Paige gave her a lopsided smile. “I didn’t think you would. I grew up in a trailer park there. It was the kind of town where they rolled up the sidewalks at eight o’clock, and the trailer park was definitely on the wrong side of the tracks. It’s different now that it’s merged with Fresno. They’re both booming.
“Anyway, there I was, teaching kindergarten and going crazy from boredom. I wanted more out of life, you know what I mean? I thought I
deserved
more.” She stared at the broken cigarette that was still in her hands. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“So how did you meet Torg?”
“He owned a truck dealership in town. Some of the dealers got together and decided to hold a beauty contest. To tell the truth, it was more of a wet T-shirt contest. They were looking to bring in some business. First prize was a thousand bucks and a trip to L.A. I’d have done just about anything to get away. So I entered.”
“Don’t tell me—you won.”
“I sure did. Torg was one of the judges in the contest. So I won and I came to L.A. and he hosted the weekend. Took me to Spago, clubbing at the best spots.”
“I guess he must have been in good shape.”
Paige nodded. “He took good care of himself. He was handsome, a real charmer—Hugh Grant type, you know, but older.”
“Maybe more like
Cary
Grant.”
“Oh yeah,” Paige agreed. “Cary Grant. After a couple of dates he said he was in love with me, that he wanted me in his life. I was attracted to him, too, of course.”
Watching her closely, Claudia wondered how much the attraction had to do with the size of Torg Sorensen’s bank account and the prospect of a glamorous life in L.A. She’d handled her share of cases where an older man had been taken in by a younger woman.
But that wasn’t fair. She didn’t know Paige well enough to make that kind of value judgment. Setting her glass on the table, Claudia gave Paige her full attention as she continued her story.
“Torg could be so persuasive. One weekend, about a month after we started seeing each other, he took me to Las Vegas and we got married at the Bellagio. It was amazing—he couldn’t do enough to please me. Expensive jewelry, beautiful clothes, the Mercedes. He took me to Europe. All I had to do was to say I wanted something, and the next thing I knew, it was being delivered.
“It’s just—he was so insecure about the age difference. He’d talk about how proud he was that I was with him; then he’d go nuts when men my age looked at me. Pretty soon it got so it felt like I was in prison. He made me account for every second we were apart. He’d start accusing me—” She broke off and wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. “I’ll tell you one thing, Claudia: Marry for money, and you can expect to earn every dime.”
So Jovanic had been right when he called Paige a trophy wife. Did she realize what she had just admitted?
“Were his children opposed to the marriage from the beginning?” Claudia asked.
“What do
you
think? They hated me before we even met. When Torg was around they’d pretend to be polite because they didn’t want to piss him off, but behind his back they were horrible—spiteful, malicious. The twins, anyway. Neil was always different. That was before his accident.”
“This is sounding like a nighttime soap opera.”
“Just wait; there’s more. After a while, I got tired of being a lady of leisure, so I asked if I could go to work at the school. They don’t have kindergarten, but I have teacher training, so I thought maybe I could be an aide or something.
“So Torg turns around and makes me headmistress— the rules are different for private schools, so he could, even though I don’t have a degree in education. That’s when the shit really hit the fan. Diana had had the job for years.”
“He took out his daughter and put you in? I’m sorry, Paige, but your husband had all the finesse of a buzz saw.”
“It was all about control for Torg. He did it because he could, and he knew there was nothing Diana could do about it. She wasn’t popular at the school, but still . . .”
“And the twins got written out of the will.”
“That was a power play, too. By the time he died, none of them were on speaking terms.”
Remembering her own reaction to Torg’s handwriting, Paige’s explanation made perfect sense to Claudia. Power and control were the chief motivating forces in his personality.
“So Diana hates you because she wants the school; Dane hates you because he wants the land. What about Neil?”
“Neil. Oh God, Neil. That’s another story. He’s had this
huge
crush on me from the beginning. Right after Torg and I got married, he started showing up at the house almost every morning after his father left for the office.”
