Fic: Old Souls - Chapter 1
Title: Old Souls - Chapter 1
Disclaimer: Ryan Murphy's sandbox, I'm just playing in it.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,145
Continuity: This is an off-shoot of my canon Bram!verse. This is set when they're still in college. Everything that happened in my Bram!verse has happened here, but this is its own parallel universe.
A/N: A huge thank you to the person whose opinion means the world to me, and without whom I would have literally not gotten this posted: Redlance. You're stupendous (which is a synonym of awesome)!
A/N II: Okay, this is an unusual story. This is in the same vein of the one I did last year where Sam investigated the pawn shop: it was a story starring Bram. I was out somewhere on Sunday and I heard this name: it sounded like Esther Kennedy, but I was only half paying attention. But the moment I heard it, this story began to take shape in my head: I knew that it was hot the night she died, and I knew that this woman was looking for Sam-although I didn't know why. As I started to unravel the mystery as to who she was, and what connection she had to our favorite reporter, the story began to take shape. I have no idea how long this is going to be. This will be written much more organically than some of the fics I plan meticulously. If you read between the lines and guess that I'm making it up as I go along...well, aren't you the clever one!
Chapter 1
The air was muggy and humid the night Esther Kennedy died, not at all uncommon for late July in Los Angeles. It begged for some kind of release or reprieve, but the rain held out on baited breath, poised on a pregnant pause, waiting for some sign from above.
News of the old woman’s death would be in all the papers tomorrow-although mostly as an aside (her star had faded a long time ago)-but none of them would use her real name. She hadn’t been known as Esther Kennedy for over half a century-the better part of her life. Esther Kennedy was a name that the great Louis B. Mayer himself had described as ‘dreadful and ordinary’ and opined that a name like that would never be seen on a marquee-only in an obituary.
The irony of that was not lost on the driver of the plain sedan that rolled up to the gate of the stately manor. The sky finally relented, and the first drops of rain spit on his windshield and darkened the stones of the driveway.
The house-if it could be called that-was beyond a beautifully manicured lawn as large as a football field. Summit Drive was where the Hollywood royalty of old had lived: further along the road were the mansions of David O’ Selznick-the legendary producer of ‘Gone with the Wind’-and Charlie Chaplin.
About fifteen years ago this very street had been in the news when actress Pia Zadora purchased and demolished the palatial estate known as ‘Pickfair’: the former home of silent film actors Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks-Hollywood’s original power couple. People were outraged that she had built over a piece of history from Hollywood’s ‘Golden Age’.
If there ever really was such a thing.
I’m here to see Ms. Kennedy, the driver spoke into the intercom. The old woman had insisted he use that name with her. He wondered how many of the staff even knew her real name, but after a moment’s pause the gate lurched and the hydraulics pulled it open-admitting him onto the grounds.
Typical of summer in Los Angeles, it was raining like hell now-and he parked his car in the circular driveway as close as possible to the front door. He smiled, imagining the driveway’s indignation at having such a pedestrian vehicle parked there-a driveway that had probably known the likes of Rolls Royce’s and Duesenberg’s traversing upon it during its heyday.
He ran up the flight of stone stairs to the great double doors and hit the doorbell button. It irritated him that the between the stone walls and thick doors he couldn’t hear the doorbell ringing. He could hear the doorbell at a normal person’s house. A house like this-with its pretentious double doors and long flight of stone stairs-said that the occupants didn’t really care if they missed you at the door or not.
In short: they were better than you and they knew it.
Of course, Ms. Kennedy was never like that-at least not around him. She never seemed to forget where she had come from: a fourteen year old Irish immigrant that arrived just after the Depression. She always said that the experience of growing up during the Great Depression would forever define her-as it did an entire generation.
The fact that she hadn’t worked in years yet could still afford to live in a house like this was testament to that fact. When she made her fortune she saved it, horded it, because the memory of the girl who went to bed hungry every night would be damned if she was ever going to let that happen again.
The door opened, and he wiped his wet shoes on the rug before addressing the house staff. She’s in the bedroom, the Butler told him.
Bedroom? That was new. That could only mean--
How is she? he asked.
She’s not well, he answered simply. I’ll lead you, he offered. The Butler was a man of few words. He couldn’t tell if the steward didn’t like him, or whether that was simply the man’s disposition. He didn’t care one way or another, but he was grateful for the manservant’s assistance: he realized that he’d never been to Ms. Kennedy’s bedroom before. They always met in the parlor. It would take him forever to find it on his own in this palace.
Tom, come in, Ms. Kennedy’s voice- strained, threaded-but still possessing the will he knew well-beckoned him to her bedside. ‘Thank you, she addressed the Butler, dismissing him.
The man bowed silently and closed the door behind them. He hung his waterlogged coat over the coat rack and made his way to the bed. It was actually a converted hospital bed, and she had it up in the reclining position to greet him. Come closer, Tom. I can’t see you.
It had been three weeks since he’d last seen her, and the difference in her appearance was alarming. Christ, is this what dying did to you? Her features were gaunt and hollow, and the skin had become translucent: he could see the veins and arteries fingering their way up her arms where thankfully their progress was blocked by the hospital gown.
