The Notorious Pagan Jones

Devin Black would come to wake her up in a few hours. He’d be concerned when she didn’t respond and even more concerned when he saw the door wasn’t locked. He’d probably push his way into the room to throw back the coverlet. Then he’d see how she’d fooled him. He’d see her packed trunks still in the closet, waiting for transport to Berlin. He’d curse her when he saw that her smallest suitcase, the new Chanel purse, and the Dior suit dress were gone.

She was wearing that fabulous outfit now, her purse full of Daddy’s money, his papers in her bag. She was slick and chic and lighter than air. She floated downstairs and out the door. Through the clear air of the summer morning, she glimpsed the cab she had called waiting for her at the end of the drive. Let’s see Devin Black catch her now.

As the cab drove past the Episcopal Church on Hollywood and Gardner, Pagan swiveled her head to stare at the small group of people smoking outside. So they still had A.A. meetings there early in the morning.

Should she ask the driver to stop? She had promised Mercedes, after all. But then they were half a block, then a full block away and there was no point in turning around.

And she didn’t need a meeting. Dodging Devin Black had given her a high no glass of vodka could compete with, and she didn’t want to miss the early flight from LAX to New York.

Instead she made the driver pull over at a newsstand on Sunset, where she bought every silly tabloid magazine they had—Photoplay and Screenland, Modern Screen, the National Enquirer, and VIP. Plus Life, Time, Seventeen, Vogue, and anything else that looked juicy.

She’d read them on the plane, then mail them special delivery to Mercedes. She’d loved hearing Pagan’s insider stories about the celebrities on the magazine covers. Together they’d read every tattered copy of every old magazine in the reformatory.

The cab swept past the new War of the Worlds–looking Theme Building in front of the airport and up to the terminal by 6:00 a.m. Pagan carried her own bag to the ticket counter and asked about a flight to Berlin with a stopover in New York. Without Devin’s ticket in hand, she’d have to buy her own. Thanks to Daddy’s money stash, that wasn’t going to be a problem.

Devin had told her they were booked on TWA, so she went to the Pan Am counter. Better not to run into him on the plane. But Pan Am’s flight straight to London had already departed, and they confirmed that all the direct flights to New York were sold out, so she settled on a plane change in Chicago. It didn’t get her to New York in time to see a Broadway show, but the agent did help her call ahead to get a room at the Waldorf-Astoria that night, with a flight to Berlin the next morning.

Once on the plane, she settled into first class, happy the seat next to her was empty, until she realized that the stewardesses in their light blue uniforms and flat round hats were serving drinks. Alcoholic drinks.

In her suit dress, Pagan knew she looked much older than sixteen. It would be so easy to wander over to the tiny, exclusive first-class lounge before takeoff and order a Bloody Mary. Later there would be caviar and toast served on bone china, with maybe a glass or two of champagne.

To distract herself, she pulled out the stack of magazines. She made a note to read the article in Time on the Cold War, then scanned the covers of the fun magazines. According to Screen Stories, Liz Taylor’s plans for life were Full Speed Ahead! Movie Teen Illustrated had a Special Elvis Issue, and TV Star Parade featured Annette Funicello’s Tips for Teens: A Miss Should Kiss.

No kidding, Pagan thought. How else are you supposed to have any fun?

Then she caught the names Nicky Raven and Pagan Jones in large print on the next magazine cover, and her heart stopped.

She dropped the other magazines on top to cover it up, and looked around to see if anyone had seen it, or noticed her. But the other first-class passengers were gathered in the lounge, clinking glasses. Adult laughter filtered down the aisle, and a stewardess passed, bearing a tray of canapés.

What was her name doing on a magazine cover? She’d been out of the public eye for months, and Devin had gone to great lengths to keep her release from Lighthouse under wraps. Whatever else he was, Devin Black struck her as someone who could keep a secret.

Which meant she’d have to look at the magazine cover again to see what was going on. One by one, she slid the other magazines aside until she revealed the Star Insider again.

