Fool Me Twice

2

The insistent ringing of the doorbell at her Beverly Hills estate finally caught Marisol Hinton’s attention.

She struggled to stand. Once she was on her feet, she was reminded of the pain all over again.

She peered through the peephole. Standing outside was her agent, Sarah Fine.

Sarah was a severe-looking woman engaged in a losing battle with her weight. A loose-fitting black Armani suit worn over a gray silk blouse barely camouflaged her problem. The five-hundred-dollar José Eber haircut helped only a little.

“I’m not really up for company,” Marisol said, loudly enough for Sarah to hear.

“I’ll keep ringing until you let me in,” Sarah said.

After a while, Marisol sighed, unlocked the door, and stepped aside so that Sarah could enter. Then she closed the door and locked it.

Marisol Hinton was currently one of Hollywood’s flavor-of-the-month starlets. She was an adroit comedienne, still a beauty at age twenty-seven, and sexy enough to hold the screen opposite the rash of young leading men who were themselves vying for stardom.

“Let me look at you,” Sarah said.

Marisol shied away, hiding her face.

“Show me,” Sarah said.

She turned her face to Sarah.

Her left eye was deeply discolored and swollen shut. There was a cut on her left cheek, the result of his ring having raked her face when he hit her.

“My God,” Sarah said. “You have to do something.”

“I changed the locks. I heightened the security watch.”

“That’s not enough. You have to call the police.”

Marisol shrugged.

Her mansion was located in the storied Holmby Hills neighborhood of Beverly Hills. It had once been owned by Groucho Marx, and in its heyday, the gated estate played host to the cream of old Hollywood. It boasted a kidney-shaped swimming pool with a grotto, a Pancho Segura–designed tennis court, a koi pond, which often fell victim to marauding raccoons, and a screening room that Groucho himself had designed, with comfortable seating for twenty.

“You’ve seen the doctor,” Sarah said.

“Not much he could do.”

Sarah reached out and took Marisol in her arms.

“Please let me help you,” she said. “The agency has a very long reach in this town.”

“I’m a big girl. I should have known better.” She sighed.

“I thought he’d be a star,” she said. “I had visions of us as the new power couple.”

Sarah released her and stepped back.

“You’ve gotten an offer,” Sarah said. “Picture called A Taste of Arsenic.”

Marisol looked at Sarah.

“Starts filming in four weeks. Eliza Morgan is pregnant and had to withdraw. They want you.”

“Four weeks,” Marisol said.

She touched her face.

“What hasn’t healed we’ll fix with makeup,” Sarah said.

“Can I read it?”

Sarah reached into her bag and handed her the screenplay.

“They need to know today.”

“I’ll read it now.”

“It shoots on the East Coast. A perfect opportunity to get away from him.”

“Where?”

“Small town in Massachusetts.”

“Which one?”

“I doubt you’ve heard of it. A place called Paradise.”