The old woman smiled. How do I look, Tom?
He debated with himself for a moment. Tact-or the truth? He knew how the old lady preferred it. You look like hell, he stated bluntly.
Her frame shook with a silent chuckle, and she turned those eyes up at him. Ah, the eyes had stayed the same: that interminable fire was still there. Maybe they weren’t the same sapphire orbs the world had fallen in love with sixty years ago, but they’d only lost a bit of their luster. And, in truth, even Technicolor didn’t do justice to seeing them in real life- even now after all these years. God, to meet her when she was young, he mused. Men must have fallen in love with her by the bushel.
That’s what I like about you, Tom, she smiled. You always tell me the truth. That’s why I hired you.
Well, that and you’re Irish, she continued. That was another carryover from growing up in the Depression: you stuck by your own. He’d heard stories of discrimination from his own grandfather: factories with a sign posted out front announcing that ‘Irishmen need not apply.’
You said you had some information for me, he said in an effort to bring the conversation on track. She could meander with the best of them, and it didn’t look like they had much time for small talk tonight.
Yes, she nodded. I had another vision, she said.
Her visions. The old woman had told him once that her mother was Welsh and communicated with the faeries to divine the future. Although she didn’t share her mother’s ability to commune with the spirit world, she did inherit her mother’s precognitive abilities.
Or so she believed. I know her name now, the old woman continued.
She’d had him trying to track down some girl based just upon her description. It wasn’t exactly a simple task in an area the size of Los Angeles. He didn’t mind going on what he considered an extended goose chase-it paid the bills. But if she passed away...
You are to find her, and deliver the contents of the box to her, Ms. Kennedy instructed. You still have it, don’t you?
He nodded, and she smiled. It was a box wrapped in plain paper and tied with a string. Sure, he wondered what was in it, but not enough to ask. It was her business-her and this mystery woman.
I-I don’t know how long that could take... he began, letting his voice trail off.
But the old woman just smiled. You refer to my imminent departure from this world, and the matter of your fee?
He nodded, feeling a bit like an asshole. I have taken care of everything, she informed him. The lawyers handling my estate know of our agreement. When you find her, simply bring back documentation to them and you will receive a bonus of thirty-thousand dollars.
His eyes bugged out of his head. Thirty-thousand bucks?
Mi-Miss Kennedy, he stammered. You don’t have to do that.
She fixed him with a raised eyebrow. Mr. Reagan, you don’t really mean that, now do you?
Damn, she always could see right through him. No, he frowned, no I don’t.
This brought another smile to her wizened features. I thought as much, she chuckled. Don’t be embarrassed, Tom. This is Beverly Hills, for Christ’s sake. No one’s going to rebuke you for being a capitalist here.
It just means that you’re mother raised you right: not wanting to take advantage of an old woman.
But, believe me: you’re not. It turns out that I’ve waited my entire life-and apparently then some-to see this through. I would pay dearly for it.
Yes, Ma’am, he replied.
You’re a good man, Tom. An honest man. Now find this girl, and give her the box. It will explain everything.
Do-do you mind if I’m there when she opens it? he inquired. I’d like to know--
Oh, don’t worry, Tom. Tonight I’m going to tell you everything-all that I know anyway. She’s bound to have questions and I’m rather certain that I’m not going to be around to answer them.
I must ask that one last thing of you, Tom, she pleaded. This one last bit of assistance.
Of course, he nodded. Mind? No, he certainly didn’t mind. He was as curious as the next person-more so, even-but he’d learned professionally to displace himself from his curiosity when it came to his clients. It was a good way to wind up in the middle of a bad situation. But the opportunity to know what was in the box he’d been carrying around for two months certainly appealed to him.
So what’s her name? he asked, wanting to secure that first vital piece of information. The girl.
Samantha McPherson.
Didn’t ring any bells, but he did notice that she was Irish. He hoped that the old lady’s visions weren’t the result of ‘Irish Coffee’.
His curiosity did get the better of him, and he asked a question that-while obvious-hadn’t occurred to him until now. And maybe, he realized, hadn’t occurred to the old woman either.
Ms. Kennedy, he began, how do you know that she’s going to even do anything with the box? What if she just takes it and puts it in her closet?
She won’t, the woman assured him.
But how can you be sure? he prodded.
The old woman fixed him with those Sapphire orbs:
Because her life depends on it...
* * *
Brooke McQueen finished packing yet another box and wrote ‘Kitchen’ on the side in permanent marker. She looked around her apartment’s small kitchen. It looked so bare with the breadbox gone and the blender packed away. The cabinets were empty save for a few dishes they would use until the move next week. Even the curtains on the windows had been taken down.
Two years, she thought to herself. She and Sam had lived in this apartment for two years. Next week they would be somewhere new.
She’d been so excited when she stumbled upon this great townhouse for rent a few minutes away. The kitchen was huge, it had a second bedroom and a den (so they could both have space for studying) and a nice master suite with a garden tub in the master bath. It was heavenly, and within their price range too.
She called Sam from the place and blew off her class to fill out the rental application. They were accepted, and gave notice that they wouldn’t be renewing their lease on their old apartment when it was up at the end of July.
