Текст книги "Night Night, Sleep Tight"

Автор книги: Hallie Ephron

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Chapter 43

I cannot believe you tossed it over the side of the road into the canyon,” Sy said from the passenger seat as Deirdre pulled her car out of the parking garage. It was all she could do to keep her sweaty hands anchored on the wheel. “You did not think someone would take it?”

“Not where I left it.” After her talk with Henry the night before, she’d driven around for an hour looking for somewhere to hide the manuscript. It had been much harder than she’d thought it would be to find a secure spot. Finally it had come to her: people didn’t mess with roadside shrines.

“I have never needed to use this before,” Sy said, looking down at the gun in his hand. “I bought it for Elenor but she would not take it.”

“Guess it’s not her weapon of choice,” Deirdre said.

Sy ignored that. He braced himself with his other hand on the door as Deirdre rounded a corner a little too fast.

“I drove all over,” Deidre said, “thinking I’d leave it in a backyard, under some bushes, buried in mulch. But these people”—she pointed up one of the driveways, where a gate led to hidden backyards—“have gardeners. Automatic sprinkler systems. Motion sensors and alarm systems.”

She heard a clicking sound and glanced across at Sy. He was cocking and uncocking the gun that he held in his lap, pointing at her leg.

The car brushed the curb and Deirdre jerked the wheel. There was a deafening pop. Deirdre screamed and locked her hands on the wheel as the car slew to one side of the road and then to the other. A sulfurous smell. Was she hit? She slammed on the brakes and steered into the skid, narrowly missing a parked car.

At last she got the car under control. She took a quick glance down into her lap. In it were beige plastic shards. Pieces of dashboard.

Her heart pounded like a jackhammer and her fingers ached. That’s when she realized Sy was gesticulating at her. Waving his hands, including the one holding the gun. Saying something. Shouting probably. But her ears were ringing.

Finally the ringing abated. She looked across at Sy. He was calm now, staring at the gun, white as a sheet. “Gun is loaded,” he said.

No kidding. Deirdre’s forehead and the back of her neck were coated with cold sweat, and she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. As if there weren’t enough oxygen in the car to fill her lungs. She rolled down the window. Took some deep breaths.

She glanced across again at Sy. He looked as terrified as she felt. He had the bluster to threaten, but maybe not the nerve to pull the trigger. Either way, as long as he had that thing in his hands he was dangerous.

Her heart still pounding, she turned north on Beverly Glen. The two-lane residential street, most of its houses hidden by tall bushes, climbed slowly. Deirdre steadied herself. Keep on talking.

“So then I thought, maybe I could hide it somewhere in a park,” she said as she drove past a small park, barely big enough for a few picnickers to lay out their blankets. “In a public restroom or behind a storage shed or in a trash bin. But I couldn’t trust it to remain unnoticed for long. So I thought: How do they do it in the movies? They stash things in lockers in bus or train stations. But do they still have storage lockers? And is there even such a thing as a bus or train station within striking distance of Beverly Hills? Which got me thinking about a locker at a country club.”

Her ears popped as they climbed higher and higher. Farther up, the houses were more modest and the road narrowed. Finally she turned onto Mulholland right behind a red Porsche that was moving fast. Deirdre kept on its tail, hoping she was making an impression, that the driver would remember her if anything bad happened.

“Which could have worked except I don’t belong to a country club.”

Sy held on to the door. He looked like he was about to be carsick. The gun was still in his hand, pointed at her, his finger still on the trigger.

“It’s not much farther,” Deirdre said. “Would you quit messing with that thing? I know you don’t want to shoot me while I’m driving.”

“I do not want to shoot you at all.”

Deirdre turned tighter than she needed to coming around a bend. Tires screeched and Sy braced himself against the door. But still he held on to the gun. The turnout was just ahead. At least in a few moments they’d be out of the car.

She still hadn’t caught her breath when she pulled the car off the road and into the same parking area where she’d spun out, day before yesterday. There were no bikers there today, just a battered, orange-and-white VW bus and an older couple standing at the opposite end of the overlook, taking in the view of the Valley.

Dust settled around Deirdre’s car. She started to open the door.

“Not yet.” He had the gun steady and pointed directly at her. “First, where is it?”

Deirdre swallowed. “It’s over there.” She pointed to the tree twenty feet down off the side of the road, its base crowded with mementos of people who’d been injured or lost their lives.

Sy took the keys from the ignition, grabbed Deirdre’s umbrella, and got out of the car. He motioned for her to get out, too. She did. He looked around, casting a nervous glance in the direction of the couple. They weren’t paying attention to anything but the view.

