Текст книги "Night Night, Sleep Tight"

Автор книги: Hallie Ephron

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 14

Deirdre stared out Joelen’s car window, feeling her heart slow and the sweat that coated her forehead and neck cool. Familiar and unfamiliar houses flew past. Joelen drove with her hand resting lightly on the steering wheel. She still bit her fingernails down to the quick. Though it was more than twenty years later, she didn’t look all that different from the picture that her father had taken of her in his office.

“What?” Joelen asked, giving her a sideways glance. “Have I got a booger hanging out of my nose?” And, Deirdre noted, she still said exactly what she thought.

“Sorry,” Deirdre said. “Didn’t mean to be ogling you. It’s been a crazy day. The police came this morning to search the house and the garage. Now they’re back to talk to me. In the meanwhile, I found out that I’m my dad’s literary executor, which means I have to deal with all of his shit. Like, one of the things he’s got? Remember your mom’s yellow dress?” She hadn’t meant to say any of that, but there it was.

“My mother’s yellow dress?”

“The one she let me wear to her party . . . you know, that night.”

“That . . . ?” At first Joelen looked puzzled. Then, “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” She pulled the car over to the curb and stopped. She turned in her seat and faced Deirdre. “What are you talking about?”

“The dress your mother let me wear to her party that night. It was in a pile of stuff that Dad wanted Henry to throw away.”

“So how did your father end up with it?”

“All I know is that he did.”

Joelen stared out through the windshield, her brow wrinkled, shaking her head. “I have no idea how your father got that dress,” she said at last, turning back to Deirdre. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Deirdre took a shuddering breath. “Was I there when Tito got stabbed?”

“You were in the house.”

“But was I in the room?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because the dress. It’s got dark stains on it.”

“And you think—?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m just asking.”

Joelen held Deirdre’s gaze for a long moment. “No, honey. You were not. You were fast asleep in your jammies.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure as hell.” Joelen looked over her shoulder and pulled away from the curb. “I was there. You were not.”

Deirdre leaned back and felt the tension drain from her neck and shoulders.

After a long silence, Joelen said, “I’m sorry we didn’t keep in touch.”

“Me too. I tried to call. I wrote.”

“I was trying to become invisible. Besides, they sent me away.” Joelen stopped at Sunset, signaled right, and waited as cars streamed past.

“Where?”

“After the verdict, they sent me to juvie.” She pulled into traffic. “Which wasn’t really as bad as you might imagine. I met some fascinating people.” She laughed. “Then the judge sent me to live with my aunt Evelyn in Des Moines, for God’s sake. Not so fascinating. Fields and fields of wheat. I finished high school there. For a year I was Jennifer, so no one knew who I really was or why I was there, and I was damn well going to keep it that way. I didn’t make a single friend.”

“You must have gone bonkers.”

“I did. A little.” Joelen gave a bitter laugh. “Poor Aunt Evelyn, God bless her. She had one black-and-white television set and she had it on all the time. She was addicted to the Price Is Right, Queen for a Day, Search for Tomorrow, Guiding Light.” Joelen rolled her eyes. “And, oh yeah, wrestling. The only books in the house were steamy romance novels. And the Bible, of course. We went to the mall every Saturday, church every Sunday.” She signaled right. “Supposedly that was more therapeutic than living with my mom. I had to stay until I was eighteen.”

She turned into the familiar driveway and stopped at a metal gate that hadn’t been there years earlier. NO TRESPASSING and PROTECTED BY FIVE STAR SECURITY signs hung on it. Joelen rolled down the window, reached out, and pressed a button on an intercom box.

It took a while for anyone to answer. At last a man’s tinny voice croaked out, “Yeah?” “Hey, it’s me,” Joelen said.

Slowly the gate swung open and Joelen drove through and up the winding driveway. Deirdre turned and looked over her shoulder. The gate began to swing shut.