And that was all well and good until she realized that they were leaving their first place together. When she started to pack away all of their stuff and looked at their bare walls and bare cupboards, and realized that this wasn’t going to be their home anymore...
It broke her heart. This was their first place together. This is where Sammy had gotten down on one knee and proposed to her. This is where they told their parents about their relationship. This is where they’d hosted their first Thanksgiving last year. This is where they made the plans for their wedding in September.
This was where they’d made a home. And now they were leaving.
With a quivering lip she taped up the box and set it on the stack with the others. She shuffled into the living room, and plopped down on the sofa. She wished Sam were here.
She looked at the clock: Sam’s class was just getting out. She should be home in a few minutes. Good. Sam would make her feel better. Although she hated it when Sam pointed out that the whole move was her idea to begin with.
She knew that, and she didn’t care if it didn’t make sense.
Brooke picked up the remote, and flicked on the TV.
The sound of the afternoon news filtered in a second before the image on the TV flared to life. A pretty brunette smiled at her from within the glass of the picture tube, but clearly the photograph had been captured in happier times.
...police are investigating the disappearance of USC student Natalie Crawford. She was last seen by friends at the Crow Bar nightclub on--
Brooke shuddered and turned the channel. The last thing she needed was bad news when she was feeling like this-especially news that hit so close to home.
Flipping through the channels, she caught a flash of something familiar. She scrolled down through the last few channels she passed, coming to rest on a black and white photograph of a beautiful woman looking off screen. In the corner was the familiar red ‘CNN’ logo. Brooke couldn’t place the woman’s name, but she recognized her. She looked like a movie star.
...screen legend Veronica Lord passed away last night in her Beverly Hills mansion. Her first role was in 1934’s ‘The Scarlett Empress’ alongside Marlene Dietrich. Though a small part, her work greatly impressed director Josef Von Sternberg and he cast her in ‘The Devil is a Woman’ the following year. Lord’s career peaked in the early forties but roles became scarce after the war. She acted sporadically over the next decade, with her last performance onscreen in 1954’s ‘Three Coins in the Fountain’. After that she retired from acting and withdrew from public life.
Lord was 89.
Brooke recognized her now. She’d always had a fascination with old Hollywood: the glitz, the glamour. She’d even seen Lord’s house once, now that she thought about it. It had been on one of the ‘Homes of the Stars’ tours that she dragged poor Sam to.
Funny: all her life she had avoided doing the stupid ‘touristy’ stuff-of which there was plenty in Los Angeles. But when she and Sam started dating it was like she wanted to go back and do everything she always wanted to do but didn’t because she was afraid of looking ‘uncool’. So poor Sam had to spend an entire day looking at the mansions on Benedict Canyon Drive and Summit Drive, and even took a tour of Will Rogers’ Ranch.
Most of her fellow tourists wanted to see where Eddie Murphy or Michael Douglas lived. Not her: give her Clark Gable, Carole Lombard or Rita Hayworth. She loved Old Hollywood. It was a bygone era.
And it was a shame that another piece of it had passed away last night. She wondered what it would be like to talk to one of those old silver screen legends-to hear the stories about Hollywood during the days of the studio system. How many stories had Veronica Lord taken to her grave, never to be heard from again?
Brooke shut off the TV. She was really working herself into a spiral now. Sammy, come hooome, she whined, hugging the pillow close to her and flopping sideways onto the couch.
The doorbell rang and she perked up- momentarily excited-but then realizing that her fiancée never rang the doorbell.
Ooh! Unless she had takeout and her arms were full! Suddenly the thought of Chinese food or maybe an Italian dinner from Luigetta’s had her salivating as she jumped excitedly to the door.
She yanked the door open, startling the man on the other side. Her expression fell as she realized that she wasn’t having tasty take out after all-unless the box under his arm had food in it. You’re not Sam, she stated.
Uh, no, Tom Reagan answered her. His voice failed him for a moment. Between the torrential gush of wind caused by her almost ripping the door off the hinges and the sight of the beautiful girl before him, he was speechless.
Jesus, she was gorgeous. There were a bevy of beautiful girls in Los Angeles, but there was something special about this one. He was glad he’d dressed for the visit. He’d ask her out as soon as this Samantha McPherson arrived.
But Sam does live here? he asked. Sam McPherson?
Uh-huh, the blonde confirmed.
I have a package for her, he supplied.
Oh, the blonde held out her hands. Well, you can give it to me. Do I have to sign for it?
Uh, no. I’m supposed to give it to Sam in person.
The blonde’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Okaaayy, she replied.
He realized how that sounded. I’m Tom Reagan, he offered, extending a hand in greeting. The blonde took it. Her skin was soft. I’m a private investigator. My client asked me to locate Miss McPherson and give this to her.
Is this about Sam’s father? she asked.
Uh, no, he replied, puzzled. I don’t believe so, anyway.
The blonde debated with herself for a minute. Come in, she finally offered, gesturing inside. He stepped in first, aware that she was scrutinizing him. He couldn’t blame her. He was a strange man that she had just asked into her apartment. That was a dangerous thing to do in this day and age. Normally he would have advised her against it, but the box was getting heavy.
