I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason Page 7

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “She never told Vincent. Not a word. She was already out of his life, they had never been in love, she thought it would be better to raise the boy on her own. She went down to Mexico, tried some different things, and then she changed her mind. She said her son had a right to know his father. She had been wrong to keep something like this to herself. So she tracked Vincent down, wrote him this letter, and asked him to call or write so they could figure out what to do.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “That’s the thing, Mom,” Annie said, starting to cry. “I could have handled this. I could have loved Vincent’s son. He could’ve been a part of our family.”

  “He still can, Annie.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But why?”

  “The letter was dated a year ago. It sat in our house for one entire year, and Vincent never called this woman. He was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what? Of being a father? Vincent is great with kids.”

  “Afraid of me. Of what I’d say. What kind of monster does he think I am? How could he know me, really know me, and think abandoning his son would be something I’d expect him to do?”

  “Did you talk to him about it?”

  “I don’t need to. I’m done with him, Mom. There’s no excuse for this. I wish him well, I really do, but he doesn’t know me like I thought he did. And I don’t know him anymore.”

  “So you’re auditioning replacements?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Oh, no? It sounds like you gave up on him as much as he gave up on you.”

  Ignoring that last comment, she gave me an empty smile and headed back into the house, calling over her shoulder, “Let yourself out, okay?”

  I did, realizing only when I was halfway home that I had never even bothered to ask the name of Vincent’s little boy.

  11

  It had been four whole days since I’d had my last Gelson’s fix, so I stopped in on my way home from Annie’s to pick up a Chinese chicken salad to go. It was only a quarter past four, but I was projecting ahead to dinner and the sorry state of my larder. Somehow, I never seemed to have any of the staples you’re supposed to have on hand to whip up a fabulous impromptu meal. My pantry featured various dusty cans, jars, and bottles of things that must have seemed like a good idea at one time or another, but never should’ve have made the cut: pureed cannellini beans, diet cauliflower bisque, unsweetened cranberry juice. Fodder for the earthquake kit, I suppose.

  The minute I walked into the house, I pulled my now-oppressive blue dress over my head and fantasized about burning it. But I was loath to do so. It was by Claire McCardell, who had singlehandedly founded American ready-to-wear fashion in the forties. And in a size ten, with those oversize patch pockets, it was a rare find.

  As far as I know, no one except yours truly has advanced a theory as to why vintage clothing tends to be found only in fours and sixes. At five-eleven and 144 pounds (naked, first thing in the morning, and definitely not between Thanksgiving and New Year’s), the only thing about me that’s a size six is two-thirds of one foot. I like to think it’s because throughout history, voluptuous girls like myself tended to be ravished by impatient mates, their dresses shed in the heat of passion, while our petite counterparts, being inherently less desirable, had ample time to hang up their garments neatly, thus preserving them for posterity on eBay.

  A crock of shit, I know. Nevertheless, it does explain why, after checking my messages (“Cece, get your butt over here. Someone your size has died!”), I abandoned my salad and hightailed it over to Bridget’s. Like the Duchess of Windsor, I’d rather shop than eat. But it was a tough call.

  I considered myself lucky to call Bridget Sugarhill a friend. The sole proprietor of On the Bias, the premier vintage clothing shop in Los Angeles, Bridget wielded power equivalent to (and during Oscar season greater than) that of your average studio head. Bridget knew everything about clothes, and everything about everyone who liked them. Who makes no career move before consulting her Chinese herbalist? Who is really the boss at Sony Pictures Classics? Who ran over her agent’s dog? Oh, if the tabloids only knew.

  The bell tinkled as I opened the celadon and gold door of the otherwise ordinary brick building located on a small stretch of Burton Way in Beverly Hills. Bridget appeared instantly, a tall African-American woman wearing a swath of kente cloth cut with the precision of a Balenciaga frock.

  “Hello, Cece, come in and join me,” she said grandly.

  Bridget was not exactly old Hollywood royalty, but she was definitely old Hollywood. Her grandmother, Jeanie Sugarhill, had been a seamstress at MGM in its glory days, renowned both for her moxie and way with a needle. Every good fashionista knows that padded shoulders came into vogue in the 1940s because the great costume designer Adrian decided they offset Joan Crawford’s hips. But Jeanie Sugarhill was famed on the MGM lot for even greater subtlety. She could trim fat off your thighs in half-inch increments, deflate your dowager’s hump, or give you a D-cup overnight, as the occasion warranted.

