silver-haired man who approached me yesterday at the beach. He plasters a fake smile on his face. “Brenden. Please come in.”
I step into a two-story entry. The floors are laid with big red tiles and an elegant stairway curves up to the second level. The place smells like a funeral. The walls are white. White flowers of every kind crowd cubby holes, spill from giant vases, and stretch out on tabletops.
“Follow me, please.” I trail the silver-haired man down a hall and through a wide, arched opening. We step down into a spacious room. Dark beams hold up white vaulted ceilings. Everything’s white. Couches, chairs—retro furniture like I’ve just stepped on an old 40s movie set.
In this room, portraits of Grace Doll cover every inch of wall space. Is the old man going to drill me about her?
My stride slows. I don’t want to stare, but can’t stop myself. She’s beyond beautiful, her round eyes like lonely mirrors, begging me to keep looking. Then I see it. My sketch—framed in black—sits on a table next to a couch. My heart dips. My escort clears his throat. I notice we’re not alone. A bald man sits in a huge black wing chair facing French doors that look out to a garden and a pool, pool house, and cabana. I only see the top of his head, and his hand, resting on the arm of the chair. His scalp is mealy, blotched red. His hands are the same.
The servant faces his employer. “Brenden Lane is here.” The assistant gestures me over. I round the chair, eyes latched on who I assume is Rufus Solomon.
Bile shoots up my throat. Black eyes peer at me through a face disfigured with taut scar tissue pulled over bone.
“Mr. Solomon, Brenden Lane.”
Solomon’s lips are raw, gleaming slits. “Mr. Lane.”
Disgust shackles my muscles and bones. What happened to him?
“You can leave us, Roger.” Solomon’s crow-black eyes lock on me. He dismisses his assistant. “Tell me,” he says. “What made you change your mind? The money?”
My mouth opens to answer, but his appearance is so disgusting and distracting, words flee my brain. His eyes narrow.
I nod.
Puckered skin on his neck shifts when he moves, opening and closing craters left by the scarring. I steady my breath, the sight is so revolting. My gaze flicks to my sketch, then back to this scarred piece of flesh in front of me.
“Your sketch,” he says. “Is one of my favorites.”
“You’re the collector?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He gestures to the walls surrounding us, covered with Grace Doll’s image. “My favorite subject. Sit.” He points to a nearby chair. I lower into the seat.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“I tried to save my wife from a fire. Did your father ever speak of me?”
Dad hadn’t talked about him. Mom had in passing. But if I wanted to milk this guy for money, I’d have to elaborate. I lift a shoulder.
Moments crawl by. His lips open, a line of saliva dribbles out one side. I feel like I’m at a circus freak show, not a mansion in Beverly Hills sitting with an old Hollywood legend. He digs into the pocket of his black slacks and pulls out a white hankie, dabs at his mouth. “I’m not paying you to stare. Did your father ever talk about me?”
“No.”
“Did he ever talk about my wife, Grace Doll?”
I lie.“Sometimes, yeah.”
“What did your father tell you?
I swallow. “He was her makeup artist.”
His eyes are shark-like. “And?”
Two hundred bucks. Can I stretch it to four?
“And he liked working for her. She was the best in the biz.”
What used to be an eyebrow lifts. He’s not amused by my answer and can see right through me.
“He was married,” I spit out in my defense. “He didn’t spend a lot of time talking about other women.”
More long, tense moments drag by. His stare sends a dagger down my spine. “How often did you see Jon?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Jon was a workaholic. I imagine that left little time for being a father.”
“He
I step into a two-story entry. The floors are laid with big red tiles and an elegant stairway curves up to the second level. The place smells like a funeral. The walls are white. White flowers of every kind crowd cubby holes, spill from giant vases, and stretch out on tabletops.
“Follow me, please.” I trail the silver-haired man down a hall and through a wide, arched opening. We step down into a spacious room. Dark beams hold up white vaulted ceilings. Everything’s white. Couches, chairs—retro furniture like I’ve just stepped on an old 40s movie set.
In this room, portraits of Grace Doll cover every inch of wall space. Is the old man going to drill me about her?
My stride slows. I don’t want to stare, but can’t stop myself. She’s beyond beautiful, her round eyes like lonely mirrors, begging me to keep looking. Then I see it. My sketch—framed in black—sits on a table next to a couch. My heart dips. My escort clears his throat. I notice we’re not alone. A bald man sits in a huge black wing chair facing French doors that look out to a garden and a pool, pool house, and cabana. I only see the top of his head, and his hand, resting on the arm of the chair. His scalp is mealy, blotched red. His hands are the same.
The servant faces his employer. “Brenden Lane is here.” The assistant gestures me over. I round the chair, eyes latched on who I assume is Rufus Solomon.
Bile shoots up my throat. Black eyes peer at me through a face disfigured with taut scar tissue pulled over bone.
“Mr. Solomon, Brenden Lane.”
Solomon’s lips are raw, gleaming slits. “Mr. Lane.”
Disgust shackles my muscles and bones. What happened to him?
“You can leave us, Roger.” Solomon’s crow-black eyes lock on me. He dismisses his assistant. “Tell me,” he says. “What made you change your mind? The money?”
My mouth opens to answer, but his appearance is so disgusting and distracting, words flee my brain. His eyes narrow.
I nod.
Puckered skin on his neck shifts when he moves, opening and closing craters left by the scarring. I steady my breath, the sight is so revolting. My gaze flicks to my sketch, then back to this scarred piece of flesh in front of me.
“Your sketch,” he says. “Is one of my favorites.”
“You’re the collector?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He gestures to the walls surrounding us, covered with Grace Doll’s image. “My favorite subject. Sit.” He points to a nearby chair. I lower into the seat.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“I tried to save my wife from a fire. Did your father ever speak of me?”
Dad hadn’t talked about him. Mom had in passing. But if I wanted to milk this guy for money, I’d have to elaborate. I lift a shoulder.
Moments crawl by. His lips open, a line of saliva dribbles out one side. I feel like I’m at a circus freak show, not a mansion in Beverly Hills sitting with an old Hollywood legend. He digs into the pocket of his black slacks and pulls out a white hankie, dabs at his mouth. “I’m not paying you to stare. Did your father ever talk about me?”
“No.”
“Did he ever talk about my wife, Grace Doll?”
I lie.“Sometimes, yeah.”
“What did your father tell you?
I swallow. “He was her makeup artist.”
His eyes are shark-like. “And?”
Two hundred bucks. Can I stretch it to four?
“And he liked working for her. She was the best in the biz.”
What used to be an eyebrow lifts. He’s not amused by my answer and can see right through me.
“He was married,” I spit out in my defense. “He didn’t spend a lot of time talking about other women.”
More long, tense moments drag by. His stare sends a dagger down my spine. “How often did you see Jon?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Jon was a workaholic. I imagine that left little time for being a father.”
“He
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