Fading Starlight Part 8

"Pleasure." Willow shook her hand while clearly sizing her up.

Frances waited until they finished, then asked, "And the blue-green one? You are going to be able to repair it?"

"Yes. It is a little tricky, but I should have it back to you by the end of the week."

"Very good." Frances moved forward and took the garment from Lauren, pulling the bodice closer for inspection. "You fixed the loose st.i.tching around the neck."

"Yes. It really didn't require much work, and I just thought as long as I had it anyway . . ."

"I'm sure Miss Montgomery will be delighted. It's not often I see someone going above and beyond like this."

"It was simple, really. I'm glad I was able to help. Please let me know if Miss Montgomery has any concerns about the work."

"It appears as though it is quite exceptional," Frances said. "I'm sure she'll be pleased."

Lauren nodded toward Willow. "Nice to have met you."

Willow folded her arms across her chest. "You, too."

As Lauren turned to go, something about Willow bothered her. She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. Maybe it was just that she reminded her too much of her old world-a young, beautiful woman with plenty of money and no regard for anyone. But what did she know of Willow and her regard for others? Not one thing.

"Sorry, Willow, it won't happen again," she whispered to herself as she walked up the steps to the cottage. She turned for one last look over her shoulder and saw Willow standing at the front window, watching her.

Maybe she was bored. Or maybe she just needed a friend. Something inside told Lauren it was much more sinister . . . but there she went jumping to conclusions again.

Who Killed Randall Edgar Blake?

Lauren read the article, which had been written just last year as a review of the six-decades-old mystery. Randall Edgar Blake had apparently been a director in Hollywood, a bit on the shady side. He was known for seducing women, drinking excessively, and cheating most anyone he could manage to cheat.

The article told of how one of his more "usual" female companions, a Lina Orbaker, had left his home around seven at night. She stormed out because he had told her that she was no longer slated for a supporting role in his next movie project, The Power of Love. The entire project, in fact, had been revamped because he'd decided to take the movie "in another direction." This other direction seemed to involve the Playmate of the Month, who also happened to be his most recent conquest.

Lina left in a fit of anger, got into her car, and drove to a friend's house, where she spent the evening drinking heavily and telling anyone and everyone who would listen that Randall was a sc.u.mbag. At approximately ten that night, the police found her sitting on the pool steps, fully clothed and completely inebriated. They informed her that Randall Edgar Blake was dead, shot in his own driveway and left faceup on the ground.

Lina's purse had been found near the murder scene, and given their most recent interaction-overheard by neighbors all up and down the block-she was the obvious first suspect. It didn't take the police long, however, to learn that there were plenty of witnesses as to Lina's whereabouts for the past few hours, and it was nowhere near Randall Edgar Blake.

The original theory had been that she killed him first, then came to her friend's house, started drinking due to the guilt, and got into the pool to wash away any evidence there might have been on her clothing. Except the neighbors reported hearing gunshots at nine o'clock, some two hours after she'd left his house and arrived elsewhere.

A second theory still involved Lina Orbaker, but this time as a murder-for-hire. Until the day she died, Lina Orbaker was the chief suspect in the murder, but there was never enough proof to bring anything to trial.

At the very end of the article, the writer had thrown out a couple of other theories. One of them came from Mr. Blake's shady business dealings with known members of the mafia. There was no shortage of people who had a grudge against Randall Edgar Blake. The final theory, barely mentioned in pa.s.sing, was that several other people had also been displaced from The Power of Love, and all of them were angry. The author named three of the possible suspects and their special reasons for wanting Mr. Blake dead.

Charlotte Montgomery's name was last on that list. There was no confirming evidence at all, other than her a.s.sociation with and then removal from The Power of Love. Lauren a.s.sumed that this particular author did not give much credence to Kendall's theory. But still . . . here it was in black and white. The theory was out there. Who knew how much truth was behind it?

fifteen.

Aunt Nell was wearing the gray dress and whispering something so quietly Lauren couldn't understand her, in spite of the fact that she was kneeling on the floor beside the couch and helping with the hand beading. "What are you saying, Aunt Nell?" Lauren asked as she sank the needle into the fabric again and again.

