Butterfly (50 page)

She has brought up the ratings, which in turn will increase advertising revenues.”

“There were creative problems with the role. We simply decided her character was no

longer necessary.”

“Ariel Dubois decided that, you mean,” Latricia broke in.

Jessica cast her a cautioning look. “You see, Mr. Greene, I regard this as a matter of

wrongful discharge—”

“Look, honey, you yourself know that we have an unconditional right to do with

Latricia whatever we want. The contract that she signed gives us total discretion as to

whether we use her or not. This should be obvious even to you. So why are we sitting here

and wasting my time?”

Jessica managed a discreet glance at her watch. Damn it, where was that phone call!

“Mr. Greene, I intend to take this case to trial, and I can assure you that the jury will be

sympathetic with my client.”

He laughed. “Juries don’t frighten me, Jessica.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Greene, I didn’t know we were on a first-name basis.”

His smile faded. “Listen, honey, Latricia doesn’t have a case and that’s all there is to

it.” They were getting to him. They were annoying him, and just when he was feeling

so good. He had Linda Markus romantically on his mind, and if that didn’t pan out

there was that blonde in wardrobe who was itching to sign just such a contract as this

ungrateful bitch had once signed, Latricia Brown! Whose idea was it anyway that they

needed a Negro on the show?

BUTTERFLY

215

Jessica licked her lips with a dry tongue. It didn’t look as if the call was going to come

through. “Nonetheless, we intend to pursue this, and I am sure a great deal of negative

publicity, for you and for the studio, will result.”

He laughed again and sat back in his executive chair. Threats, that was all she could

come up with.

“Television ratings, Mr. Greene, are affected by public opinion, whether you choose to

accept that or not. If we go to trial, my client will be talking to the newspapers and

appearing on television, and certain—shall we say,
private—
aspects of your life might be

revealed?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Where did you go to law school anyway? People

love
to read about my private affairs. Go ahead. Tell the L.A.
Times.
Tell the
National

Enquirer.
Tell
Reader’s Digest.
Go on Phil Donahue and tell it to the world! I have nothing

to hide.”

Jessica bit her lower lip and glanced at Latricia. She needed to hang on, just a little

longer….

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Barry said, starting to rise. Then his phone rang, and it was

his secretary telling him that Ms. Franklin had an urgent call.

“I’ll take it in the other room,” Jessica said, jumping up and hurrying out.

Barry strummed his fingers on his immaculate desk top while Latricia gazed about the

sumptuous office that was bigger than her whole apartment. She was beginning to hate

the man behind that desk, not only for what he was doing to her, but now for the way he

was treating Jessica.

Jessica came in then and sat down without looking at Latricia. “Very well, Mr. Greene,”

she said in a strong voice, “you’ve stated your position quite clearly. Now I shall state ours.

The phone call I just received is one that I have been waiting for. It came from Houston.”

She paused for dramatic effect. “My client here has just been scheduled to appear one week

from tonight on Danny Mackay’s evening program. And what she is going to tell his

nationwide audience, Mr. Greene, on the same network, by the way, which airs your own

show, is that she lost weight because the Lord commanded her to respect and revere her

body, His temple, and that you and this studio are persecuting her for it.”

He stared at her. Then he looked at Latricia. She was a good actress, a damn good one.

She’d have two and a half million people saying amen and crying for her and lusting for

the blood of Barry Greene.

And the ratings would go down the toilet.

He thought about Ariel. Well, what could she do? Nothing that a fur coat from Barry

wouldn’t remedy. All Barry Greene wanted to do was avoid trouble at all costs.

When Jessica pulled into the driveway she was glad to see John’s BMW parked there.

That meant he was home from San Francisco.
We’ll celebrate,
she thought as she hurried

into the house, handed her coat and briefcase to the maid, and flew up the stairs to the

master bedroom.
I’ll call Spago for a reservation. We’ll drink champagne till it comes out of

our ears! We’ll order a duck pizza and amaretto hot fudge sundaes and
—She found her hus-

band standing in front of the mirror buttoning the cuffs of a new shirt.

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Kathryn Harvey

“We won!” she cried, putting her arms around him and kissing his cheek. “We won

the case, John!”

“What case is that?”

“Latricia Brown. I had Barry Greene backed against a wall! Damn, I’m smart!”

He regarded her in the mirror. “I hope this isn’t going to result in more negative pub-

licity for us,”

Jessica sighed. “Latricia didn’t kiss me, if that’s what you’re worried about. But wait till

you hear how I managed to beat the studio!”

“You can tell me in the car on our way to Ray and Bonnie’s.”

“Ray and Bonnie’s?”

“They’ve invited us over for dinner.” He turned and looked at her. “Have you been

drinking, Jessica?”

“Just some champagne. Fred always keeps a bottle on ice for when we win a—”

“How long will it take you to get ready?” he asked, looking at his watch. “We’re due

there in ten minutes.”

Jessica blinked. “I thought we would celebrate our winning the case.”

“Please don’t say
our.
I certainly don’t want my name attached to your scandals.”

“They’re not scandals—”

“Anyway”—he sat down to put on his shoes—“we can celebrate with Ray and

Bonnie.”

But I don’t like Ray and Bonnie!

“Bonnie loves to hear all about your movie-star friends. God knows why! Must have

something to do with being a sixth-grade teacher. Get dressed, Jessica.”