The rest of the driveway up to the house looked familiar: a tennis court, then farther along a carport sheltered under a bank of bougainvillea. Alongside the carport a white fence surrounded a kidney-shaped pool and pool house. The driveway curved back on itself and climbed. From above Deirdre could see that the pool was half-full, and the water in it had turned a sickly green.

Joelen stopped alongside a motorcycle in a broad parking area in front of the house, just feet from the front door. Deirdre picked up her crutch and started to open the door.

“Deeds?” Joelen said. The familiar nickname that only Henry still called her brought Deirdre up short. “I heard about what happened to your leg,” Joelen said, her eye on the crutch. “Tough break. I didn’t find out until I got back from Iowa. I tried to call you, but you were already away at college.”

Deirdre had spent the summer after she graduated from high school at UC San Diego and fallen in love with art history. She’d been desperate to get away from Beverly Hills, to meet people who didn’t know her as either Joelen Nichol’s onetime best friend or the crippled girl everyone pitied.

Joelen’s look turned serious. “So why do the police want to talk to you?”

“All I know is Sy said if they came back, not to talk to them alone.”

“Sy.” Joelen blinked. “You mean, it wasn’t an accident.”

Deirdre looked down into her lap.

“How awful. I’m sorry,” Joelen said. “But they can’t think it was you.”

“I don’t know what they think. And I didn’t want to find out when I was alone.”

Joelen pushed open the car door and got out. Deirdre followed her to the columned portico. “Listen to Sy,” Joelen said, “and do exactly what he tells you. I don’t even want to think what might have happened to me if I hadn’t.”

“Is he still your mom’s lawyer?”

“And friend. He’s really been there for us. It’s great that you’ve got him in your corner. And your family, too, of course. Where’s your mom?”

“Living in the desert on a monastic retreat. She’ll show up. Eventually.”

“Here’s a scary thought,” Joelen said, holding the front door of the house open for Deirdre. “Marooned on a desert island with your mother and my mother. Gilligan’s Island meets . . .”

“Dallas,” Deirdre said. It was a game she and Joelen used to play, and any other time Deirdre would have added on with wearing . . . or eating . . . or singing . . . But at that moment, Deirdre couldn’t have come up with anything else clever if her life depended on it. All she wanted to do was talk to Sy.

Chapter 15

Deirdre stood for a moment in the massive two-story entryway. She hadn’t been in this house in more than twenty years. The once uneven stucco walls of the entryway were paneled over with a light wood, like a patterned birch. The floor, once rich terra-cotta tile, was now inset with slabs of peach-colored marble. The generous staircase was carpeted in thick white pile, the wrought-iron handrail that had once wound up to the second floor replaced by opulent carved and gilded balusters. Hanging from the ceiling was a massive Lucite and crystal chandelier that would have been right at home in a Las Vegas hotel.

A young man, dark and handsome, looked down at Deirdre from the landing halfway up the stairs. Deirdre felt a jolt of recognition. Before she could process it, Joelen pulled her across the entryway and down two steps into a white-carpeted living room, its windows swathed in gauzy white. “Bunny!” Joelen called out as she headed for the door at the far end of the living room.

Deirdre remembered how weird it had seemed the first time she’d heard Joelen call her mother Bunny instead of Mom. Then it turned out to be a ’60s thing. As usual, the Nichols were ahead of the curve and the Ungers were behind it.

Deirdre looked around the living room. It, too, had changed over time. Couches and ottomans that had once been covered in a floral brocade were now cream-colored linen. The white grand piano was still there, but many of the other furnishings Deirdre recalled—carved and inlaid Versailles-inspired credenzas, tables, and chairs; massive bucolic landscape paintings—were gone. She wondered if the odd combination of opulence and minimalist elegance was some interior designer’s vision, or whether the furnishings had been sold off to pay bills.

One of the pieces that did remain was a towering portrait of Bunny, still hanging in an elaborate frame over the marble fireplace. She was sitting in one of the missing chairs and wearing a pale blue, diaphanous Greek goddess dress. Her black hair was brushed to the side, curls cascading over one shoulder. Standing at her knee was a very young Joelen looking like a stiff little soldier in a starched white eyelet pinafore.

