While I Disappear

by Edward Wright

  “Choking him,” Horn muttered, almost to himself. The way Rose died.

  “But Lewis fought. He’s very strong, and he wouldn’t give up.” Her voice caught for an instant, but she went on. “They slammed into things. Two of Lewis’ ribs were broken, and his left arm, and he kept fighting. I heard the noise, and I came out. It was almost totally dark, but I could make out which man was which. I began screaming, hoping someone would come. I grabbed at the other man, tried to scratch him, hit him. I think it was the screams that finally made him stop. He turned around, swung his fist at me, and then he was gone.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  For the first time, she laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “Nothing they can’t hide or cover with makeup.” She laid an index finger lightly on her left cheekbone. “A very dainty bruise here, which you can’t see. And this.” Half-turning her back to him, she carefully parted her auburn hair at the crown of her head. He saw a small shaved spot covered by a circular bandage. “Two stitches,” she said. “When he hit me, my head hit the wall. I told the doc that if his work showed up on camera, I’d be back to pay him a visit with the same kitchen knife I used to kill my sad-sack boyfriend in Storm Fury. He laughed, because he thought I didn’t mean it.”

  “Did you get enough of a look—”

  “No. I’ve gone over it in my head so many times. Just a figure in the dark. Not tall or short. Lewis told the police that since the man cut off his air at the beginning, he was never able to think very clearly during the fight. All he could really tell them was that the man was stronger than average. That’s not much help, is it?”

  “He’s lucky,” Horn said. “You both are.”

  “I showed up at work this morning like a good trouper,” she said. “I held myself together through makeup and fittings and all that shit. Then, when we got out here and they turned on all those lights, I just…. I couldn’t do it. All I could think about was that Lewis could be dead now. That, and….” She looked squarely at him, and he saw fear written plainly on her features. In the short time he had known her, he had seen nothing like it on her face.

  “And what?”

  “And I knew who he had really come for last night.” She shuddered, even though the heat of the tall lights still lingered on the set, and leaned forward, hugging herself. Fifty feet away, Horn could see the crew members waiting, talking in low voices. She seemed oblivious to them.

  “He came for me. He thought he’d kill Lewis, take his keys, and unlock the door that leads from the garage to the house. And then he would come for me.” She shook her head, as if reluctant to recognize the truth. “This is about Rose. I know it. Ever since you and I talked, I’ve had this feeling that I was on someone’s list.”

  “Why?”

  She looked around, as if coming out of a trance. “You got a cigarette?” she asked abruptly.

  “Sure. If you’ve got the patience.” He pulled out the pouch of Bull Durham and reached for his papers, but she made a face.

  “No offense, but I can’t stand those. Come on.” She got up and led him past the camera and lights and off the set. As they passed the small group of workers, a man holding a clipboard stepped forward.

  “Miss Winter—”

  “Ronnie, I told you I’m not working today.” Her voice sounded close to breaking, like a tightly strung wire. “I’m going home in a few minutes. Call Ben Greene if you want. I don’t give a good goddam.”

  She led him out of the huge building and down a narrow lane behind it. Lined up there was a series of small portable dressing rooms, each about ten feet square. Her name, Horn noted, was on the door to the first, and that of her co-star on the adjacent one.

  “Bob Taylor’s not here until next week,” she said, opening the door to her room. “Mr. Gorgeous Puss. I’m glad he didn’t see me like this.” Inside was an elaborate, lighted dressing table, a rack that held clothing on hangers, a comfortable sofa and two chairs. She pulled a chair close to the sofa and indicated that he should sit. “Excuse me while I swoon, like one of those Victorian ladies,” she said as she lay down. “They had good reason. You ever try taking a deep breath in one of these fucking waist pinchers?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Poor Lewis,” she said. “This is my fault, and he’s been so sweet about it. Most people think he’s frivolous—I admit I did too—but he has a kind of strength I never even knew about. I think I actually look at him differently now. Oh, I’m not sorry we divorced. We were never cut out to be a married couple. But I’ve learned that he’s a good man to have around in a crisis. He probably saved my life, just by being there.”

  “Anybody would be proud to hear that kind of compliment.”

  “My cigarettes are on the dressing table,” she said. “Get one for me, and help yourself.”

  Laying his fedora on the table, he found her pack of Pall Malls, lit one for each of them, and positioned the ashtray on the edge of the table where she could reach it. She took her first drag and exhaled mightily, sending a gust of smoke to the ceiling. “That’s better.” She looked at him more closely. “You never told me what happened to your face. Did somebody try to kill you too?”

  “I was in a fight.”

  “Really?” She seemed almost amused. “I suppose some actors are like that, wanting to be as tough in real life as they are in—”

  “Believe me, I don’t think I’m particularly tough,” he said. “But let’s talk about you. Why would you be on somebody’s list?”

  Her eyes followed the path of the smoke. She plucked a shred of tobacco from her lower lip. She shook her head, like a little girl refusing to recite a poem.

  “Come on, Doll. Did you talk to the police?”

  “Yes. That detective, Coby. He chews on his matchstick and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. Loves to talk about movie stars.”

