All That Glitters (71 page)

“Her way of telling you she knew?”

“I guess. Said she’d unearthed it among his things after he died. I felt bad that she found out. It hurt her. But what I have to tell you is, because Faun was threatening to use Crispin’s letters in that book she was writing—yeah, I heard all about that one—I figure Maude got so angry she’d have done anything short of murder to keep it all quiet—even
not
short of murder… hm? What do you think, Charles?”

“She was upset, sure, why shouldn’t she be? But more than that—”

“More than that you don’t care to say. I don’t blame you, darling; in your shoes I wouldn’t, either.”

“In my shoes? What does that mean?”

“It means that you’re very interested in keeping this whole unsavory business a private matter. And I don’t blame you. It’s hardly in the Antrim image, is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

She sucked in her cheeks and gave me that oh-come-on smirk of hers. “Don’t play coy with me, laddie, you damn well
do
know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the fact that there was some skulduggery at the crossroads. Maude’s dead, a scandal couldn’t hurt her anymore. But
if
—notice I say
if—if
word started getting around about those letters and what Faun threatened to do, people might—notice I say
might
—get the wrong impression. And you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you? Charles? Especially if you care about what happens to our friend Blindy.”

I still couldn’t see what she was getting at, but I knew it spelled trouble. “Claire,” I said soberly, “I think you ought to know that Belinda and I plan to be married after the play opens.”

I was simply letting her know how things stood, but the face I saw was that of the Wicked Queen in
Snow White.
I’d struck a nerve.

Up went the brows, down went the mouth. “Married? You don’t say. And you never told me, you sly puss. Well, well, love comes to Honey Brewster, huh? And at her age, too. Well, I guess there’s nothing wrong with sex after sixty, unless it brings on an attack of sciatica. Congratulations, Charles. I wish you every happiness.
And
—notice I say
and
—this news leads me to believe you’d be that much more interested in keeping Belinda’s name free of any scandal, especially when your little play is about to open.”

More than ever I wanted to kiss her off. “Why don’t you stop screwing around and just say what’s on your mind,” I growled.

She smiled, radiating sweetness and light. “No need to get surly, darling. Put it this way: give me what I want and I’ll give you what you want. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know—what is it you want?”

“Just say you’ll help me with my book, as I’ve been asking you to do, and I’ll throw away the key.” She did her little pantomime of locking her lips and disposing of the key.

“This key being—”

“—being a very strong suspicion that somebody had tinkered with that blue stove in the Playhouse bedroom. In fact, I think I know just who arranged that—accident.”

“I see. And supposing it
wasn’t
an accident, who gets your vote?”

“You, sweetie, you get my vote.”

“Oh, you’re wrong, sweetie, you’re way out in left field somewhere pulling daisies.”

“Am I? No, I am not. And if you think I didn’t mean what I say—I’ll just put the whole nasty business in my own book. Now, how do you like them apples?”

“They sound awfully sour to me.”

“But do you agree? My silence for your pen?”

There I was, being gored on the horns of a dilemma. Jesus. I said I’d have to think it over, which, of course, told her lots: either that she was right or plenty close to it—even that I’d have to agree to her terms. I never liked her less than I did when I looked at her there, well pillowed in her four-way bed of pain.

I left the hospital and walked home through the park. I knew I wanted to talk things over with someone, but I didn’t know who. Vi? I considered that to be unwise, given Vi’s penchant for gossip, but it was she who eventually brought the thing up to me. She’d had all the facts, whether from Claire or some other source I hadn’t a clue. “Do it, dear,” she said. “Do it or she’ll have you roasted for dinner with an apple in your mouth.”

So ominous was this warning that I was forced to take it to heart. Finally, believing discretion much the better part of valor, I caved in to Claire. I called her and agreed to her terms, and was relieved when she didn’t gloat but merely accepted it as my good business sense. Belinda Carroll opening on Broadway to a blast in the papers about Claire’s affair with Crispin Antrim plus the odd circumstances surrounding the demise of Belinda’s daughter hardly would stack up as the best kind of publicity.

In return, however, I got Claire’s promise to hostess the party my producers were throwing aboard the cruise boat. Hordes of press would be on board, and what better way to hype the evening than for Claire Regrett to be on hand, Claire encouraging her “old friend” Belinda, who was about to embark on her Broadway stage career?

