earlier, and it had been on the light side, not to mention unsettling to her digestion. Opening the menu, she scanned it. Bing’s specialty seemed to be comfort food and lots of meat—prime rib, steaks, and barbeque—and most items were bargain-basement priced. Then she saw the reason for the early crowd. Every night from four thirty to six thirty, there were even more bargains on full meals that included drinks and dessert. Bing’s was a senior diner’s dream. Emma continued moving her eyes over the menu until she located the seafood section. A lot of it was fried, but there were several healthy offerings. Emma smiled. Phil would think he’d died and gone to heaven in this place.
After delivering the plate to the man sitting nearby, the waitress stopped by Emma’s booth. The name tag fastened to her uniform read Denise. “Know what you want, hon?”
Denise Dowd appeared to be in her early sixties. Her hair was a light reddish-brown and stiffly styled. Her dark eyes, with their blue eye shadow and penciled brows, peered out over the top of reading glasses. She was dressed in a white cotton shirt and black pants and seemed more like an actress playing a stereotyped character waitress rather than a real waitress. Emma tried to study her face without being rude. Although they’d never met, Denise looked familiar.
“Any recommendations?”
“Tonight’s special is the country pork chops. Best you’ll ever have. Also have a grilled halibut that’s not on the menu.”
“I’ll take the halibut, please.”
“Salad or soup? Soups today are minestrone or chicken noodle. We make our own green goddess dressing and our own soups.”
“The minestrone.” Emma noticed that Denise wasn’t writing any of the order down.
“Rice, mashed potatoes, fries, baked potato? It also comes with fresh steamed vegetables.”
“Rice.” Emma also ordered a glass of house chardonnay and some water.
In a jiffy, Denise Dowd returned with her wine. A few moments later, she put a small basket with garlic toast and a cup of soup down on the table. Emma started to say something, but Denise scampered away to say goodbye to a large table of folks just leaving. Somehow Emma had to ask Denise about Tessa, but if the restaurant continued to bustle, it was going to be difficult. She took a spoonful of soup. It was hearty and delicious.
Soon Denise delivered Emma’s halibut. It was a nice piece, grilled to perfection. The side of rice wasn’t plain white but more in the Spanish style. It was a good meal, nothing fancy, but filling and tasty. Emma dug in. Although she was having trouble finding time to chat with Denise, she was enjoying having a quiet homestyle meal.
Denise continued to hustle orders and carry food out to tables. “Everything okay?” she asked Emma during one of her passes. Emma nodded and took another bite.
Shortly after she finished her meal, a busboy cleared the table. Emma was savoring the last bit of her wine when Denise stopped by. “How was it?”
“Excellent,” Emma answered. “The rice was a nice surprise. I expected a bland pilaf.”
“Folks love our rice,” Denise said with pride.
“Have you been working here long, Denise?”
“Seventeen years. Most of the waitresses have been here a long time.”
It was then that Emma placed where’d she seen Denise, or at least her face. “I’m sorry if I seem rude, but aren’t you on TV in a commercial? Something about arthritis medicine?”
The waitress beamed. “That’s me. Also did one for adult diapers.”
“So you act as well as wait tables?”
“Always had the acting bug. Did more of it when I was younger—was even in a few films when I was in my twenties. But mostly, I’ve done commercials.”
Lining up her mental ducks, Emma was about to ask about Tessa when Denise said, “Dessert comes with your meal. We’ve got chocolate pudding, tapioca, or ice cream.”
Emma grinned. “I love good chocolate pudding. Do you make it fresh here?”
“Just like everything else.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“With or without whipped cream?”
“Without.” She paused. “Ah, what the heck—make it with.”
While Denise headed off to get the dessert, Emma mentally chided herself. She had to start asking Denise questions about Tessa. When the dish of thick, dark chocolate pudding, topped with a cap of fluffy whipped cream, was placed in front of her, she got down to business.
“Denise, could I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure. Is it about our menu? You doing a piece on the restaurant?” She placed Emma’s tab down on the table.
Emma shook her head. “Sorry, nothing like that. My name’s Emma Whitecastle. I left you a voicemail yesterday.”
Denise Dowd peered over the top of her reading glasses and studied Emma for what seemed like forever. “Whitecastl
e. Yes, I remember the call. Hard to forget a name like that if you’re in the business. You’re George’s former daughter-in-law, aren’t you? The one who divorced that sleazebag on TV.”
“That’s me. Do you know George?”
“I was in two of his movies when I was young. Another about ten years ago.” Instead of saying more, Denise looked away for a moment, then turned back to Emma. “I’m pretty busy here.”
“Please, Denise. I was just at Fran Hyland’s this afternoon. She said you used to room with Tessa North. I’m trying to find out what happened to her.” After a short pause, she added, “It has nothing to do with my being part of the Whitecastle family. I just want to know about Tessa North. Her name came up in some research I was doing for my own TV show on the paranormal.”
The last word caught Denise’s attention. “Paranormal? You mean like ESP, fortunetelling, ghosts, stuff like that?”
“Yes.” Emma dug into her handbag and pulled out her business card for The Whitecastle Report. She handed it to the waitress. “I know you’re busy, but perhaps we can meet later when you’re off work or even tomorrow sometime.”
Denise looked over the card, then turned her face toward Emma. It was as blank as a white bed sheet. “Eat your pudding, Emma, and I’ll think about it.” It sounded like something a mother would say to her child.
Emma dawdled over her pudding, but Denise never stopped by her table again. Finally, deciding she’d struck out with Denise Dowd, Emma slid out of the booth and headed for the front area to pay her check. She was almost out the door when she heard someone call her name. It was Denise Dowd. Turning back into the restaurant, Emma ran smack into a man just leaving.
“I’m so sorry,” Emma said to the man, a short, balding, non-descript sort.
The man looked down at the ground and mumbled, “No problem.” He scooted out past her and disappeared into the dark parking lot just as Denise reached Emma.
The waitress handed her a slip of folded paper. “I believe you dropped this.” Giving Emma a professional smile, Denise said, “You come back real soon.”
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