Pie A La Murder Page 4

  A doorman in a dark green uniform coat stood in front of the glass and brass entrance. Even though I’d read that the hotel had acquired a new owner, the name remained the same, as did the large entwined letters “O” and “G” etched onto the glass door in ornamental script.

  The first visible indication of new management was the lobby. Gone were the pagan temple scenes and the wall frescoes depicting Greek gods and goddesses at play. They had been replaced by live trees and wall paintings of a lush forest and men in Shakespearean costumes. I realized that we’d walked into As You Like It when I read the words on the large scroll on the wall among the painted trees:

  And this our life exempt from public haunt

  Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks. Sermons in stones and good in every thing.

  What the name “Olympia Grand” had to do with Shakespeare I didn’t know, but I found the new design attractive and tranquil. I preferred it to the former owner’s gaudy decor.

  The As You Like It theme continued in the main ballroom. Previously, it had been called the Elysian Room and the tables had been encircled by two dozen artificial palm trees; now it was the Arden Room, and the palms had been replaced by a virtual forest of trees with thick green foliage.

  Just inside the double doors to the ballroom was a table with three women sitting behind it, checking guest lists.

  Liddy stepped up to the nearest woman. “I’m Lydia Marshall. These are my guests, Della Carmichael and Celeste D’Martino.”

  “Oh, no,” Celeste protested. “It’s not D’Martino. I’m Celeste Fontaine.”

  “Fontaine?” I said.

  “I use my mother’s maiden name. It’s less . . . ethnic.”

  At that moment, I felt a stab in my heart for Nicholas.

  Liddy picked up the little envelope of tickets that had our table number on it, and led us through the maze of tables in the ballroom to our assigned seats.

  Celeste followed Liddy, and I followed Celeste, which allowed me to see how many male heads turned toward her as we passed.

  We were the first to arrive at our table of eight, but the majority of members of the Hollywood Film Society were already there, milling about, looking for their seats and talking to each other.

  Liddy placed Celeste between us and began pointing out some major names in the industry. “See that man with the red hair? He’s the creator-producer of Medical Cops, the top-rated show on CBS. The man he’s talking to is the top director of sitcoms in the business.”

  “TV’s fine, but I’m only interested in films. Who’s here that does those?”

  Liddy indicated a slender man with a shock of hair that stood up straight, giving him the appearance of having just suffered a powerful jolt of electricity. “That’s Brian Grazer. He’s produced some of the most successful movies in the last ten years. The man with him is the director Francisco Mantillo—they call him the new Fellini.”

  Celeste wrinkled her perfect nose in distaste. “His movies don’t make much money. Anyway, he’s gay.”

  Liddy’s eyebrows rose. “You’re not going to do very well in Hollywood if you don’t like people who are gay.”

  “That’s not it—half my friends in London and Vienna are gay. It’s just that he stayed with us at Freddie’s chateau in Gstaad last winter and wasn’t interested in me at all.”

  Liddy asked, “You live in a chateau in Switzerland?”

  “Only during the winter so we can ski.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Who’s Freddie?” Celeste wrinkled her nose again. “Mummy’s prince.” She straightened up, good posture making her even more striking. “Oh, look. There’s Chad Moody!”

  Currently, the world’s number one movie star.

  “He’s one of my husband’s patients. Bill aligned his teeth for him.” Liddy stood. “I’ll introduce you.”

  Celeste gripped Liddy’s wrist, holding her back. “No, don’t. Mummy and Freddie say that people are supposed to come to you.”

  And at that moment, someone did.

  6

  A man, fortyish, whose once-blond hair was streaked with silver in a way that looks better on men than it does on women, said, “Hello, Liddy. Is this your daughter?”

  “Hello, Alec. No, this is my friend, Celeste.” She turned toward me. “And this is Della Carmichael—you know, In the Kitchen with Della, on TV.”

  “I don’t get to watch much television.” He extended his hand to me. “Alec Redding.”

  I took it and said hello. His palm was cool and dry.

