Falling Star (16 page)

Kelly stood in place, mesmerized by the
gunfire. Was it the gunman or the cops? Hard to know. Boy, she
hadn't really expected anything to happen. But it was like 4 PM all
over again. Only this tune the screaming sounded even worse, if
that was possible. She could see reporters scrambling out of the
trucks, and cops running around like crazy.

A knot of them tore past her, one cop
screaming at her to get back where it was safe, by the other
reporters. Real quick she hid the flashlight under her jacket as
the cops raced past, then ran to the ENG truck, pulled open the
passenger door, and dumped it inside. Then she slammed the door
shut and leaned back against it, panting.

She had to get to Harry, she realized. But
first she should check her makeup. So she could get in a stand-up
before the shooting stopped.

*

Natalie drove with reverent slowness along
the curved length of Stradella Road, twined like a precious
necklace through the wooded labyrinthine enclave of Bel Air, LA's
toniest neighborhood. Ten-foot hedges lined the narrow road, trees
forming a leafy canopy. All Natalie could glimpse of the most
exquisite properties money can buy were sun-dappled Spanish tile
rooftops.

About thirty yards past Hope Dalmont's
estate, she executed a U-turn and rolled to a halt. Her vantage
point offered a clear view of the tall iron gate. She turned off
the ignition and the Mercedes lapsed into silence, the guttural
rumbling of its engine replaced by birdsong and the distant roar of
a leaf blower.

Natalie settled into the soft leather bucket
seat, Geoff's advice reverberating in her brain:
Don't waste a
lot of time chasing Hope
.
I'm not wasting time
, she told
herself.
This is only the fourth day I'm waiting outside her
estate. If I don't get her today I'll give up.

She'd tried to imagine what Hope Dalmont
would do during her final weeks in LA, before marrying into
Monaco's royal family in what would be one of the most watched
weddings of all time. What would a woman do?

Natalie pondered what she would do, and
concocted an agenda: Wake up late and eat a lazy breakfast. Chat on
the phone with her fiance. Work out.

Have assorted personal-care services:
massage, manicure, pedicure, blow-dry. Eat lunch with girlfriends.
Chat on the phone with her fiance. Nap.

Read, then eat a quiet dinner, and maybe
watch a girl movie she'd never convince even a besotted new husband
to see.

That involved at least one foray into the
great wide world and Natalie was ready for it. She didn't allow
herself to dwell overlong on the depressing truth that no forays by
Hope had yet occurred, at least none that she had witnessed.

That morning, though, a veritable parade of
visitors entered the estate. Three rapid-fire deliveries (flowers,
dry cleaning, and groceries) and two gardening trucks.

All these vehicles came and went. At 12:43
PM, after Natalie had been watching for more than an hour, a lone
blue Mercedes sedan emerged through the gate and turned south
toward Beverly Hills.

Natalie bolted forward in the bucket seat.
Was that Hope behind the wheel of the blue Mercedes? In black
sunglasses and a silk scarf tied around her head in the very style
Grace Kelly had made famous?

Natalie turned the key in the ignition and
began to tail the vehicle at what she hoped was a discreet
distance. Adrenaline began to pulse in her veins.

By God, this may actually work ...

The twin Mercedes maneuvered sedately down
the hill, and at one point Natalie was cheered by escaped strands
of golden blond hair flapping from the open driver's side window of
the blue Mercedes. The hair was well kept and Hope's color, though
both were standard in Bel Air. Natalie followed the sedan as it
exited Bel Air and turned right on Sunset Boulevard, heading west
for a few blocks before it turned left down a main
thoroughfare.

Minutes later, the Mercedes pulled onto the
sweep of asphalt driveway that fronted the grand, white-columned
facade of the Millennium Club, a neoclassical oddity on tacky
Sepulveda Boulevard in West Los Angeles. Natalie knew the place
well. It was without question the most exclusive gym and spa in LA,
where stars old and young could exercise without fear of mingling
with the great unwashed. Natalie herself had paid a small fortune
to join when the club opened, then let her membership lapse when
she and Miles had moved to the Hollywood Hills.

