I heard the jingle of silver bracelets, and I was aware that Jitty was in the bedroom. I pulled the sheet up to my shoulders, causing her to give a low chuckle.
“I’ve seen you in your birthday suit since the day you were born,” she said.
“You can’t be in here,” I hissed at her. “This is private time.”
“Graf sleeps sounder than that hound dog. He won’t never know we had a chat.”
“I’m not in the mood for a chat.” All I needed was for Graf to wake up and hear me talking to what he would assume was myself. Psycho ward for sure-right beside Estelle. And perhaps that was why I had such sympathy for her, I suddenly realized. She wanted to be haunted, and I was.
“How long does it take cotton to grow?” Jitty asked.
I couldn’t get a good look at her. The room was too dark. “Why are you asking that now?”
“Just tryin’ to calculate the maturation of a crop.”
I scooched up in the bed and turned on the light. Something was amiss with Jitty. She wore her bracelets, but she wasn’t decked out in some film star’s costume. She was wearing my old sweats and a T-shirt that advertised a local Zinnia blues club, Playin’ the Bones. She hardly ever abandoned her costume theme. Clothes defined her.
“You’ve never been interested in cotton before,” I pointed out.
“Crops have caught my interest. I like the idea of things growin’.” She laughed again.
“You’re not talking about cotton.” I saw to the heart of her question. “You’re talking about a baby.”
“The finest crop you could grow, Sarah Booth. A future Delaney. Someone to carry on the name and add to the fine tradition of the line.”
“Don’t get the cart ahead of the horse. Graf and I are just getting to know each other. We want time to explore each other. We-”
“Just made love.”
“I’m not stupid,” I told her. “I take care of that.”
Her only response was another laugh that faded into the shadows of the room.
“Sarah Booth! Sarah Booth!” Graf’s voice came to me, his hand lightly shaking my arm. “Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”
When I finally opened my eyes, he’d switched on the lamp and was sitting on the edge of the bed. Relief made him smile. “You were thrashing and shaking your head and saying, ‘No, no, it’s not true.’ What were you dreaming?”
I took a deep breath. “I was being deviled by the ghost of a family member.” I yawned and sank back into the pillows. “But don’t worry, I’ll get even with her tomorrow.”
Graf laughed. “You’re still half asleep. You’ve got ghosts on the brain.”
“And bats in the belfry,” I answered before I fell back to sleep, content in the knowledge that Graf was right beside me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Because movies aren’t shot in sequential order, I’d focused solely on projecting Matty’s emotions in each scene that involved her character. On this last day of shooting, Tinkie and I had parked our chairs behind the cameras to watch. My work in Petaluma was done. I had no more scenes until we started again in Los Angeles.
“I don’t know how you keep up with where you are,” Tinkie said. “And I certainly don’t know how someone edits everything together to tell a story.”
“I just do it one scene at a time and let Federico worry with stitching it into a seamless story.” And novice though I was in the business, I could clearly see his genius. He had an ability to conclude a scene with a sound or image that would connect viscerally to the next moment of the story. Whether it was technique or style or simply the way he saw the story, it was brilliant. To do it, though, he had to know in his head how everything would fit together.
The film and all of the problems were wearing on Federico. He’d lost energy, and his skin was sallow. He kept glancing toward the house. Jovan hadn’t been out of their rooms, as far as I knew. While the actual movie seemed to be going well, all of us were paying a high personal price.
Around noon, Federico shut down the cameras and ordered the crews to begin packing to go home. He’d rented a private plane to take the equipment and all of us back to Los Angeles, and he announced that we would leave early the next morning.
While he smiled and congratulated all of us on fine work, I could see that he was forcing himself to be jolly. Something was eating at him.
Everyone scattered in different directions, and at last Federico was alone. Tinkie excused herself to drive into town to check on-and hopefully bring home-Chablis. I pulled the director aside.
“Can I ask you some personal questions?” I dove right in.
“Is this about the accidents on the set?” He’d stopped pretending to be hale and hearty, and he looked awful.
“Yes.” I motioned toward the gardens. “Let’s take a walk. The grounds really are so beautiful. It’s going to be hard to say good-bye.”
“Carlita loved this place,” he said as we stepped into the shade of an arbor. “Me, not so much. I recognize the beauty, but there was always the sense that this wasn’t my home.”
“Clearly your father-in-law wanted you to feel that way.” I’d told Federico about the passageways. He’d been surprised, but he hadn’t been angry. Now, he seemed more saddened than anything else.
“Estoban thought that I wasn’t good enough for Carlita. The Gonzalez family came from old money, banana and coffee plantations. My father was a merchant, and I went to film school on scholarships. Estoban had no use for the cinema, especially not since Carlita was so in love with it. He hoped to marry her off to a planter or a banker, someone who could provide for her and give her security. Someone of her class.”
We passed several beautiful statues, women with flowing hair and gowns, caught in a moment of rapture or action. When we came to a bench in the shade of some lush plants, we took a seat.
“Surely after your career took off, Estoban got over his initial distrust.”
Federico’s chuckle was dry. “Hardly. He hated me even more. Carlita was cast in several films, and he felt that was my doing. He had the idea that all actresses were whores, and he made her feel like one. She was exotic and sexy, and he made her dislike those things about herself. Her biggest problem was that the man she most loved refused to recognize her talent.”
I could draw a lot of parallels, but I wasn’t being paid to do that. In fact, I wasn’t being paid to stir this pot at all. But no one was going to attack my partner and get away with it.
“I’ve been trying to put together a list of people who might want this film to fail.” I gave him a moment to think it through. “When was the last time you saw Vincent Day?”
“Vincent,” he said softly. “I haven’t thought of him in a long time now.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“No.” He stood up and started walking. I followed him, giving him a moment to find the memories I needed.
“I understand the two of you were great friends?”
“Yes, and we parted bitter enemies.”
“Because of Carlita?”
He glanced at me, a sidelong gaze that assessed me in a new light. “I thought the whole business about you being a private investigator was a story Graf made up, some Hollywood hype. But it’s true, isn’t it?”
“Finding out about Vincent Day didn’t require a whole lot of experience, just the right person who’s interested in movie stars and has a good memory.” Millie was invaluable.
“Hardly anyone working in Hollywood remembers Vincent. And he was brilliant. That was twenty-five years ago or better.”
“Is he Estelle’s father?” I thought the question would shock him, but it didn’t.
“I never asked Carlita. I didn’t care. Estelle never belonged to me or Vincent, she was her mother’s daughter. She was born with an attachment to Carlita that no one could sever, not even for her own mental health.”