and stepped into the entry hall. A liveried waiterâÂprobably an out-Âof-Âwork actorâÂstood behind a makeshift bar just beyond the entrance to the dining room. Duane stepped over and pointed to a bottle of Chivas Regal, and the waiter filled a shot glass.
Duane knocked back the drink. He winced at the burn as it went down. Relaxed a notch as heat flowed up his neck and into his face. He shook himself and aimed his camera up the broad winding staircase. These were the kind of stairs youâd expect to see a glamorous, formally dressed Âcouple dancing down. The two figures who appeared at the top of the stairs were not Fred and Ginger, though those dresses could have been straight out of one of their films.
Duane tightened the focus on what he thought at first were two young women striking a pose, their chins raised. Then he realized that the shorter one, the one with a reddish bouffant, had on an emerald-Âgreen satin gown that was too long for her. The other one, tall and slender, wore a pale yellow cocktail dress with a high neck and full skirt that was too short. They were only kids, about the same age as his daughter, all tarted up to look like glamour girls.
The redhead had to be Bunny Nicholâs daughter, Joelen. No longer six years old. Duane captured her mid-Âdescent, arm linked in her friendâs. Joelen must have inherited her auburn hair and the freckles that spattered across her face from her conveniently deceased father.
The doorbell chimed and the girls started giggling and raced the rest of the way down the stairs, all semblance of maturity dashed. One of them left behind a gold high heel on the stairs. Cinderellaâs slipper . The girl in yellow ran back and grabbed it, hopping up and down as she put it back on. Then she joined Joelen, whoâd barely beat out a uniformed maid to open the door. GuestsâÂabout a dozen strongâÂsurged into the entry hall.
The girl in yellow hugged one of the men and the woman with him. Her parents, Duane surmised, overhearing the girl call the woman Mom . Not A-Âlist, Duane could tellâÂno furs or conspicuous jewels.
Joelen was greeting Rock Hudson and Doris Day, whoâd come in together. Duane aimed his camera in their direction. Click. Rock had his arm around DorisâÂDuane liked to think he was on a first-Âname basis with the stars he most often photographed. He knew for a fact that âAmericaâs most eligible bachelorâ was the square-Âjawed actorâs most successful role, but heâd never gotten a picture that proved he was anything but.
The girls collected ladiesâ fur coats and stolesâÂcompletely unnecessary in the Southern California heatâÂand staggered across the living room to the door at the far end. Duane followed, hanging back until theyâd gone in and dumped the coats on a couch. He caught a shot of them checking themselves out and mugging in one of the gilt-Âframed mirrors that hung on the wall of that room, too.
When the doorbell chimed again and the girls skipped off, he slipped inside the room. This had to be Elenor Nicholâs office. A movie poster from Black Lace , the actressâs first major role, hung on the wall, a framed certificate beside it for her Academy Award nomination for best supporting actress. On the shelf below sat a row of blank-Âfaced mannequin heads, each wearing a wig of black hair styled in different lengths.
Click. That would be another for his private collection. Duane edged closer to the desk. Correspondence was strewn across it. His heart kicked up a few beats. He was aiming his camera when he felt a hand grip his arm.
âMr. Foley?â
Duane recognized the short, heavyset man with salt-Âand-Âpepper eyebrows sprouting above sharp eyes. Sy Sterling was the entertainment attorney who was Elenor Nicholâs manager, and the man whoâd hired Duane to immortalize this
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