“Suicide Bend,” Sy said, reading the sign and edging closer to the guardrail. He looked over, then gazed up toward the tree branch where the car bumper twisted in the wind. “I guess you are not the only person who got hurt here.”

Deirdre limped over to the stretch of guardrail closest to the tree. “I threw it from here.”

Sy stared down the steep incline. “Go get it.”

“I can’t—”

“Then you should not have thrown it.” Sy passed her the umbrella she’d been using in place of her crutch.

Deirdre sat on the guardrail. “Or we could just leave it there and it will be our little secret. I’ll never tell.”

Sy gave her a long, steady look. “You know I cannot risk that. Think of this as part of your role as your father’s literary executor.”

Deirdre almost laughed. What she was about to do was a gross perversion of the role her father had bestowed upon her. “You’re only going to change what he wrote.”

“It will still be Arthur Unger’s story. Boy from the Bronx makes good. Think about how he would feel if the choice were between dooming it to obscurity or twisting it a bit and making it a smash.”

“You must have tried that argument out on him.”

“And I think he would have come around. Eventually. But not everyone is as patient as I am.”

The worst part was, Deirdre knew Sy was right. She set the tip of the umbrella into the wet soil at the top of the embankment and swung her legs over. Next to the teddy bear and beside a fresh bouquet of flowers, she could see the glint of shiny foil in which she’d wrapped the manuscript. If she gave it to Sy, no one would know that the father of Bunny’s son had been a sixteen-year-old kid. Henry could go on pretending to be a friend of the family, taking his son under his wing like a big brother. No one would know that Henry killed Tito.

What would her father have wanted? She knew the answer to that. He’d have wanted to be played by Jack Nicholson.

What mattered to Deirdre? That took her a few moments.

She turned back to Sy. “Will you tell me one thing?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you kill my dad?”

“No.” Sy’s voice was firm. She wasn’t sure if it was regret or annoyance that flickered across his face. “But I will say that I did, if it comes to that. I will be very convincing. People who confess to protect people they love can even come to believe the lie.”

“Bunny killed him, didn’t she?” Deirdre said.

Sy’s expression didn’t change, but that told her all she needed to know.

Deirdre stood, set the tip of the umbrella in the harder-packed soil farther in from the guardrail. Carefully she began to descend toward the base of the tree.

ALMOST TWO YEARS

LATER, WEDNESDAY,

March 11, 1987

Chapter 44

Silver-haired Johnny Carson bounced a pencil on his desk and raised a hand in a salute to his audience. “My guest tonight is one of the most glamorous movie stars of all time. When her name was on the marquee, bam, they came. Her new movie is about to open, and it’s both a public and a very personal triumph. Would you please join me in welcoming the one, the only”—the camera shifted to a robin’s-egg blue curtain that drew aside—“Elenor Nichol.”

Orchestral fanfare and long, sustained applause exploded as Bunny, her eyes wide, red lips glistening against white teeth, stood framed by the curtain. She wore a slinky black gown. A diamond brooch sparkled at her slender waist, and diamond chandelier earrings grazed her porcelain shoulders. Her black hair was piled high on her head, with tendrils curling down her back.

“She looks spectacular,” Deirdre said, watching the show from the bed she now shared with Tyler in their arts-and-crafts bungalow in Los Feliz Village. Deirdre’s share of the income from her father’s book and the movie deal had been enough for half the down payment on the house and a year’s rent on a storefront on Hollywood Boulevard where she’d soon open her own art gallery. Deirdre and Henry had given a share of their earnings to Gloria, who’d opened a yoga and meditation studio at a hot springs resort between Death Valley and Las Vegas.

On TV, Bunny put her hand over her mouth as the applause continued. She seemed genuinely overwhelmed. Carson got up and offered her his hand, then gave a mock bow all the way down on one knee, like he was waiting to be knighted. Bunny smiled as he stood, offered her his arm, and led her over to the guest chair.

When the applause died down, Carson sat and rested his arms on his desk. “As you can hear, you’ve been missed.”

“Thank you. This means so much to me.” Bunny leaned forward as if sharing a confidence, her cleavage swelling. “You’re all so kind. You know, I never really meant to leave Hollywood. I just needed time.” She shifted in the chair, crossing her leg so that her thigh peeked through a slit in the skirt. “Time to find myself.”

“And I trust you have,” Carson said, glancing at her leg and giving the audience one of his trademark smirks. Then he smiled graciously at Bunny. “We’re glad to have you back. You’re a true movie star legend.”

“You make me sound like an anachronism.” She gave him a sly look. “But I am happy.”

“Is it your work or something personal?”

“Probably the work. But who can tell? Regret can be very disabling. It took me a long time to learn to let it go.”

He smiled an impish grin. “Screw regret.”