  He was attractive in a kind of bland way, an older version of one of those surfer-type actors in movies from the sixties with names like Tab and Troy. His nicely chiseled face wasn’t familiar, which made me wonder if he’d come to California to be an actor but it hadn’t worked out and he’d become something else.

  Alec Redding was staring at Celeste. “You are absolutely gorgeous. Are you a model?”

  “No. I’m going to be an actress,” she said politely, while still scanning the faces in the ballroom.

  “I’m sure you’ll make it. I have a gift for spotting future stars.”

  “Are you an agent?” I asked.

  Redding blanched slightly, seemingly offended at my question.

  Liddy jumped in. “Alec is the best, most creative portrait photographer in Hollywood,” she said. “He has exhibits.”

  Now Celeste aimed a glorious smile at Redding.

  Redding warmed up again. “I haven’t had time to put an exhibit together for a while.” He turned his attention to Celeste. “So, who did your professional portfolio?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “She just arrived in Los Angeles earlier this week,” Liddy said.

  There was an empty seat next to me. Redding indicated it and said, “Mind if I sit here until whoever comes?” Without waiting for an answer, he sat, pushed the china place setting toward the floral centerpiece, planted his elbow and forearm on the table, and leaned across me to talk to Celeste.

  “Let me do a portfolio for you. As stunning as you are, you’ll have to prove to the casting people that you photograph well. I know exactly what you’ll need to be allowed to audition for top roles.”

  Celeste bubbled with excitement. “That’s wonderful!”

  I asked, “How much do you charge?” I realized immediately that was none of my business, but it was too late.

  Redding looked annoyed. “The fee varies.”

  Liddy said to Celeste, “This is a great opportunity. Alec doesn’t photograph just anyone.”

  He gave a self-satisfied chuckle. “Fortunately, I don’t have to.”

  An angular woman with blue black hair gelled into spikes and eyes rimmed in dramatic black wings marched toward our table. She glared at Redding, her thin lips in a tight line.

  “Alec, Fannie Goldberg is looking for you,” she said.

  Hearing the woman’s voice, Redding stood up as though snapping to attention. “I’m coming, sweetheart.”

  “Hi, Roxanne,” Liddy said, and introduced us to Redding’s wife, adding, “This woman is a total genius at lighting.”

  “She’s my assistant,” Redding said. “I’d be lost without her.” He gave Liddy, Celeste, and me a sweeping smile. “Fannie Goldberg’s the new chief of Trans-Global Pictures. When you’re ready, you should meet her, Celeste.” He reached into the pocket of his gray cashmere jacket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. “Call me for an appointment.”

  “You’re heavily booked up, Alec,” Roxanne Redding said.

  “Darling Rox, we can always make time to launch a star of tomorrow.” He made the “call me” hand gesture to Celeste and followed his wife across the crowded ballroom.

  Liddy patted Celeste’s hand. “Being photographed by Alec Redding is a great professional opportunity.”

  “And his wife works with him? That’s good.” What I meant was it sounded safe.

  Celeste understood and shot me a glance of ann
oyance. “I can take care of myself.”

  I wanted to say, “Every eighteen-year-old girl thinks that,” but I didn’t.

  “Alec is a bit full of himself,” Liddy said, “but there’s never been a word about his being anything less than professional when he’s working with a subject. And, his wife is always right there with him. She was his protégée, and takes pictures when someone can’t afford Alec.”

  From inside the small pouch Celeste carried as a purse, we heard her cell phone ring. She pulled it out and saw the caller ID. “Oh, God!” With a grimace, she pushed “Answer” and said, “Hello, Mummy . . .” I saw a sudden rush of color to her cheeks. “Oh, Mummy, no!”

  She took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “Where are you and Freddie staying?” What Celeste heard made her cover her mouth to suppress a gasp. “Where am I?”

  She looked around wildly. “Uhhhh . . . I’m at Disneyland! I’m losing my signal—I’ll call you later.” She disconnected, lowered her head, and whispered, “We’ve got to get out of here right now.”

