anything about it.”
“Was she a feminist when you knew her?” I said.
He smiled.
“When I knew her all she wanted was to be a star,” he said.
“I don’t think she ever really thought about anything else.”
“Now she is a feminist.”
“She plays a kind of female Schwarzenegger,” he said.
“So she is living up to the role,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “And now she’s a star.”
“Stars are feminists?”
“Most of the stars are liberal,” Crawford said. “Except for the Mel Gibson wing. But the official position for a star is feminist, antiracist, gay rights, antiwar, civil liberties, environmental. Their views aren’t righter or wronger than those held by any collection of airheads. Say me, for instance, and you. But stars have access, so what they think actually gets treated as if it mattered.”
“Which it doesn’t,” I said.
“No more than your opinion or mine,” he said.
“Nor, I suppose, any less,” I said.
Crawford sat back from his little desk in his little cubicle with his hands folded across his flat stomach. He smiled.
“Maybe a little less,” he said.
17
T HE ADDRESS in Santa Monica, which Erin Flint had once used, was a stucco bungalow down 7th Street hill and bear left in the Canyon. It was surrounded by flowers and had an oblique but discernible view of the ocean. I parked on the street and walked to the front door. There was the California smell: flowers, fruit trees, olives smashed on the sidewalk, the mild astringency of the sea air from the Pacific. It was November. When I had left Boston it was 27 degrees and gray. Santa Monica, this afternoon, was bright sun and 73. The West Coast had its moments.
There was a Big Wheel on the patio, and a barbecue pit among the flowers. I rang the doorbell.
A big blonde woman answered. She was wearing a yellow tank top and white short shorts and no shoes. Her hair was in a long single braid, and she looked like I’d always imagined a Rhine maiden would look.
“Hi,” I said. “My name is Sunny Randall and I’m a detective from Boston looking into a matter for Erin Flint.”
“The movie star?” the Rhine maiden said. “We bought this house from her.”
“I know she used to live here,” I said.
“Her and her sister,” the Rhine maiden said. “Though she wasn’t Erin Flint when we bought it from her.”
“Really?” I said. “Can we talk?”
“Sure, come on in,” she said. “Want some coffee?”
“Thanks, I’d love some,” I said. “You are?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Janey Murphy. Mrs. Charles Trent actually, but I use my birth name.”
Janey Murphy. So much for Rhine maiden. We sat in her kitchen at a freestanding tile-top counter and she poured us coffee. The sound of kitchen activity brought a sleepy-looking bulldog lumbering hopefully in from wherever he’d been recently asleep.
“Ohmigod,” I said, “a dog. I’m in dog withdrawal. May I pat her?”
“Of course,” Janey said. “Her name is Sprite.”
The dog lumbered over and sat by my foot. I got off the stool and crouched down to pat her. She wasn’t after patting. She was after food. But she accepted patting with dignity. Better, no doubt, than nothing.
“Sprite?” I said. “What does she weigh?”
“Sixty pounds,” Janey said.
“That’s sprightly,” I said.
“My husband has an odd sense of humor,” Janey said. “But she’s very sweet. She’s wonderful with my daughter.”
“I have a bull terrier,” I said.
“Like the beer dog?”
“Yes. But a miniature. Rosie.”
“I’ll bet she’s adorable.”
“Entirely,” I said. “So what was Erin Flint’s name when you bought the house.”
“It’s on the closing documents. Her name was Ethel Boverini. I remember because it so doesn’t sound like she looks.”
“And her sister?”
“Edith,” Janey said.
I sat back up on the stool and drank some coffee. Sprite went around the freestanding counter and gazed up at Janey. She took a dog biscuit
“Was she a feminist when you knew her?” I said.
He smiled.
“When I knew her all she wanted was to be a star,” he said.
“I don’t think she ever really thought about anything else.”
“Now she is a feminist.”
“She plays a kind of female Schwarzenegger,” he said.
“So she is living up to the role,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “And now she’s a star.”
“Stars are feminists?”
“Most of the stars are liberal,” Crawford said. “Except for the Mel Gibson wing. But the official position for a star is feminist, antiracist, gay rights, antiwar, civil liberties, environmental. Their views aren’t righter or wronger than those held by any collection of airheads. Say me, for instance, and you. But stars have access, so what they think actually gets treated as if it mattered.”
“Which it doesn’t,” I said.
“No more than your opinion or mine,” he said.
“Nor, I suppose, any less,” I said.
Crawford sat back from his little desk in his little cubicle with his hands folded across his flat stomach. He smiled.
“Maybe a little less,” he said.
17
T HE ADDRESS in Santa Monica, which Erin Flint had once used, was a stucco bungalow down 7th Street hill and bear left in the Canyon. It was surrounded by flowers and had an oblique but discernible view of the ocean. I parked on the street and walked to the front door. There was the California smell: flowers, fruit trees, olives smashed on the sidewalk, the mild astringency of the sea air from the Pacific. It was November. When I had left Boston it was 27 degrees and gray. Santa Monica, this afternoon, was bright sun and 73. The West Coast had its moments.
There was a Big Wheel on the patio, and a barbecue pit among the flowers. I rang the doorbell.
A big blonde woman answered. She was wearing a yellow tank top and white short shorts and no shoes. Her hair was in a long single braid, and she looked like I’d always imagined a Rhine maiden would look.
“Hi,” I said. “My name is Sunny Randall and I’m a detective from Boston looking into a matter for Erin Flint.”
“The movie star?” the Rhine maiden said. “We bought this house from her.”
“I know she used to live here,” I said.
“Her and her sister,” the Rhine maiden said. “Though she wasn’t Erin Flint when we bought it from her.”
“Really?” I said. “Can we talk?”
“Sure, come on in,” she said. “Want some coffee?”
“Thanks, I’d love some,” I said. “You are?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Janey Murphy. Mrs. Charles Trent actually, but I use my birth name.”
Janey Murphy. So much for Rhine maiden. We sat in her kitchen at a freestanding tile-top counter and she poured us coffee. The sound of kitchen activity brought a sleepy-looking bulldog lumbering hopefully in from wherever he’d been recently asleep.
“Ohmigod,” I said, “a dog. I’m in dog withdrawal. May I pat her?”
“Of course,” Janey said. “Her name is Sprite.”
The dog lumbered over and sat by my foot. I got off the stool and crouched down to pat her. She wasn’t after patting. She was after food. But she accepted patting with dignity. Better, no doubt, than nothing.
“Sprite?” I said. “What does she weigh?”
“Sixty pounds,” Janey said.
“That’s sprightly,” I said.
“My husband has an odd sense of humor,” Janey said. “But she’s very sweet. She’s wonderful with my daughter.”
“I have a bull terrier,” I said.
“Like the beer dog?”
“Yes. But a miniature. Rosie.”
“I’ll bet she’s adorable.”
“Entirely,” I said. “So what was Erin Flint’s name when you bought the house.”
“It’s on the closing documents. Her name was Ethel Boverini. I remember because it so doesn’t sound like she looks.”
“And her sister?”
“Edith,” Janey said.
I sat back up on the stool and drank some coffee. Sprite went around the freestanding counter and gazed up at Janey. She took a dog biscuit
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