Finally, her aunt leaned forward, close enough to be heard. "Help me."

Lauren woke up gasping for air. What was it with all these dreams? She shook her head and made for the shower. The sooner she got on with her day, the sooner she could forget about this latest iteration. Or so she hoped.

Once again her devotional centered around serving others, even when they didn't seem to deserve it. It was a theme that she liked in theory, but at this point in her life, it was a little too close for comfort.

When Derek arrived, he knocked on the door. "Brought you something."

"Really? What?"

"Creeper roses. My wife bought three flats of them this weekend, had almost a whole flat left over. I knew that you had a knack for growing things and thought you might want some of them. They would make for cute ground cover, and the lady at the store said they would hold up rather well in this climate."

Something about the fact that he'd thought enough of her to bring these made her feel really good. A much-needed boost. "I'd love them, thanks."

Soon enough she was working the soil, enjoying the feel of the earth softening and churning beneath her touch. She would place these roses around the cottage itself, since the repainting was complete. Once again the activity conjured up memories of Aunt Nell and the happy times Lauren had spent with her. And even though she tried not to go there again, inevitably the memories led to guilt over having not driven out to visit her great-aunt more often, in spite of a heavy workload at school and a job.

When she had finished all her planting around the cottage, she looked toward the Victorian. There were still several plants left. Quite a lot, actually. Still, it was not helpful to force something on someone who clearly did not want it.

She dumped the remaining plants in the green recycling can and went inside. Because of the nagging questions still haunting her, Lauren returned to the computer to find more information about Charlotte Montgomery.

Without Charlotte's father there to buy her way into the movies, and with her father's bitter wife holding all the power, Charlotte's time in Hollywood was finished. Thankfully for Charlotte and Jean, however, Collin Montgomery had left them his huge estate just north of Santa Barbara and a sizable stock portfolio, with specific instructions that Charlotte receive an income from his estate to pay living expenses plus thousands of dollars a year for designer gowns.

When Collin's wife found out about that final stipulation, it was rumored that she sent word to all the major designers that if they wanted to continue to work with her movie studio, they had better think twice about making anything for Charlotte Montgomery. This seemed to work completely, until Angelina Browning, the most celebrated designer of the era, declared that she would not allow others to dictate her work. She would design gowns for whomever she wanted. In fact, she declared Charlotte Montgomery would be her primary client.

Wow. This information alone was thrilling. One of the greatest designers of all time had worked closely with Lauren's next-door neighbor. What were the odds of that? She kept reading.

While this could have been the kiss of death for Angelina Browning's career, the fact that she was willing to walk away from everyone else began something of a stampede. Suddenly the A-list ladies were all clamoring for a Browning gown. Angelina Browning was a wise enough businesswoman to greatly limit her output, keeping the demand-and the prices-sky-high. Elizabeth Taylor, Audrey Hepburn, and crowned heads all across Europe were constantly on a waiting list for the next Browning gown. Yet Charlotte Montgomery remained her number one client until the day Angelina Browning died in a boating accident just off the island of Catalina in 1959.

Jean Montgomery had committed suicide three years after Collin Montgomery's death, leaving twenty-one-year-old Charlotte to fend for herself. There were rumors of an engagement to the son of a mafia boss. He was never named, and it was never confirmed.

Eventually, Charlotte disappeared from public life completely. It was later reported that she was living on the Santa Barbara estate, with a maid, a cook, and a gardener being the only people allowed to come and go from the property.

The story brought up a deep sadness in Lauren. She wanted to help the woman, she really did. Her mind returned to the roses just outside in the recycle bin, but how could planting flowers that were only going to be torn out again be helpful? It couldn't.

She pulled out the gray dress from the closet and put it on her dress form. She spent the next few hours working on the beading, thinking through all that she knew and didn't know about Charlotte Montgomery. Finally, she decided there was nothing for her to do but pick up the phone and make the call she knew she needed to make. She reached over and grabbed her cell.

sixteen.

So, I guess what I'm asking is . . . what am I supposed to do?" Lauren had spent the last few minutes pouring out everything to Rhonda. Everything from her dreams to what she'd learned on the internet.