  “What does he think?”

  “About last night? That we were very lucky. He suggested we hire some of the studio cops to moonlight at our place, watch things for a while. It was a good idea, and we’ve already done it.”

  “Good. Did you tell him all this might be tied in with Rose?”

  She nodded. “But I didn’t tell him why. I’ll probably have to, though, sooner or later.”

  “Tell me.”

  “First you tell me something. Tell me I’ve got a good reason to confide in you,” she said, her voice rising. “Nothing happened to Lewis or me until you started poking around, asking questions about Rose. If the police are such idiots, tell me why I should expect any more from you.” She was agitated, waving the hand with the cigarette as she lay there, making swirls of smoke in the air.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you called me over here.”

  “Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “I want you to listen to me, goddammit. You seem honest enough, but God knows you’re not much to look at. You dress like somebody on a park bench. You used to ride a horse like some kind of a hero, but now you’re not much more than….”

  She trailed off, slightly out of breath from the emotion and the tightly laced corset under her gaudy dress. A look of discomfort briefly crossed her face. “I’m sorry,” she said grimly, taking another fierce drag on her cigarette. “I know I’m not making much sense, and it’s embarrassing. I’m usually more in control. This has been a bad time.”

  “That’s the second or third time you’ve apologized to me,” he said. “You better not make a habit of it.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m just trying to understand why—”

  “Why you should have any confidence in me.”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I suppose I could start by saying that I want to find out who killed Rose more than I want anything else. I may not do this for a living. Hell, I may not be much to look at, either. But wanting it this bad gives me an edge over anybody who’s not going to try as hard as I am. Maybe even the police.” />
  She nodded again, giving him a half-smile through the smoke. Her expression seemed to suggest he had said what she wanted to hear.

  To put her more at ease, he began telling her about the events of the past two days. He described how Cassie had helped him locate Alden Richwine, and he related the old man’s revelations. He summarized the contents of Rose’s letters, but he held back specifics, largely out of consideration for Rose herself.

  Dolores Winter lay facing him, head propped on one arm, fascinated. When he had finished, she asked, “Which room was it?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Which bedroom in that house? Where was it, exactly?”

  “Top of the stairs and to the left. It’s the only one on that side. Why do you want to know?”

  Her expression grew focused, almost hard. She looked like a woman preparing to defend herself against attack.

  “I was there.”

  “What?”

  “In the house. During the party.”

  He could think of nothing to say.

  “Lewis and I could have died last night. You asked why I think it’s connected to Rose. Now I’m telling you: Because I was there, in that man’s house, the night it all happened.”

  “So you’ve been lying to me. Now who’s the one who needs to worry about confidence?”

  “All right. But I had a reason to lie. Listen, John Ray, I was never in that bedroom. I was just one of a crowd of indulgent, half-crazy people who saw in the new year that night and then went home. I’m not even sure I knew who Tess Shockley was, so even if she was later mentioned in the paper, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. There were hundreds of parties all over Los Angeles that night, and some of them were every bit as grand as the one we’re talking about. But when you came to my house and asked about Rose, I vaguely remembered being at one particular New Year’s Eve party where she was the hostess. I decided on the spot not to admit it, because… Look, in this business we’re all trained to avoid scandal. So I lied. I did it without thinking.”

  She looked his way, as if for reassurance, but found none. “Now I know there’s no point. I’m in this whether I want to be or not. And, God help me, so is Lewis, who didn’t deserve what happened to him. I’m not keeping any more secrets—from you or the police.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You don’t sound convinced. In fact, you sound sarcastic. Maybe I should just say to hell with you, Mister Hotshot Hopalong Cowboy Whoever-You-Used-to-Be.”

  “You’ve got me confused with somebody else. He made more money than I did. Dressed better, too.”

  “I mean it. I’m not answerable to you. If I lied, it was because I thought it was necessary. I’m telling you the truth now. Take it or leave it.”

  “All right, Doll. Don’t shoot. I’m on your side.”

  She lay breathing hard, defiance in her eyes. After a few seconds, her expression softened a bit. “I don’t know why I called you,” she said quietly.

  “Maybe it’s because you think you can trust me. And you need somebody to trust.”

  “Maybe.” She shook her head. “I’d better not be wrong about you.”

  He shook a fresh cigarette out of her pack, lit it, and handed it to her. “What can you tell me about the party?” he asked. “Who invited you?”

  “I’m not sure I remember,” she said. “It may have been Rose. Probably was, since I was just a nobody, and she would have been one of the few people I knew there. She looked gorgeous that night.”

  “Who else do you remember?”

  “Well….” She lay back, resting her head on one arm. “The usual sprinkling of famous faces. The really big names usually didn’t stay for long, since they would move on to their own private parties. I remember Alden vividly. I even spoke to him for a few seconds. He cut quite a figure back then, with his accent and his manners. The ladies loved him.

  “And Rose’s boyfriend, the gangster. I don’t know if he was really a gangster or not, but part of the fun back then was the company you kept. Booze was illegal, so if you drank, you rubbed elbows with some very shady people. He was that type, you know? A little dangerous.”