Still there too, looking marooned in the half-empty room, was a white lacquered credenza that had held a stereo system. After school, Deirdre and Joelen used to hang out here and hope Tito would show up and demonstrate the fine points of tango. He’d been agile, electrically handsome, and he’d smelled of sweat and cigars and a musky cologne. Before he’d take Deirdre or Joelen in his muscular arms, he’d turn the stereo up so loud that Deirdre could literally feel the floor vibrate as the violin bow struck the strings. Then he’d stand tall, even though he wasn’t all that tall, and stick his chest out, his silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal a large medal hanging from a thick gold chain against a field of dark chest hair. His stance reminded Deirdre of a toreador addressing a bull. He’d offer her his hand, and she’d let hers float down to meet it. When it did, he’d twirl her once, twice, and then whip her close in time to the musical flourish, his palm anchored firmly against her lower back and his thigh pressed hard between her legs. “Eess not about the es-teps,” he’d whisper, his voice deep and intoxicatingly accented, his breath hot in her ear. “Eess about the co-NECK-shun.”

Later, the memory of him pressed against her had been enough to make her go all tingly. Deirdre wondered if there were still tango records stored inside the credenza on the shelf below the sound system.

“Bunny,” Joelen called out again.

The door at the far end of the living room opened, and Elenor “Bunny” Nichol entered, regal in a gold caftan, her black hair piled high on her head. At first she appeared tall, but as Deirdre got closer she seemed to shrink. Face-to-face, she was actually shorter than Deirdre.

“My dear!” Bunny held Deirdre at arm’s length and took in her leg, her crutch. Like Joelen, she hadn’t seen Deirdre since before she was crippled, but her gaze didn’t linger. She reached for Deirdre’s hand. “I heard the terrible news. I am so sorry about Arthur.” Her voice was low and resonant and there was real emotion in her eyes.

“Thank you. I—” Deirdre choked and the words caught in her throat. She swallowed. “Thanks, Mrs. Nichol.”

“Bunny, please. You know, your mother and I were pals. We were both chorus girls at Warner Brothers. We used to play hearts in full makeup and costume during our lunch breaks on the set.” Deirdre’s expression must have betrayed her because Bunny said, “Does that surprise you?”

“A little. My mother didn’t have many friends.” Deirdre didn’t add that although her mother had once aspired to act, she had come to dismiss actresses as self-indulgent narcissists. Talking to one, she used to say, was like getting trapped in a mirror.

“Your mother was whip smart,” Bunny said. In other words, never made it out of the back row whereas Bunny had quickly moved front and center. “And your father was a charmer. He made friends for both of them.”

Friends? Deirdre cringed. Like the women he’d photographed up in his office? Joelen saved her from a response by saying, “Bunny, the police think someone killed Arthur and they want to question Deirdre.”

The words left Deirdre momentarily stunned. It was true, of course, but she hadn’t let herself think about it in such stark terms.

“Oh dear,” Bunny said. “How can we—”

“She needs to call Sy Sterling,” Joelen said.

“Of course,” Bunny said. “Come. Use the phone in my office.”

Moments later, Deirdre was sitting at the glass-topped desk in Bunny’s study. Bunny knew the number and dialed for her. Joelen watched from the door.

“Attorney’s office.” The smoker’s voice of Vera, Sy’s secretary, brought back a memory of the second-floor law office in Westwood Village. Open the door with the pebble glass inset and there Vera would be at her desk, a pencil stuck in her hair and a stash of crayons and drawing paper hidden in the supply closet. The smells of Vera’s cigarettes and Sy’s cigars mingled in the dimly lit corridor where they used to let Deirdre ride her tricycle up and down while Sy met with Arthur in his office.

