THREE
AN UNEXPECTED DIVIDEND
The enormous kitchen could have served a small resort. A six-burner gas stove occupied a marble island beneath a copper canopy. An Eskimo family would have found the walk-in refrigerator commodious. Kendall opened the massive steel door, releasing a chill blast which felt good in the morning sun. He stepped inside. His breath formed a white duster in the air.
Rack after steel rack was empty except for a case of Dos Equis, a box of Arm and Hammer, a stack of frozen California Kitchen pizzas, and a liter bottle of Mountain Dew.
“Looks just like my fridge back home,” he said, stepping out and shutting the door.
The breakfast nook bulged into the courtyard hexagonally, with a hexagonal hardwood table and chairs—designed by Smith himself—featuring the lily and firefly motif. The study and living room were connected by an elegant stucco arch decorated with Smith’s characteristic hexagons. Stone pillars and a jutting mantle framed the massive fireplace in the study beneath a multi-paneled skylight. A framed animation cell from Velva Visits Venus hung on the wall.
Most of the rooms featured skylights, including the bathrooms. Built-in bookshelves lined the study. The shelves were filled with books, DVDs, and VHS tapes. Kendall walked to the wall and scanned the titles. Showbiz bios. Brando For Breakfast. Mommy Dearest. Samuel Goldwyn, Chaplin, Hepburn, Cary Grant. The classics. Conversations with Dead Movie Stars by Portia DeManning.
In the center of the wall was an entertainment console featuring an enormous old-school television framed by Harmon Kardon speakers and a Bose CD system.
Maureen removed a framed Picasso print from one wall revealing a circular safe. “I think the number’s in here . . . ” She opened the door. A slip of paper had been taped to the back side. “Yes. Here it is.” She closed the safe and put the painting back.
A Steinway baby grand sat in the corner of the den. “That goes with the house,” Maureen said.
Numerous vertical windows faced the inner courtyard. The skylights in the bedrooms and bathrooms featured an interlocking circle design that reminded Kendall of the Olympics or Audi. The massive master bedroom king-sized bed rested on a pyramidal hardwood base with a wrap-around headboard that rose and jutted horizontally over the bed. Kendall threw himself down on the bed raising a puff of dust redolent of the pyramids. The canopy underside was mirrored.
“Wallanda, you old perv!”
Maureen followed Kendall’s gaze. “Oh, my. I never noticed that before.”
A pair of eyebolts jutted from the footboard and the headboard. The built-in bureau featured a honeycomb motif with a large vertical mirror framed by honeycomb panels. The walk-in closet could fit a Smart car. The other four bedrooms were commodious except for the one off the kitchen obviously intended for live-in help.
“What about the garage?” Kendall said.
Maureen smiled and headed for the rear of the courtyard where a double-gated door opened on a promontory overlooking the Los Angeles basin. “Wallanda bought the house next door, tore it down, and built a heated eight-car unit. Shortly after his death his son, who had power of attorney, sold the lot to a developer who built that Spanish style next door. Let me show you.”
She walked around the back of the house, up the overgrown hedgerow, and gestured through the creeping wisteria at the red-tile-topped stucco next door. “Just as well because the property taxes on the house alone are substantial. However, the house is not without a garage. There’s a three-car garage at street level where we came in. It’s three cars deep, not three cars wide.”
“I didn’t even notice,” Kendall said. “What about the theater?”
“That’s in the basement,” Maureen said heading toward the rear. They returned to the kitchen.
A door next to the walk-in refrigerator led to the basement. Maureen gripped the handle, turned, and pulled. Her hand slipped off. “It’s stuck,” she said, gripping the handle in both hands. She tugged, grimacing.
“Let me try,” Kendall said stepping up. He used both hands, turned the knob and pulled. The door held fast against all his might. He looked for a lock. There was none. “That’s peculiar.”
“You know, maybe the house shifted a little, and it got caught in the frame. We have about one earthquake a week out here.”
“Seriously?”
Maureen nodded. “Most of them are so minor you don’t even notice. It’s like a garbage truck passing in the street. You only hear about the big ones.”
“So it’s only a matter of time before the San Andreas Fault splits like a soggy bag, and the whole state slides into the sea.”
“That’s about the size of it,” the realtor said. “Grab it while you can.”
They went back through the house via the other wing. “Why did the last occupant leave all those books and furniture?”
“Well the furniture goes with the house,” Maureen said. “Smith designed most of it. As for the books, I have no idea. They’re part of the property now so whoever buys the house gets the books.”
“Have you ever been down in the basement?”
“Never have,” Maureen held the front door for Kendall, closed it behind her, closed the squeaky gate, threaded the chain back through the holes, and clicked shut the lock. They descended the steep, narrow stair to the street and arrived at the garage, tucked into and under the hill. Maureen searched through her key ring, tried several before finding the right one. She unlocked the garage door. Kendall grabbed the handle and lifted, causing the segmented door to roll back into the ceiling with the sound of a train stopping.
Immediately inside the entrance, a tan tarp covered a vehicle. The tarp itself was covered with a fine patina of dust. Kendall grabbed the end and lifted, revealing the distinctive round taillights and duck’s ass of a ’65 Corvette convertible. They stared at it in silence. The metallic blue fiberglass appeared to be in good shape. The license plate said PRINCS.
“Does this come with the house?” Kendall said hopefully.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to check the title. Likely its title and registration have lapsed so I would say yes.”
Kendall dry swallowed. He’d always loved Corvettes and had long since given up any hope of owning one, until Shirley’s death and the insurance settlement. Even then it was just a dream as he planned to sink every cent into the house and his move to LA. His mental calculator spun like a slot machine.
Kendall found a wall switch and flipped it. Harsh fluorescent light illuminated a shotgun garage extending sixty feet under the hill. The garage was much bigger than he’d thought. Beyond the Corvette at the very rear was a door that probably led to the basement, a workbench against the back wall, and an open door to a washroom. Everything the aspiring mechanic could want.
“You could fit three cars in here,” Maureen said.
Kendall looked at his cheap Timex watch. He had a meeting with Nate Polis on the Wyrick lot in Glendale in an hour.
“Do you have to get going?” Maureen said.
“Yes. But I love the house. I’ll put together an offer.”
Maureen clapped her hands. “Wonderful. I know you’ll be very happy.”