He took a seat in the chair opposite the couch and tried to appear non-threatening. She sat across from him on the sofa. Sam should be home in a minute, she assured him.
He took a second to examine the apartment. He noticed the lack of personal items-save for a few magazines on the coffee table-and the stack of boxes packed in the corner. Moving?
The blonde favored him with a bittersweet smile and nodded. What was the story behind that? he wondered. Next week, she informed him.
He was lucky to have found Miss McPherson when he did. Just by dumb luck he stumbled upon a copy of the Daily Trojan at a local convenience store. He was in line, paying for his coffee, and he looked down and--
Jesus. The old woman had told him about that, hadn’t she? She said that she’d heard from one of the nurse’s aides-a USC grad student-that the coffee was remarkable at Von’s on 3rd street. When he drove by and saw it he remembered her suggestion. While he was paying for the coffee he looked down and saw the college newspaper.
The one with the article whose byline was Samantha McPherson. He couldn’t believe his luck at the time, but maybe it hadn’t been luck at all.
Had that been another one of the old lady’s visions? Had she sent him there-knowing that he was going to find it?
That was too much to think about right now.
Are you okay? the blonde asked. He shook the cobwebs out and snapped back to the present.
I’m fine, he replied. Just remembered something I have to pick up at the store. He searched around, fishing for a point of conversation. The magazines on the table: they were bridal magazines. His eyes darted up, and he spotted a nice sized diamond on the third finger of her left hand.
Crap. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? He was supposed to be a detective, wasn’t he?
He chalked it up to denial. Are you getting married? he asked, trying to hide his disappointment.
The girl’s face beamed, and he knew even before she nodded: oh yeah, she was definitely the one getting married. Sam and I are getting married in September.
Waitaminute. You and Sam?
She nodded again. Sam’s my fiancée, she confirmed.
Shit. Hadn’t he mentioned that Sam was a girl? He could have sworn he’d told Blondie that he was looking for a Samantha McPherson-not a Samuel.
Dammit: he had the wrong Sam McPherson. He heard the key slide past the tumblers in the lock, and the blonde looked toward the door as it opened. There’s Sam now! she gushed.
Like it mattered. Now he had to go back down to the registrar’s office, and try to find the address for the right Sam McPherson.
He stood up to take his leave when a gorgeous brunette entered the apartment. She had perfectly arched eyebrows, and pools of amber for eyes.
It was her: the girl who was pictured with the byline he saw in the Daily Trojan: Samantha McPherson.
Hey, babe! the blonde greeted the newcomer, and kissed her on the lips. I’m so glad you’re home.
Miss McPherson greeted her fiancée with a ‘hey’ and then turned her attention his way. We have company?
Fuckin’ California, he thought to himself. So these two were engaged? Christ, that was a shame.
Oh well, no sense moaning about it. He had a job to do, and from the looks of it he was going to accomplish it today and make thirty thousand bucks. Thirty grand could do a lot to console his broken heart.
He stood up and held out a hand to the brunette. Oh, Sam, this is Tom...Reagan, wasn’t it? the blonde ventured. He nodded in the affirmative. I’m sorry: I don’t think I introduced myself, she realized. I’m Brooke McQueen, and this-as you know-is Sam McPherson.
Miss McPherson looked at him, and then at the blonde. How does he know me?
He came here wanting to see you. He has a package for you.
The blonde nodded to the plain wrapped box on the coffee table. He’s a private investigator, she supplied.
I know this seems strange, he began-and backtracked. It is strange, to tell the truth. But the package should explain everything, he said.
What’s in it? the reporter asked.
I don’t know, he replied truthfully. I’m going to find out when you do.
Sit, he gestured to the couch, and I’ll explain what I can.
Hesitantly, Sam and the blonde sat down beside each other on the sofa. He thought about where best to start, measuring his words carefully as he began. My client is a woman named Esther Kennedy, he said. But you wouldn’t know her by that name. Almost no one did. Esther Kennedy was the real name of Miss Veronica Lord.
The actress? the blonde queried. He nodded in reply.
She died last night, she continued. I just saw it on the news.
I was one of the last-if not the last-person to see her alive, he wagered. Ms. Kennedy was a remarkable woman. She hired me to find you, Miss McPherson.
Me? the brunette questioned. Why?
I don’t know, he replied, but it was of the utmost importance to her that I find you and give you this. He placed his hands on the box.
The two girls exchanged glances and then the brunette-ever the skeptic-regarded him. And then what?
He shrugged. I don’t know-yet.
And she understood. They couldn’t go any further until she explored the contents of the package left for her.
She pulled the box closer to her and untied the knot holding the twine in place around it. Next she peeled back the plain brown paper to reveal a simple box with a slip-on lid.
She lifted the lid to the shallow box. He could see the items as she lifted them out carefully. There was several old, yellowed newspapers, some lobby cards-the kind they used to give out at the theater years ago, a journal, and a single videocassette.
Miss McPherson picked up the videotape. There was no label. Mister Reagan, what the hell is going on?
He didn’t know what to tell her: he was at a loss for words himself. He didn’t know what he had expected there to be in the box, but this certainly wasn’t it.
I don’t know, Miss McQueen interjected, removing the videotape from its protective sleeve, but I’ll get the popcorn...
