KYM TRUJILLO CAME out to see him in the entryway of the Motion Picture Country Home. She was petit in a no-nonsense gray pantsuit that gave her free range of motion when pitching in to help nurses and attendants support the weight of ailing residents. She wasn’t a dramatic figure like Esperanza Bozal, but with her dark hair piled atop her head and sharp, intelligent features she was as impressive as any beauty from a Spanish opera. Today she was flushed and out of breath.
“I wish you’d called,” she told Valentino when he’d explained the reason for his visit. “I might have saved you a trip. We think Roy Fitzhugh had a stroke. We’re waiting for the EMS team to come and take him to Cedars of Lebanon.”
He felt a stab of concern, as much for the old character actor as for himself and his mission. “Is it bad?”
“There are no good strokes, but it seems to have been mild. It’s important we get him into treatment as soon as possible. Every minute counts.”
“Could I see him?”
She pursed her lips.
“I shouldn’t let you. The regulations are clear about visitors in emergency situations; family only. But he’s outlived all his family. You may be able to help keep him calm. He mustn’t be upset.” Her strong brows drew together. “I mean that. If he shows any sign of agitation, you’ll have to leave.”
“I promise. I just want to ask him about something he said the last time I was here, information he volunteered. His mind wandered before he could finish.”
“I can’t tell you if he’s lucid or not. It depends on what part of his brain is affected.”
“If he isn’t, I’ll leave. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“He’s in his room. I’m coming along. When the emergency crew comes you’ll have to clear out, regardless of his condition.”
He thanked her and went with her to Fitzhugh’s room. The old man looked small and frail lying under the blankets on his bed. It was difficult to distinguish the outlines of his face from the white pillowcase where his head rested. His pale blue eyes were open and he was breathing evenly with the help of an oxygen tank by the bed and tubes in his nostrils, but he was shaking slightly. Valentino, whose profession placed him frequently in the company of the elderly, recognized it as palsy rather than the effects of a chill. A nurse he’d met before sat in a chair nearby, wearing one of the cheerful floral smocks that had replaced the stark white uniforms of old. She looked up from her cell phone screen, recognized him, and greeted him with a tight smile.
He remained standing, conscious of Kym Trujillo hovering behind him. He kept his voice low. “It’s Valentino, Mr. Fitzhugh. Do you remember me?”
The eyes rolled his direction. A weak smile parted the lips. He wasn’t wearing his dentures. “Of course, son. I may be at death’s door, but I ain’t senile.”
Kym said, “Nonsense, Roy. You’re as mad as a hatter, but you’ve got some good years left.”
The man in the bed made a dry chuckling sound. It was the kind of banter that existed between a health care professional and a patient who knew better than any doctors.
“Last time we talked about Van Oliver,” Valentino said. “You became friends while you were together in Bleak Street.”
“He made up for a lot. That swish Fletcher said I talked through my schnozz.”
They were back in the groove, but he had to prevent the old man from constantly repeating himself and keep him on topic. “You said something about Madeleine Nash, the female lead.”
“Maggie. A doll. She used to sing old Spanish songs on the set.”
“You said she died.”
The eyes misted. Valentino couldn’t tell if he was in mourning for an old colleague or in pain. “Yeah. Damn shame.”
“I was told she married soon after the film wrapped and left the country.”
“Yeah.”
Valentino wanted to press it; but he was acutely aware of Kym’s eyes boring holes in the back of his neck. He waited. He’d never waited so long for anything, but only a couple of seconds passed before a gray tongue slid along Fitzhugh’s pleated lips and he spoke. “I meant after, long after. But still too soon. She never got to see her grandchildren.”
“She had grandchildren?”
“Her grandchildren had grandchildren. She missed ’em all. That shouldn’t happen to anyone. I hung on this long, and what’ve I got to show for it? Not a soul to carry on my blood.” Something glistened and slid down his cheek, a rivulet tracing the course through a crease.
“You stayed in touch after she went to Europe?”
“Europe?” The old man turned his head a half-inch the visitor’s way. The tear had pooled at the corner of his mouth. No others followed it. “Who said she went to Europe?”
Valentino tried to tamp down his excitement. The patient might sense it, become alarmed, and cause him to be ejected.
He realized now he’d had only one source for the Europe story. Everyone else had merely said Madeleine Nash, née Magdalena Novello, left the United States. At that point her vanishing act had been as complete as Van Oliver’s, if not as dramatic. All the scattered pieces of a mystery sixty years old were coming together, fitting as snugly as Legos.
He stepped closer to the bed. “Where did she go, if not Europe? Who did she marry?”
“Val.” It was Kym.
He stepped back, took a deep breath and let it out. When he spoke his voice was even. “The night Oliver disappeared, you put him in a cab outside Melvin Fletcher’s house. Did you get a good look at the driver?”
“Who needs drivers?” Once again, the old man’s eyes were as clear as glass beads. “I played one so many times I could drive anyone anywhere.” He frowned. “Almost anywhere.”
“You made up the taxi story. You drove him yourself.”
“Not the whole way. I couldn’t show my face in Mexico after that business with my da’ when I was a kid.”
“After you picked up Oliver you took Nash on board, or someone else did. Who was it? Who met you at the border to take them across?”
A fog slid across the aged eyes. Valentino was losing him. On an impulse he snatched out the photo Mark David Turkus had given him. He held it close to Fitzhugh’s face, his thumb next to the obese figure in the background of the cemetery.
The fog cleared. The old man stared. “Holy crap! He got fat.”
“Coming through. Out of the way, please.”
A man and a woman in uniform with medical patches on the sleeves came in, trundling a stretcher with foldaway wheels. In his fevered state, Valentino hadn’t heard the ambulance’s siren approaching outside. With Kym Trujillo’s hand on his arm he made way, accompanying her out into the corridor.
She let go. “I hope that wasn’t a mistake. It sounded pretty important or I wouldn’t have let it go on. I guess I got caught up.”
“I’m no expert, but I think he’ll recover. He’s a tough old bird; always was. That kind doesn’t give up without a fight.”
“I’m sorry he couldn’t answer your last question.”
“I’m not. I have the answer. All I needed was someone to lead me to it.” He slid the picture back into his pocket. As his fingers left it, his eyes went to something in a corner, just past where the corridor opened into the entryway, a volume the size of a family Bible spread open on a wooden lectern. “May I look at the register?”
“Of course. It’s open to everyone, you know that.”
She left him to supervise Roy Fitzhugh’s removal, and Valentino went to the book. He looked at the ruled pages where guests had signed in, adding the dates and times of their visits and occasionally a sentiment. Among them he recognized acquaintances, some of them famous; but none was the one he sought. He turned back the heavy gilt-edged leaves.
And there it was.
A few days ago, he’d have been shocked, then elated. Now he just felt drained. If he’d thought to look there the last time he visited, he could have saved everyone a lot of trouble, most of all himself.