Deirdre breathed a sigh of relief when Vera put her right through. “Sy? It’s Deirdre. You said to call if the police came back? Well, they did. First they called and left a message that they wanted to talk to me. Then they came to the house. When I didn’t answer, they just sat out front and waited. Then TV news vans pulled up—”

“Where are you now?” Sy said, interrupting. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just rattled. My friend Joelen came and got me. I’m at her house.”

“Joelen?” Sy seemed surprised. “Elenor Nichol’s daughter?”

“She was my best friend in high school. Dad was supposed to meet with her to talk about selling the house.” Silence on the other end of the line. “She’s a Realtor now.”

“I know,” Sy said.

“Where should I go? I can’t stay here.” Deirdre swallowed, trying to tamp down the hysteria that threatened to envelop her. “What do the police want?”

“Probably just answers to routine questions. They are investigating a suspicious death. You discovered it. But I do not like them harassing you at the house. And I really do not like newspeople showing up. Schmucks, all of them.” Sy’s outrage was comforting. “We need to get out in front of this. Go in and talk to that detective.” He must have covered the receiver because she could hear muffled voices, then, “Can you meet me in front of City Hall in about an hour? I will call you when I arrive.”

Deirdre covered the receiver on her end. “Joelen, can you drive me over to City Hall? Not now. When Sy calls back in an hour.”

“Of course,” Joelen said.

“I’ll be there,” Deirdre told Sy, feeling relieved. She wasn’t eager to talk to the police, but taking action, any action, felt infinitely better than waiting to be mugged.

“Can you find a scarf?” Sy asked. “Or sunglasses? Just in case reporters are hanging around. I don’t want anyone to recognize you on the way in.”

“Recognize me?” Deirdre asked, startled. “Why would anyone recognize me?”

“There are already news vans at your house. Who do you think they are looking for?”

“My father was just a writer, for God’s sake. Why do they even care?”

“Your father drowned. And years ago he failed to save Fox Pearson from drowning.”

“Who remembers him?”

“No one would except that he died with so much drama. In a swimming pool. And your father tried to save him. The press loves it when history tries to repeat itself.”

Chapter 16

Scarf? Sunglasses? Pffft. Amateur hour.” Bunny Nichol rubbed her hands together, wiggled her fingers, and blew on the tips. “We can do better than that.” She threw open the door to her dressing room. It was half the size of the master bedroom, which itself was about the size of the entire first floor of Deirdre’s house in San Diego. Out wafted the scent of orange blossoms.

Instantly Deirdre was transported back to when she and Joelen spent hours in Bunny’s dressing room, sampling her skin creams and applying her lipstick—a strawberry red called Fraises des Bois—and trying on gowns and costumes. Chiffon and satin, feathers and sequins, leather and metallic lamé. Then adorning themselves with pounds of costume jewelry.

But the last thing Deirdre needed right now was a getup that drew attention to herself. “Even with a paper bag over my head I’ll still be recognizable. I can’t get around without this,” she said, indicating her crutch.

“When I’m done with you, you’ll be able to bump right into them, crutch and all, and they won’t so much as blink. You’ll see.”

“Bunny used to be a magician’s assistant,” Joelen said. “She once performed with the legendary John Jasper.”

“Deirdre’s probably never heard of him, have you, dear?” Bunny said. “He wasn’t a celebrity so much as a magician’s magician. Brilliant guy. He could do anything. Make anything disappear, including the teeth right out of your mouth. He was injured doing the bullet catch onstage in Piccadilly. Died a day later. Death by misadventure. If the police had understood how the trick was done, they’d have done more investigating.” She shook her head, then gave a wicked smile and a wave of her hand. “In John’s early days, I was the eye candy. That’s the whole point of having an assistant. To distract. Though he didn’t need me. He was that damned good. But here we have the opposite problem.” She pursed her lips. “We don’t want you to disappear. We just want to make you appear invisible.”

Invisibility. Now there was a goal worth aspiring to.

