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  “Naturally vee vill go along,” said the rich melodious male voice. “It is for home. Our people.” The man had a heavy accent and trouble with his ‘w’s.

  “And this?” The woman’s voice was grave. “It make you strange. It can kill even.”

  “But my dear—” The velvety words were steeped in irony. “Dying, it is my living.”

  I hesitated just outside the doorway to the spacious kitchen. The sweet-spicy scent I’d picked up on my approach was new to my senses, but what I saw before me recalled the castle scene at MGM. At least in that I was staring at a legendary castle occupant.

  Clean-shaven, his dark hair slicked with pomade, he was dressed in formal white-tie wear, complete with raised-collar cape. He sat at a wooden table strewn with an assortment of colored bottles and dried herbs. Beside him, a knockout blonde maybe twenty years old. Her simple black dress with a high collar was accented by large buttons sweeping away from the neckline to dash in perfect formation down the side to the skirt’s hem.

  The twosome eyed a small open case on the table as I walked in. They both noticed me at the same moment. From their startled looks, it was obvious I had surprised them

  “I am DRAH-cool-ahhh,” the count said, recovering first. “I bid you velcome.”

  The young woman giggled. I laughed, too, but I didn’t miss the graceful swoop of the count’s hand as he flipped the lid of the plush-lined case closed.

  I got a quick glance. A vial and hypodermic needle? A strange vision. But then it had been a strange day.

  “Mr. Lugosi,” I said, feeling both a thrill and a chill in saying the name out loud. I was a horror picture fan. They scared me to the bone, but I loved them. And Lugosi was horror, the embodiment of evil in film.

  “Loo-go-she,” he corrected me, standing. “Bay-lah.”

  Lugosi’s career had suffered a dip in recent years. An article I’d read in a gossip rag claimed that the star, now in his sixties, had a serious drinking problem, which caused his extra weight, his bloated face, and the fact that he’d begun to look his age. I regarded the Lugosi before me, a tall figure dressed to the nines in his elegant cape. True, his face was no longer lean and so handsome as in his early movies, but he was still good-looking. And his dashing aristocratic bearing was unmistakable–in his posture, in the slight tilt of his head.

  Bowing, he took my hand as I introduced myself and kissed it. “Lovely,” he said, straightening up.

  A pleasant sensation lingered on the back of my hand. I did my best to meet his gaze evenly. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  The eyes that on screen were luminous and inhuman, menacing and hypnotic, in person looked kind. Human. Especially when he smiled and the expression lines at the corners of his eyes deepened as he repeated my name—“Pooo-chi”—emphasizing the first syllable, drawing it out as though delighting in the sound.

  The woman flashed perfect white teeth in a broad smile. “Huh-lo, welcome,” she said in a pleasant lilting voice. “I am Ilka Maki, the house caretaker. We did not know when precisely to expect you. The Mr. and Mrs. they have barely just arrived themselves. From Florida. And, well, now with Uncle Bela’s surprise arrival, I am afraid I did neglect the front door. So sorry.”

  She wiped her hands on her skirt, which drew my attention back to the cut of the dress. It fit her shapely Jane Russell figure like a glove. Her shoulder-length hair was movie star gorgeous as well. Waved over one eye peek-a-boo style, ala Veronica Lake, it was dyed Jean Harlow platinum. The silvery blonde shade—definitely not from a drug store kit—looked striking against her olive skin. There was a resemblance to Lake in the full lips, wide-set cheekbones and “good nose” also, except that Ilka’s features were flatter. More interesting than the conventional Hollywood beauty, I thought, and she had exceptional tawny eyes.

  What was such a dazzling being doing working as a maid?

  While I’d been assessing Ilka, she’d been regarding me. “But what has happened édesem, my dear? You look as though the day it tossed you this way and that. Maybe you would like to freshen up before dinner?”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Lia, she is making the meal for you and for the others.” She gestured to the cook.

