Although, she hadn’t been one for a long time now. For a while after the kidnapping, her mother’s already waning career had been revived. It hadn’t lasted. She had already been forty-five at the time, the age when Hollywood’s sex symbols began metamorphosing into movie moms. Those roles went to Oscar-caliber actresses. Something her mother had never been, not even at the zenith of her acting career.
The sad fact was, her mother had now reached an age where, save for an occasional television commercial or local theater production, there simply wasn’t any work to be had.
It had been hard for her mother to accept, though she had survived. When her marriage to Anna’s father had ended, she’d left southern California and moved back to her hometown, Charleston, South Carolina.
There, she was still a star, still the Savannah North—the part she had been born to play.
Smiling with anticipation, Anna settled on the floor in front of the TV and pressed the play button. A moment later the screen was filled with her mother, gorgeous in a peacock-blue silk suit and diamonds.
Anna smiled and munched on her goldfish-shaped crackers, watching as her mother came to life before the camera, preening for the interviewer, every bit the celebrity. She was still so beautiful, Anna thought. Still the flame-haired, green-eyed bombshell that the American public—particularly the male public—had loved to ogle.
The interviewer went to work. He remained unseen. From growing up around cameras and taping, Anna knew it would be easy to piece in the interviewer later. Many taped interviews were done exactly that way.
The man questioned her mother about her work: about being a screen goddess: about the movies and television series she had starred in. They talked about the Hollywood of the fifties, about the stars of the day, Savannah’s romantic conquests.
Then the interview changed directions. The videographer began to question Savannah about her personal life: her divorce, her move back to Charleston and her only child, little Harlow Grail.
Anna straightened at the mention of her own name, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. The interviewer pressed on despite the wrinkle of discomfort that marred her mother’s forehead. He discussed the “tragic” kidnapping, its aftermath on Savannah’s marriage, their family, on Harlow’s psyche.
Anna studied her mother’s reactions to the questions, acknowledging the interviewer’s skill. He alternated between adulatory and accusing, admiring and suspicious, seeming to know not only which of her mother’s buttons to push, but when to push them. He went so far as to comment on the way her career had profited by the tragedy.
The last infuriated Anna. She saw through the man’s manipulation to what he was attempting to do. Obviously her mother did not. She folded like a house of cards, becoming apologetic and defensive.
He used her discomfort to his advantage, moving in for the kill. “It’s just tragic,” he murmured, “that Harlow never overcame her kidnapping. She had such strength and courage, it must hurt you terribly to have watched her disappear into obscurity. I can only imagine how angry and…helpless you must feel.”
“Harlow has certainly not disappeared,” she said proudly, jumping to her daughter’s defense. “She’s a novelist, living in New Orleans. And quite a successful novelist, I might add. Her first two thrillers received rave reviews.”
Anna’s heart began to thunder; she felt ill. In one fell swoop her mother had revealed not only her occupation but her city of residence as well.
“A mystery novelist?” the interviewer murmured. “I’m surprised I hadn’t heard this before. It seems the name Harlow Grail alone would have made her a bestseller.”
“She’s taken a pseudonym. After what she lived through, she prefers to avoid the spotlight. I’m sure you understand.”
The interviewer made a sound of sympathy. To Anna’s ears it sounded false. “Oh, I do. Completely. But surely you can tell us a little more? After all, the story of Harlow’s nightmare ordeal and daring escape held all of America captivated for seventy-two hours. We feared for her, then cheered for her. She was, and still is, one of our heroes. Could you at least share a title with us?”
“I wish I could, but—”
“What about her publisher? Is it Doubleday? Cheshire House?” He saw by her expression that the last had been correct. “Cheshire House publishes some big names in suspense. Would Harlow be one of those?”
Anna hit the pause button, struggling to catch her breath. She felt as if she had been struck in the chest by a baseball, one speeding off a professional’s bat.
Blood pounding in her ears, she stared at the television, at the frozen image of her mother. Her mother had revealed everything about Anna but her new name and phone number: her city of residence, occupation and the kind of books she wrote. She supposed she should be grateful her mother hadn’t mentioned The Perfect Rose or announced her street address.
Calm down. Don’t panic. Assess the damage.
Anna breathed through her nose, ticking off the facts in her head. New Orleans was a big city, one with a large community of writers. Nothing in her publisher’s materials revealed the city in which she lived, including her author bio. Cheshire House published quite a number of mysteries and suspense novels; her mother hadn’t mentioned the exact month her book was scheduled to appear.
Or had she? Anna glanced down at the remote control, still clutched in her hand. Without giving herself time to reconsider and chicken out, she hit the play button.
The video advanced. Her mother looked distressed, near tears. The interviewer wrapped the segment; a moment later the television screen went to black.
Black save for the crudely executed white words that flashed onto the screen:
Surprise, princess.
E! Today at three.
8
Saturday, January 13 3:10 p.m.
Saturday at three sneaked up on Ben, so much so that he missed the first ten minutes of the E! program, one about unsolved Hollywood mysteries. He sank back against the sofa cushions, exhausted. He’d fallen asleep at his research last night and, although he only had a vague recollection of doing so, he’d stumbled to his bed sometime during the night. He had awakened just before dawn, lying horizontally across the bed, completely dressed and feeling as if he had spent hours out howling at the moon instead of slumped over a desk.
The show cut to commercial break. As it did, the narrator urged viewers to stay tuned. Up next: Fairy Tale Turned Nightmare: The Harlow Anastasia Grail Kidnapping.
Ben leaned forward in his seat, instantly alert. The Grail kidnapping was one of those cases that resurfaced in the media every few years. It possessed all the elements to make its appeal timeless: beautiful people with Hollywood connections, wealth, children in danger, both a tragic and triumphant ending, an unsolved mystery.
The narrator returned, briefly recounting the tale of the little Hollywood princess and the day she and her friend had disappeared from the stable on the Grail’s Beverly Hills estate. The show recounted the story in news clips from the time and in dramatic reenactments—including one of Harlow Grail’s daring escape.
Ben hung on every word. He realized he was holding his breath and released it slowly. Whatever happened to her? he wondered. After enduring such an ordeal, what had she become? How had the horror of those three days affected the person she was today? The choices she’d made and the relationships she’d forged?
Even as the questions filtered through his brain, the show switched to a recent interview with Savannah Grail. Minutes later, the show’s focus shifted to another mystery.
Ben flipped off the TV and sat back, intrigued. Harlow Grail’s story would be an incredible addition to his book. She had