I came home from the hospital to find a message that Vi had called. “Sweetie, how absolutely wonderful!” she crowed when I rang her up. “I knew you couldn’t turn the poor thing down, especially now when she’s
in extremis.
You really have a very kind heart, dear. And she’s going to go full-out for you on the party thing. Won’t Belinda be pleased!”

This remained to be seen. Belinda arrived in New York too nervous to join me in my East Side love nest, instead taking rooms at a nearby hotel. I chose my time—we were in bed eating openface steak sandwiches—to invoke her blessing on Claire’s hostessing the party. She took it all in stride, then grew suspicious when I laid on her the arrangements concerning Claire’s book.

“Ghostwriter?
You
? You’re mad. You’re a novelist, a playwright, a screenwriter—but you don’t ghostwrite! And you certainly don’t ghostwrite Claire Regrett!”

“That’s what you think.” When I explained that I
had
to do it, Belinda laughed.

“Don’t tell me—she’s blackmailing you.” Seeing my expression, she sat up and gave me a hard look. “My gosh—you mean she
is
blackmailing you?”

I said it was a sort of semi-hemi-demi-blackmailing. Then it all came out in the wash. Lunch at the Four Seasons, the conversations at the hospital, my ultimate capitulation.

“She threatened to tell? She wouldn’t dare!”

I said I thought she might.

“But I won’t have you doing it—it’s nonsense. Besides, you’ve enough to do with rewrites for me.”

I said yes, I knew. “But I’m doing this for you, too. And the first thing you’ve got to do is pay her a visit. A sort of conciliatory thing. They want photographs—you can autograph her cast, right under Walter Cronkite.”

Upsetting her coffee, Belinda dove for the bathroom and slammed the door. A minute later she bounded out, flying into my arms, crying, “Greater love hath no man….”

Two days later, I met Belinda after her exercise class and we walked from Columbus Circle up to the San Remo, where we found the publicity man and several representatives of
People
magazine on hand. I knew she was entering into this meeting warily, but it quickly appeared that she had nothing to fear. Claire merely wanted to shine, and if Belinda was to shine as well, it would be a matter of reflection.

A neat-looking, calm-eyed black woman in skirt and blouse let us in. As we milled around in the foyer, I thought about the democratic principles at work here: in the old days any maid of Claire’s would have been in uniform with cap and apron, looking like Louise Beavers and drippin’ molasses. The sizable living room was a mix of weird antique pieces and contemporary kitsch. Yellow had been used liberally, along with white and green, and accented with black. Though the effect was crisp and bright, it was somehow tacky; the antiques seemed to abhor the flashy colors. Some decorator must have talked her into it. To cap the
outri
effect, the upholstered pieces all were covered in clear plastic vinyl! I’d heard but never really believed it. Belinda and I looked at each other, then looked away before we started to snicker.

Claire greeted us in the “library,” a room that revealed a distinct absence of books. She was grandly ensconced on a chaise longue, well bolstered by pillows, a cane prominently displayed, the medical corset she wore artfully covered by her arm. On her lap was her toy poodle. The chaise, she claimed, had once belonged to the Spanish Ambassador, though no explanation was forthcoming about how it had fallen into her hands.

“Darling!” she cried, throwing her arms wide and forcing Belinda to lean to do ladies’ kiss-kiss. But not before the photographer had his cameras ready, four of them dangling from his neck. Claire’s hands were on Belinda’s upper arms and I could see how she held her there in the awkward position, managing to stick her face full into the lens.

“But isn’t this all thrilling!” she went on, releasing Belinda. “Charles dear, take the lady’s coat. And, Belinda, do sit down, you must be exhausted; Viola’s been telling me about your schedule. They’re relentless, aren’t they? Bless you, darling, for coming here like this; I’m afraid I’m still a bit shaky on my feet. But I’ll be on deck on the night, never you fear. What color do you plan on wearing?”

“My gown’s green,” Belinda ventured, sitting up in the awkward straightback chair placed beside Claire’s chaise, and I noticed Belinda trying to cover her knees against the camera.