  A recent Hungarian immigrant, Lia did not speak any English but made up for her silence with a nonstop grin displaying gold-rimmed teeth. When I’d entered the kitchen she’d been at a large, industrial-looking stove, stirring a giant pot. She glanced over as we were introduced then turned back to the countertop near the sink where she rhythmically chopped one of the green apples from a cluster of them nearby. Around her, the walls and counters were lined with built-in cabinets and appliances. Pots and pans dangled from a wrought iron rack attached to the ceiling. Some kitchen. Lia looked content, but I’d take the gadgetry inside a cockpit any day.

  “Uncle Bela,” Ilka rested her hand on Lugosi’s arm, “is going out tonight to a fundraiser—”

  Lugosi laughed deeply. “I vill give blood for de vor effort. Imagine. Count Drah-cool-ahhh donating blood instead of drinking it.”

  I laughed, enjoying his sense of humor and theatrics.

  “For the causes—” Ilka paused, her tawny eyes twinkling. “The cause of publicity for your new A-picture, too!” She shot Lugosi an affectionate smile.

  An A-picture was good news for Lugosi. A few years ago, Hollywood had stopped making horror pictures altogether. The Raven, in which Lugosi played a mad neurological surgeon with Boris Karloff as his monstrous-looking assistant, with its themes of torture, disfigurement, and grisly revenge was so terrifying that British parents launched a protest, prompting a British ban of horror films. Hollywood studios, which derived a large portion of their income from Great Britain, halted production of the films. The hiatus lasted two years, and when horror made a comeback the plum lead roles were no longer Lugosi’s. Instead, he was offered only bit parts by the major studios. Frustrated, he’d opted for lead roles in low-budget B-movies at Monogram.

  “Congratulations Mr. Lugosi. You’re doing publicity…Is the movie out? What’s it called?”

  “Return of the Vampire.” He swept his arm to his face, partly hiding it with his cape. The cape fell away, revealing a different facet of Lugosi. Disappointment. “The premiere, it has been delayed.”

  Ilka patted his shoulder near the stiff stand up collar. “Universal will issue Son of Dracula with Lon Chaney, Jr., this month. When Columbia hear this, they decide not to compete—in spite of having name of Lugosi to tout. Return of the Vampire will debut in January now, they say.”

  “I’ll be first in line,” I volunteered.

  “But first tonight vee vill draw blood from the lines of people who vill attend the gala. It is rumored Paul Litvik vill be there.” He flexed his eyebrows at Ilka.

  She traced the curve of the platinum wave partly covering her face. “Besides housekeeper, I am actress. I have audition day after tomorrow. Mr. Litvik is the director. Uncle Bela knows Litvik. He thinks there will be chance to whisper in his ear…”

  “Hooray. More wonderful news,” I said.

  “Is only small part. No speaking lines. My accent…”

  Lugosi swatted the air with his hand. “Your accent it is part of your charm. Think of how I speak. It has become one of my greatest assets.”

  Or a curse. According to the gossip rag, Lugosi’s sore point was that his roles were not varied, which wasted his talent. Didn’t his signature accent—his famous pauses and intonations—play into the typecasting?

  Four bottles of wine stood on the table along with the colored bottles and herbs. The small leather case had been tucked in close to the wine. Lugosi noticed where my eyes had strayed.

  He lifted a green bottle labeled Tokaji.

  “Tow-KAI,” he said, “is king of Hungarian wines. A sweet white.” He set the bottle down and with a flourish lifted another. “Egri Bikavér. A full-bodied red we also call Bull’s Blood.” Lugosi brought the bottle to his mo
uth and mocked biting its neck. Ilka and I laughed. “I bring bor, wine, to thank Mr. and Mrs. Dunn for what they are doing for—”

  “For me. Uncle Bela is so thankful for the way they help me…give me job here. He always is bringing gifts. Uncle Bela is here for another reason besides to deliver wine.” She looked pointedly at Lugosi. “We are trying to find a cure.”

  “Yes, is true. I have big problem with chronic sciatica. You know it?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t a clue.

  “War injury—”

  “Last war, Uncle Bela was Captain of Ski Patrol.” Ilka began scavenging the array of dried plants as she spoke. “He was wounded on the Russian Front.”

  “I suffer much. Stabbing pain—like dentist striking raw nerve—shoots down back of thigh and leg from hip to foot. Doctor after doctor I visit. Aspirin is not possible—” He patted his stomach. “Ulcers. Asparagus juice was the recommended cure before—”

  “Before he decide to give me chance to find treatment. Ahhh.” Ilka held a small cobalt blue bottle up to the light. “This, I think, may be it.”