To Be Continued...
Disclaimer: Ryan Murphy's sandbox, I'm just playing in it.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,145
Continuity: This is an off-shoot of my canon Bram!verse. This is set when they're still in college. Everything that happened in my Bram!verse has happened here, but this is its own parallel universe.
A/N: A huge thank you to the person whose opinion means the world to me, and without whom I would have literally not gotten this posted: Redlance. You're stupendous (which is a synonym of awesome)!
A/N II: Okay, this is an unusual story. This is in the same vein of the one I did last year where Sam investigated the pawn shop: it was a story starring Bram. I was out somewhere on Sunday and I heard this name: it sounded like Esther Kennedy, but I was only half paying attention. But the moment I heard it, this story began to take shape in my head: I knew that it was hot the night she died, and I knew that this woman was looking for Sam-although I didn't know why. As I started to unravel the mystery as to who she was, and what connection she had to our favorite reporter, the story began to take shape. I have no idea how long this is going to be. This will be written much more organically than some of the fics I plan meticulously. If you read between the lines and guess that I'm making it up as I go along...well, aren't you the clever one!
Chapter 1
The air was muggy and humid the night Esther Kennedy died, not at all uncommon for late July in Los Angeles. It begged for some kind of release or reprieve, but the rain held out on baited breath, poised on a pregnant pause, waiting for some sign from above.
News of the old woman’s death would be in all the papers tomorrow-although mostly as an aside (her star had faded a long time ago)-but none of them would use her real name. She hadn’t been known as Esther Kennedy for over half a century-the better part of her life. Esther Kennedy was a name that the great Louis B. Mayer himself had described as ‘dreadful and ordinary’ and opined that a name like that would never be seen on a marquee-only in an obituary.
The irony of that was not lost on the driver of the plain sedan that rolled up to the gate of the stately manor. The sky finally relented, and the first drops of rain spit on his windshield and darkened the stones of the driveway.
The house-if it could be called that-was beyond a beautifully manicured lawn as large as a football field. Summit Drive was where the Hollywood royalty of old had lived: further along the road were the mansions of David O’ Selznick-the legendary producer of ‘Gone with the Wind’-and Charlie Chaplin.
About fifteen years ago this very street had been in the news when actress Pia Zadora purchased and demolished the palatial estate known as ‘Pickfair’: the former home of silent film actors Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks-Hollywood’s original power couple. People were outraged that she had built over a piece of history from Hollywood’s ‘Golden Age’.
If there ever really was such a thing.
I’m here to see Ms. Kennedy, the driver spoke into the intercom. The old woman had insisted he use that name with her. He wondered how many of the staff even knew her real name, but after a moment’s pause the gate lurched and the hydraulics pulled it open-admitting him onto the grounds.
Typical of summer in Los Angeles, it was raining like hell now-and he parked his car in the circular driveway as close as possible to the front door. He smiled, imagining the driveway’s indignation at having such a pedestrian vehicle parked there-a driveway that had probably known the likes of Rolls Royce’s and Duesenberg’s traversing upon it during its heyday.
He ran up the flight of stone stairs to the great double doors and hit the doorbell button. It irritated him that the between the stone walls and thick doors he couldn’t hear the doorbell ringing. He could hear the doorbell at a normal person’s house. A house like this-with its pretentious double doors and long flight of stone stairs-said that the occupants didn’t really care if they missed you at the door or not.
In short: they were better than you and they knew it.
Of course, Ms. Kennedy was never like that-at least not around him. She never seemed to forget where she had come from: a fourteen year old Irish immigrant that arrived just after the Depression. She always said that the experience of growing up during the Great Depression would forever define her-as it did an entire generation.
The fact that she hadn’t worked in years yet could still afford to live in a house like this was testament to that fact. When she made her fortune she saved it, horded it, because the memory of the girl who went to bed hungry every night would be damned if she was ever going to let that happen again.
The door opened, and he wiped his wet shoes on the rug before addressing the house staff. She’s in the bedroom, the Butler told him.
Bedroom? That was new. That could only mean--
How is she? he asked.
She’s not well, he answered simply. I’ll lead you, he offered. The Butler was a man of few words. He couldn’t tell if the steward didn’t like him, or whether that was simply the man’s disposition. He didn’t care one way or another, but he was grateful for the manservant’s assistance: he realized that he’d never been to Ms. Kennedy’s bedroom before. They always met in the parlor. It would take him forever to find it on his own in this palace.
Tom, come in, Ms. Kennedy’s voice- strained, threaded-but still possessing the will he knew well-beckoned him to her bedside. ‘Thank you, she addressed the Butler, dismissing him.
The man bowed silently and closed the door behind them. He hung his waterlogged coat over the coat rack and made his way to the bed. It was actually a converted hospital bed, and she had it up in the reclining position to greet him. Come closer, Tom. I can’t see you.
It had been three weeks since he’d last seen her, and the difference in her appearance was alarming. Christ, is this what dying did to you? Her features were gaunt and hollow, and the skin had become translucent: he could see the veins and arteries fingering their way up her arms where thankfully their progress was blocked by the hospital gown.
The old woman smiled. How do I look, Tom?