Her heart leaped into her throat when she saw Nicky on the cover. He wore a morning coat and top hat and was running down the steps of a church holding the hand of a pretty blonde girl in a long white dress and veil while people on either side of them threw rice.

That’s me, she thought. That’s us.

But it couldn’t be.

Nicky had stopped calling after the accident. She hadn’t heard from him in nine months. So what the hell…

She looked at the cover again and the words on it came into focus. Nicky Raven Marries Pagan Jones Look-Alike! Exclusive Photos and Interview with Bridesmaid Inside.

Pagan’s heart was running a crazy race inside her chest. Images fought for space in her head. Nicky kissing her naked shoulder. Nicky singing “I love you,” in her ear, soft and low. Nicky shouting “Hey, beautiful! I’m gonna marry you!”

She forced herself to look at the cover, to really see it.

Nicky was married.

To someone who wasn’t Pagan.

To someone who looked like Pagan.

Hands shaking, she picked up the magazine and riffled the pages till she saw a photo of a convertible Rolls-Royce pulling away. Nicky was waving from the backseat with his other arm around the blonde woman in white. The Rolls had a sign on the back that said Just Married, and strings of tin cans fixed to the bumper.

Pagan squeezed her eyes shut, trying to come up with some other explanation. Nicky was starring in a movie where his character got married; Nicky was doing a photo shoot to advertise a particular designer or tailor; Nicky’s new album had a song about getting married, and these were possible photos for the cover.

She forced her eyes open and ran them over the print of the article. The information didn’t register at first, until she saw a phrase in the interview, spoken by the bridesmaid: “People need to stop comparing Donna to Pagan Jones. Donna’s much prettier and sweeter, and she certainly never killed anyone. Nicky loves Donna for who she is, not who she looks like.”

Pagan stared into the accompanying close-up photo of Mrs. Donna Godocik Raven. She was taller than Pagan, as tall as Nicky in her heels. Her eyes were blue instead of brown, her nose more upturned, her face more heart-shaped. But otherwise, she did look like Pagan.

Probably a nondrinking version with no deadly car crashes on her résumé.

According to the chipper magazine copy, Donna was nineteen and an up-and-coming actress, with a few small supporting roles in Paramount films to her credit. She and Nicky had met “thanks to mutual friends.”

Friends. Ha! More likely their mutual publicists.

Nicky’s reputation must have been tarnished by his association with Pagan after her conviction. It could only help him to be seen dating a clean-cut young woman who wasn’t Pagan.

But did he have to marry her? Pagan had last spoken to Nicky a few hours before she’d crashed the Corvette. His last words to her had been, “I love you, Pigeon.”

Pigeon, his pet version of Pagan. She hadn’t liked it at first. But later she’d basked in the way his smooth baritone caressed its vowels. Love could change anything. While she’d been in Lighthouse, she would’ve taken a month in solitary just to have heard him say those words again.

But he’d never called, never visited.

There were no quotes from Nicky in the article. It was mostly fluff about the wedding dress and statements from Donna’s friends and family. Then Pagan caught sight of Nicky’s mother Octavia and his three older brothers clustered in the back of a photo, and the stone in her chest turned into an anvil. The wedding was real. Mrs. Randazzo was a warm, no-nonsense Italian-American widow, and despite Nicky’s success, she still lived in the family’s same small apartment in Brooklyn. Nicky visited her three or four times a year without fail. The family was very close, and Pagan had loved becoming part of it once she’d started dating Nicky.

If Mrs. R and Nicky’s brothers had traveled all the way to the Church of the Good Shepherd in Beverly Hills to attend this wedding, it was the real deal.

Pagan threw the Star Insider aside and tore through the other gossip magazines, looking for more coverage. She found it in three other places, each with very similar photographs, but no further information other than how well Nicky’s new single was doing on the charts. So he did have a new song out. Finally, in the fourth magazine, she found the date of the wedding­: August 5, 1961.

Just three days ago.

While Pagan and Mercedes were planning their escape from Lighthouse, Nicky had been getting married.

What if she’d escaped one day earlier and called him? Would he have gone through with this marriage?

