That sounded intriguing. Dangerous. And this was to do with my mother's death?
He still had not opened the folder. "In some ways it may be a small miracle that the press were not more interested in this than they were. Money and influence can only do so much. Tell me, Rickanna, if you were the police, and a young woman was killed in an accident on a movie set, would you investigate whether there was foul play involved?"
My heart jumped into my throat. "There was foul play involved?"
He held up his hand. "Remember what I said about there being a difference between the truth, the truth people can accept, and what people believe? One thing at a time."
I forced myself to think like a police detective. "Well, if there was evidence, I suppose."
"The coroner ruled the death was an accident, though."
"Does that hurt the case?"
"It certainly doesn't help it. Let's back up. It's possible no one living knows the full truth of what happened. I'll answer some questions for you. The movie your father was a so-called consultant on was going to be called Hell Bent for Leather."
"Like a porn film?" I asked.
"No no, more of an art film with a … sexy edge." Cy cleared his throat. "The film never got made. The title of the film never even made it to the press because they were working under a fake title. They were also filming overseas. The Internet wasn't such a big thing yet in nineteen ninety-five. Newspapers weren't online yet. The gossip columnists didn't have e-mail yet. We didn't even all have cell phones yet. A friend of your father's was the director. A jaunt to Italy to party and hang around a movie set was just the sort of thing your father liked to do."
"Uh-huh." That certainly sounded like him.
"So when an accident happened and your mother died, the foreign police looked into it a little, but not very deeply. Your parents weren't considered famous enough in Italy to catch the interest of the local tabloid press, and those who got slightly interested never found out what kind of accident it probably really was."
" 'Really was'?"
Here he paused and looked around the room, but there was no help for him in explaining things to me. "You know what bondage is?"
Having already played it off like orgies were no big deal to me, I of course said, "Yeah. Whips and chains, right?"
"And ropes … and you get the idea." He cleared his throat again and I got the feeling it wasn't because he had post-nasal drip. "The thing we kept hidden was that the rigging wasn't your typical theatrical rigging. It was an art film but the argument 'it was art' doesn't make much of an excuse in the tabloids. Your mother's accident may have involved, well, simulated rope bondage of some kind."
"Oh." That got through my teenage armor. He stayed quiet while that sank in. I eventually said, in my most mature and grown-up voice, "I can see why you'd want that to be kept quiet."
He seemed relieved I understood. "Exactly. Even if everything was completely innocent, just for artistic effect, even if it wasn't 'real,' if that got out, you know there would be all kinds of stories, including completely made up ones, just because people like sensationalizing anything that might have a hint of salaciousness. They don't think of your mother as a real person with feelings. They'd turn her into a … a joke or an old wives' tale."
He paused there and had to collect himself and I felt my eyes sting with sympathetic tears. My unflappable grandfather was flapped.
"So that's one reason we keep the story to just 'she had an accident with some rigging.' They couldn't sensationalize it if people didn't have such outdated attitudes. But they do, so we have to live with that. The other reason is God forbid somehow your father should get blamed for the accident. That would have really blown it into a scandal. Thankfully, the police didn't pursue it and neither did anyone in the press."
This was all a lot to take in. I looked at the folder. "Okay, if neither of those stories got out, what's in the folder?"
"Every clipping that did appear. There aren't many, but there are a few. If you'd like to read them, I'll give them to you. But I wanted to answer your questions first."
The silence while he waited for me to ask a question felt oppressive, like I could feel the heavy wood paneling of the office pressing in on us. "Do you think it was Daddy's fault?"
He spoke in measured tones, so measured that I knew he was tamping down his emotions. "I believe it was an accident. I believe your father harbored no ill intent toward your mother. If I'd thought for one second that Richard had willfully caused her death, I would have disowned him."
"You would?"
"Absolutely. Your father had a sacred trust to protect her-" He broke off then, suddenly, as if he couldn't keep his emotions in check any longer. He stood stiffly and handed me the folder.
I had taken it and fled to my room. And I had read, and re-read, the articles many times. In them I could see what my grandfather had been talking about. The beginnings of hints, the insinuations, but none of the stories had panned out. It didn't have "legs," as the expression goes. Probably Cy had paid for influence in some places, too, which might have helped.
The rift between me and my father had widened then. Because despite what my grandfather had said-that he didn't believe my father had done anything willfully to harm her-I began to harbor the idea that the accident had been his fault. My father was a walking illustration of irresponsibility. Of course he hadn't meant for anything to go wrong, but did that mean it wasn't his fault? Why had they even risked it if death could be the result?
I imagined my mother as a trusting soul, an innocent woman who had loved her husband completely and put her complete trust in Dad's hands. Dad, who I loved but who I didn't even trust to make his own breakfast without shorting out the toaster or burning himself. In my mind I could easily imagine him offering to spice up the film by putting her into rope bondage and botching it somehow …
This was what I didn't want to get out in the press and this was what I was so reluctant to tell Axel. It wasn't just that my mother's death and family secrets were hard to talk about. It was that I could never give Axel total trust. Even if I wanted to, knowing what I did and the price my mother paid, how could I?
* * *
I drove myself to the fashion show from Blue Star's offices. Nice as it might have been to have a driver limo me everywhere, it simply wasn't practical. I followed the directions to the theater until the GPS told me, "Destination is on the right."
I didn't see the place yet, but more importantly I did see a sign that said PARKING. In fact, an attendant was waving me in.
"Is this the parking for the AWESM fundraiser?" I asked him as I lowered the window.
"Of course," he said, and directed me to a space.
When I got out of the car he gave me a ticket to put on the dashboard and then asked for twenty bucks.
"Do you take credit cards?" I asked.
"No, ma'am," he said, and looked expectantly at me.
That seemed a bit sketchy, and I guess I must have looked skeptical because then he quickly added, "Well, you can go to the front desk and they'll charge you there, but I have to trust that you're going to do it."
"Front desk?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I realized then that I was in the parking lot of a small motel. The two-story building wrapped around the parking lot and a small, fenced-in swimming pool. Well, hopefully the theater was the next building over. "Okay, hang on, I think I have a twenty."
I dug out the cash and gave it to him. As I walked to the theater, though, I suddenly wondered if he was legit. Well, he was wearing a uniform jacket and had a nametag, although I hadn't noticed what it had said. And he had put an official-looking ticket on my dashboard. The hotel was probably used to making extra money any night there was a show.
If it was supposed to be a secret that Axel was in the show, it hadn't stayed secret for long. The buzz at the pre-show reception was a rumor he was going to make a "guest appearance." It was fascinating to see the word spread. "Well, you know, his manager is the secretary of AWESM," one of the other VIP donors said to me, as if that confirmed it.
"Treasurer, actually," I said. We were standing in the lobby, which was a little too small for a reception, but I suppose that conveniently forced everyone to "rub elbows" literally. "But then why haven't we seen him? Christina's over there." I could see her talking to a caterer about the way he was carrying his tray of wineglasses.
"Oh, hm." The woman glanced in that direction, and seemed impressed by my inadvertent name-drop. She sipped from her glass, leaving a fire engine red residue on the rim. "I'm Mandy Tink, by the way. I don't think we've formally met."
"Ricki Hamilton." We each had to move our wineglasses to the other hand to shake, and I instantly liked her when she seemed to agree how ridiculous that was and we laughed a little together.