He debated with himself for a moment. Tact-or the truth? He knew how the old lady preferred it. You look like hell, he stated bluntly.
Her frame shook with a silent chuckle, and she turned those eyes up at him. Ah, the eyes had stayed the same: that interminable fire was still there. Maybe they weren’t the same sapphire orbs the world had fallen in love with sixty years ago, but they’d only lost a bit of their luster. And, in truth, even Technicolor didn’t do justice to seeing them in real life- even now after all these years. God, to meet her when she was young, he mused. Men must have fallen in love with her by the bushel.
That’s what I like about you, Tom, she smiled. You always tell me the truth. That’s why I hired you.
Well, that and you’re Irish, she continued. That was another carryover from growing up in the Depression: you stuck by your own. He’d heard stories of discrimination from his own grandfather: factories with a sign posted out front announcing that ‘Irishmen need not apply.’
You said you had some information for me, he said in an effort to bring the conversation on track. She could meander with the best of them, and it didn’t look like they had much time for small talk tonight.
Yes, she nodded. I had another vision, she said.
Her visions. The old woman had told him once that her mother was Welsh and communicated with the faeries to divine the future. Although she didn’t share her mother’s ability to commune with the spirit world, she did inherit her mother’s precognitive abilities.
Or so she believed. I know her name now, the old woman continued.
She’d had him trying to track down some girl based just upon her description. It wasn’t exactly a simple task in an area the size of Los Angeles. He didn’t mind going on what he considered an extended goose chase-it paid the bills. But if she passed away...
You are to find her, and deliver the contents of the box to her, Ms. Kennedy instructed. You still have it, don’t you?
He nodded, and she smiled. It was a box wrapped in plain paper and tied with a string. Sure, he wondered what was in it, but not enough to ask. It was her business-her and this mystery woman.
I-I don’t know how long that could take... he began, letting his voice trail off.
But the old woman just smiled. You refer to my imminent departure from this world, and the matter of your fee?
He nodded, feeling a bit like an asshole. I have taken care of everything, she informed him. The lawyers handling my estate know of our agreement. When you find her, simply bring back documentation to them and you will receive a bonus of thirty-thousand dollars.
His eyes bugged out of his head. Thirty-thousand bucks?
Mi-Miss Kennedy, he stammered. You don’t have to do that.
She fixed him with a raised eyebrow. Mr. Reagan, you don’t really mean that, now do you?
Damn, she always could see right through him. No, he frowned, no I don’t.
This brought another smile to her wizened features. I thought as much, she chuckled. Don’t be embarrassed, Tom. This is Beverly Hills, for Christ’s sake. No one’s going to rebuke you for being a capitalist here.
It just means that you’re mother raised you right: not wanting to take advantage of an old woman.
But, believe me: you’re not. It turns out that I’ve waited my entire life-and apparently then some-to see this through. I would pay dearly for it.
Yes, Ma’am, he replied.
You’re a good man, Tom. An honest man. Now find this girl, and give her the box. It will explain everything.
Do-do you mind if I’m there when she opens it? he inquired. I’d like to know--
Oh, don’t worry, Tom. Tonight I’m going to tell you everything-all that I know anyway. She’s bound to have questions and I’m rather certain that I’m not going to be around to answer them.
I must ask that one last thing of you, Tom, she pleaded. This one last bit of assistance.
Of course, he nodded. Mind? No, he certainly didn’t mind. He was as curious as the next person-more so, even-but he’d learned professionally to displace himself from his curiosity when it came to his clients. It was a good way to wind up in the middle of a bad situation. But the opportunity to know what was in the box he’d been carrying around for two months certainly appealed to him.
So what’s her name? he asked, wanting to secure that first vital piece of information. The girl.
Samantha McPherson.
Didn’t ring any bells, but he did notice that she was Irish. He hoped that the old lady’s visions weren’t the result of ‘Irish Coffee’.
His curiosity did get the better of him, and he asked a question that-while obvious-hadn’t occurred to him until now. And maybe, he realized, hadn’t occurred to the old woman either.
Ms. Kennedy, he began, how do you know that she’s going to even do anything with the box? What if she just takes it and puts it in her closet?
She won’t, the woman assured him.
But how can you be sure? he prodded.
The old woman fixed him with those Sapphire orbs:
Because her life depends on it...
* * *
Brooke McQueen finished packing yet another box and wrote ‘Kitchen’ on the side in permanent marker. She looked around her apartment’s small kitchen. It looked so bare with the breadbox gone and the blender packed away. The cabinets were empty save for a few dishes they would use until the move next week. Even the curtains on the windows had been taken down.
Two years, she thought to herself. She and Sam had lived in this apartment for two years. Next week they would be somewhere new.
She’d been so excited when she stumbled upon this great townhouse for rent a few minutes away. The kitchen was huge, it had a second bedroom and a den (so they could both have space for studying) and a nice master suite with a garden tub in the master bath. It was heavenly, and within their price range too.
She called Sam from the place and blew off her class to fill out the rental application. They were accepted, and gave notice that they wouldn’t be renewing their lease on their old apartment when it was up at the end of July.
