Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story

Todd strode across the lawn, which was still wet from the rain, down to the pool. Dragonflies flitted everywhere; bees wove their nectar trails through the balmy air. The pool was a baroque affair, descending from the relatively restrained style of the main house into pure Hollywood kitsch. The model, perhaps, was Cecil B. DeMille Roman. A large mock-classical bronze fountain was set at the back of the pool, the intertwined limbs of its figures—a sea-god and his female attendants—rendered more baroque still by the tracery of living vines which had crept up over it. A sizable conch in the sea-god's hands had once been a source of rejuvenating waters for the pool, but those waters had ceased to flow a long time ago. Todd was mildly disappointed. He would have liked to see sparkling blue water in the pool instead of the few inches of bottle-green rain-water that were there at the bottom.

He turned and looked back toward the house. It was still more impressive from this side than it had been from the front, its four floors rising like the tiers of a wedding cake, its walls lush with ivy in places, and in others naked. Beyond it, further up the hill, Todd could just see a glimpse of one of the guest-houses that Maxine had mentioned. Altogether, it really was an impressive parcel of land, with or without the buildings. Had Jerry shown it to him as part of the grand tour Todd might well have been tempted to invest. The fact that Jerry hadn't done so probably meant that it had not belonged to anyone of significance, though that seemed odd. This wasn't just any Hollywood show-place: it was the creme de la creme, a glorious confection of a residence designed to show off all the wealth, power and taste of a great star.

By the time he'd made his way back inside, Marco had turned up from Greenblatt's with a car-load of supplies. He welcomed his boss with his usual crooked smile and a generous glass of bourbon.

'So what do you think of the Old Dark House?'

'You know ... in a weird way I like it here.'

'Really?' said Maxine. 'It's nothing like your taste.' She was plainly still mildly irritated by their earlier exchange, though for Todd it was past history, soothed away by his wanderings in the wilderness.

'I never really felt comfortable in Bel Air,' he said. 'That house has always been more like a hotel to me than a home.'

'I wouldn't say this place was exactly cozy' Maxine remarked.

'Oh, I don't know,' Todd said. He sipped on his bourbon, smiling into his glass. 'Dempsey would have liked it,' he said.

SEVEN

On Thursday, the 18th of March, Maxine got a call that she knew was coming. The caller was a woman named Tammy Lauper, who ran the International Todd Pickett Appreciation Society, which despite its high-falutin title had its headquarters, Maxine knew, in the Laupers' house in Sacramento. Tammy was calling to ask a very simple question, one that she said she was 'passing on' to Maxine from millions of Todd's fans worldwide: Where was Todd?

Maxine had dealt with Tammy on many occasions in the past, though if she possibly could she ducked the calls and let Sawyer deal with them. The trouble was that Tammy Lauper was an obsessive, and though in the eight years she'd been running the Appreciation Society—(she'd once said to Maxine she hated to hear it called a fan club. 'I'm not a hysterical teenager,' she'd said. This was true: Tammy Lauper was married, childless, and, when last spotted, an overweight woman in her middle thirties)—though in that time she'd done a great deal to support Todd's movies, and could on occasion be a useful disseminator of deliberately erroneous information, she was not somebody Maxine had much time for. The woman annoyed her, with her perpetual questions about trivia, and her unspoken assumption that somehow Todd belonged to her. When she was obliged to speak to the Lauper woman—because there was some delicate matter in the air, and she needed to carefully modulate the flow of news—she always aimed to keep the exchanges brief. As courteous as possible—Tammy could be prickly if she didn't feel as though she was being given her due—but brief.

Today, however, Tammy wasn't about to be quickly satisfied; she was like a terrier with a rat. Every time Maxine thought she'd satisfied the woman's curiosity, back she'd come with another inquiry.

'Something's wrong,' she kept saying. 'Todd's not been seen by anyone. Usually when he goes away, members of the Society spot him, and they report to me. But I haven't heard one word. Something's wrong. Because I always hear.'

'I'm sure you do.'

'So what's going on? You've got to tell me.'

'Why should anything be going on?' Maxine said, doing her best to maintain her equilibrium. 'Todd's tired and he needs a break, so he went away for a few weeks.'

'Out of state?'

'Yes. Out of state.'

'Out of the country?'

'I'm afraid he asked me not to say.'

'Because we've got members all over the world.'

'I realize that, but—'

'When he went on his honeymoon to Morocco,' Tammy went on, 'I had six reports of sightings.' (This was a reference to the event which had caused Maxine more publicity problems than any other in Todd's life: his short- lived marriage to the exquisitely emaciated model Avril Fox, which had been strewn with potentially image- besmirching scenes: adulteries, a menage-a-trois involving Avril's sister, Lucy, and a spot of domestic violence.)

'Sometimes,' Maxine said, a trace of condescension creeping into her voice now, 'Todd likes to be out in public. Sometimes he doesn't.'

'And right now?'

'He doesn't.'

'But why would he mind being seen?' Tammy went on. 'If there's nothing wrong with him . . .'

Maxine hesitated, wondering how best to calm the suspicions she was clearly arousing. She couldn't just drum up an excuse and jump off the phone; that would make the Lauper woman even more curious than she already was. She had to maneuver the conversation away from this dangerous area as carefully as possible.

'I'll tell you why,' she said, dropping her voice a little, as though she were about to share something of real significance with Tammy. 'He's got a secret project in the works.'

'Oh?' Tammy said. She didn't sound persuaded. 'This isn't Warrior, is it? I read that script, and—'

'No, it isn't Warrior. It's a very personal piece, which Todd is writing himself.'

'He's writing it? Todd is writing something? He said in an interview with People last July he hated writing. It was too much like hard work.'

'Well, I lied a little,' Maxine said. 'He's not doing the actual writing. He's working with somebody on the project. A very well-respected screenwriter, actually. But he's pouring out his heart, so it'll be a very personal project.' There was a silence. Maxine waited. Had Tammy taken the bait or not?

'So this is autobiographical, this movie?'

'I didn't say it was a movie,' Maxine said, taking some petty pleasure in catching Tammy out. 'It may end up on the screen, but right now he's just working hard to get his feelings down. He and the writer, that is.'

'Who is the writer?'

'I can't say.'

'You know it would make all this very much more believable if you gave me some more details,' Tammy said.

That was it. Maxine lost her composure. How dare this little bitch suggest her lies weren't believable?

'You know I've really said more than I should already, Tammy,' she snapped. 'And I've got six calls waiting. So if you'll excuse me—'

'Wait—what am I going to tell the members?'