Read Online Dead by Any Other Name by Sebastian Stuart - Free Book Online Page A

erect, was still handsome in an ancient way, with a strong jaw, deep-set eyes, and plenty of wavy silver hair. But there was something ghoulish going on here, a sense of dissolution and depravity in the hollow cheeks, hooded eyes, and ripe mouth.
    â€œI brought you a little present,” I said, holding up the bottle of bubbly.
    He snatched it from my hand. “ Do come in.” He was all tattered grace-and-charm as he ushered me into the large, low rambling manse. “I’ll fetch a flute,” he said, leading me through a series of dusty rooms that looked three-quarters furnished; there were empty spaces on the walls where pictures had once hung, furniture was missing, in one room the floor was covered with a large pad but no rug.
    We ended up in a wood-paneled library off a messy kitchen that looked like it hadn’t seen a fruit or vegetable in decades—I noticed sardine tins, jars of olives, and an industrial-size package of Pecan Sandies.
    The library was dominated by a fireplace with a massive por trait of one Collier Denton hanging over it—dashing and debonair and forty years younger. A large armchair sat in one corner, clutter radiated out from it in concentric circles; clearly this was where Denton spent most of his waking hours. He crossed the room and shut the lid on the laptop that sat on a TV tray next to his chair, but not before I got a glimpse of porno. Then he headed over to a liquor cart before turning to me and asking, with mock graciousness, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “Oh, did you want any champagne?”
    â€œI’m fine, thanks.”
    He didn’t even attempt to disguise his relief. He grabbed a flute, sat in his armchair, deftly popped open the Veuve, tipped his flute and poured himself a glass. Drug of choice safely in hand, he snuggled into his chair, took a long sip and gave a little shudder of delight. Up close, he looked mottled and rheumy; I pegged him on the far shore of eighty. When the sleeve of his dressing gown rode up, I noticed a long burn scar on the inside of his left forearm that was haphazardly covered in thick pancake make-up.
    â€œSo I suspect you were madly in love with me in a father- figurey sort of way,” he said, setting himself up for a fuselage of flattery.
    â€œI’m not sure I was in love with you, but I’m sure a lot of women were.”
    â€œThe network had to hire a secretary to handle my fan mail. I received an average of forty marriage proposals a week. One poor creature threw herself into the Mississippi clutching my photo graph,” he said, sounding delighted at the thought. “And the panties! Good lord, they came in by the score. Fortunately some of them were my size.” He roared with laughter and poured him self another glass of champagne. “I suppose you’ll want an autographed photo. I’m awfully busy weighing offers and reading scripts, but I suppose that could be arranged. They’re twenty dollars, two for thirty, they make marvelous Christmas gifts and party favors.”
    I noticed a pharmacy bag next to his laptop and wondered what mad combination of meds he was on. From the way he was merrily prattling on, I suspected a happy pill (or two) was in the mix.
    â€œDid you know I’ve donated my archives to Lincoln Center? It was wrenching to part with it all, but a tax deduction is a tax deduction so I shipped them off six months ago. I just stuffed everything in an enormous packing crate and called UPS, I didn’t bother organizing it—I’m sure there are bookish little fairies down there who live for that kind of thing, I mean it’s a national treasure —I did summer stock with Robert Goulet and Sandy Duncan! I’m sure Lincoln Center will send an acknowledgment when they’re done sorting through it all. Of course, it’s just the tip of the iceberg, publishers are clamoring for my memoirs but I’m far too discreet, I mean