And that was all well and good until she realized that they were leaving their first place together. When she started to pack away all of their stuff and looked at their bare walls and bare cupboards, and realized that this wasn’t going to be their home anymore...
It broke her heart. This was their first place together. This is where Sammy had gotten down on one knee and proposed to her. This is where they told their parents about their relationship. This is where they’d hosted their first Thanksgiving last year. This is where they made the plans for their wedding in September.
This was where they’d made a home. And now they were leaving.
With a quivering lip she taped up the box and set it on the stack with the others. She shuffled into the living room, and plopped down on the sofa. She wished Sam were here.
She looked at the clock: Sam’s class was just getting out. She should be home in a few minutes. Good. Sam would make her feel better. Although she hated it when Sam pointed out that the whole move was her idea to begin with.
She knew that, and she didn’t care if it didn’t make sense.
Brooke picked up the remote, and flicked on the TV.
The sound of the afternoon news filtered in a second before the image on the TV flared to life. A pretty brunette smiled at her from within the glass of the picture tube, but clearly the photograph had been captured in happier times.
...police are investigating the disappearance of USC student Natalie Crawford. She was last seen by friends at the Crow Bar nightclub on--
Brooke shuddered and turned the channel. The last thing she needed was bad news when she was feeling like this-especially news that hit so close to home.
Flipping through the channels, she caught a flash of something familiar. She scrolled down through the last few channels she passed, coming to rest on a black and white photograph of a beautiful woman looking off screen. In the corner was the familiar red ‘CNN’ logo. Brooke couldn’t place the woman’s name, but she recognized her. She looked like a movie star.
...screen legend Veronica Lord passed away last night in her Beverly Hills mansion. Her first role was in 1934’s ‘The Scarlett Empress’ alongside Marlene Dietrich. Though a small part, her work greatly impressed director Josef Von Sternberg and he cast her in ‘The Devil is a Woman’ the following year. Lord’s career peaked in the early forties but roles became scarce after the war. She acted sporadically over the next decade, with her last performance onscreen in 1954’s ‘Three Coins in the Fountain’. After that she retired from acting and withdrew from public life.
Lord was 89.
Brooke recognized her now. She’d always had a fascination with old Hollywood: the glitz, the glamour. She’d even seen Lord’s house once, now that she thought about it. It had been on one of the ‘Homes of the Stars’ tours that she dragged poor Sam to.
Funny: all her life she had avoided doing the stupid ‘touristy’ stuff-of which there was plenty in Los Angeles. But when she and Sam started dating it was like she wanted to go back and do everything she always wanted to do but didn’t because she was afraid of looking ‘uncool’. So poor Sam had to spend an entire day looking at the mansions on Benedict Canyon Drive and Summit Drive, and even took a tour of Will Rogers’ Ranch.
Most of her fellow tourists wanted to see where Eddie Murphy or Michael Douglas lived. Not her: give her Clark Gable, Carole Lombard or Rita Hayworth. She loved Old Hollywood. It was a bygone era.
And it was a shame that another piece of it had passed away last night. She wondered what it would be like to talk to one of those old silver screen legends-to hear the stories about Hollywood during the days of the studio system. How many stories had Veronica Lord taken to her grave, never to be heard from again?
Brooke shut off the TV. She was really working herself into a spiral now. Sammy, come hooome, she whined, hugging the pillow close to her and flopping sideways onto the couch.
The doorbell rang and she perked up- momentarily excited-but then realizing that her fiancée never rang the doorbell.
Ooh! Unless she had takeout and her arms were full! Suddenly the thought of Chinese food or maybe an Italian dinner from Luigetta’s had her salivating as she jumped excitedly to the door.
She yanked the door open, startling the man on the other side. Her expression fell as she realized that she wasn’t having tasty take out after all-unless the box under his arm had food in it. You’re not Sam, she stated.
Uh, no, Tom Reagan answered her. His voice failed him for a moment. Between the torrential gush of wind caused by her almost ripping the door off the hinges and the sight of the beautiful girl before him, he was speechless.
Jesus, she was gorgeous. There were a bevy of beautiful girls in Los Angeles, but there was something special about this one. He was glad he’d dressed for the visit. He’d ask her out as soon as this Samantha McPherson arrived.
But Sam does live here? he asked. Sam McPherson?
Uh-huh, the blonde confirmed.
I have a package for her, he supplied.
Oh, the blonde held out her hands. Well, you can give it to me. Do I have to sign for it?
Uh, no. I’m supposed to give it to Sam in person.
The blonde’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Okaaayy, she replied.
He realized how that sounded. I’m Tom Reagan, he offered, extending a hand in greeting. The blonde took it. Her skin was soft. I’m a private investigator. My client asked me to locate Miss McPherson and give this to her.
Is this about Sam’s father? she asked.
Uh, no, he replied, puzzled. I don’t believe so, anyway.
The blonde debated with herself for a minute. Come in, she finally offered, gesturing inside. He stepped in first, aware that she was scrutinizing him. He couldn’t blame her. He was a strange man that she had just asked into her apartment. That was a dangerous thing to do in this day and age. Normally he would have advised her against it, but the box was getting heavy.
He took a seat in the chair opposite the couch and tried to appear non-threatening. She sat across from him on the sofa. Sam should be home in a minute, she assured him.