She shook her head at herself. Don’t be thick. Nicky would never have taken her call. Immediately after the accident, she had called him a hundred times. He’d never answered his phone or called her back. Why would it be any different now?

It was still hard to believe that he hadn’t had the guts to formally break up with her after all they’d been to each other. It was unlike the Nicky she’d thought she knew. She couldn’t help being angry about it, but she always came back to the horror of what she’d done. How could anyone want to see her or speak to her, let alone be her boyfriend, after that?

“Champagne, miss?”

A blue skirt and jacket swayed into her peripheral vision, and a pretty dark-haired young woman bent her knees to lower a tray bearing several flutes buzzing with champagne.

Pagan automatically took one of the flutes and sipped. Bubbles tickled her nose. The faint burn of the alcohol singed her tongue.

So delicious. So familiar.

So…wrong!

She abruptly set the glass back down on the tray so hard, some of the golden liquor sloshed out.

The stewardess caught the edge of the tray to keep it from tipping. “I’m sorry. Can I get you something else?”

“No,” Pagan said. “No, I’m sorry. Thank you.”

See, she still had everything under control. She could find out the boy she loved was married and even accidentally taste alcohol without giving in to temptation.

Further proof A.A. was unnecessary. She was cool.

She tried to smile at the stewardess. The woman turned her own lips up with professional grace, then her gaze ran over Pagan’s face, and the smile faded. Her eyes widened in recognition. Her mouth, professionally lacquered in coral lipstick, parted, then closed, then parted again.

“How about a Coke, honey?” she asked, low and kind. “Or we carry Sprite now, too. It’s like 7Up.”

Pagan swallowed. The pity in the woman’s face came close to undoing her self-control. “A Coke would be great. Thanks.”

This time the stewardess’s smile was small and real. “Coming right up.”

She strode away, and Pagan took a tissue out of the beautiful black patent leather Chanel bag and quietly blew her nose. Very quickly, the stewardess brought the Coke in a bottle with a glass full of ice on the side, as well as some crackers and cheese.

“Eat a little something, too, maybe?” she said. “We won’t be taking off for another ten minutes or so.”

“Thank you.” It came out very low, almost a whisper.

The stewardess patted Pagan’s shoulder. “Just let me know if you need anything, mmkay?”

Pagan nodded, and the woman left her alone. She managed three crackers and a square of cheese before she set the food on the empty seat beside her, got up with studied composure, walked down the aisle, and locked herself in the tiny lavatory to cry.

* * *

By the time she hit Chicago’s Midway Airport, Pagan had full possession of herself again, but she kept her sunglasses on. Her skin was buzzing with the anxiety of being recognized, of how people’s reactions might undo her. She distracted herself by tapping back into her anger over the nerve of Devin Black. Maybe his failure to keep tabs on her would get him fired. Someone else would be assigned to be her minder. Anyone would be better than him, even if he was cuter than Elvis Presley.

She’d devoted far too many thoughts to Devin, so she forced him aside by finding a lonely seat in the first-class lounge at the airport and pulling out the files from Daddy’s safe for another look.

Looking again at the signature on the letters to her mother, Pagan drew a blank on the name Rolf von Albrecht.

She turned the paper over again and saw the date.

1952…

Something jolted from her memory. That had been the year the Renoir-giving German Doctor Someone had visited. Maybe Doctor Someone was Rolf von Albrecht.

The tall, skinny man with the squeaky, nasal voice had stayed with them in the winter of ’52 for a couple of weeks, barely speaking to anyone except for Mama, and then mostly in Daddy’s office with the door locked. He’d departed quietly the morning after a late-night, knock-down fight between her parents, never to be seen again.

Pagan focused on the unfamiliar language in the letter. She’d been pretty fluent in German once upon a time thanks to her early years speaking to Grandmama, but after many years away from it, the German-reading part of her brain stop-started like a rusty engine.

Fortunately, most of it was in simple language, and the more she read, the more German came back to her.

But the letter was weirdly benign and boring. Whole paragraphs consisted of sentences like As summer arrives, I find myself wishing it was November again.