  Bridget’s mom, who was born quoting Voltaire, couldn’t be bothered with such frivolities. So Bridget got Grandma’s full attention. The girl may have grown up in a cramped apartment in Culver City, but she always looked divine. The night of her senior prom, she was outfitted in a pitch-perfect copy of Rita Hayworth’s strapless Gilda gown. The year before, it had been Marlene Dietrich’s muted yellow satin sheath from Morocco. No wonder the woman put on airs.

  The bell on the front door tinkled again. A young matron in a red coat walked in. Without missing a beat, Bridget’s dachshund made a beeline for her crotch. As the poor woman looked around for help, Bridget told me to hold on for a minute and sashayed over.

  “I see you’ve met Helmut,” she said, pleasantly enough.

  Now for the rap. I’d heard it maybe a thousand times.

  “You’ve never been here before, have you? Well, we carry only vintage designer pieces. Some of them are very fragile.” Bridget turned toward a rack filled with silky tops and soft sweaters spangled with beads. “We do not handle the clothes like this,” she demonstrated, yanking a peasant blouse from Yves St. Laurent’s Ballet Russes collection by its ultra-puffy sleeve. “We touch only the hangers. Thank you so much for your attention. Do let me know if I can be of futher assistance.”

  Bridget returned to her reproduction Louis XVI desk and seated herself noisily in her not-reproduction Louis XVI chair.

  “You are such a bitch,” I said.

  “Don’t I know it,” she replied. “But god save me from the amateurs. Do you know what happened yesterday? Some skinny-assed starlet came in looking for something to wear to a premiere. She grabbed my favorite Schiaparelli gown, the one with the square neckline and floral appliques, hustled into a dressing room, and came out scrunching the waistline between her fists, whining about how big it was. Scrunching that fabric, can you imagine? You can’t iron it, for heaven’s sake! Anyway, I would’ve thrown her out if her stylist didn’t bring me so much business.”

  I made sympathetic noises.

  “Oh, cut it out. So, you want to see this dead woman’s clothes?”

  “I’m ready,” I said, salivating.

  The next forty minutes were bliss. I stripped plastic bags off dresses like there was no tomorrow, and Bridget knew enough to stay out of my way. Of course, there were a few corkers: a peasant/wench gown in transparent floral chiffon with a foot-wide elasticized waistband, perfect for going-amilkin’ at Studio 54; a Rudi Gernreich trompe l’oeil woolen suit that made me resemble a human checkerboard; and the requisite half-dozen Halston Ultrasuede coatdresses, in shades as mystifyingly popular as mushroom and burnt orange.

  But I forgot about those fashion faux pas as I luxuriated in a 1930s bias-cut gown in fuschia rayon crepe with a thick velvet belt in a slightly contrasting shade of raspberry; an Oscar de la Renta silk sari printed with a pattern of periwinkle, sage, and gold; a 19
60s Nina Ricci empire-waisted gown with the thinnest shoulder straps (more cappellini than spaghetti), constructed out of a single piece of accordion-pleated chiffon dyed into stripes of chartreuse, tangerine, hot pink, and lime.

  And then there was the masterpiece, the dress to end all dresses. It was by Ossie Clark, the guru of rock-star girlfriends, the king of King’s Road, the designer who could make a woman feel like an angel while she was inspiring wanton lust. It was a cherry-red silk chiffon A-line from the seventies with signature Ossie bell sleeves and a keyhole neckline that plunged from the nape of the neck to the waist. I would need an engineer to construct a bra I could wear under it, but what the hell. When I put it on, I made myself swoon. After recovering, I told Bridget to wrap it up.

  While I was seated at Bridget’s desk, waiting for my package, I flipped through one of her books on fashion history. Oh, what I would do to own a Claire McCardell Popover. These were wraparound, unstructured denim dresses to be worn over more elegant clothes, you know, while you whipped up cherries jubilee for your husband’s boss and his wife. Popovers were produced in response to a request by Harper’s Bazaar for appropriate clothing for women whose maids had selfishly abandoned them for wartime factory work. For some odd reason, they loomed large in my fantasy life.