"I, for one, am hoping that you two become great friends." Rhonda's voice had an excited edge to it.

"Great friends? I don't think that's very likely."

"Not likely, but possible." She paused, as she always did when gathering her thoughts to make a point. "Think of it as your very own Good Samaritan a.s.signment."

"Yes, but the Good Samaritan helped a man who had been beaten and robbed, left penniless and broken. In all likelihood he was a perfectly nice man and was grateful for the help, and he didn't have the ability to help himself. Miss Montgomery, however, is not a very nice woman. It may not be her fault what happened to her in her childhood, but it is most definitely her fault that she doesn't have any friends now, and she likely has more money than all of us combined will ever see in our lifetimes."

"None of that means she's not alone and in need of someone who cares. Sometimes it's the ones who seem like they are most in charge who really are the ones who need the most help. They're just too proud to ask for it. Think of Zacchaeus."

"He's the short guy who climbed the tree to see Jesus?"

"Yes, but he was also a tax collector and rich. The fact that he was so short meant people had probably made him a bit of an outcast from an early age. The fact that he was a tax collector definitely made him an outcast as an adult. But somehow I doubt very much that he was walking around with his head down, you know what I mean? I'll bet he was going around in fine clothes and jewels and rubbing it in everyone's faces that he was rich and powerful, and they weren't."

Lauren had never considered this point before. But quickly another thought came to mind. "And probably there were people who tried to be his friend. Some of them probably even did it because they thought they felt compa.s.sion for him, but their true motivation might have been to have a rich and powerful friend. What if my motive in befriending Miss Montgomery is to get a look at her Angelina Browning gowns? I mean, I think I want to be nice to her for niceness's sake, but I wouldn't be honest if I didn't say I would kill to see her dress collection. I don't want to be a user. What if I do it by accident?"

"The fact that you're aware of those feelings is a good thing. You need to pray for right motives with every single interaction you have with her. But I am convinced you are supposed to interact with her."

"She doesn't want that, though."

"Zacchaeus didn't even call out to Jesus for help, he just climbed up to get a peek. Jesus had to call out to him first. He was up in that tree and would likely have watched the crowds go by, climbed down feeling even lonelier than he was in the beginning, and acted all the more obnoxious because of his pain. If Jesus hadn't seen him and taken the time to call him down, it could have ended very differently. Hurting people who hide behind their pride can't ask for help; it makes them vulnerable. Zacchaeus remained hidden in the tree, his way of protecting himself. Just like Miss Montgomery's way might be closing herself inside that gigantic home and tearing out flowers that people who are trying to be nice might plant."

"Maybe you're right. I'd never really thought of it that way."

"I think maybe it's time you do."

Once again, Lauren worked on the Browning gown until late in the night. Finally she made herself set it aside and begin the work on repairing the aqua gown. The gray dress was simply an experiment, and she knew she shouldn't allow it to take up all her time. In spite of this knowledge, as soon as she finished the aqua gown, she went right back to the gray and worked until the night sky began to lighten and the stars faded into nothingness with the dawning of a new day. She finally went to bed to get at least a little rest.

A few hours later, she definitely felt the effects of staying up most of the night hunched over fine needlework. She did a few minutes of stretching before she stepped out of the cottage to do her beach walk.

On her way back from the beach to the cottage, she glanced toward the Victorian house. "I do want to help her. Please test my heart for the right motives. Always."

There was no sign of movement. She looked at the empty dirt out in front-all that was left of her previous attempt at kindness. Would a rest.i.tched gown fare any better? Could she bear the thought of doing all this work and having it ripped out and thrown away? She resolved that yes, she would indeed take that chance. She went back to the cottage and went back to work on the beading.

Many hours later, she made her way across the street. When Frances opened the door, she seemed surprised when she saw both dresses in Lauren's hand. "What's this? Miss Montgomery donated this one, remember?"