  Lugosi’s shoulders lifted and fell in an expansive shrug. “Gypsy voodoo, vhy not?”

  “Oh, Uncle—” Ilka chided. “Even as joke, this is not funny. It only fuels the bad reputation of the Gypsy.”

  I frowned. Ilka read my confusion.

  “My roots they are with Gypsies. My mother, she was…Grandmamma she is…Gypsy. Gypsies have faced the prejudice of the Gajé, or non-Gypsies, forever. There has always been loathing for how we live, for our ways, for our appearance. At best, we are tolerated. Now, with the war, things they are even worse. We are considered ‘undesirables.’ A people who must be forced out. Eliminated.” Ilka paused to look over at Lugosi. They shared a private moment.

  “But that is another story,” she said, jutting out her chin. “In creating aura of fearful superstition around our race, by pretending to have mysterious powers, we gain certain respect. Fear may be a better word. Slim defense, but better than nothing.” Her attention returned to the blue vessel and she squinted, studying the hand-scrawled label.

  On the other side of the kitchen, the lid of a pan clattered to the floor. Ilka’s hand jerked and I thought she would drop the bottle. The jarring seemed to bring her back to her duties.

  Ilka’s hand flew to her cheek. “The Mrs.! I forgot! She wants that I show you around a little then direct you to the master suite.” She set the blue vial on the table. “Uncle Bela, wait here with Lia. I will be back shortly.”

  Carefully arranging his cape around him, Lugosi eased back down into his chair. Over near the sink, Lia chopped away.

  Ilka bestowed a perfect parting smile on her “Uncle Bela” then turned to surprise me by linking our arms. “It is European style,” she explained, patting my hand reassuringly and guiding me from the kitchen to a hallway to the front foyer and into another short hallway that spilled into the living room on one side and into a library on the other.

  As we strolled, I recalled my first impression of Ilka, that she might be Scandinavian, possibly Swedish. Deep in recesses of my memory, the name of one of Gran Skjold’s friends fought to escape. It succeeded, taking me down a slightly different path. “Maki. That’s Finnish, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, very good. My papa, he was Finnish but I am Magyar, Hungarian, born in Budapest.”

  “Ah, Finnish-Hungarian Gypsy.” The blended genes explained the uniquely attractive combination of her olive complexion, tawny eyes and somewhat flat features. Perhaps the Scandinavian blood explained where her desire to be fair-haired came from as well.

  “I grow up there, but leave two years ago to come here, to be Hollywood actress.” Ilka beamed. “I come as war refugee. Bela, he is sponsor and also my guardian angel in the movie business.

  “After you have visited with the Mrs. and had the chance to change”—she eyeballed my uniform—“the Mr. and Mrs. would like for you to join them in the library.” She gestured to a room off to our right. “There is cocktails in there before dinner.”

  Ilka nodded to a grand iron-railed staircase that split at a landing three steps up, before climbing to the second floor. “Your room, it is up there.”

  I’d been toting my B-4 bag. Ilka suggested I leave it beside the settee positioned by staircase while we completed the tour. An unusual feature of the settee was a small table built into one end. A telephone rested on the table. Beside the telephone was a pair of second-priority airline tickets (the number two slot behind the President). I recognized the high-priority tickets because it was the status given to those of us ferrying Pursuit fighters, they were so badly needed. Only these did not belong to a WASP; these tickets had an international leg. Los Angeles-Orlando-Cairo.

  Ilka noticed where my eyes had strayed. Unlinking our arms and deftly whisking the items from the table, slipping them into a pocket in the seam of her skirt, she confided. “Like I say earlier, the Mr. and Mrs. they just return home. Sometimes with them, they bring along a mess.”

  Past the staircase, two steps led down into the living room. I followed slightly behind Ilka. She walked stiff-backed and made theatrical gestures as she talked.

  “The Mr. and Mrs. they enjoy to travel. And, phew—” Ilka fanned her face with her hand. “They find the things to collect along the way. See—” Her hand swiped the air. “Most items here and there tucked around, they have been hauled in from all corners of the world.”

