The man who answered let out a stuffed-sinus laugh. “Mellors? And who are you, Lord Chatterley?”
“Sometimes I feel like it.”
That cut off his laughter. “He’s not one of ours. We have no grounds to keep.”
“He definitely wrote for you,” I said. “Reviewed M. Bayard Lowell’s last book.”
“That sounds awfully like ancient history.”
“Twenty-one years ago.”
“Well, that’s paleolithic, isn’t it?”
“Is there anyone on your staff who was working on the magazine at the time?”
“We’re not a magazine,” he said, miffed. “We’re a review—a state of mind, actually. And we have no permanent staff. Just Mr. Upstone, myself, and a bevy of freelance hopefuls.”
“What does it take to be a reviewer?”
“One has to recognize the proper criteria for judging books.”
“Which are?”
“Style and substance. Now, I fail to see the importance—”
“I work for a law firm out in L.A. Mr. Mellors has come into an inheritance. Nothing big, but he still might want to know about it.”
“How nice for him.”
“Was Mr. Upstone around when Mr. Mellors’s review came out?”
“Mr. Upstone has always been around.”
“May I speak with him, please?”
“If you’re good.”
“I promise.”
He laughed. “California . . . how can you live there?”
A few minutes later, a cross-sounding tobacco voice said, “Mason Upstone.”
I repeated my request.
Upstone broke in. “I won’t tell you a damn thing. Haven’t you ever heard of the right to privacy?”
“I’m not—”
“That’s right, you’re not. Tell your friends at the CIA or the FBI or whoever it is you’re with to do something more constructive than spying on creative people.”
Slam.
I went out on the deck and tried to relax. The sky out there was even bluer, but I couldn’t unwind.
I couldn’t stop bad things from happening to Lucy, but I should have been able to deal with a dream. . . .
Lowell, Trafficant, Mellors.
I pulled out the clipping on the Sanctum party and read it one more time.
Lowell holding court.
Trafficant with his own circle of groupies.
Had they tried to outdo one another the night of the party?
Had Karen Best been the victim of that competition?
There had to be some way to connect the pieces.
I ran my eyes down the names of partygoers. The usual Westside showbiz list, no indication any of them had a relationship with Lowell. With one exception: the film producer who’d financed construction of the retreat, Curtis App.
His name had come up before. I shuffled through articles till I found it: A PEN fund-raiser at App’s Malibu house had been the site of Lowell’s reentry into the public eye.
Fund-raiser for political prisoners.
Had App shared Lowell’s sympathy for talented criminals? Or was he just a generous man?
Calculated generosity? Film people’s self-esteem often lagged their wealth. Had App tried to buy himself respectability by hitching up with a Great Man?
An “independent producer” had optioned Command: Shed the Light for film. App, or some other patron?
Paying to adapt poetry to the screen seemed an absurd business decision. More charity?
Great Man on the skids . . . App buying in cheap?
Sinking money into Sanctum, then watching it all fall apart as Lowell lost interest.
He might very well have a few opinions on Lowell.
No phone listings under his name. No great surprise.
Didn’t producers belong to some kind of trade group—the Producers Guild?
I found the address—400 South Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills—and was just about to punch the number when my service clicked in.
“Someone on your line from Mr. Lowell, doctor. She wouldn’t give a last name. Sexy voice.”
I took the call.
Nova said, “Are you still planning to bring the daughter up?”
“There were no plans.”
“I was under the impression there were. He’s expecting her—the best time’s late afternoon. Five or later. He takes a long nap after lunch, and—”
“There were no plans,” I repeated, “and something’s come up.”
“Oh, really,” she said coolly. “And what’s that?”
“Mr. Lowell’s son Peter was found dead today.”
Silence.
“When did this happen?” she said skeptically.
“The body was discovered this morning. He’d been dead for a while.”