Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (6 page)

     "Thank you, Nyree. Have him wait in the living room, please, while I go and dress. Pray that it's good news, Charmie," Philippa said as she stood. "I could use some right now."

     She joined them a few moments later, after she had changed into slacks and a blouse and dried her hair. Charmie and Ivan were seated in the spacious, high-ceilinged living room, where white plaster walls and a black slate floor showcased antiques from Australia's pioneer days.

     Ivan Hendricks rose when Philippa came in. He was in amazing shape for a man in his fifties; Philippa often thought the compact body and short crew cut made him look like a retired marine drill sergeant. She had known him for twenty-five years, and he knew all of her secrets, including the ones Charmie didn't know.

     "What do you have for me, Ivan?" she asked after they embraced and sat down.

     "A bombshell this time, Miss Roberts. You're not going to believe it."

     Nyree came in and placed a tray on the coffee table containing a crystal decanter of twelve-year-old scotch, a plate of deviled eggs, which Ivan was partial to, plus two iced teas and freshly cut-up vegetables. Charmie eyed the offering, then said to Nyree, "Haven't you got anything better than this?"

     Knowing Miss Charmer's tastes, Nyree said with a wink, "The meat pie's just heating up, and I baked a fresh lamington this morning because I knew you were coming."

     As Ivan helped himself to the scotch and a deviled egg, he glanced across the coffee table at Charmie and smiled. He had always appreciated the gusto she had for living. She was a voluptuous woman with a voluptuous appetite. A woman like her, he suspected, must be a feast in bed. He too was recalling the one stunning moment in which he and Charmie had come together.

     "God, but it's hot down here," he said as he removed his rumpled jacket, a Qantas boarding pass sticking out of the pocket. "It's sixty-eight degrees in Palm Springs, with snow on the mountains, Christmas lights in the streets, and greed in the air. I was sorely tempted to stay there."

     He set his briefcase down and pulled out a folder. "It was a stroke of luck, really," he said as he removed some papers. "Nothing due to my keen investigative powers, I'm afraid. I was working on another case when I came across this."

     Philippa knew that Ivan Hendricks had other clients; it had been a long time since he had worked solely for her, years ago, when the prospect of finding members of her family had seemed just around the corner.

     He first handed her a newspaper clipping. "From the classified section of the
Los Angeles Times
" he said.

     Philippa read it. "Anyone knowing the whereabouts of, or information leading to, Christine Singleton, born 1938, Hollywood, California, please contact Beverly Burgess at Star's, Palm Springs. Urgent family business."

     Christine Singleton! Philippa hadn't thought of that name in years. She looked at Ivan. "Star's. I've heard of it. It's a resort in the mountains overlooking Palm Springs."

     "Look at this." Ivan produced a page that had been removed from an expensive glossy magazine. It was a full-page ad that consisted of a splash of
silver stars against a midnight blue background. In the lower half of the ad, bold silver letters read "STAR'S." And underneath, "
Explore the Fantasy
..."

     "Let me tell you," Ivan said, "I had a heck of a time getting to this place. For one thing, you can't get there except by tramway, and you can't get onto the tramway unless you have a room reservation or a dinner or lunch reservation. I managed to go up for lunch, and was the place busy! There's a big Christmas shindig being planned for a few days from now, and it seems that everyone who's anyone wants to attend."

     "What was the place like?" Philippa asked. "I've heard it's quite amazing."

     "Wall to wall movie stars, enough to fill a hundred
National Enquirers
, at least that's what it felt like. Very ritzy. Way out of my league, but right in yours, Miss Roberts. Anyway, I didn't try to contact this Beverly Burgess myself, as you've requested." Hendricks had standing orders not to approach any leads personally. Once, nine years ago, he thought he had found Philippa's real mother, but he had scared the woman off before Philippa could talk to her, and they had never found her again.

     "I did some looking around," he said, "and managed to get this press photo of Beverly Burgess. It's not very clear—she obviously didn't want her picture taken."

     Charmie stood behind Philippa and looked at the blurry photograph. "I suppose there's some resemblance," she said. "She
could
be your sister, Philippa. Were you fraternal or identical twins?"

     "I don't know. Why?"

     "Because if you were identical twins, then this woman isn't your sister. But fraternal twins, well, then it's possible."

     Despite the fact that this was far more than she had expected Ivan to produce, Philippa forced herself to remain cautious. She had been disappointed too many times. "This still isn't evidence that she is my sister."

     "Who else would be looking for you?" Charmie said. "I mean, who else would be looking for Christine Singleton? And what about the year of birth? You were born in Hollywood in 1938. How many Christine Singletons were born in Hollywood in that year?"

     "But remember, Charmie, Christine Singleton wasn't my name when I was born. That name was given to me by my adoptive parents. This person
might just be someone from my distant past." Someone from San Francisco, Philippa thought darkly. Or worse, from San Quentin. And unpleasant, long-suppressed memories suddenly came back.

     "But look at the face, Philippa," Charmie said. "I think there
is
a resemblance. Let's say your sister has been looking for you, just as you've been looking for her, and she found out that you'd been adopted by the Singletons."

     Philippa's heart began to race. Was it possible? It was difficult to tell for sure, but the woman in the photograph appeared to be tall and slender, like Philippa, and there was a haunting similarity in the way she stood, the set of her shoulders, the way she held her head. The jawline, too, and maybe the nose.
Was
this woman her twin sister?

     "What were you able to find out about her, Ivan?" she asked.

