North of Sommerset were the Hills. The more money you had, the higher up you got to dig your foundation. Here there were landscaping teams in canvas slacks and bandanas at work on every third yard, and that was just counting the yards that could be seen from the street. There were probably gardeners working on half of the homes that were hedged or walled or gated too. These were the winter palaces of Hollywood’s royalty, large Spanish-style mansions dating back to the silent era, southern plantation-style homes from the rise of the talkies, angular mesa homes clinging to precipices for the newly rich. There might have been competition between the residents, but to an outsider, the whole enclave represented those who had the money. To the moneyed, it was probably a much too thin line of defense against the masses.
Several blocks into the development, I stopped along the side of the road, idling in the shadow of a hedge. I only had to wait a few minutes before an open-topped tourist bus drove by, the amplified voice of the tour leader pointing out the homes of the stars. I pulled in close enough so I could hear the tour guide’s patter, a cheerful droning of names sprinkled with months-old gossip that had been de-clawed for the out-of-towners. The bus wove its way along the narrow curving street, intent on covering every inch of pavement that had been blessed with the magic of the movies. When the tour guide eventually said John Stark’s name, I tapped the brake and let the bus pull on ahead of me. I was glad to be rid of it. I had swallowed enough exhaust for one day.
Stark’s home was open to view. There was a lush expanse of emerald grass venturing up a hill to the house. A circular drive was hidden from the street, which gave the impression that the grass went right up to the mansion’s front door. The architect had placed two white columns on either side of the door, and had probably thought it added a touch of antiquity, but mostly it made him look like he was angling to see his work memorialized the next time they re-did the back of the five-dollar bill. The house behind the columns was little more than a sprawling box. It was painted white with decorative black shutters pinioned to the left and right of every window. It was the kind of home that would have a candle lit in each window at Christmastime and a big imported wreath on the front door. It was a modest abode. No more than thirty rooms at the outside.
I pulled up the steep drive until I was even with the front door. There was a short step up to a platform made from a single slate slab. I rang the bell and heard the distant sound of chimes within. The light hanging from the top of the portico looked as heavy as a car, and I made sure to be out from under it as I waited for someone to answer the door.
I was just reaching for the bell again when the door opened. A pretty young man with fair hair and a perfectly even bronze tan stood in the entry. His jaw and his eyes showed that he was fully grown, but there was something about him that remained boyish. Maybe it was the unmarked skin and the hint of down on his cheeks or maybe it was his slender body. He was dressed in pale blue suit pants but with no jacket or tie. It was hard to tell if he was a member of the house staff or a guest. His expression was of minor annoyance. “Yes?”
“Dennis Foster.” I held out one of my cards. He didn’t reach for it. “I was hired by the studio over a matter of security. I wanted to ask Mr. Stark some questions.”
His expression changed to boredom, and he closed the door without a word.
I stood still for a moment, the door too close to my face. I considered ringing the bell again. The man hadn’t said that Stark wasn’t at home. Then I turned to look down the hill to the street. Everything was green. No one was in sight.
I was considering my options when the door opened behind me. It was the same young man, his expression of boredom now extending over his whole body. I decided he must not be a member of the staff with such an unprofessional disposition. He moved to a position alongside of the door and waved his hand towards himself. “Come on. Come in.”
I stepped inside and he closed the door behind me. The entry hall’s ceiling went to the roof. The floor was gray marble, and it kept the room cool. It was just large enough to walk your dog without having to go outside. There were two large archways on either side of the hall, and a massive marble staircase directly across from the front door that went up to a landing and then divided, continuing up to the right and the left. He walked around me and started diagonally towards one of the farther archways. His footsteps gave a dull echo.
“You don’t go in for much security here,” I said.
“People know better than to come.”
“Much trouble with the staff?”
He ignored that question. He led me through a sitting room decorated in white and yellow, through a music room with floor-to-ceiling wood slat shades along two walls, and then through a small doorway onto a verandah that looked out on what would have made a good eighteenth hole.
“Presenting this guy, Johnny,” the pretty man said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He went to the edge of the verandah and leaned against one of the white pillars, facing me, with his arms crossed. Definitely not a member of the staff.