“Green?” screeched Claire, making a terrible face which the camera caught. “I’m wearing red. We’ll look like fucking Christmas.”

“You always look so good in red,” Belinda said, playing Melanie as only she could.

“Not cherry red, not fireman’s red, but a scarlet. As a matter of fact, I had the material dyed to match the Cardinal’s robes. I invited His Grace, but he has another engagement. But he said he’d be there in spirit. I want you to meet him, darling, he’s the most divine man and he’s seen some of your movies, one or two. I told him you weren’t Catholic, but he’s very open-minded; after all, neither am I.”

I admired Belinda’s example of studied calm as she sat smiling, listening to Claire run on in grand style. All the time she talked she gestured with one hand, petting the dog with the other or holding him up and encouraging him to lick her cheek. “Now now, Doodoo, don’t you be such a ham,” she cautioned, smiling radiantly. “Honestly, the minute he sees a camera he’s up to his tricks. Naughty naughty, Momma ’pank.”

When the photographer asked if Claire could stand for a couple of shots, she put on one of her acts, a touch of dubiety as to whether she could possibly manage, then a brief cloud of heavy thought, followed by determination, some teeth-clenching, finally the summoning of the necessary effort.

“No no, don’t help me, anyone,” she commanded again, “just—let—me—do—this by myself.” Belinda still had the good sense to assist her, for the flashes kept going off, and when they stood side by side Claire put out her palm. “My mirror, please, someone”—and we waited while she gave the Face a critical review in the glass. She touched her hair in several places, scrutinized an angle, and handed away the mirror. “All right, now, quickly, let’s get the photos done, while I can still stand.”

She linked arms with her guest and the two ex-beauties smiled for the birdie. In the brief flash of light Claire’s face looked old and sallow, and her drooping chin showed, while, nearly fifteen years younger, Belinda gave off a natural radiance and health that Claire could never hope to match. Claire herself must have been feeling something of the kind, because, when the photographer let go of one camera and took up another, she waved her hand and said in a tired voice, “That’s enough, I think. I’m a bit tuckered.” Grimacing, she lowered herself onto the chaise, making another show of gameness, then took up the dog and gave it the old kootchie-koo while
People
recorded the event for posterity. When they were satisfied, Belinda swung away from the group to have a look at Claire’s art collection.

“You have a lot of pictures, don’t you?” she said brightly. “Who does the cute little tykes with the big goo-goo eyes?” Claire pronounced the name of the artist. “Oh yes, of course, I’ve heard of her.”

Claire seemed mollified. She adored these lemur-eyed monstrosities. “I may not know much about art, but I do know what I like. And I adore my little orphans, as I call them. It’s the eyes that do it for me. The eyes are the windows of the soul, aren’t they?” Belinda’s expression told me these were awfully
big
windows. Claire sighed. “If I had a little girl I’d want her to look just like those. I could just gobble up the one in the blue hair ribbon.”

She reached for her cigarettes and lit one, then offered the pack to Belinda, who thanked her but didn’t smoke. Claire looked at the clock. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up again; this chaise is so cozy. It came from the Spanish Ambassador’s house right over there across the park. One hundred percent down.”

Our producers had gone all-out on Belinda’s welcoming party, and the press turned out in Roman phalanxes. There were easily 150 of New York’s most famous faces in attendance; name them, they were there. Happily, the weather proved agreeable, and we were able to be out on the decks of the romantically decorated river vessel. Claire made a show of being prompt—I was already on board—and she engineered her usual star entrance dressed in a fire-engine-red satin sheath and a clever evening hat bound to cause comment. Belinda hurried forward, they kissed air, hugged, and obligingly posed for the cameras. I caught the adroit way in which Claire disengaged herself and went to pose solo at the rail, looking off and up, giving them the Roman-coin profile.

For a while, in the heat of things, I lost track of her, but from time to time I’d glimpse her, glass in hand, the focus of one group or another. She was playing the hostess bit to the hilt, this was
her
party, and I found myself thinking: Blindy, beware. But there was no need to fear. It all went smooth as glass, bubbly like one huge Alka-Seltzer. I divided my time, eating a part of my supper with Belinda, the other half with Claire, and at no time did the one mention the other.