     "Well, Miss Roberts, I ran into a rather intriguing mystery there. A woman like this, who can afford to buy property worth millions and
then
develop it into a swank playground for the rich, I figure she's got to have a high profile. Except that she doesn't. I asked around Palm Springs, but no one seems to know anything about Beverly Burgess. Any dealings the resort has with the public are done through the general manager, a Swiss named Simon Jung. Burgess apparently showed up two and a half years ago, bought this old silent movie star's place up in the mountains, and converted it into an exclusive resort. I did talk to the woman who writes a society column for
Palm Springs Life
magazine, and she said she met Beverly once. Guessed she was in her late forties."

     Ivan Hendricks loosened the tie that he had put on during the drive from the airport. This was the hard part, stopping himself from telling more. He wished now, as he often did, that he could tell her the truth—what he really knew. But he had made a promise to someone never to tell, and Ivan Hendricks always kept his word.

     Philippa said, "Excuse me for a moment, please," and left the room. She went into her study, her private retreat. Aside from an enormous desk cluttered with papers, books, a telephone, and an Apple computer with modem and two printers, there were the personal effects she had brought with her from Los Angeles when she had decided to stay here and write her book: framed certificates on the walls, letters of commendation, awards and prizes,
and photographs of Philippa with important people from all over the world. Her entire lifetime, her whole universe, was compressed within these four walls. Her secretary didn't work in this room; Ricky had a small office attached to his apartment over the six-car garage, and she paged him now on the intercom. When he answered, she said, "Ricky, will you join us in the living room, please?"

     As she turned away, her attention was caught by two photographs on her desk. The first was in a clear plastic frame, a smiling teenager in a jogging outfit—Esther, her daughter, when she was sixteen. The second stood in an antique pewter frame, the picture of a handsome man sitting at the helm of a seventeen-meter racing yacht, with the sun and wind in his face, the spark of victory in his eyes. The photo had been taken the day he had been preparing to compete in the Sydney to Hobart race. It was also the day she had decided to tell him that she would marry him, when she had flown down to Australia to surprise him. But instead she had arrived in time to see the
Philippa
go down not far from here, just off Point Resolution, the site now of her daily private vigils. This villa had been his, newly purchased at the time of his death, and although he had stipulated in his will that it was to go to Philippa, his family had contested it, tying the property up in probate for a long time until at last, one year ago, the court had decided in her favor and Philippa had come down to Perth to claim her painful inheritance.

     As she gazed at the attractive tanned face, she thought again how impossible it was to accept the fact that he was dead. Surely he was going to come back someday; surely he was going to wake up one morning, wherever he was—in a hospital or on a remote island—suddenly remember who he was, and come back to her. That was why she walked out to Point Resolution every day and scanned the bay.

     "Dare I raise my hopes again, my love?" she said to him now, talking to his photograph, as she often did. "This woman named Beverly Burgess—
could
she be my sister? She owns a resort called Star's. I own Starlite Industries. I've heard of such phenomena occurring in the lives of twins, even ones who have been separated at birth, remarkable coincidences happening in their lives. Could Star's and Starlite be a sign that she really is my twin?"

     And wouldn't it be wonderful if Esther and I had more of a family than just each other?

     She returned to the living room and said, "We can't waste another minute. I'm going back with you, Charmie. I have to find out if there's a threat to Starlite and who's behind it, if it is one of our friends. And then I'm going to see this woman at Star's. If there's even the slimmest possibility that she's my sister, I have to pursue it. And if she
is
my sister, then the empty spaces in my past will be filled. I'll know who I really am and where I came from at last."

     She turned to Ricky, who was waiting, steno pad and pen ready. "Call the airport, see if Captain Farrow is still there, and find out when the jet can be ready to go again. Arrange for a replacement crew to fly us back to the U.S. right away. Arrange for a limousine at the other end, and reserve a suite at the Century Plaza Hotel. Fax Star's in Palm Springs, see if you can get us accommodations. If not, try the Marriott Desert Springs or the Ritz-Carlton, whichever has rooms available. And Ricky, above all, don't let anyone at the Starlite offices know that I'm coming." I need the element of surprise on my side, she thought. I want to observe their reactions when they see me walk through the door.

     Finally she turned to Hendricks. "Ivan, go back to Palm Springs and find out whatever you can on this Beverly Burgess. Dig into her background, see what you can come up with. Where did she come from? How can she afford an operation like Star's? Get a room at Star's if you have to; Ricky will arrange an expense account for you. You can report to me when I get to Palm Springs. Oh, and one more thing. Can you have one of your investigators look into a company for me? It's called Caanan Corporation, and I have a strong suspicion that it's a front for recieving embezzled funds."

     Finally she turned to Charmie and said, "Come and help me pack. We'll leave at once. Whoever is trying to take my company away from me is in for a big surprise!"

     Philippa picked up the photograph Ivan had brought from Palm Springs and looked at it for a long moment. Are you my sister? she asked silently. Do you hold the key to my identity? Will you be able to tell me at long last who I really am?

     "Beverly Burgess," Philippa murmured, "who
are
you?"

H
E KNOWS MY SECERT
, B
EVERLY
B
URGESS THOUGHT AS SHE
looked out at the snowy night. He knows my secret, and he'll use it to destroy me.

     She was standing in the highest tower of the mansion known as the Castle, and she sometimes thought ruefully of the parallels between her situation and the fairy-tale story of the princess with a curse on her, forbidden to be seen, or to see anyone, locked away as if lamenting the loss of a lover and living out her days spinning ropes of gold out of strands of her hair.

     Except that Beverly's hair wasn't gold any more, or even blond, as it had been. It was brunette now, worn in a stylish Liz Taylor shag instead of the French twist that had been Beverly's trademark for so many years. And she wasn't really a princess, there was no lost lover, and the high tower was in fact her office. The Castle was the main building of Star's, the resort she had owned for the past two and a half years.