Eileen came home Tuesday night some time after I’d gone to bed. Wednesday morning she was gone before I got up, but she left a note saying that she was going to Della’s Sweet Dreams, our retail fudge and brownie business on Hollywood Boulevard.
She called at ten thirty to give me a positive report about our on-site sales.
“The walk-in business has doubled in the last two weeks,” she said. “I think we should stay open two hours longer, for the people who want to pick up dessert on their way home from work. And I think we should hire a second counter clerk.”
“Go ahead. You and Walter interview the applicants.”
Walter Hovey was our factory manager, a retired actor with the silver-haired looks and cultured bearing of an ambassador to the Court of St. James. We’d had the good luck to inherit him when Mickey Jordan bought the building and equipment of the bakery Walter had been working for.
Eileen asked, “Do you want to interview the ones we like best?”
“No. I trust your judgment. What about circulating the word at UCLA and USC? This might be a good job for a student.”
“I’m on it. I’ll see if I can find one who doesn’t like sweets so he or she won’t eat up our profits.”
I laughed. She said good-bye and disconnected before I had a chance to wish her luck in finding the right person.
Her little joke told me that she hadn’t lost her sense of humor. That was a good sign, but I was a little worried about her emotional state. Someone who didn’t know Eileen as well as I did would have thought that she just sounded excited, but I could tell that the level was a little too high to be normal. It concerned me, but I told myself to be glad that she was keeping busy.
The plan for Wednesday evening was that Liddy and Bill Marshall would pick me up and that we would drive in their car to the Olympia Grand Hotel. Shannon had called earlier to say that she and John would meet us at the gala.
When I opened the door to Liddy’s ring, I was astonished to see neither her ivory Range Rover nor Bill’s bronze Cadillac in front of my house. Instead, parked parallel to my front lawn, there was a black vehicle almost as long as a bus. Beside it stood a heavily built man in a boxy black suit, the jacket’s buttons straining against his girth. He wore his black chauffeur’s cap pulled down to a scant inch above his thick eyebrows.
“You hired a limousine?” I asked.
“It’s so we don’t have to stand in line at valet parking for an hour at the end of the night,” Bill said.
Long-limbed, lean, and energetic, Bill Marshall, Beverly Hills DDS, looked comfortable in his dinner jacket. At age forty-eight, he played basketball on Saturdays, and sometimes Liddy went to cheer him on. Afterwards, they’d have a “date night.” Liddy told me that since last September, when their twin sons went off to college in the east, she and Bill were living like newlyweds again. “It’s the first time in eighteen years that we can run around the house naked,” she’d said. “Thank God I haven’t deteriorated too much.”
And she hadn’t. Twenty-five years ago, Liddy had been crowned “Miss Nebraska.” Like so many blonde and blue-eyed American beauties before and since, Liddy packed her crown and sash and headed for Hollywood with dreams of stardom.
It only took a few months of her being pawed by casting directors and propositioned by agents and producers before Liddy realized that the life of an actress was not for her. The night she set eyes on a young man with shaggy blondish hair and what Liddy called an “adorable nose-and-a-half” she knew what kind of life she really wanted. Twenty-three years later, she was still happy about the choice she’d made.
As soon as Liddy came through the door, she instructed me take a few steps backward and do a full, slow turn in front of her.
Liddy clapped her hands enthusiastically. “You look gorgeous in that dress. It’s Jorge Allesandro, isn’t it?”
“How did you know?”
“I saw his trunk show at Neiman last month.”
“I wouldn’t have known Jorge Allesandro from Taco Bell if Phil Logan hadn’t drilled me on his name. In case someone in the media asks who I’m wearing.”
As usual, Liddy looked stunning. Her square-neck black silk gown with long sleeves was the perfect frame for her light hair and the teardrop diamond pendant that had been a twentieth-anniversary present from Bill.
“Where’s Eileen?” Liddy asked.
That startled me. “Is she still going with us?”
“Of course I am.”
I turned to see Eileen coming into the living room from the hallway. Her hair had been professionally arranged and her makeup was subtle but perfect.
“Why shouldn’t I go?” Her direct gaze at me communicated the request that I not answer that question.
Bill stared at Eileen. “Wow. When did funny-looking little Gigi grow up?”
Eileen laughed. “Several years ago, Uncle Bill. You just never see me in makeup, or wearing anything but running clothes.”
“I’m glad I’m not twenty anymore, Eileen,” Liddy said. “I wouldn’t want to compete with you for a man. And you’re wearing Jorge Allesandro, too. It’s gorgeous.” Liddy turned to me with a teasing twinkle in her eyes. “That fudge business of yours must be doing very well.”
