Perfect Timing: Those Were the Days / Pistols at Dawn / Time After Time. Nancy Warren
Читать онлайн книгу.
“And you don’t know why?”
Louisa’s smile was almost shy. “I have my theories. At any rate,” she said, changing her tone and moving away from the portrait, “she was right. There’s a lot of history in this house.”
“Well, sure,” Sylvia said. “I mean Tucker Greene. He was a force in Hollywood. An amazing filmmaker. Who hasn’t heard of him?”
“And the Ragtime Strangler,” Louisa added.
Sylvia cocked her head, trying to remember. “That’s right,” she said. “I read something about that. A serial killer, but back in the twenties. Went after young, pretty flappers.” She frowned, her memory fuzzy. “I’m not an expert on Hollywood or anything, but I like Greene’s movies, so I’ve read a few articles and watched the extras on DVD remasters and stuff. If I remember right, the Strangler was stalking Beverly Hills before Greene got into film, right? He was doing something else. Radio, wasn’t it? One of my DVDs even included a new performance of one of his radio plays. It was pretty cool.”
Sylvia shut up then, realizing she probably sounded like an obsessed fan. Louisa, however, only smiled and looked delighted with Sylvia’s recollection. “You’re exactly right.”
“But what does this house have to do with the Strangler?”
“My grandparents caught him,” Louisa said. “Right in the next room.”
“Wow,” Sylvia said, truly surprised. “Thank you for telling me all this. It’s a beautiful house. It’s nice to know some of the history that goes along with it.”
The door opened, and Tina poked her head in. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“I’d better let you two finish touring the exhibit,” Louisa said. “It’s been wonderful talking with you, Sylvia. You take care.”
And with a quick smile, she glided out the doors with a regal nod to Tina.
“Who was that?”
“The lady of the house,” Sylvia said. “But—” She frowned.
“What?”
“I never told her my name.”
Tina looked at her dubiously. “Well, obviously you did.”
The hair on Sylvia’s arms seemed to tingle, as if she’d walked too close to a high-voltage fence. “Of course. I must have.” She nodded toward the door, but took one last look back at the portrait, struck by the feeling that she’d seen it once before. “Let’s go.”
“YOU HAVEN’T SAID anything for ten minutes,” Tina said. They’d moved into the Roaring Twenties room, filled with flapper gowns and silk stockings and the first bit of Hollywood memorabilia that Sylvia had seen—a large poster advertising the 1922 version of Robin Hood starring Douglas Fairbanks. The poster had been framed and propped on an easel. Sylvia squinted at it, noting that Fairbanks had signed it to “My good friend Tucker Greene.” Apparently Greene had had Hollywood connections even before he tried his hand at directing.
Sylvia smiled, feeling she’d learned a secret fact. Because certainly the poster had nothing to do with the exhibit. It was original to the room, unlike the rest. The flapper gowns and jewelry, along with the sheet music and photographs, had come with the exhibit. At first, Sylvia had thought this section of the exhibit seemed superfluous, but then she started reading the information printed on cards next to the various displays. The Twenties, it said, had been a coming-of-age period for young women. Affluence and postwar giddiness had combined to create a new sensuality and freedom, particularly felt by females. Exploration and sensual delights were at a high point.
“Sylvia!” Tina said. “Are you listening to me? Why are you so quiet?”
“Sorry! Just thinking.”
“About that woman? Or about flapper gowns. You’d look great in that, you know.” She pointed to a beaded gold gown with spaghetti straps and a fringed hem. The gown had no waist, just a thick band that seemed to settle around the mannequin’s hips. The outfit was topped off with a beaded headband highlighted by a dyed feather.
“You think?”
“Oh, sure. That’s the perfect style for girls without boobs.”
Sylvia shot a look to her friend. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Tina shrugged. “It’s true. So, are you gonna tell me what’s on your mind or not?”
Sylvia wandered away from the gown. “I was just thinking about Louisa. The way the past is so alive for her.” She shuddered slightly. “Me, I’d just as soon forget my past.”
Tina snorted. “Who could blame you? And maybe then we could have a normal conversation about boyfriends and vibrators without you going all defensive on me.”
“I’m not defensive,” Sylvia said, even though she probably was. “And what’s so normal about discussing vibrators anyway?”
Tina just rolled her eyes. “I’m going down to the food cart. Coming?”
Sylvia started to say yes, but then she noticed the guard in the corner. And even though there was something oddly creepy about the way he watched her, there was something compelling, too. “I’m going to stay a bit,” she said, turning back to Tina. “I’m not hungry.”
“Suit yourself,” Tina said casually. “But let me have the backpack.” They’d both shoved their wallets, makeup and other tourist-girl essentials into a nylon Venice Beach daypack that Syl had picked up from a street vendor. Now, they were taking turns shouldering the thing.
Sylvia handed it over. “Spend your money,” she admonished with mock severity. “And stay out of my makeup.”
“Oh, sure,” Tina retorted. “Just spoil all my fun.” She aimed a grin at Syl, then headed out the door. “Catch you in a bit.”
Sylvia watched her go, shaking her head in amusement.
“Letting go of the past,” a voice said. “Now that’s something I bet a lot of people would like to do.”
Sylvia spun around, surprised to see that the guard had moved silently to stand beside her. “Pardon me?”
“I overheard you and your friend,” he explained, his smile friendly. “Sometimes it’s not about escaping your past, you know. Sometimes, it’s about confronting it.”
Sylvia squinted at him. “Aren’t you…” She trailed off, lifting the exhibit brochure and glancing at it. Sure enough, the guard she was talking to was pictured right there. How odd.
“I travel with the show,” he said. “Keep an eye on things. Make any adjustments that might be needed. That kind of thing.”
“Oh. Right.” She frowned, not really in the mood to talk to strangers, no matter how kindly. “I’ll just go catch up with my friend.”
“Of course, miss.” He stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out a quarter, and started twirling it between his fingers. She watched, fascinated by the agility with which the coin danced over his hand, weaving in and out, over and under and then—snap!—falling to the ground and rolling under the easel with the Fairbanks movie poster.
“Oh! And you were doing so well, too.”
He nodded toward the easel. “I don’t suppose you could snatch that thing back for me? These old knees don’t get down on the ground like they used to.”
She hesitated, not entirely sure why, then realized she was being ridiculous. “Sure. No problem.” She edged toward the poster, keeping her eye to the ground as she looked for the coin. “There you are,” she whispered, bending down. As her fingers closed around it, she felt something shove her from behind. She toppled forward, slamming against the poster and then actually tumbling through