  I picked up another book on style icons. Talitha Getty, sprawled on a Moroccan rooftop in a floaty caftan. Slim Keith, the ultimate cool blonde. Coco Chanel, the crimson-lipped revolutionary. And Meredith Allan. Ohmigod, Meredith Allan. I knew I recognized her name.

  “Bridget,” I demanded, “what do you know about this woman?”

  “Meredith Allan? Why? Did she finally die? Oh, please say yes. I’d give anything to get a crack at her closet.”

  “I don’t think she’s dead. Well, she might be. I think I might know someone who knows her. Or knew her. Actually, two people who know her. Or knew her. This is so strange.”

  “Meredith Allan is a legend, darling. You’ve seen pictures of her, Cece. The cascading ringlets? The kohl-rimmed eyes? The jewel-tipped cigarette holders? She invented the whole gypsy patrician thing, an armful of huge Navajo bracelets, rugged leather sandals, and an haute couture gown. A sleek Chanel suit and an embroidered peasant blouse, topped by a real Tyrolean hat. That was when she lived in Austria. And London, she took that town by storm. Oh, honey, she loved Ossie Clark. Just like you. Would wear one of his butterfly-sleeve things with a gargantuan gold necklace she’d designed herself. Looked like a torture device, studded with lapis as big as your fist. And she’d go out barefoot. Wearing patchouli. She married young, I think, divorced, and took oodles of lovers. Her father was a famous tyrant. Rich as Croesus. Oil.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Last thing I remember hearing she was in Ojai. Meditating. Throwing pots. Wearing Indian skirts with petticoats, her arms covered with that massive turquoise jewelry. She was sick as a child, you see. Heart trouble. Those bracelets were therapeutic. They were her weights. She wore them to strengthen her weak arms.”

  As the celadon and gold door slammed shut behind me, I had a thought.

  Maybe Meredith Allan was still in Ojai. Ojai was not so very far away, just half an hour inland from Ventura. Maybe the woman was lonely. Maybe she’d like a visitor. Named Cece Caruso.

  It should be noted that I’ve always believed that under the right circumstances pigs could fly.

  12

  As it turned out, Meredith Allan had left Ojai more than twenty years ago, on the death of her guru, Jiddhu Krishnamurti, to whom she was apparently devoted. And generous. She had finally figured her life out. Ojai was a place for people who had not.

  For more than a century, the whole Ojai Valley had been home to a hodgepodge of religious, spiritual, metaphysical, occult, and self-help groups. The Ojai Hot Springs opened in 1887, promising to cure everything from rheumatism to tummy aches. David C. Cook built his “Second Garden of Eden” in Piru around the same time, with the express intention of saving souls. In the early 1920s, the Krotona Institute was established under the leadership of Albert P. Warrington, who moved his followers from the Hollywood Hills to a tranquil 115-acre hilltop in Ojai, where you could smell the orange blossoms from dawn to dusk. Theosophist Annie Besant, who spent time in India studying Hinduism, purchased several hundred acres near the Krotona Institute soon afterward and brought Krishnamurti with her there to serve as in-house prophet. He eventually broke with the theosophists and cultivated his own band of acolytes, among whom could be counted Miss Meredith Allan.

  But she was done with all that. She had lived longer than anyone thought she had a right to. She had sown her oats, conquered her demons, and found her way. Ready to attend to her responsibilities, she’d bid a fond adieu to her fellow seekers, left her thriving citrus farm, returned to her ancestral home in Ventura, packed up everything that wasn’t nailed down, and bought a mansion in Montecito, just south of Santa Barbara. As it turned out, she hadn’t really had that many responsibilities.

  All this I learned from Miss Allan’s longtime secretary, a lovely man named Mr. Wingate. About whom I learned from a librarian at the Ventura County Historical Society, another lovely man named Mr. Grandy. Both of whom were tickled pink with the idea they were helping me with deep background for my book. That was how I’d put it. They thought it sounded very cloak-and-dagger.

  Miss Allan would grant me an hour, Mr. Wingate announced giddily. I was to meet her at her Montecito estate first thing Wednesday morning, and I was to be prompt.