She sat in her car, pondering what to do
next. And she had to decide quickly. Because the woman stepping out
of the blue Mercedes and handing her keys to the valet was
undeniably Hope Dalmont. Natalie could never mistake that lithe
body, just shy of six feet tall; the exquisite classical profile;
the graceful stance and radiant smile—all were instantly
recognizable.

Gym bag in hand, Hope tripped through the
club's main door, flanked on both sides by squat palm trees in
terra-cotta pots, and disappeared inside.

So what do I do now?
Natalie clutched
her steering wheel.
I can't lose her. This is my only chance.
But how do I get in there? I'm not a member anymore, and with Hope
there the place is probably crawling with security ...

She took a deep breath.
Go in like you own
the place. No guts, no glory.
She forced herself to roll the
Mercedes forward, then stepped out and handed the valet her key.
"Good afternoon," she said cheerily.

The boy, uniformed in a white soldierlike
getup with gold epaulets, gave her a bashful smile. "Good
afternoon, Miss Daniels. You have your invitation with you?"

"Of course," she lied, and smiled again.
Invitation? For what? And why were the valets outfitted like toy
soldiers in the Nutcracker Ballet?

She turned and strode up the few steps to the
entrance. Once inside, she continued briskly past reception, eyes
straight ahead, heading for where she remembered the women's
dressing room to be. The heels of her pumps clicked noisily on the
Portuguese tile. Why was the place so quiet? None of the usual
music; not a sign of the rail-thin patrons who even in aerobic
excess managed to look well off. Today the Millennium Club was like
a mausoleum. She was nearly to the stairs when she felt a touch on
her elbow. "Ma'am?"

She spun as though irritated, which in a way
she was. "Yes?" she inquired in her most imperious tone.

But she could tell at a glance that the
ponytailed brunette staring back at her wasn't the least deterred.
The girl was done up in a kind of Clinique salesgirl lab coat and
clearly recognized her, but apparently had too much experience with
Hollywood stars to be cowed by a mere local anchor.

"Miss Daniels, I'm afraid I have to ask for
your invitation."

"Oh! I'm not sure I remembered to bring it
with me." Natalie bent her head to rummage in her small black
purse, thinking frantically. Then she looked up, trying to plaster
regret on her features. "Oh, dear, I seem to have forgotten
it."

Now the brunette had regret written all over
her
. "Oh, dear," she echoed. "Miss Dalmont made it clear
that all her friends were to bring their invitations."

"I'm sure Hope won't mind," Natalie declared
brightly, turning again to face the stairs.
That explains
it
, she thought:
the invitations, the toy-soldier uniforms
on the valets, the unreal quiet. Hope had hired out the Millennium
Club for a private party.

"I'm sorry." The brunette laid her hand on
Natalie's arm again, and this time the touch wasn't so light.
"Please come with me. I'll check you in."

But Natalie refused to budge. She threw an
irritated glance at her watch. "Is this going to take long? This
delay is highly inconvenient." She fixed the ponytailed minx with a
laser glare.

The girl didn't even blink. "It won't take a
minute."

The vixen must make heavy use of the
equipment, Natalie judged, because for her size she is surprisingly
strong. She tugged Natalie back toward reception, a white marble
curve of a desk behind which several lab-coated females conducted
mysterious business via telephone and computer. The brunette set
herself up at a portal and pecked at a few keys. Natalie did her
best to look affronted.

Then the brunette got a phone call. A
must-take phone call. "Mr. Schwarzenegger," she cooed into the
receiver, angling her body away from Natalie. "How are you?"

Here's my chance.
Natalie edged away
from the desk. The brunette was riffling through a file folder and
making small talk over the phone.
Damn the torpedoes, I'm going
in!
She began to move nonchalantly across the tile. All the lab
coats were still enmeshed in their work. She hit the stairs and
started running. Down one flight, then another three. Right turn
after the last stair. Partway down the hall she spied the heavy oak
door to the women's dressing room. She pushed it open and slid
inside, leaning back against the highly buffed wood to catch her
breath.

Nothing. She waited, panting. Still nothing.
But where was everybody? Where were Hope's guests? Where were
...