“He was coming on to you?”
Paige exaggerated an eye roll and nodded. “He was so cute, and he kept making up one pathetic excuse after another for coming over. I might be a small-town girl, but I knew what he was after.”
Claudia couldn’t help wondering whether Paige had given in to Neil’s sweet-talking, but that was one question she couldn’t ask.
Paige’s voice hushed to the level of
True Confessions
. “He started getting more and more pushy. I was terrified that Torg would find out and think I was encouraging him. But the more I said no, the worse it got. Neil got crazy. He threatened to tell Torg that
I
was trying to seduce
him—
like that was going to help! Then he had this terrible accident. He was thrown from his horse and broke his back. The doctors said he’ll never walk again. He’s lucky he’s not a quadriplegic.”
“Not what
I
would call lucky,” Claudia said. She picked up her drink and took a long swallow. “Jeez, Paige, I guess you weren’t kidding about needing a friend.”
They smiled at each other across the table and Paige looked cheered. “How would you like to come and see the school?”
Claudia found herself drawn in, fascinated by the Sorensen story. “I’d love to. How many students are there?”
“About fifty girls in the middle grades—thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds, most involved with the film industry. Either they’re into acting or their parents are actors, producers, directors. Some are spoiled-rotten rich kids who cause problems and take up a lot of my time. Like Annabelle, the girl I told you about.”
Claudia had an idea that had been fermenting since she’d heard Annabelle’s story the week before, but she was unsure of how what she was about to suggest would be received.
She said, “I’ve done some work with kids who have emotional problems. There’s a program called graphotherapy—handwriting movement exercises done to a special kind of music. I’ve been wondering whether Annabelle would respond to it.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Paige said. “How does it work?”
“The specific hand movements and the music literally help calm the brain so the person can function better. Kids who use it develop better self-discipline, which helps them feel better about themselves. It’s not very well known, but it’s being used successfully in schools around the world.”
Paige began to look interested. “Tell me more.”
“I would analyze Annabelle’s handwriting to learn more about her current emotional state. Then I would tailor some of these handwriting movement exercises for her particular needs. It’s easy and the exercises take only a few minutes a day. I would check her progress weekly and make adjustments as we go. Eventually, we can expect changes to appear naturally in her handwriting and in her behavior.”
“This is sounding interesting. How long does it take to see the changes?”
“I’d say a minimum of three months.”
“Damn, I was hoping for a magic bullet.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Claudia said. “How old is Annabelle?”
“Fourteen.”
“Would you say her suicide attempt was serious, or more like a cry for help?”
Paige played with the broken cigarette that she’d now dumped on her cocktail napkin. Bits of tobacco spilled onto the table and she began to brush them together with her fingernail as she spoke.
“Sounded pretty serious to me. She snagged a bottle of Daddy’s tequila from the wet bar in the middle of the night and snuck down to the beach—they live in Malibu. She polished off what was in the bottle, then broke it on a rock and cut her wrists. She claims not to remember anything about it. A man walking his dog found her or she probably would have succeeded.”
Claudia felt a rush of sympathy, the way she had when she had first heard Annabelle’s story. “Poor little kid. Did she lose much blood?”
Paige shook her head. “The booze did more damage than the cuts.”
“What happened to her? Psych ward?”
“Uh-uh. Remember, this kid’s old man is Dominic Giordano.” Paige paused to down the rest of her drink. Some of the social polish seemed to have worn thin as the Jack Daniel’s diminished in her glass, and she was sounding more like the small-town girl from Clovis than the wealthy Bel Air widow.
“He had the juice to keep the whole nasty mess out of the media,” she said.
“That’s a lot of juice.”
“Exactly. He’s had his share of bad publicity. He doesn’t need any more.”
“Oh yes, those young actresses . . .”
Paige looked uncomfortable. “We don’t talk about that,” she said primly. “He’s a paying customer.”