  I’d decided right away on an Eve Arden look—you know, the wisecracking sidekick, the one who doesn’t get the guy but can expertly dissect his inadequacies. Eve Arden always had great clothes. And bags. I had no intention of competing with the leading lady, of course, but wanted her to know I appreciated her obsessions, and maybe shared one or two.

  I put on a crisp white blouse, high-heeled black pumps, and a pink wool Pucci circle skirt I’d bought at Bridget’s, covered with a politically incorrect pattern of African masks, totems, and grass huts shaded by palm trees. I would not be accepting food or beverages in this particular garment. First of all, the waistband was so tight it precluded breathing, much less eating. And second of all, the skirt’s yellowed label informed me it had to be commercially dry-cleaned with “cold perchloroethylene,” whatever the hell that was, and I hardly thought the professionals at Klean-E! Cleaners were up for the challenge.

  Into my purse went my steno pad and the directions Mr. Wingate had faxed me, along with my cat’s-eye glasses, should they be needed to accessorize my look. Buster tried to sneak into the car, poor thing, but I deposited him on the living room couch, which had become his bed when I banished him from mine due to his accelerating old-age stink. I tossed the new cashmere throw in the closet, just in case.

  The drive felt long. I zoned out listening to reggae, then tuned in to talk radio around Oxnard when I needed to perk up. My favorite call of the afternoon was from a woman who was feeling guilty because her ex-father-in-law had left the bulk of his estate to her instead of his wife of forty years. It didn’t stop her, though, from rushing right out and buying herself a diamond tennis bracelet and a sterling silver service for twenty-four.

  My ex-father-in-law was a whole other can of worms. He taught his son everything he knew, which meant he was a miser and a cheat. Plus, he hated me, the big-haired girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Who has twenty-four people to dinner, anyway? Lael, I suppose. By the time you counted her kids and all their half brothers and sisters, you were up to a couple dozen easy.

  Before I could start reproaching myself for having had only one child, Montecito appeared, a mirage shimmering in the desert. Not exactly, I know, but it felt that way. Maybe it was all that hard money sparkling off the blue ocean.

  Montecito means “little mountain” in Spanish. But you didn’t need cat’s-eye glasses to see that “little” never went over big around here. Pleasure-seekers with names like Pillsbury, Fleischman, and du Pont came to
Montecito in the early part of the twentieth century and built themselves a slew of mansions—big ones behind big gates. I followed the palm trees to Miss Allan’s, a Mediterranean Revival number with Byzantine, Renaissance, and Moorish accents. In blush pink. I traipsed across the automobile entry court, through the terraced courtyard with its fountain dribbling turquoise beads of water, and rang the bell.

  The rich don’t open their own doors. Especially ones hewn out of solid mahogany and inlaid with hand-painted Turkish tiles. They have butlers who sneer and make you wait in musty drawing rooms. When Philip Marlowe went calling on four million bucks, it happened to him. But I was not calling on your typical millionairess. And she had a lot more millions than four.

  No butler. No drawing room. And no dramatic entrance, though the sweeping staircase was made for it. I was greeted by the lady of the house herself, Meredith Allan, and she looked a lot like Cinderella, before the Fairy Godmother got to her.

  She had kept her figure, but the rest was mystifying. She was wearing dungarees, with smudges of what looked to be paint on her chin. There was hair everywhere, tangled ropes of it, silvery gray and auburn, spilling onto a torn flannel shirt. And wrinkles, not that they detracted from her beauty. Even at sea level, the woman’s cheekbones were high enough to give a person altitude sickness.

  “Ms. Caruso?” she asked, a pleasing lilt in her voice. “Please come in, and excuse the mess, will you? I’ve been doing a little redecorating.”

  I hoped she was kidding. This was a house William Randolph Hearst would have approved of. The foyer was close to thirty feet high, with a crystal chandelier, a rococo dome fresco ceiling, stained-glass windows, and a terrazzo floor. And that was just for starters. She led me through an arched doorway flanked by gold-leaf fluted columns and a wraparound terra-cotta frieze depicting a vulture enjoying his evening meal. We stepped down into the sunken living room. Among its marvels were four gigantic fireplaces, each guarded by a trio of marble phoenixes, and overhead, hand-stenciled wooden beams embellished with dozens of carvings of owls.