She gave him an exasperated look.

“Come on now,” he said, touching her arm. “Get dressed. And wear your black slacks.

They flatter your thighs.”

“But I wanted to celebrate alone, just the two of us.”

His tone grew impatient. “We can have a perfectly fine celebration with Bonnie and

Ray. He’s my friend and my partner, Jessica. I wish you wouldn’t just think about what

you
want all the time.”

“I don’t want to fight with you, John,” she said softly.

“We’re not fighting, Jessica. Just do like I say and get dressed. They’ll wonder what’s

taking us so long.”

She stared down at the carpet.

“Hey,” he said, coming up to her and putting his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll have

your celebration, don’t worry. And you can tell us all about how you managed to twist

Barry Greene around your little finger. I’ll bet he couldn’t resist a pretty face! Go get

dressed now, okay?”

“Okay,” she said softly, and suddenly it was all wrong and Jessica didn’t know how to

make it right.

29

Paris: 1974

“Hello, Beverly, I’m Christine. Christine Singleton, your sister.

Beverly stared. Christine? My sister? Is it really you?

“
You’ve found me at last, Beverly.”

“
Oh thank God!
”
Beverly ran to embrace her. But her arms crossed on empty air.

“Christine!” she cried. “Where are you? Please don’t leave me again
—”

Beverly’s eyes flew open.

She found herself staring up at an ornate ceiling, curiously painted in rococo festoons

of ribbons and flowers and guarded at each corner by plaster cherubs. For an instant she

didn’t know where she was. She lay listening to her thumping heart; she felt the damp,

twisted sheets beneath her.

Then she remembered. She was in a hotel. In Paris.

Beverly sighed deeply. The dream again. It was because of Jonas Buchanan’s phone call

the night before. After two years of following leads on the divorced Singletons and reach-

ing only dead ends, he had finally broken through. “I came across an old newspaper

story,” he had said last night on the transatlantic call, “about a rather bizarre kidnapping

case that occurred back in 1947. The family involved was named Singleton. The couple

was going through a nasty divorce, and the father ran off with the little girl, who was nine

years old. They were never found. But I decided to look into it.”

Jonas told Beverly how he had done some research and learned the name of the father’s

hometown. On a hunch, thinking the father might have gone there with the child, Jonas

went to investigate. “There were no Singletons listed, but I spent a day looking at school

records. I found that a Christine Singleton had been placed with an order of nuns in a

small convent when she was twelve. I tried to get more information on her, but so far the

Mother Superior won’t grant me access to the records. I’ll keep trying, though.”

“What about the father?” Beverly had asked. “What happened to Singleton?”

“I haven’t been able to find out. I assume he’s dead.”

Beverly had only one other question: “Do you know yet what my sister looked like?

Have you found any pictures of her?”

Jonas was sorry to report that he was still unable to come up with any photographs of

Christine Singleton.

Beverly did not as a rule allow herself to savor luxury; a quick morning shower was her

usual daily bath. But on this cold, snowy morning on the Rue de la Madeleine, in the ele-

gant Hotel Papillon, where the Empress Josephine had once stayed, Beverly soaked for a

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Kathryn Harvey

long time in a hot, steamy bubble bath. She had a critical day ahead of her; she needed to

have her mind alert and her body invigorated.

By the time she was out and wrapped in a plush terry-cloth robe the telephone was

ringing.

Carmen’s voice came over the long-distance wire, ebbing and flowing like a tide. She

had been reporting to Beverly every day during Beverly’s three-month buying tour of

Europe, keeping her up to date on her various financial holdings and receiving orders.

“I investigated Monument Publications like you asked, Bev,” she had to practically

shout over the crackling wire. “You were right. Their textbook line is losing money and

they’re about to let half their staff go. But the magazine is doing well. In fact,
Sex Kittens

is what’s kept Monument above water for the past five years. But now even that isn’t

enough. They’re about to file Chapter Eleven.”

Beverly made notes while Carmen spoke. Maggie would transcribe them later and add

them to the growing file on Monument Publications.

“Did you tell them my offer?”

“They jumped at it.”

“Then buy it.”

Beverly was still on the phone when Maggie came quietly into the room, the ever-

present briefcase and steno pad in her hands.

“How are the children?” Beverly asked Carmen in the end. It was always the last thing

she said before ringing off.

“They’re fine, Bev. They want to know when you and Maggie are coming home.”

Maggie’s two children, Arthur and Joe Jr., were staying with Carmen in her split-level

ranch house out in Chatsworth. The boys were now eight and six years old, and were the

constant playmates of ten-year-old Rosa.

“Can you put them on the phone? We’d like to say hello.”

When Carmen said, “It’s the middle of the night here, Bev. I don’t want to wake

them,” Beverly felt a pang of disappointment. The one thing she had missed the most

during her three-month absence from Los Angeles was the three children. “Tell them we’ll

be home next week. And tell them I have presents for them.”

“Presents!” Maggie said as she opened the door for the room service waiter. “You’re

going to have to charter a special plane just to get all that stuff home.”

“Christmas is coming,” Beverly said after she hung up. “I’m just bringing them a few

toys, that’s all.”

Maggie laughed and shook her head. It was a constant fight to keep her boys from

being spoiled by Beverly.