42

KARISSA

“Welcome,” Blair said slowly, with a hoarse, gravelly voice. “Come in, have a seat.”

“Blair Kendrick?” was all Karissa could say. “We thought …”

“That I was dead? That I’m buried in Westwood?” She just grinned and shook her head. “That’s some other bitch.”

“Blair, you know smoking isn’t good for you!” Serena said. She went over to the bed and plucked the cigarette out of the woman’s fingers. “The doctor said you have to stop.”

The woman merely winced a little. She seemed to be too weak to object, but she mumbled something under her breath when Serena stubbed the cigarette out in a plate on the tray table. Blair then looked at Karissa and said softly and with considerable effort, “I’m ninety-one goddamned years old. I’ve had … two strokes and I can barely walk. I could die tomorrow. Why does the doctor give a … damn about me smoking?” She coughed.

Karissa thought the woman had chutzpah. “Sorry, I don’t know what to say. It’s a bit of a shock to find out you’re alive!”

Gregory said, “Now you know why I don’t want to be found. Carol and I have been watching over Blair since she came back to the States from Costa Rica. She’s always been like family to us. I’ve known her since I was a little boy.” He looked at Karissa. “She lived in Costa Rica during the fifties and sixties, and then again from the late seventies to the nineties. My father, bless his heart, was in love with her. But he was Hank Marley’s best friend, so he never did anything about it. But my dad and Blair remained good friends, though, isn’t that right, Blair?”

She nodded.

“My dad helped to keep her out of harm’s way, which was what Hank wanted, and then I guess you could say Carol and I took over after Dad got too old to do it. He refused to leave LA. We figured the best place she could hide was here on the farm.”

“A nut farm,” Blair said with sarcasm, but with humor in her eyes. “Please, sit down.”

Karissa and Marcello took the two empty chairs. Carol left the room, while Gregory and Serena remained standing by the door.

“Ms. Kendrick,” Karissa started, “we haven’t told you who we are. My name is—”

“I … know.”

Gregory continued, “She knows you are Karissa and Marcello. And that you want to make a movie about her.”

“Well, yes,” Karissa said. “That’s right.”

“And you call me Blair. None of this … ‘Ms. Kendrick’ stuff.” The woman raised her arm and pointed toward a bookcase beside the closet. A short stack of notebooks—the kind used as journals—sat on a shelf. “Take those. They tell … my story. And why it’s not my body in that grave in Hollywood.”

Gregory added, “Over the last twenty years, she wrote it all down.”

“It’s all the truth,” Blair said. “From my … viewpoint, anyway.”

“Oh, my.” Karissa reached over and grabbed them. After a quick glance at the handwritten entries, she said, “Thank you. I can’t wait to read them, and thank you for trusting me with them.”

Blair weakly lifted a hand and waved it at her. “They tell a sordid little soap opera.”

“Did you—did you send me those rare coins?”

The woman smiled. “Did they come in handy?”

“Yes, indeed!”

“I’m sorry it had to be so … mysterious.” Her breathing was becoming labored. “They came in handy … for me, too.”

“For all of us,” Gregory said. “The money helped us buy this farm. Got our son William into Howard University in Washington, DC.”

Blair coughed and gasped.

“Are you all right, Blair?” Serena asked.

The woman shut her eyes, swallowed, and nodded. Karissa could see, however, that something was wrong. “Is there anything I can do?”

When Blair opened her eyes, they were full of tears. She sniffed, and then her face became distressed. “My story … you will see … I’m really … a terrible person …”

“What do you mean?”

“A … murderer.” She coughed again, and it was more of an effort for her to catch her breath. Finally, she continued. “Your movie … my life isn’t important. I want … I want you to do it … for Hank Marley. He’s the real … victim here.” A tear ran down her cheek, but she tried to keep smiling at her visitors. Then, the next cough was worse, and she winced in pain.

Marcello approached the other side of the bed and took Blair’s other hand. “You don’t have to talk about it now.” He looked at Gregory. “I think she needs to go to the hospital.”

“No!” Blair whispered forcefully and then struggled to say, “I want … to tell you … I do have regrets … so many regrets … but not for what I did … to those two men.”

Karissa urged, “Hush, Blair, save your strength.”

“No … listen …”