He took a second to examine the apartment. He noticed the lack of personal items-save for a few magazines on the coffee table-and the stack of boxes packed in the corner. Moving?
The blonde favored him with a bittersweet smile and nodded. What was the story behind that? he wondered. Next week, she informed him.
He was lucky to have found Miss McPherson when he did. Just by dumb luck he stumbled upon a copy of the Daily Trojan at a local convenience store. He was in line, paying for his coffee, and he looked down and--
Jesus. The old woman had told him about that, hadn’t she? She said that she’d heard from one of the nurse’s aides-a USC grad student-that the coffee was remarkable at Von’s on 3rd street. When he drove by and saw it he remembered her suggestion. While he was paying for the coffee he looked down and saw the college newspaper.
The one with the article whose byline was Samantha McPherson. He couldn’t believe his luck at the time, but maybe it hadn’t been luck at all.
Had that been another one of the old lady’s visions? Had she sent him there-knowing that he was going to find it?
That was too much to think about right now.
Are you okay? the blonde asked. He shook the cobwebs out and snapped back to the present.
I’m fine, he replied. Just remembered something I have to pick up at the store. He searched around, fishing for a point of conversation. The magazines on the table: they were bridal magazines. His eyes darted up, and he spotted a nice sized diamond on the third finger of her left hand.
Crap. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? He was supposed to be a detective, wasn’t he?
He chalked it up to denial. Are you getting married? he asked, trying to hide his disappointment.
The girl’s face beamed, and he knew even before she nodded: oh yeah, she was definitely the one getting married. Sam and I are getting married in September.
Waitaminute. You and Sam?
She nodded again. Sam’s my fiancée, she confirmed.
Shit. Hadn’t he mentioned that Sam was a girl? He could have sworn he’d told Blondie that he was looking for a Samantha McPherson-not a Samuel.
Dammit: he had the wrong Sam McPherson. He heard the key slide past the tumblers in the lock, and the blonde looked toward the door as it opened. There’s Sam now! she gushed.
Like it mattered. Now he had to go back down to the registrar’s office, and try to find the address for the right Sam McPherson.
He stood up to take his leave when a gorgeous brunette entered the apartment. She had perfectly arched eyebrows, and pools of amber for eyes.
It was her: the girl who was pictured with the byline he saw in the Daily Trojan: Samantha McPherson.
Hey, babe! the blonde greeted the newcomer, and kissed her on the lips. I’m so glad you’re home.
Miss McPherson greeted her fiancée with a ‘hey’ and then turned her attention his way. We have company?
Fuckin’ California, he thought to himself. So these two were engaged? Christ, that was a shame.
Oh well, no sense moaning about it. He had a job to do, and from the looks of it he was going to accomplish it today and make thirty thousand bucks. Thirty grand could do a lot to console his broken heart.
He stood up and held out a hand to the brunette. Oh, Sam, this is Tom...Reagan, wasn’t it? the blonde ventured. He nodded in the affirmative. I’m sorry: I don’t think I introduced myself, she realized. I’m Brooke McQueen, and this-as you know-is Sam McPherson.
Miss McPherson looked at him, and then at the blonde. How does he know me?
He came here wanting to see you. He has a package for you.
The blonde nodded to the plain wrapped box on the coffee table. He’s a private investigator, she supplied.
I know this seems strange, he began-and backtracked. It is strange, to tell the truth. But the package should explain everything, he said.
What’s in it? the reporter asked.
I don’t know, he replied truthfully. I’m going to find out when you do.
Sit, he gestured to the couch, and I’ll explain what I can.
Hesitantly, Sam and the blonde sat down beside each other on the sofa. He thought about where best to start, measuring his words carefully as he began. My client is a woman named Esther Kennedy, he said. But you wouldn’t know her by that name. Almost no one did. Esther Kennedy was the real name of Miss Veronica Lord.
The actress? the blonde queried. He nodded in reply.
She died last night, she continued. I just saw it on the news.
I was one of the last-if not the last-person to see her alive, he wagered. Ms. Kennedy was a remarkable woman. She hired me to find you, Miss McPherson.
Me? the brunette questioned. Why?
I don’t know, he replied, but it was of the utmost importance to her that I find you and give you this. He placed his hands on the box.
The two girls exchanged glances and then the brunette-ever the skeptic-regarded him. And then what?
He shrugged. I don’t know-yet.
And she understood. They couldn’t go any further until she explored the contents of the package left for her.
She pulled the box closer to her and untied the knot holding the twine in place around it. Next she peeled back the plain brown paper to reveal a simple box with a slip-on lid.
She lifted the lid to the shallow box. He could see the items as she lifted them out carefully. There was several old, yellowed newspapers, some lobby cards-the kind they used to give out at the theater years ago, a journal, and a single videocassette.
Miss McPherson picked up the videotape. There was no label. Mister Reagan, what the hell is going on?
He didn’t know what to tell her: he was at a loss for words himself. He didn’t know what he had expected there to be in the box, but this certainly wasn’t it.
I don’t know, Miss McQueen interjected, removing the videotape from its protective sleeve, but I’ll get the popcorn...
To Be Continued...