Johnny Stark, the face loved by millions, sat in Bermuda shorts and a lemon-colored golf shirt on a large white wicker chair, his bare feet on a matching wicker ottoman. Leather sandals lay neatly on the floor beside him. His dark hair, his cleft chin, his white teeth were all perfect, just like in the pictures. He didn’t even seem smaller. He had an open manuscript on his lap, the already-read pages bent back behind the pages remaining to be read. A glass on a table beside him could have been iced tea with a twist of lemon or iced tea with a fifth of vodka. I wasn’t close enough to tell. He looked at me with a wide smile and raised eyebrows.
“Your man tell you why I’m here?” I said.
That got a rise out of the fellow holding up the pillar. His hands went to his hips and his mouth opened wide. “Now what is that supposed to mean?”
“Greg,” Stark said, making a calming gesture with his hand, and then I knew how it was.
“So are you on the payroll?” I said with a smile.
Greg’s hands went up in exasperation. “Johnny—”
“Shhhh,” Stark said. Greg crossed his arms again and made a show out of his sulk. Stark turned that gorgeous smile on me. How many women had it made fawn over him? How many men? “Mr. Foster, Greg is on the payroll. He works in the kitchen. But the staff is off this afternoon. Can I get you a drink? We don’t usually get unexpected visitors—”
“Even with no gates on the drive?”
“Mr. Foster, the gates are invisible and they’re much further away than just my drive.”
“I’ll make do without the drink, thank you.”
He shrugged with indifference.
“The studio hired me to look after Chloë Rose, Mr. Stark. Apparently she’s being followed and she’s worried for her safety. I’m trying to find out if anyone else has seen this man she says is following her. You notice anyone hanging around the set that doesn’t belong?”
“Well it takes a lot of people to make a movie...”
“It could even be someone who works for the studio, but doesn’t work on your picture, or someone on your picture that would make Miss Rose nervous for some reason.”
He smiled at that and shot his eyes across at Greg who had let his indignation go, but still held his arms across his chest.
“Did I say something funny?”
“Have you met Chloë yet?”
“Al Knox tried to introduce us this afternoon. It didn’t work out.”
He laughed then, an open laugh that showed all of his teeth. “I’m sorry, Mr. Foster, it’s just that it doesn’t take a lot to make Chloë Rose nervous.”
“Does she have reason to be?”
“Do any of us have reason to be? Certainly. We all do. You do too. Everyone. But that doesn’t mean I am nervous. Are you?”
“I’d appreciate an answer to my question still.”
Greg tsked and uncrossed and recrossed his arms.
Stark’s eyes went up, and he said, “No, I haven’t noticed anyone around the set that I would say didn’t belong there. I know that Chloë thinks there is someone, but she’s never pointed him out to me.”
“So you think she’s making it up?”
“She might be mistaken,” he said diplomatically. He took a deep breath and then said, “I have been threatened and I have been followed. The price of fame. But it doesn’t happen nearly as often as you’d think it might and it’s never as sinister as you fear. Chloë’s just skittish.”
“You mean crazy.”
“Actresses are their own animal,” he said. “May I ask why the studio has hired a private detective to protect Chloë instead of making use of someone already on staff?”
“You’ll have to ask someone at the studio that, and if you get an answer, feel free to tell me.”
“See, Greg,” Stark said, shooting out his hand toward the other man, “we’re all good friends.”
Greg tried to bolster his gloomy disposition, but it didn’t look genuine.
“Was there anything else, Mr. Foster? You just wanted to know if I had seen any shady characters? I feel like we’re in a movie.”
“That’s it,” I said. “No one’s given me any more to go on.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and meet Chloë, and then do what everyone in S.A. with brains does, take the studio’s money.”
“Thanks for the advice.” I leaned forward and floated my card onto the table beside his drink. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. I can show myself out.” I didn’t wait for either of them to move, just headed back into the house. Behind me, I could hear Greg’s higher-pitched voice begin to whine. Part of me wanted to frisk the house just on principle, but in a place that size no more than two or three of the rooms are personal, and it would take too long to find them. I went out to the car, and rolled down the drive without having to touch the gas.