Pagan had been braced for evidence that her mother had somehow betrayed her father with this Rolf von Albrecht guy. Instead, it was nothing but sunny days, back pain, and roast turkey.

All the letters were like that, stilted and dull, filled with memories of anonymous landscapes, walks in the garden, and purchasing tickets to the opera. The relentless banality was oddly chilling. No one would write letters this pointless every week for months.

No one would have kept something so meaningless in a safe.

Unless… The thought was ludicrous. But what if there was more going on, literally, between the lines?

She shoved away the memory of the taste of that champagne by plunging into an attempt to find some sort of cipher in the letters. But two hours later, safely ensconced in first class on the plane to New York, she’d found no obvious code or hidden message. If there was any truth to her instinct, finding proof was going to take a lot more work, and right now her stomach hurt. So she put them and her own boring file away.

She was doing the same with Ava’s folder when a photograph fell out of it into her lap.

Pagan threw her gaze up toward the airplane’s ceiling, not wanting to see her younger sister’s face.

Ava had been twelve when she died, blonder than Pagan, but people said she wasn’t as pretty because she was more serious and smiled less. The truth was that Ava had been beautiful because she didn’t smile when she didn’t feel like it. Pagan could only dream of being as confident as her little sister had been.

Pagan swallowed hard and looked down at the photograph. It lay sideways on her lap—a shot of Ava at age three seated next to seven-year-old Pagan on the piano bench. Pagan had both arms around her sister and was grinning ear to ear as she squeezed her tight. Ava, taking the hug for granted, stared down at the piano keys, chubby fingers already reaching for a chord.

Dang it, she was not going to cry again.

She hastily put the photo back into its folder and continued going through the others. She’d learned how to conjure tears on cue for her movie roles, and she could damn well do it in reverse now.

She came to the last folder, labeled Eva Murnau Jones.

Murnau. That had been her mother’s maiden name. Eva’s mother’s name was Ursula, her father’s was Emil. That was everything Pagan knew about that side of her family.

She opened the folder and paged past bank statements and the dull, posed pictures of Mama with her hair freshly done. Near the back of the file lay a white-bordered photo, smaller, grainier, and very different from the rest. In it a handsome blonde woman around thirty years old stood in front of a worn stone building. She was smiling, holding a swaddled baby in her arms.

Pagan flipped the photo over. In fading script someone had written: Ursula mit Eva, 1924.

Grandmama and Mama had moved to Los Angeles in 1925, so this must have been taken in Berlin when Mama was an infant. Pagan scanned the photo for anything that might identify where it had been taken, but there was no street sign or building number, just a glowering winged griffin carved in stone over the door.

There couldn’t be more than one building with that design in Berlin. Funny how that’s where she was headed now.

Maybe it was nothing. But all of a sudden, more than anything, she wanted to walk the street where her grandmother had held her infant mother, maybe even explore the building where Mama had lived. She didn’t know what going there might tell her, but any tiny glimpse she could get into her mother’s life or her mother’s mind was precious.

All she had now of her family was the past.

As she plunged into reading the script for Neither Here Nor There, two people across the aisle began glancing over at her furtively, whispering. She sank back against the plane’s round window and lifted the script to block her face.

Fortunately, the script was smart and funny, mocking both capitalism and socialism at every turn. Pagan was slated to play Violet, a flirtatious teenage Southern belle who caused havoc wherever she went. She swiftly fell in love with a handsome young Communist and secretly married him, much to the horror of her family, particularly her rabidly capitalist father. Although James Brennan, former star of gangster movies and expert tap dancer, was the star, her role wasn’t far behind his in size. Jerry Allenberg had been right about one thing at least—this was a pip of a role, and she’d better not mess it up.

She let everyone else get off first at Idlewild Airport. She stepped out the door onto the metal bridge under the vast, saucer-shaped overhang, and the warm humid air was enough to make her remove her gloves and unbutton the top of her dress. The metal rungs clattered beneath her heels as she walked toward the gleaming terminal.