  “Why? There are people I want you to meet,” Liddy said.

  I asked Celeste, “What’s happened?”

  “Mummy and Freddie are here. They just checked into this hotel!”

  Three days ago, if anyone had asked me how I felt about the possibility of meeting Nicholas’s ex-wife, I would have said airily that it didn’t bother me in the slightest.

  I would have been lying.

  But now, knowing that there was a Freddie in the picture, I relaxed. A little.

  I said, “If you’re concerned that your mother and her friend will see us—”

  “He’s not her friend—he’s her fiancé.” Celeste didn’t sound happy about that.

  “What I was going to say is that if you don’t want your mother and her fiancé to see you here, I’ll take you out through the back and over to the next street. Liddy can get her car from the valet and meet us around the corner.”

  “Good idea,” Liddy said.

  Celeste nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” She tried to sound calm, but as she got up to follow me, she kept her head lowered and her shoulders were still stiff with tension.

  I led Celeste along the side of the room, staying close to the trees as much as possible, and into the immense, steamy kitchen. Like broken-field runners, we rushed through the maze of stoves and sinks, dodging chefs and sous-chefs, ignoring their angry shouts. Finally we were out the exit and into the alley. Celeste was in such a panic I don’t think she noticed the smell of garbage arising from the trash bins. A few more yards and we’d reached the street behind the hotel, where we filled our lungs with reasonably fresh air.

  Liddy’s ivory Range Rover rounded the corner of Oak Drive and stopped next to us.

  Climbing into the front seat, I said, “We didn’t get any lunch. I’m hungry.”

  “Me, too,” Liddy said. “Since we’re all dressed up, let’s go have cheese soufflés at the Polo Lounge.”

  From the backseat, Celeste said with a petulant whine, “I don’t want to go anywhere I could be seen by Mummy and Freddie. Remember, I’m supposed to be at Disneyland.”

  “All right,” Liddy said. “If you need to hide out until it’s time to go to your father’s, our house is the perfect place. My housekeeper will fix us something. It’s such a nice day we can have lunch out by the pool.”

  “I just want some distilled water,” Celeste said. “Daddy makes me eat when we’re together.” She shuddered. “I think food is gross.”

  Oh, great. I won’t be able to cook my way to her heart.

  But after that moment of mental sarcasm, I wondered if she had an eating disorder. While she was very slim, as far as I could tell she seemed healthy. Her color was good. She didn’t look anorexic, but next time we were together at a meal, and she ate, I’d pay attention to how quickly she hurried off to the nearest bathroom. I couldn’t help wanting to protect Nicholas’s daughter, even if it was from herself.

  Liddy and Bill Marshall’s home was a stately two-story white colonial in the seven hundred block of Maple Drive, my favorite street in Beverly Hills, because it was lined on both sides with mature maple trees. It had been built in the 1960s, when houses in the area were set far enough back from the sidewalk to allow for a graceful sweep of front lawn. Many of the older homes in Beverly Hills had been torn down and replaced by huge houses that used up most of the size of their lots. When two of these monuments to excess were side by side, I was sure the residents could hear everything that was going on inside the belly of their neighbor’s “whale.”

  Liddy, Celeste, and I were sitting under the big yellow and white striped shade umbrella on Liddy’s poolside patio. Celeste sipped at her glass of distilled water while Liddy and I picked at our fruit salads. I would have liked something more substantial, and I’m sure Liddy would have, too, but that wouldn’t have been polite with Celeste having only water.

  While I was trying to think of a tactful way to find out more about Freddie, Liddy just asked the question: “Who’s Freddie? You called him your mother’s ‘prince’?”

  Celeste wrinkled her nose as if a bad odor had wafted across her path. “He says he’s a prince. I guess he is. He’s got a coat of arms, and servants who call him ‘your highness.’ I just call him Freddie.”

  I wondered what her mother called him.

  “I don’t think I’ve heard of a Prince Freddie,” Liddy mused. “What country?”