“This dress is on loan.” Eileen glanced at me. She looked embarrassed, and I guessed that it was because she was wearing the blue jersey gown that she’d said would cling in all the wrong places on me. “Phil suggested I wear it,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t. It looks perfect on you,” I said, meaning it.
Turning to the Marshalls, but including Eileen, I said, “I have to be at the hotel half an hour before the doors to the ballroom open, to check in at the manager’s office and get my judging gear. I hate the thought of you three just standing around in the lobby, waiting.”
Bill draped one arm each around Liddy and Eileen. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take the girls into the cocktail lounge for a drink and let all the other men envy me for being with two such beautiful women.” He nodded toward the front door. “You gals ready?”
“Just a minute.” I took Eileen’s hand. “Honey, come help me look for my evening bag. We’ll be right back.”
As soon as we were out of sight and beyond the hearing of Liddy and Bill, I said, “Are you sure you want to come tonight? Are you up to being in the same room with that rotten jerk?”
Eileen’s eyes glittered with anger. “I want him to see what he’s missing,” she said.
The Olympia Grand Hotel was located on Wilshire Boulevard, a few blocks east of Westwood Boulevard, at the western edge of a swath of elegant high-rise buildings that contained some of the most expensive condominiums in the world. Platinum Row, some called it. For the residents, those condos were mansions with a concierge, on-site plumbers, electricians, and maid service, and without the need of gardeners. Several of the buildings also included private chefs among the amenities.
The limousine Bill hired-I couldn’t bring myself to call it our limousine-turned into the lane leading to the hotel’s entrance. We were behind two other identical black vehicles.
The driver stopped and came around to open the rear door and to help us out. I saw that two more limousines had made the turn from Wilshire to the hotel’s entrance and were slowing to a stop behind us.
I asked Bill, “How are we going to find the car when the evening’s over?”
The driver gave a little salute with the fingers of one meaty hand. “I’ll find you. My name is Rudy.”
Bill thanked him, then steered his three female companions toward the entrance to the Olympia Grand Hotel and through the heavy glass and brass revolving doors. Exceptionally handsome doors, the entwined initials O and G were etched onto the glass panels in ornamental calligraphy.
Inside, the crowded lobby replicated a Hollywood set decorator’s idea of a pagan temple: high ceilings, soaring sconces wired for electricity but miming candlelight, and walls covered by vivid frescoes featuring Greek gods at play.
“This is very flattering lighting,” Liddy said. “I haven’t been here since Gene Long bought the hotel and redecorated it.”
I reached out for Liddy’s hand and pulled her beside me. “Do you mean Eugene Long, who has a fleet of oil tankers and an airline? Tina Long’s father owns this place?”
Liddy nodded. “The hotel is his hobby. I don’t know how he can pay attention to his businesses with the time he has to spend getting that dippy celebutante daughter of his out of trouble. I’m not surprised he’s got a reputation for getting plastered as soon as the sun goes down. If she were my daughter, I’d drink, too. Why are you interested in them?”
I was saved from having to think of an answer. Bill and Eileen had nearly reached the entrance to the lounge when he seemed to realize that Liddy wasn’t with them. He turned around and gestured for her to catch up.
“See you later,” I said, gently shooing her toward Bill and Eileen. I watched them disappear through the archway into the cocktail lounge, where a pianist was playing melodies from Broadway musicals.
Peering through the humanity parading across the lobby, I saw a notice board on an easel announcing that the Celebrity Cook-Off was going to be held in the Elysian Ballroom at seven PM. A few yards from where I stood there was a door with a brass sign identifying it as the “Manager’s Office.” According to Phil, that was where I was supposed to present myself to collect my judging cards and clipboard.
The only negative about this event was that I would have to see Keith Ingram. I didn’t want him to suspect that I knew what he had done to Eileen, so I would have to be polite to him. It was a revolting thought, but necessary until I figured out what to do.
Straightening my posture, I headed toward my destination through the crowd of strangers. Several of them glanced at me with that “Do I know you?” look in their eyes. I smiled back. Perhaps they’d seen the show, but didn’t recognize me all glammed up.
Reaching the entrance to the manager’s office, I was about to knock when the door opened and a man emerged. Slightly taller than medium height, slender but muscular, wavy hair the color of milk chocolate. Handsome. He looked like a combination of an athlete and a poet: Michel-angelo’s David in a dinner jacket.
But the sight of him made me want to retch-because I had nearly collided with Keith Ingram.