The facing walls of the dressing room were mirrored, reflecting back an infinitely repeating version of Deirdre’s frazzled self. Deirdre dropped her gaze to Bunny’s makeup table. It was also mirrored, and sitting on top was a gilt-framed ink-and-watercolor portrait of Bunny. She addressed the viewer with a direct gaze, a knowing gleam in her eyes, her chin resting on her curled fingers. Tendrils of silky black hair framed her face. She looked like a grown-up, worldly, and slightly naughty version of a Breck girl.

Outside the border framing Bunny’s face, the illustrator had drawn a heart-shaped bottle filled with brilliant blue liquid. The word CERULEAN was lettered in gold on the bottle, and beneath it in script were the words Fragrance for women. The liquid in the bottle matched the brilliant blue the artist had used to color Bunny’s eyes.

Bunny grabbed the framed picture and laid it facedown on the dressing table. “No one’s supposed to see that,” she said. “It’s all very hush-hush, so you must promise me you won’t tell a soul. They’re not launching the product for a while yet, and I don’t want to jinx it. But isn’t it exciting?”

Joelen caught Deirdre’s attention in the mirror and rubbed her fingers and thumb together. “Mom will be the official spokesperson.”

“A little old-style Hollywood glamour,” Bunny said. “Still sells. If Sophia Loren can do it, why not Elenor Nichol? I’ve still got it.” She stood for a moment, chin up, hip cocked, admiring herself in the mirror.

“Yes, Mother dear.” Joelen rolled her eyes. “Remember the last time Deirdre was here? You let her borrow that yellow dress.”

“Did I?” Bunny said.

“Lace with a high neck,” Deirdre said. “It was the most gorgeous dress I’d ever worn, before or since.”

“Oh dear, that is a sad story.” Bunny gave Deirdre a sharp, appraising look. “You could probably still get into that dress. I’m sure I could not.”

Deirdre shivered at the thought of actually stepping into the torn, soiled dress. How different it would be from when she’d first put her arms through the sleeves on the night of her last sleepover.

That night, while the caterers were busy downstairs setting up for the party, Joelen and Deirdre sat and watched from the floor of this dressing room as Bunny got ready. First she “put on her face,” as she called it. Foundation, then powder brushed on over it, then a darkish powder applied, she explained, to shorten her nose and accentuate cheekbones. Next Bunny did her eyes, painting a thick band of turquoise eyeliner on the lids—a trick, she said, to make her eyes look even bluer than they were. Over that, with a steady hand she painted a narrow black line that echoed Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra.

Joelen had stood behind her mother, brushed out her hair, and pinned it up in a silky French twist. Bunny artfully pulled out strands to frame her face. Then Joelen sprayed until the air in the dressing room was moist and heavy with scent.

One by one, Bunny had pulled cocktail dresses from the closet, holding each up to consider. Satin, lace, chiffon, some in saturated jewel tones like colors of the millefleur glass paperweight on the makeup table, others pastel, like eggs in an Easter basket.

Bunny had held up an emerald-green satin sheath. “Not my color,” she said. She held the dress under Joelen’s chin. Joelen looked past her mother at her own reflection in a mirror. Without a word, some agreement seemed to pass between them. Bunny unzipped the dress and held it open; Joelen took off her pants and top and stepped into it. Bunny unhooked Joelen’s bra and Joelen slipped out of it and poured her breasts into the dress’s boned bodice. Deirdre felt like one of the little mice who watched Cinderella’s transformation as Bunny zipped Joelen into the dress, turned her to face the mirror, and pinched the fabric on either side of her narrow waist.

The overall effect was breathtaking. The intense green made Joelen’s complexion glow, and the contrast set fire to the reddish streaks in her hair. Her soft, full cleavage swelled into the plunging sweetheart neckline.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound had startled Deirdre. It was Tito, standing in the doorway and staring in at them. He was dressed in a formfitting black silk shirt that was open halfway down his chest.

Joelen blushed, and her hands flew up to cover her breasts. Tito strode over to her, put a finger under her chin, and waited until she raised her eyes to meet his. “Do not be ashamed. You are beautiful like your mother.” He started to lean in toward her, as if he were about to give her a kiss, then turned and gave Bunny a peck on the cheek. “These young ladies,” he said, winking at Deirdre, “they should come to the party.” Then he strode off, leaving behind a wake of musky cologne.