She felt the door push against her back.
Damn! Could it be the brunette?
Instantly Natalie tore
across the mosaic floor and pulled open the door directly in front
of her. The sauna. Frantically she closed herself inside, just as a
gaggle of women pitched into the dressing room.

Natalie stood a few feet back from the sauna
door's narrow rectangular glass panel, desperately hoping no one
could see her, squinting so she herself could see through the foggy
glass.
Oh, my God.
Her breath caught in her throat. Hope
Dalmont. Hope Dalmont rapidly getting naked. The same Hope Dalmont
upon whom the world's eyes would feast in less than one week,
though they would see far less than Natalie was seeing right now.
Hope strode around the dressing room tearing off her top, her bra,
laughing at a joke, and bending down to shed her sweatpants . . .
Oh, my God
. Natalie jerked backward, mutely praying that no
one would enter, starting to sweat in the 120-degree heat.

Mesmerized, she peered through the glass,
hearing the muted happy chatter. Women, about a dozen of them, all
young, all beautiful, and all in various stages of undress, milling
about the dressing room like modern Hollywood versions of Degas's
dancers, talking and striking poses as they pulled on workout
clothes or draped their unbelievably fit bodies in fluffy white
towels. Hope pulled on a Speedo and gathered her blond hair under a
bathing cap, then grabbed goggles and a towel and scampered out the
door, throwing a laughing comment over her shoulder as she
disappeared.

Gradually the dressing room emptied.
Mercifully saunas weren't at the top of the party agenda. Natalie
sank onto a bench, now sweating in earnest beneath her pink
suit.

After a few minutes she gathered the courage
to move. Everybody had to be gone by now. She rose from the bench
and peeked through the glass. Not a soul. She reached out a
tentative hand and pushed open the door, feeling a delicious wave
of cool air waft over her body. She stood for a moment, her head
thrown back, her eyes closed, relishing the chilly blast.

But then she heard the unmistakable groan of
the dressing room door being pushed open. Hastily she stepped back
into the sauna's baking heat, pulling the door shut behind her,
staring at the outer door, opening, opening ...

In walked the brunette from reception,
accompanied by a female behemoth in a cop uniform who looked like
she could single-handedly arm-wrestle the entire LAPD. The brunette
began stalking the dressing room like a trained beagle at baggage
claim sniffing for contraband. Her eyes darted left to right, her
ponytail slapped the sides of her head. The behemoth followed a few
steps behind.

Natalie fell back against the sauna bench,
her hand clutched to her chest as though that way she could slow
the pounding of her heart. By now sweat was running in rivulets
down her legs. She wedged her body into the sauna's darkest corner,
praying they couldn't see her. But through the foggy glass she
could vaguely make out their shapes as the two women repeatedly
crossed the rectangle of glass.

Finally the behemoth threw up her hands and
stood at the outer door, clearly ready to leave. The brunette
looked anything but ready. Natalie held her breath. She watched the
brunette stand by the sinks, her lips pursed, her eyes raking the
ceiling as if she expected Natalie to be poised there, motionless,
like a spider on a wall.

Because it was quite clear Natalie was the
one they were looking for. She was a demented journalist stalker as
far as they were concerned, a maniacal party-crasher who, no
surprise, had not made the list of Hope Dalmont's nearest and
dearest female friends.

Then all of a sudden they left. As swiftly as
they had come. They pulled open the door and walked out. But not
before the brunette threw one last reluctant glance behind her.

Natalie sank back onto the sauna's hard wood
bench. Minutes passed. What now?

Get out of that damn sauna and take off
your clothes.
They were shockingly wet. She could never step
outside in her current state.

She ventured out of the sauna into the chill
air and stripped rapidly, all efficiency, hanging up her jacket,
skirt, blouse, and bra so they'd have some hope of drying. She
snagged a towel and only then dared look in the mirror.
Oh,
God
. Her eyes were black hollows, rimmed by melted liner and
mascara, and her makeup base was streaked by violent gashes of
sweat.

She washed her face, and as she toweled her
cleansed skin, stared at her reflection.
I'm going to stay and
wait. I've come this far.