  Ilka chattered amiably in precise English peppered with her lilting Hungarian inflection and the occasional inverted syntax as we crossed the room, my head pivoting this way and that, taking in the eclectic array of paintings adorning the walls and the colorful bric-a-brac strewn on nearly every surface.

  We paused before the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Commanding views of city, mountain, and canyon were breathtaking. Turning to face the living room’s interior again, I regarded the velvet, brocade, and wrought-iron accents of the room’s Spanish-medieval décor. Though not to my taste, it was grander than anything I’d ever seen before.

  We started back across the room, arriving at the hallway again. Ilka gestured down a corridor to the side wing of the house. “In that part is my quarters and the kitchen. That you will view another time. I must tend to dinner and to Uncle Bela now. But first, let me show you to the master suite.”

  ***

  Della welcomed me. “You look positively beat, sugah. Bad day?”

  Dressed in flowing white satin trousers and a matching tunic jacket, she had tucked one side of her lustrous brown hair behind an ear. She looked just the opposite of beat.

  “First day on the job.” I feigned a casual air while sizing up the suite. “You know how that goes.”

  “Sure ’nough do.” She gestured to a pair of overstuffed chairs near the fireplace. “Sit a sec, won’t you?”

  We sat, and I took in her exquisite clothing and the richly appointed room. The reference to work had been stupid. Of course she didn’t know what the first day on a job was like. She’d never earned a paycheck in her life, I’d bet. I turned slightly to look at the monstrous bed mounted on a carpeted dais directly behind us. On its burgundy satin coverlet was the suitcase I’d spied upon entering. Yawned open, both halves mounded high with folded garments, it looked suspiciously like she hadn’t even unpacked.

  I shifted to face Della again. She’d seen me scrutinizing the bed.

  “Jackie’s notice was seat of the pants,” she said. “Didn’t even know we had company till we arrived. With everythin’ else goin’ on, well, I’ve just had to let some things go. Sherry?”

  Miss C’s tendency to bulldoze surfaced once again. I murmured my apologies and replied, “Yes,” to the sherry.

  A small carafe of the amber wine rested on a round table between us. Della poured, and I observed some of the suite’s other fine furnishings, like the white fringed carpet covering nearly the entire floor and the cherry wood highboy and nine-drawer bureau. The
turret area was at the far end of the room. An inviting space with window seats at tall angled windows, it also contained a wrought iron spiral staircase which I presumed led to the cupola just above.

  Della handed over an etched glass. “Call me Della,” she insisted, adding that her husband D.B., who I would be meeting shortly over real cocktails, would want me to call him by his first name too. With a clink, we toasted to health, friendship, and a quick end to the war.

  The first sip, though delicate, warmed me going down.

  “Er, the winding stairs,” I said. “Do they go up to the cupola?”

  “Sort of. They lead to a small study D.B. and I use as an office. From there, you have to climb a ladder to get outside.”

  I hoped Della would invite me up to look at the sights. My hostess had other ideas. Some initial polite chitchat about their hailing from Tex-suhs segued into my training in Sweetwater. How did I like being a WASP? How did I feel about making the sacrifices that came with the job? What made me stick to a job so challenging? Was I prepared to die for my country? And so forth and so on until we arrived at why I was in Hollywood.

  “Say, my brother G.R. is based at Fort Roach,” she said, topping off our glasses. “Maybe you’ll bump into him filmin’ some prototype plane or new equipment. Bomb sights, radar…” She let the sentence drift off, suggestively adding, “It’s what they’re doing there, right?”

  I started to nod, but hesitated. Miss C had briefed me about the work being done at the base, but I still wasn’t clear on what I could—or couldn’t—say openly.

  An uneasy silence followed as Della turned an expectant stare on me.

  I deflected her look, concentrating on the sherry remaining in my glass. What was she after? Many of the films produced at Fort Roach dealt with confidential material. Did she think I knew about something secret going on inside the studio and was itching to talk? Maybe her interest wasn’t actually in what was going on at Fort Roach. She knew I flew military planes. Did she want me to divulge what I know about secret flight equipment? Radar?