initial was not
S
or
K
.
“Hey.” Cammie kissed her cheek. She was wearing a miniscule hand-crocheted Missoni dress shot through with orange, tan, and avocado-green threads. It was cut almost to her navel, showing off tons of immaculate skin. She looked stunning as usual. Cammie peered at her. “Where’ve you been?”
“Operation Eduardo.”
“Go for it. How’d it go?” She smiled, then motioned to the bartender—Sam ordered a Mudslide.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Or the next day. If he calls me, I’m a genius. If he doesn’t, I’m pathetic.” The DreamWorks exec got up; Sam slid into his seat.
“I hope it works out.” Cammie took a long suck on her Tequila Santa Ana Sunrise, which had half the usual orange juice. “My father’s holed up at the Beverly Hills Hotel and still won’t see me.”
A young Asian bartender with a pierced lip and black-on-black clothes pushed Sam her drink. She thought of all the reasons that Clark might be at the Beverly Hills Hotel, 99 percent of which had to do with him cheating on his aging actress wife, but kept silent. Cammie needed support now, not a reality check. She tasted her Mudslide. Outstanding. Maybe the rum was what gave her the inspiration, if not the courage, for what she said next.
“I’m going to help you.”
“Right.” Cammie cleared her throat dubiously. “You’re going to airdrop down the chimney into his bungalow?”
“No. There was another person on the boat the night your mom died. Remember?”
“Your mother. Who told the police she had sex with my dad on the boat. I know the whole story—I told
you
, for God’s sake.” Cammie drained her glass. The bartender motioned like he was ready to make her another, but she shook her head.
“Maybe we don’t know the whole story,” Sam reasoned.“Maybe my mom didn’t tell the cops everything.”
“Sam. Think. You haven’t spoken to your mother since the twenty-first century. She lives who-the-fuck-knows-where. What makes you think she’s ready to spill her guts to Dominick Dunne? Or to you?”
Good point
.
“I wonder if she realizes I’m about to graduate from high school?” Sam pondered. “Or going to film school at USC?”
Cammie offered a shrug. “How could she possibly know? You didn’t tell her. Your father didn’t tell her. She doesn’t get the school newspaper, and somehow I doubt that she’s a regular reader of your father’s Web page of family news. Do you even know where she is?
“No. But I’m going to find out. I’ll hire someone to find her. And then, I’m—we’re—going to talk to her.”
“We are?”
“Yes. Okay, so the bitch doesn’t give a shit about me,” Sam went on. “Fine. Got the memo. But she was with your mom the night she died. I say she owes you an explanation.”
“You’d do that for me?”
Sam couldn’t believe it—Cammie’s tone was reasonable. No, not reasonable. Grateful and appreciative. It reminded her of when they were little girls, and Cammie had been afraid to swim underwater despite months of lessons at the Riviera Country Club. Sam recalled how Cammie had been playing with one of her mother’s necklaces in the Sharpes’ enormous backyard pool. Suddenly, the necklace had slipped from her grasp and settled like the Heart of the Ocean diamond on the bottom of the pool. Sam had offered then to do a surface dive and retrieve it. It seemed like Cammie had said the exact same words in response. “You’d do that for me?”
“Yeah, of course,” Sam replied now, as she had then.
“I don’t deserve that kind of loyalty.”
“Cam, come on. We’ve been best friends forever.”
Cammie played with the stem of her glass. “I don’t exactly excel at it. Friendship, I mean.”
Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. Neither do I.”
“Can you handle two favors in one night?” Cammie bit her lower lip.
“Just call me Sam of Arc. What do you need?”
“Are you busy in the morning?”
She shook her
S
or
K
.
“Hey.” Cammie kissed her cheek. She was wearing a miniscule hand-crocheted Missoni dress shot through with orange, tan, and avocado-green threads. It was cut almost to her navel, showing off tons of immaculate skin. She looked stunning as usual. Cammie peered at her. “Where’ve you been?”
“Operation Eduardo.”
“Go for it. How’d it go?” She smiled, then motioned to the bartender—Sam ordered a Mudslide.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Or the next day. If he calls me, I’m a genius. If he doesn’t, I’m pathetic.” The DreamWorks exec got up; Sam slid into his seat.
“I hope it works out.” Cammie took a long suck on her Tequila Santa Ana Sunrise, which had half the usual orange juice. “My father’s holed up at the Beverly Hills Hotel and still won’t see me.”
A young Asian bartender with a pierced lip and black-on-black clothes pushed Sam her drink. She thought of all the reasons that Clark might be at the Beverly Hills Hotel, 99 percent of which had to do with him cheating on his aging actress wife, but kept silent. Cammie needed support now, not a reality check. She tasted her Mudslide. Outstanding. Maybe the rum was what gave her the inspiration, if not the courage, for what she said next.
“I’m going to help you.”
“Right.” Cammie cleared her throat dubiously. “You’re going to airdrop down the chimney into his bungalow?”
“No. There was another person on the boat the night your mom died. Remember?”
“Your mother. Who told the police she had sex with my dad on the boat. I know the whole story—I told
you
, for God’s sake.” Cammie drained her glass. The bartender motioned like he was ready to make her another, but she shook her head.
“Maybe we don’t know the whole story,” Sam reasoned.“Maybe my mom didn’t tell the cops everything.”
“Sam. Think. You haven’t spoken to your mother since the twenty-first century. She lives who-the-fuck-knows-where. What makes you think she’s ready to spill her guts to Dominick Dunne? Or to you?”
Good point
.
“I wonder if she realizes I’m about to graduate from high school?” Sam pondered. “Or going to film school at USC?”
Cammie offered a shrug. “How could she possibly know? You didn’t tell her. Your father didn’t tell her. She doesn’t get the school newspaper, and somehow I doubt that she’s a regular reader of your father’s Web page of family news. Do you even know where she is?
“No. But I’m going to find out. I’ll hire someone to find her. And then, I’m—we’re—going to talk to her.”
“We are?”
“Yes. Okay, so the bitch doesn’t give a shit about me,” Sam went on. “Fine. Got the memo. But she was with your mom the night she died. I say she owes you an explanation.”
“You’d do that for me?”
Sam couldn’t believe it—Cammie’s tone was reasonable. No, not reasonable. Grateful and appreciative. It reminded her of when they were little girls, and Cammie had been afraid to swim underwater despite months of lessons at the Riviera Country Club. Sam recalled how Cammie had been playing with one of her mother’s necklaces in the Sharpes’ enormous backyard pool. Suddenly, the necklace had slipped from her grasp and settled like the Heart of the Ocean diamond on the bottom of the pool. Sam had offered then to do a surface dive and retrieve it. It seemed like Cammie had said the exact same words in response. “You’d do that for me?”
“Yeah, of course,” Sam replied now, as she had then.
“I don’t deserve that kind of loyalty.”
“Cam, come on. We’ve been best friends forever.”
Cammie played with the stem of her glass. “I don’t exactly excel at it. Friendship, I mean.”
Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. Neither do I.”
“Can you handle two favors in one night?” Cammie bit her lower lip.
“Just call me Sam of Arc. What do you need?”
“Are you busy in the morning?”
She shook her
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