Over Her Dead Body(4)
So what to do? I couldn’t leave my estate to charity—that was too complicated, not to mention grossly out of character. And I couldn’t think of anything more repugnant than having my name engraved on a building trafficked by oblivious, entitled university students. Plus I needed help, which meant I needed to co-opt a person—preferably a desperate one. Someone who had never known great wealth, who would thrill in the luxuries it would, for the first time, afford them, and fight to hold on to it.
It distressed me that I hadn’t met that person yet.
But as it turned out, I was about to.
CHAPTER 3
* * *
ASHLEY
Brando tugged on his leash with the urgency of an actress late for a callback. I knew the feeling all too well: running to auditions was my life. “You can’t book the role if you don’t go to the audition,” my acting coach used to preach. Problem was, I couldn’t book the role when I did go, either. And yet I stubbornly kept trying.
“OK, OK, slow down,” I commanded to big, floppy deaf ears. Brando knew once we turned the corner and started heading up the hill, I would let him off the leash, and he was growing increasingly impatient. Our street wasn’t busy, but there were enough cars and other dogs to make me nervous about letting Brando run free, even at this late hour. But once I turned onto the steep cul-de-sac at the end of our block, I often let him run a bit. The hill was dark and not very inviting. Hardly anybody ever went up there, especially on a foggy night like this.
I smooshed my cap over my frizz as we turned onto the dead-end street, then unclipped the leash. Brando ran ahead with reckless abandon, sniffing and raising his leg on everything in his path. I wondered what it was like to get excited about such simple things—A new smell! Kibble! A bush that smells like squirrel! I envied him for not having any ambitions beyond peeing on every tree. Why can’t I be more like my dog?
I know plenty of people are content to lead uncomplicated lives, but unfortunately, I’m not one of them. I probably shouldn’t admit it, but I felt jealous every time I heard about a former classmate getting a big casting. Why them and not me? I tried to be grateful for the journey. I’d read for tons of big-time casting directors, been on the lots of all the major studios, walked the same halls as some Hollywood legends—Elizabeth Taylor, Lucille Ball, Bette Davis. My experiences made me a fantastic tour guide. Customers loved hearing my imitations of casting directors’ monotone line readings and my stories about bumping into famous actors at the Starbucks on the lot. I knew I was torturing myself chasing a love that didn’t love me back, but I wasn’t ready to let go. It’s hard to leave a dream behind if you don’t have a new one to move toward.
“C’mere, Brando,” I called to my dog. I let him off the leash to have some freedom, but I still wanted him in my sights. There were no streetlights on this steep, wooded block, and the heavy clouds dispersed the moonlight into a thick, steamy glow. The only other source of light was from the houses—a front porch light, lamplight from an upstairs bedroom, solar torches on a front walk. Some people liked to light up their trees with spotlights in the ground, reminding you that night was the opposite of day, with light shining up instead of down.
As Brando trotted from tree to tree, I peered over fences and through thick iron bars, imagining what kind of people lived in the mansions just beyond. There were castles made of stone, white plantation-style houses with wide black shutters that looked right out of Gone with the Wind. There was a snooty English Tudor with pointy turrets and rosebushes for days. Even the smallest of these palatial estates was five times the size of the boxy Colonial I grew up in, and Jordan and I could have fit our rented cottage into any one of these house’s garages. Who are these people who live in these palaces? Celebrities? CEOs? Crime families? I knew what they cost—I’d looked them all up on Zillow. They were notable homes, and I was a tour guide—curiosity about their histories was practically a job requirement!
We were nearing the end of the block. The street was a dead end that fanned out into two driveways. The driveway on the right led to an inviting cream-colored Mediterranean with a motor court big enough to accommodate a dozen Range Rovers. A row of towering, evenly spaced palms along the perimeter completed the regal Old Hollywood vibe.
The other driveway was long and narrow and completely enshrouded by thick brush and trees. You couldn’t see the house at the end of it, and if I didn’t know better, I might have thought that driveway went on forever. Old-fashioned lampposts spaced too far apart did little to light the way beyond creating eerie shadows distorted by the uneven ground. A PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING! sign was nailed to a fence post spiraled in ivy, completing the unwelcoming facade. It was a scene right out of an old Scooby-Doo cartoon, spooky to the point of being almost comical.
I never lingered at this driveway. Its horror-movie vibe unsettled me, and I had no interest in knowing what sort of recluse lived at the end of it. So I was more than a little annoyed when Brando ventured past the first two lampposts like Scooby stumbling into a mystery.
“Brando, come!” I called to his fluffy backside as he trotted down the driveway. But he didn’t stop.
“Brando, come!” I commanded, a little louder this time. But he just kept going. A few seconds later, he had completely disappeared from view.
“Brando!” I shook the leash, hoping the clang of the metal hardware would signal I was serious. But it didn’t work. He didn’t come back.