Claudia didn’t need Paige to confirm the story. She remembered how the whispers of illicit drugs and underage sex had disappeared behind a rumored settlement with the girl’s parents for “an undisclosed sum.”
In Hollywood, where big payoffs buy silence, tales of Dominic Giordano’s alleged indiscretions were relegated to cocktail party gossip in a finger snap. Other stories had surfaced that connected his Sunmark Studios to organized crime. Stories of money laundering that were never proven.
Now, with an advertising blitz for his biggest film ever saturating the media, it was no surprise that Giordano would want to keep his name off the front page, except in
Variety
. The girls with whom he was reputed to have been involved were about the same age as his daughter.
“Shades of Roman Polanski,” Claudia murmured. “Do you know why Annabelle tried to kill herself?”
The waitress returned and Paige ordered another round over Claudia’s protests. When it came to booze, she was no heavy hitter, and she was already feeling pleasantly buzzed.
Paige said, “She’d been getting into trouble for a long time, long before the suicide attempt.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Shoplifting, drugs, running away from home. Then there was her personal best—joyriding in stolen cars with very bad dudes. Where she picked
them
up—well, honey, let’s not even go there.”
“Arrests?”
“At least a couple, but remember, Daddy has friends in high places. He makes the bad stuff go away.” Paige swirled her drink around in the glass. “Not that I’m cynical or anything, but sometimes it’s all about who you know.”
“Or who you snow,” Claudia said, thinking about Andy Nicholson. She nursed the screwdriver, just wetting her lips on the high octane OJ. “So there’s no one at the school that Annabelle can relate to?”
“She’s a tough little wench, keeps to herself. Besides Bert, there’s only one person she’s shown any real interest in. Of course,
all
the girls are in love with Cruz. He’s our athletics director. Curly black hair,
amazing
eyes. And he’s got that oh-so-romantic scar.” She drew a line across her lips to illustrate. “He won’t talk about how he got it, which makes him even more interesting.”
Claudia laughed. “This guy’s ego must be the size of Canada.”
“He’s one very cool dude, all right.”
From the gleam in Paige’s eyes and the sudden pink glow in her cheeks, Claudia couldn’t help wondering about her relationship with the athletic coach. But what about Bert Falkenberg, the business manager? And Neil Sorensen? Paige was beginning to look like a
very
merry widow.
“
All
the girls flirt with Cruz,” Paige repeated. “But Annabelle—I’ve seen her staring at him when she thinks no one’s watching. She does it all the time. Her eyes are glued to him.”
“Does he notice?”
“The crazy thing is, he pays more attention to her than anyone else. He goes out of his way to talk to her. I have to admit, it bugs me.”
“You must have done a background check on him?”
“Squeaky clean.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“Not yet. I’m keeping an eye on it.”
Claudia stirred her drink with her straw, blending it to lessen the impact of the alcohol that had sunk to the bottom. “Do you know of any sexual abuse in Annabelle’s background?”
“No, but like I said, she hasn’t opened up.”
Annabelle Giordano was sounding more interesting by the minute. Claudia started to speculate on what she might find in the girl’s handwriting. The possibility that she might be able to help her through graphotherapy intrigued her. “Let’s start by getting a sample of her handwriting.”
Paige’s eyes widened and she snapped her fingers. “I’ve got an idea. You could come and give a talk about handwriting analysis! It would be such a kick for the girls.”
“I’ll be glad to. Just say the word.”
Paige’s exuberance turned serious. “We’d better do it soon. If the judge rules against me, there won’t
be
a school.”
Chapter 7
The Sorensen Academy is a residential and day school for young women with special emotional needs that are not adequately served in the standard setting. Located in the hills above the UCLA campus, the Sorensen Academy has been known as an outstanding resource for combining education and emotional healing since 1968. Our program offers a desirable alternative to long-term hospitalization, as we keep the student body size small, allowing our girls the advantage of personalized attention in a homelike environment.