“Oh, could we? Can we?” Joelen asked Bunny. “Please, please, please!”

After a few moments’ hesitation, Bunny said, “Oh, all right. You girls can answer the door and take coats. Stay for a little while. But after that it’s up to bed. Understood?” She set aside a few dresses for Deirdre to pick from, then left to check on the caterers.

Deirdre chose the pale yellow cocktail dress with a swishy tulle skirt and a lace bodice. With a borrowed bra of Joelen’s, stuffed with Kleenex, the dress fit perfectly and made her feel like a fairy princess. By the time both girls were dressed and Joelen had finished fussing with her own and Deirdre’s hair and makeup, Deirdre barely recognized the girls who looked back at them in the mirror. Joelen looked like Ann-Margret, the seductive redhead she’d seen singing “Bye, Bye, Birdie” on the Ed Sullivan Show. Deirdre looked like a complete stranger with dark, dramatic eyes, the lashes heavy with mascara, her lips strawberry red and glistening. Her hair was teased and lacquered, her face a smooth veneer of makeup that felt spackled on.

Deirdre and Joelen had made their way down as the first guests, including Arthur and Gloria, were arriving. Guests took turns playing the piano, and at one point Bunny urged Joelen to step up and sing “Let Me Entertain You.”

“Sing out, Louise!” Bunny trilled near the end, before Joelen morphed from girlish coquette to sly seductress. When Joelen got to the part where she promised if they were real good, she’d make them feel good, not a single ice cube clinked as the room turned utterly silent. Joelen and Bunny sang the final crescendo together. Deirdre could still see the two of them standing side by side, flushed and beaming as the piano’s chords reverberated. An awkward silence followed.

In the endless rehashing in the press of what happened that night, a photograph of Joelen and Bunny appeared in newspapers and magazines. It showed them standing, arm in arm in front of the white grand piano in their similarly low-cut, formfitting satin sheaths. Deirdre had been standing next to Joelen, also arm in arm, but her image had been cropped from the frame. The only evidence she’d been there was the corner of her tulle skirt and her arm, the wrist laden with borrowed rhinestone bracelets.

Joelen’s question, “I wonder what happened to that dress?,” brought Deirdre back to the present. Joelen raised her eyebrows at Deirdre. Ask, she mouthed.

But before Deirdre could form a question, Bunny swept her arms like a conductor silencing the instruments. “Magic,” she said, gazing out in front of her, eyes unfocused, as if watching the word hover before her. “It’s all about misdirection. Make the audience attend to what you want them to see. What will be compelling enough to divert their attention or, in our case, make them tune out—that is the trick.”

Delicately Bunny tapped her chin with long red fingernails and stared at Deirdre in the mirror. She opened one closet door, then another, and another, finally emerging with a half-dozen garments slung over her arm. None of them were cocktail dresses. “Stand up straight. And, please, would you take off that appalling top. It’s making my teeth itch.”

Obediently Deirdre pulled off Henry’s Harley T-shirt and stood there in her bra and drawstring pants.

“Hmmm.” Bunny held up what looked like a gray cotton mechanic’s jumpsuit and squinted. She pursed her lips in disapproval and dropped it on the floor. A pale purple sweatshirt minidress with a hood met the same fate. A black-and-gold floor-length African dashiki joined the pile. Next she held up what looked like a stewardess uniform—navy pencil skirt and tailored jacket. “Maybe,” she said, and set it aside.