  He nodded. “Rose called him the same thing.”

  “And Dexter Diggs was there. He didn’t really know me back then. I was just another girl in a fringed dress—red, if I remember right. But he was well known at the time, and I certainly recognized him.”

  “Did you see him with Rose?”

  She closed her eyes just as Alden Richwine had done, straining for the memory. “This is where it gets a little fuzzy,” she said. “I blame the champagne. I always loved champagne, and I recall they were serving something French and very good that night. I do remember one thing, a kind of isolated memory. Rose came up to Dexter in the main room. I was standing near the bandstand, and the band was taking a break. He looked very elegant in his tux, I remember. She spoke to him urgently, as if trying to get him to do something. Not long after that, he followed her upstairs.”

  “Upstairs? You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure of that much, in spite of the champagne. I lost sight of them when they reached the top of the stairs, so I don’t know where they went.” She opened her eyes and smiled briefly. “Considering how long ago it was and the shape I was in, I’m surprised I remember anything.”

  Her face took on a pained look. She swallowed hard and rubbed at her eyes, smearing her makeup. “Dammit,” she said fiercely. “I’m thinking of Lewis again, and what happened to him. If he’d been killed last night, how could I ever….”

  She rolled away from him, presenting her back. “Would you help me loosen this, and the damn thing under it?” she asked, indicating the back of the dress. “I can’t breathe.”

  He leaned toward her. She smelled of talcum and makeup. Her bare shoulders looked strong, but their coloring appeared unnaturally dark. He rubbed his fingertips lightly across her back, leaving a white streak as the makeup came off on his fingers. She laughed, causing her back to ripple.

  “You’ve exposed the real me,” she said. “Undo me, please.”

  He fumbled at the top of the dress, and moved over to sit sideways on the sofa next to her. As he worked at the dress, her left hand clutched at his knee. “I need something from you,” she said.

  “What is that?”

  “I think you know.” She sounded out of breath. “I knew the day you came to my house.”

  “Doll, somebody could walk in on us. I’m not sure this is a good—”

  “No one will bother us. Lewis will make sure of that.”

  The image of Lewis De Loach standing watch outside troubled him, but it was quickly replaced by the woman lying before him. The temperature inside the small dressing room had risen, and the white streak across her back looked like nakedness itself.

  He worked at the dress, cursing the costumer who had made it. Underneath, he could feel the rigid corset, another barrier. “These are all hooks and eyes,” he said. “I don’t know if I can—”

  “Tear them,” she said. “I promise I won’t send you a bill for the repairs.” Her hand gripped his knee so hard it hurt. “Go on. Tear them.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  On the way home, he dialed up the local news on the car radio and heard a man talking about more rain, a lot of it, expected tomorrow. But as he swung down onto Pacific Coast Highway, the afternoon sky was a white-flecked, placid blue crowned with a pale, wintry sun. Something might be coming, he thought, but it was still far out to sea.

  At the cabin, he acknowledged his exhaustion and lay down for a while, but could not sleep. Doll Winter was still much with him—the look and feel and scent of her, the rustle of her ornate gown on the sofa as they both fought to get her out of it, her soft cries moments later. She was not like Rose, he thought. Not at all like Rose. But, as Mad Crow would say, a lot of woman. Even though she did not strike him as the clinging type, he now felt responsible for her in a new way, and the thought both pleased and troubled him. He was no
t unaccustomed to making space for a woman in his life. But now it didn’t feel right.

  Despite his tiredness, he got up, changed into his heavy, high-topped shoes, and went out to work on the drainage ditch. Laboring with the hand saw, he managed to cut several more branches off the formidable limb blocking the canal, but it remained mired in mud as if frozen in concrete. If he didn’t manage to muscle it out by tomorrow, he knew, the rain could overflow the ditch and wash out much of the road. Harry Flye, his landlord, would not be pleased.

  Back at the cabin, he left his muddy shoes on the porch, went inside, and drew a hot bath. He soaked for a while, sipping occasionally from a glass of Evan Williams on the floor by the tub. As he was toweling off, the phone rang.

  “I used to have this fantasy,” the voice said. “He’d come riding over the hill and sweep me up onto the saddle behind him, and we’d ride away. And he’d cross one leg around that thing—what do you call it?”

  “The saddle horn.”

  “That’s right. And he’d strum on his guitar and sing something about love amid the cactuses, and I’d hang onto him very tight, lean my head against him, and hum along.” She paused. “Does any of this sound workable?”

  “Doll, I don’t sing. Don’t play the guitar either.”

  “You weren’t one of those cowboys?”

  “Nope.”

  “Damn. I want my money back, then.” He heard the sound of ice in a glass.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I just called to say I’m still tingling. And I know this isn’t going to work out, because before long you’ll find out just how shallow I am.” She sounded slightly drunk, but pleasantly so. “And it’ll be over, and no hard feelings. But I want you to know I intend to enjoy it as long as it lasts. And I don’t know exactly how to put this without sounding maudlin, but I’m grateful to Rose for bringing us together.”

  “Me too.”

  “That’s all I wanted to say.” She hung up.