"Yes, she did. But the thing is, this dress is so beautiful, and then I had an idea about how to fix it, and I did. She may not like it, and if that's the case, then I will take the repaired dress to the school and donate it, as per the original intention. To tell you the truth, it just hurts my heart to think of throwing this beautiful piece of art into the mix of pirate hats and feather boas."

"We were led to believe that no one could do this kind of work these days."

"It is definitely a dying art, but one of my favorite professors had a fondness for this type of work. Since I was interested, she taught me the basics. My skill is not to the level of the original, but I believe that I have been able to repair it so that it is not obvious."

Frances held out the dress at arm's length. "This is amazing. It looks as good as new. I'm sure Miss Montgomery will be thrilled."

"As I said, if she doesn't like it, I will take it to the school. You can just let me know, and I'll come get it."

"Wait just one moment, I'll go check with her. She's still in her room and not ready to receive guests, but I will speak with her about it."

Frances closed the door, leaving Lauren alone on the porch.

seventeen.

Charlotte was sitting in her bed, reading a leather-bound copy of Jane Eyre. Again. How she loved the cla.s.sics. Yet why was it, she wondered, that these old stories always involved some beautiful, poor girl falling in love with a rich man who would take care of her and love her and protect her? Why was there never a wealthy heroine who found a man who adored her for who she was, not what she had or what power she did or didn't possess? She supposed that was too outlandish, even for a work of fiction. In real life, wealthy women were stepping-stones to be used and then discarded when the goal was reached.

She heard the sound of approaching footsteps followed by a quick knock and the turn of the k.n.o.b. Charlotte set the green satin ribbon bookmark into place and looked up, wondering what had prompted this disturbance.

Frances entered the room, a huge smile on her face, swinging the gray Browning gown around her as if she were doing some sort of flamenco dance. "You're not going to believe this. Look what Lauren did with your dress."

Charlotte grabbed the dress as soon as it was close enough to reach. The ridiculous way Frances was swinging it around meant she couldn't see anything. She held it at arm's length, stunned by what she saw, then pulled it closer. She reached down into the basket beside her chair, pulled out her magnifying gla.s.s, and examined the newly repaired beading and embroidery. "But this can't be. Every reputable tailor I've ever taken this to has said that this type of dress could not be mended."

"When she brought it back, Lauren did say that it was a technique that wasn't really taught anymore. She learned it from a teacher who had studied the dying arts and thought she'd try her hand at it."

"But why? This dress was worth a fortune, even in its previous condition. It's worth even more now. You told her that I was donating it and she was under no obligation to return it to me. Why would she go to all this trouble?"

"I can't say, ma'am, but I will say that she has done a beautiful job." Frances cleared her throat.

Charlotte continued to look through the magnifying gla.s.s. Except for the fact that she'd looked at it so many times that she knew it all by heart, she would have sworn this dress was in its original condition. "How much did she charge for this?"

"I can't say for sure. When she brought back the white wool she said that there wouldn't be a charge because it was such a privilege to work on such amazing clothes. I told her that you wouldn't see it that way. She didn't really fight me on it, but when she brought this back today, she asked me to see if you liked it. She said that she will donate it to the school as per the original plan if you are not pleased with the work."

"What do you think she is hoping to get out of this? This intricate work. She must have some sort of angle she is playing. What is it?"

"Maybe she's just a very nice girl. Have you ever thought of that?"

"Thought of it and dismissed it out of hand." Charlotte gave the dress back to Frances so she could hang it in the closet. Then she had another thought. "Frances, will you please pay her for the repair work she has done on my gowns-at whatever rate we were paying that other tailor."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Also, please tell her . . . tell her that Richard is planting some purple sage around the house for me next week. Tell her that she may use any remaining for herself-and that she is welcome to plant some outside my fence, if she would like to, as long as she uses my supplies. I don't want to be left owing her anything."

"Richard is planting purple sage? Next week? I thought you told him no when he suggested purple sage."

Charlotte frowned at Frances, owing her no explanation and not planning to give one. "Give her a key to the potting shed and tell her . . ."

"Tell her?"

"Reiterate again that she must use my supplies for any work she does on my property. Give her the key and show her around the potting shed. Go right now and do it. Make sure she understands that I do not want to be beholden to her."