Finally Bunny considered a simple shirtwaist dress, starched and pressed gray cotton with an A-line skirt, white snaps up the front, a white collar, and short white-cuffed sleeves. She held the dress under Deirdre’s chin, narrowing her eyes as she gazed into the mirror. Then she broke into a smile. “Perfect, don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

Fifteen minutes later Deirdre was seated at the makeup table, wearing the dress with a pair of saggy white opaque tights and orthopedic nurse’s shoes. She’d stuffed the toe of one shoe with Kleenex to keep it from falling off her smaller foot. Bunny tucked Deirdre’s hair into a hairnet and secured it with a hairpin. She applied a foundation much darker than Deirdre’s natural skin tone and brushed powder over it, then created hollows beneath Deirdre’s eyes with dark eye shadow. Finally she gave Deirdre a pair of glasses with black plastic frames.

Deirdre put the glasses on. The lenses were clear.

“Up,” Bunny commanded.

Deirdre leaned on her crutch and rose to her feet.

“Stoop,” Bunny said.

Deirdre hunched over.

“Not that much. Just kind of roll your shoulders and stick your head out. Think turtle.”

Deirdre adjusted her stance. The mousy woman gazing back at her from the mirror looked like a Latina version of Ruth Buzzi’s bag lady from Laugh-In. She started to laugh. “This is ridiculous. It will never work.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” a man’s voice called from Bunny’s bedroom.

“You don’t think it’s going to work?” Bunny said to Deirdre. “Watch this.” She handed Deirdre her crutch and led her into the bedroom, then threw open the door to the hall. Out on the landing stood the young man Deirdre had seen earlier. He was barefoot and wearing jeans and a stretched-out black T-shirt.

“What’s up with you?” Joelen said.

“I . . . what? Why are you two looking at me like I did something?” he said.

“It’s not what you did. It’s what you’re not doing,” Joelen said, pushing past Deirdre.

“What are you talking about?” The man looked from Joelen to Bunny.

“See?” Bunny said, turning to Deirdre. “Not a single glance your way. It’s as if you’re wallpaper. I’d say the disguise is working.”

“Disguise?” the man said.

Joelen took the man’s hand. “Dear, meet Deirdre, my best friend all through high school. Deirdre, may I present Jackie Hutchinson. My baby”—her voice seemed to caress the word—“brother. Is he adorable or what?” Joelen gave him a loud wet kiss on the cheek.

“Would you cut that out?” Jackie pulled a face and made a show of wiping off the kiss. “I’m twenty-one, for God’s sake.”

“God help us. Just turned twenty-one,” Joelen said. She chucked him under the chin and he pushed her away.

Of course Deirdre could see the resemblance. Jackie and Joelen both had Bunny’s legendary electric blue eyes and heart-shaped face. But Jackie had dark curly hair, a dimpled chin, and beaky profile—not features he’d have inherited from Bunny or Bunny’s late husband, Derek Hutchinson. Hutch, as he was called in the fan magazines, had a longtime starring role in a hospital-based soap opera, but he’d been much more Dr. Kildare than Ben Casey.

Recovering himself, Jackie offered Deirdre his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m sorry. I thought you were . . .” His voice trailed off. He seemed painfully young and he made Deirdre feel painfully old.

“Go on,” Bunny said. “Say it. You thought Deirdre was the new maid.”

Jackie nodded sheepishly and Joelen said, “And the prize for best disguise goes to—”

“Sorry,” Jackie said.

“Don’t be,” Bunny said. “It’s very gratifying. That’s just the effect I was aiming for.”

Jackie smiled a perfect toothy smile. “So my sister was your best friend?”

“From sixth grade,” Deirdre said, “until . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Jackie narrowed his dark eyes at Deirdre. “Was she crazy then, too?”

“Crazy?” Joelen gave him a shove. “Look who’s talking.”

“Not exactly crazy,” Deirdre said. “I’d say fearless. She did some pretty wild things and I followed her. So I guess I was the crazy one.”

Joelen snorted a laugh. “Remember thumbing a ride home from the five-and-dime?”

“Miraculously without getting abducted.” Deirdre remembered the black Cadillac that had stopped. The man had leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door and they’d hopped in. Just like that. All the way to Deirdre’s house the driver lectured them about the dangers of getting into cars with strangers, explaining in graphic detail just how bad things could go. Deirdre had been relieved to get out of that car.