Bunny gave a naughty boy shake of her head. “Am I being good? Am I being bad? Am I this? Am I that? Who cares? Let it all go. I’ve learned to live with my past. But I do have a few scars.” She widened the slit in her skirt to expose her knee. “Can you see my boo-boos?”

“You want to show them to us?”

The audience howled.

Bunny smiled. Blushed.

Carson spread his arms, like he couldn’t help himself. “Might there be a new man in your life? Because behind every great woman is a great behind.”

The audience laughed, and Bunny turned to them. “Now you all have to stop egging him on.”

As the audience response faded, Johnny’s look turned serious. “Okay, so you’ve let it go. You’ve . . . um . . .” He bounced a pencil on the desk.

“Finished my film.” Bunny turned to the audience, spread her hands, and was rewarded with applause.

“You want to talk about your film? What’s it called?”

“You know what it’s called.”

“Notorio,” Carson said, and music swelled, violins in a syncopated tango with flourishes from a snare drum. A movie poster came up. There was Bunny in the same long black dress, waves of long black hair framing her face, wrapped in a dance embrace with her Latin lover. Deirdre could hear Tito’s voice whispering in her ear. Yes, it was about the connection.

“Notorio,” Bunny said. “With Tito Altavista.”

“Tito?”

“Just a coincidence.”

“In Hollywood, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

“He’s a young Fernando Lamas.”

“Fernando Lamas.”

“It was a great experience.”

“With Tito Altavista?”

She looked toward the audience. “Yes.”

“Have you ever worked with Fernando Lamas?”

Bunny ignored that. “The movie opens in Los Angeles tomorrow.”

“And are you having fun with this new movie?”

“I never do anything I don’t enjoy,” Bunny said without a hint of irony. “Not anymore.”

Johnny raised his eyebrows. “I can certainly relate to that.”

Bunny tucked her knee demurely back into her skirt.

On the screen now was the cover of Arthur’s book. Johnny said, “I understand the movie is based on a book written by an old friend of yours.”

True to Sy’s word, as soon as Deirdre had given him the manuscript, Shoshanna/Susanna had showed up to confirm Deirdre’s story. Shortly after that, the shovel mysteriously disappeared from police evidence, and a few months later, Arthur’s death was ruled by misadventure. Six months later, Arthur’s memoir, One Damned Thing After Another, was published. The movie’s publicity rollout had pushed it onto the New York Times bestseller list.

“Yes. Arthur Unger is”—Bunny gave her head a sad shake—“was a writer. A huge talent. One of Hollywood’s greats. And one of its most underappreciated. Maybe now the Academy will recognize his work.”

The book cover faded and was replaced by a head shot of Arthur himself taken back in the early days, the kind of black-and-white publicity still that the studio had taken of all its contract talent. Then the picture of Arthur faded, replaced by a still from the movie, Bunny and Jerry Orbach in Bunny’s pink bedroom with the actor Tito Altavista dead on the floor with a knife sticking out of his abdomen.

Jerry Orbach wasn’t Jack Nicholson or Dustin Hoffman—not A-list enough to share the limelight on the Tonight show with Bunny, which was probably just as well. But he was smart, handsome, and a terrific actor. A Broadway song-and-dance man, too. Arthur would have appreciated that.

On TV, Carson asked Bunny, “I understand you worked with Mr. Unger on his book.”

“Yes. We collaborated before his tragic death.”

Collaborated? That made Deirdre laugh out loud.

“In fact, we talked about it the very day he died. Ironic, don’t you think?” Bunny pursed her lips. That brazen admission took Deirdre’s breath away.

“And I understand Arthur Unger was not just a friend of yours,” Carson said. “His book gives an inside look at the most tragic event in your life, a murder almost twenty-five years ago that got worldwide headlines. People still haven’t forgotten. It’s something you have never talked about publicly before.”

“And I’m not starting now.”

“So if we want to know—”

“Go see the movie. It’s always better than real life.”

The camera held for a moment on Carson’s face, his eyebrows raised in dismay. “You heard what the lady said. See the film. And with that . . .” he said and pointed off camera.

The TV went to commercial, and there was Bunny again, wearing another low-cut, slinky black dress adorned with diamonds. Deirdre had the odd sensation that she was in Bunny Nichol’s dressing room again, the mirrored walls reflecting and reflecting back infinite images of the glamorous star. It wouldn’t have surprised her if the doorbell rang to reveal yet another Bunny, this one in person. Except Deirdre hadn’t seen or spoken to Bunny Nichol, not since Bunny had pretended to toss the bloodied dress and the knife into her pool. Joelen had ended up brokering the sale of Arthur’s house for $1.1 million. That someone had died there in mysterious circumstances only increased the interest in the property. It was, after all, Hollywood. Deirdre and Joelen hadn’t spoken since the closing.