  “One that doesn’t exist anymore,” Celeste said. “He says he’s the grand nephew of Princess Eugenie Helene of Bavaria. I Googled her. She was the eighth child of King Maximilian. Freddie’s full name is Fredric Wilhelm Karl Ludwig von Hoffner. He also told us he’s a distant cousin of Queen Elizabeth. Mother joked that if the twenty-seven royals in line ahead of him all die at once he could become King of England. Freddie laughed, sort of.” She stretched her mouth in imitation of a toothy grin and gave a mirthless chortle. “But I don’t think he has a sense of humor about his title.”

  “Did your mother tell you why she’s come to Los Angeles?” I asked.

  “No, but I think it must be Freddie’s idea. Mother always said she hates Los Angeles. She says it’s full of pretenders.”

  Liddy laughed. “It’s the home of the movie business. Make-believe. Actors earn their living pretending.”

  “Not that kind of pretending. We like actors. They’re fun to have at dinner parties. She meant that this place is full of phonies.”

  That was too much. I challenged her. “And Europe isn’t?” I’d been hanging back politely, acting like the kind of careful, afraid-to-express-a-real-opinion woman that I detest.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” Celeste said. The apology didn’t sound sincere. “I’m sure your friends are very nice.” She looked at her watch—a Rolex that cost twice as much as my Jeep. “Liddy, can you drive me to my father’s place now? I’d like to take a nap before I have to call Mummy.” She stood up. With a polished formality that I recognized was dismissive, she said, “I hope I see you again, Della.”

  “You will.”

  My quiet statement seemed to surprise her, then I saw the proverbial lightbulb go off in her head.

  “Oh, so you’re the one Daddy’s sleeping with. I thought it was Liddy,” she said.

  7

  I heard Liddy gasp. “Celeste, you know I’m married.”

  Celeste shrugged. “In Europe married people sleep with other people all the time. I’m sure they do in America, too. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It’s a very big deal!” Liddy said. “If I ever caught Bill cheating, I wouldn’t divorce him, I’d kill him. And if the situation were reversed, and I did such a thing, I’d expect him to kill me, because we love each other.”

  She thought Nicholas was seeing Liddy because Liddy’s a stunning blonde, probably like Celeste’s mother.

  “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up,” I said lightly.

  Celeste stared at me so intently I wondered if she was try
ing to read my thoughts.

  I stared back at her. “What is it?”

  Before she could reply, we heard the cell phone in her little pouch ring. When she pulled it out and saw the caller ID she pushed “Answer.”

  “Hi, Daddy . . . I’m at Liddy’s, why?” Celeste screwed up her perfect features in a scowl. “No, I didn’t know Mummy was coming. Why did she call you? . . . Oh. I just said Disneyland because it was the first thing that came into my head. . . . Okay . . . I’ll leave now. Bye.” She disconnected and looked at Liddy expectantly. “Daddy’s on his way home. Can we go?”

  Nicholas lived in the bottom half of a town house in the Larchmont section of Los Angeles. With its sidewalks dotted with slender trees planted in dirt that was surrounded protectively by concrete, his street was more like a little slice of New York City than a neighborhood in Southern California.

  During most of the ten-minute drive from Beverly Hills, it was silent inside Liddy’s Rover.

  Leaving Maple Drive, Celeste told Liddy that she appreciated being taken to the luncheon. Liddy replied that she was sorry it was cut short before she could introduce Celeste to more people.

  “That’s all right. I found out I need to prove I’m photogenic before I can go to auditions.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, and Celeste didn’t say anything to me.

  When we arrived, I saw that Nicholas’s car wasn’t in the carport beside the town house. “Would you like us to wait with you until your father comes home?” I asked Celeste.

  “No, thank you. I have my key. Good-bye, Liddy. Della.”

  She climbed down onto the sidewalk and hurried up to Nicholas’s front door. We watched until she was safely inside.

  “She must take after her mother.” Liddy started the car and pulled out into traffic. “I don’t envy you, Del.”

  “There’s hardly anything good in life that comes free, without some price tag.”