It was past eight o’clock at night, and she was hungry again. Time to catch a cab to the Waldorf and order some room service. Maybe a big juicy steak. She could get the concierge to mail the stack of magazines to Mercedes at Lighthouse, with a note to say hi. Maybe it wasn’t too late to call M. She had to tell someone about Nicky and that Donna woman.

Thinking about Nicky being married again literally made her heart ache. As she entered the terminal, Pagan pressed one hand against the painful spot. She was too young to have a heart attack, wasn’t she?

“Hello, Pagan.”

She jerked her head up, hand clutching the fabric at her throat.

A slim figure in a perfectly tailored black suit detached itself from the shadows and stepped into a pool of light.

Devin Black was in New York, waiting for her.

The maître d’ swept his narrowed gaze over Devin and Pagan. When he looked up, he was smiling. They had passed some unspoken test. “Welcome to the Panorama Room,” he said. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Do we need one?” Devin stepped closer and slid a folded bill into the man’s ready left hand.

“Not at all!” The maître d’ slipped the money into the interior pocket of his suit jacket. “This way, please!”

He led them across the polka-dot carpet around the perimeter of the dimly lit circular lounge, to a table overlooking the restaurant’s sweeping view of the curving interior of the Pan Am Terminal. Taking hold of one of the transparent Lucite chairs, the maître d’ slid it back and bowed a little toward Pagan. “Mademoiselle.”

Pagan sank down on the cushioned seat as Devin sat opposite. Below them the white expanse of the new terminal spread like some adult version of Tomorrowland. On a Tuesday night, the place was quiet, the baggage check-in empty. Ladies in Pan Am blue rested their elbows against the white seat-selection counter, talking in low voices. A few waiting passengers smoked in rows of square padded seats, feet up on coffin-shaped tables. Beyond the outer wall, or rather, a curtain of glass, skycaps waited for arriving passengers on a wide concrete porch.

A white-coated waiter arrived to turn their water glasses over and give them menus. Devin waved him away. “I’ll have a salad with vinaigrette and a flank steak, medium rare.”

Pagan’s simmering frustration and anger at being tracked down nearly boiled over. That was exactly what she wanted to order. She pondered snatching a menu and making them both wait for a good long time while she pretended to decide, but she was hungry. “I’ll have the same,” she said.

The waiter put the menus under his arm with a flourish. “And to drink?”

She looked Devin dead in the eye. “Water.”

Devin smiled. “As the lady said. And please let the cook know we have to catch the flight to Berlin in an hour.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll put your order at the top of the list.” The waiter gave a little bow and hustled off.

Pagan kept staring at Devin. “I know how you did it.”

He stared back. “And I know how you did it.”

That almost threw her, but she plowed on. “Somehow you arranged for every seat on every direct flight to New York to be sold out, which forced me to do a stopover in Chicago. That delayed me long enough to let you get here first.”

His blue eyes narrowed. “Your father had a bunch of cash in his safe, and you knew the combination.”

“And you have your own boatload of cash—enough to buy up every empty seat on every plane to New York,” she said. “The benefits of working for a big movie studio.”

“You know every creaky board in your house,” he said.

She shrugged. “The benefits of a misspent youth.”

He opened his hands as if releasing all control. “Perhaps all this was meant to be.”

“Nicky used to say that all the time, about the two of us,” she said with heat. “We were ‘meant to be.’ Turns out he was full of baloney, and so are you.”

His expression got serious. “So you heard about Nicky.”

She shot him a poisonous look and said nothing.

He studied her, eyebrows furrowed. “I wanted to break that to you gently.”

She took a sip of water to calm herself. “Nicky told me he would marry me the first day we met. I told him I’d never get married, but he didn’t believe me. Nobody believes me.”

“He’s a romantic.” Devin’s voice was dry. “Romantics believe what they’re saying when they say it. And they believe it just as much when they say the opposite a few days later.”

“He had rheumatic fever when he was a kid, and it damaged his heart.” Pagan took another sip of water, watching Devin’s face closely. He didn’t appear surprised, even though Nicky’s condition wasn’t public knowledge. “It makes him want to live every moment to the fullest. He doesn’t pussyfoot around. He jumps right in.”