During the commercial for Cerulean, violins, piano, and finally an accordion swelled to a tango rhythm. A tall, slender man dressed all in black moved slowly away from the camera toward Bunny, took her in his arms, twirled her once, twice, then bent her backward. The scene dissolved to a close-up of Bunny raising a bottle of Cerulean as if in a champagne toast, arching her head back and spraying her neck with the perfume. In smoke, words wrote themselves out on the screen in front of her.

Because

you’re a woman

“Cerulean,” Bunny’s voice whispered as the words dissolved into a skim of mist that took over the screen and slowly dissipated to reveal a bottle of the perfume.

Deirdre turned the television off.

“That woman is a piece of work,” Tyler said.

“She is that,” Deirdre said.

“And she makes it sound as if the story is all about her.”

“It always is.”

Deirdre had been invited to a screening of the movie. She and Henry had gone together. The movie echoed Sunset Boulevard without the grit and irony, with the screenwriter aging and the Hollywood star young and glamorous. Arthur’s life story was relegated to a few meager flashbacks.

In the movie’s climactic scene, Tito works himself into a jealous rage. He hits Bunny repeatedly, then grabs the strand of pearls she’s wearing around her neck, twists it tight, and starts to strangle her. Bunny’s mouth opens in a silent scream, her eyes go wide, and her face turns red. Joelen, played by Winona Ryder, screams at him from the bedroom doorway to stop. Tito drops Bunny and pivots toward Joelen, fingers flexed.

Bunny screams. She sees Joelen has a knife. Tito does not. He lunges for Joelen.

The camera lingers on Tito’s face. Stunned. On Joelen’s face. Shocked. On Bunny’s face. Horrified. Then the camera pans back as Tito drops to the floor, rolls over onto his back, his glazed eyes staring up at the ceiling.

In the movie, there was not a whiff of Deirdre’s presence at the house that night. No trace of Henry’s role in the tragedy, either. Henry still had no idea how close he’d come to being thrust into the limelight. Charged with murder. Revealed as the father of Bunny’s son.

After they sold Arthur’s house, Henry quit his job at the motorcycle dealership and used his share of their earnings to buy a one-story fixer-upper on a canal in Venice. In the garage, he’d opened a small recording studio.

Audio of Bunny’s testimony before the coroner’s jury had played as the movie’s final credits rolled. Sy had gotten Arthur a posthumous screenwriting credit, even though he’d never actually touched the screenplay.

“How would your father feel about the way she hijacked his story?” Tyler asked.

Deirdre paused. How would Arthur have felt? He knew writers got no respect. That his job was to put words on the pages of scripts that directors and actors inevitably rewrote, mangled, or ignored. But now he had a bestselling book. A major motion picture. Earnings that could have easily have paid for a bigger swimming pool and a credit that might yet garner an Academy Award nomination. He was still in the game.

“He’d have been thrilled,” Deirdre said.

Author’s Note

Like any young girl growing up in Beverly Hills, I was fascinated by the 1958 murder of Johnny Stompanato. I was ten years old, and I can remember poring over the pictures and articles that ran in the newspapers. The house where it happened was just a few blocks from where we lived, and Cheryl Crane, Lana Turner’s daughter who confessed to stabbing her mother’s gangster boyfriend to death, was just four years older than me.

Readers may recognize the crime as one of the inspirations for this book. But in researching Night Night, Sleep Tight, beyond rereading news accounts that ran at the time of the crime, I deliberately avoided learning anything about the people involved in the real crime. Instead I took the murder and its trappings, along with my own visceral response to it years ago, as a jumping-off point for an entirely fictional story with fictional characters I could build from the ground up.

About the Author

Author photograph by Lynn Wayne

HALLIE EPHRON is the bestselling, award-winning author of suspense novels. Her novels have been finalists for the Edgar, Anthony, and Mary Higgins Clark awards. With Night Night, Sleep Tight, she takes readers back to early-’60s Beverly Hills, a time and place she knows intimately. She grew up there, the third of four daughters of Hollywood screenwriting duo Henry and Phoebe Ephron, contract writers for Twentieth Century Fox who wrote screenplays for classics like Carousel and Desk Set. Ms. Ephron’s novels have been called “Hitchcockian” by USA Today, and “deliciously creepy” by Publishers Weekly. Her award-winning bestseller Never Tell a Lie was made into a movie for the Lifetime Movie Network. Her essays have been broadcast on NPR and appeared in magazines including More, Writer’s Digest, and O: The Oprah Magazine (“Growing Up Ephron”). She writes a regular crime fiction book review column for the Boston Globe. Ms. Ephron lives near Boston with her husband.

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