Amazing Grace

Mary Beth Pepperell waited patiently for her boss, Osar-winning director Virgil Jennet, to end his phone conversation before entering his office. The moment the light for his extension went out, she hurried through the door.

"Yes, Mary Beth," Virgil said, not bothering to look up from the script he was perusing. "What is it?"

"Please tell me it's not a subpoena. What I don't need now is a damned lawsuit."

"To what? Another wedding, I'll bet. People in this town are always getting married and remarried and remarried again."

"I don't go to parties," the director insisted, hoping to put an end to the conversation.

"Here, see for yourself," Mary Beth said and handed him the engraved invitation.

"A Halloween party? You can't be serious! Do you expect me to dress up like a pirate or a clown and go bobbing for apples?"

The director's eyes traveled to the bottom of the invitation where he found the name of the hostess.

"Grace Swann?" he asked in disbelief. "Are you sure this isn't some kind of joke? Grace Swann is a recluse. No one has seen her for forty years."

"Yes. Certainly. I wouldn't miss this opportunity for all the money in the world."

Grace Swann, often referred to as "The Amazing Grace," looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror, seeing not a mature, distinguished elderly woman but the memory of the young beauty she once was. As she brushed a stray lock of silver hair from her face, her mind traveled back to her youth. Her life had been a remarkable one but not always a happy one. She was born in 1924 into an old New England family that put a high value on education and the arts. As such, she worked hard in grammar and high school and went on to college. While she was pursuing a degree in English literature, she became involved in a drama club production of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. From the moment she stepped out on stage as Juliet in Act 1, Scene 3, and delivered her first line—"How now, who calls?"—she knew she wanted to be an actress.

In 1945, shortly after the end of the war, the twenty-one-year-old graduate left home and headed for New York. While many talented and attractive thespians yearning for a career on the Broadway stage would see their dreams and ambitions crushed, Grace was one of the lucky ones. After her first minor role, she moved on to progressively larger, more demanding parts, and soon she was one of the most respected and sought-after leading ladies. For more than a quarter of a century, she continued to work in her chosen field both in New York and Hollywood, on the stage, in movies and occasionally on television.

Yes, hers had been an extraordinary life. After a meteoric rise to fame, she reached the pinnacle of stardom. She was loved by critics and the public alike. Two Oscars, an Emmy and four Tony awards were proudly displayed on her fireplace mantel. It's no secret that many actresses have a limited shelf life. Often, their careers came to an end once they saw their thirtieth birthday in the rearview mirror. But Grace was an exception. At forty-eight, she was still a box-office draw. Then, quite unexpectedly, in 1972, she quit acting and went into early retirement.

For the next forty years, she led a reclusive existence in rural New England. She gave no interviews, attended no parties and made no appearances on talk shows or at the annual awards ceremonies. No one knew what she looked like now. Many people were not even sure if she was still alive.

"Do you need help getting ready?" Regina, her devoted maid asked when she walked into the master bedroom.

Soon after Regina headed down to the kitchen, Grace heard a car pull into her driveway. The limo had arrived that would take her to Wexford Castle, the historical landmark on the Connecticut River, which was built in 1919 by Albert Wexford, a noted stage actor, director and playwright. Although the century-old stone structure was ninety miles from the actress' home, there was no traffic on the interstate, thus allowing the chauffeur to reach the destination ahead of schedule.

A British-born butler, who looked like he stepped out of an episode of Downton Abbey, answered the door.

"Yes, Miss Swann. They're all busy in the kitchen. All other staff members are present as well."

"Good. I hope someone had the forethought to start the fires in the rooms. It's getting pretty cold outside, and there's no central heating in this old place."

"That was the first thing I saw to, Ma'am," the butler proudly announced. "All the rooms are nice and toasty. And you needn't worry about running out of firewood. I made sure we have plenty of logs."

"Thank you. I think I'll just go up to my room and freshen up before the guests start arriving, which should be"—she looked at her Cartier diamond watch—"in about twenty minutes."

Owen Heenan, one of Hollywood's top agents, was the first to arrive. Upon seeing the castle's exterior, he rolled his eyes; he was not impressed with the surroundings. Used to staying at five-star hotels, he had expected the castle to be more like Versailles and less like something left over from the Wars of the Roses.

"I'll never understand why someone would build a castle in America," he declared. "They're not part of our history. A teepee, yes; a castle, no. I hope at least there's a fully stocked bar here."

"It also has indoor plumbing," Grace said facetiously, but her sarcasm was lost on her guest. "Although the place is a bit dated, I'm sure you'll be comfortable tonight."

As a uniformed server prepared a strong drink for the scowling Owen, the British butler announced the arrival of another guest.

The elderly hostess was shocked to see what the past forty years had done to Charisse Arthur, the legendary sex symbol from the Sixties. The once beautiful star was young enough to be Grace's daughter, yet the two actresses looked the same age. Charisse's over-bleached hair had the color and texture of straw, and her makeup looked as though it had been applied with a palette knife.

"Grace Swann!" the former blonde bombshell literally gushed and air-kissed the older woman on both cheeks. "How absolutely delightful it is to see you!"

The hostess secretly wished she could say the same, but the sight of the other woman invoked bitter memories. Still, Charisse was her guest and she had to be civil.

"And what a darling gown! It's vintage, isn't it?" the catty younger actress asked.

"Yes. It's an original Dior. I wore it the night I won my first Oscar. Would you like a drink?"

No sooner did the two women join Owen Heenan at the bar than three more guests arrived.

"So, tell us, Grace, why have you summoned us to this medieval nightmare?" director Virgil Jennet inquired after the bartender handed him a glass of Booker's Bourbon.

"Not now, Virgil," the hostess replied. "I'm waiting for my last two guests to get here."

"That makes what? Eight people in all?" Owen commented. "That's not much of a party."

"Don't confuse quantity with quality," Grace teased. "All seven of my guests were chosen for a reason."

"You'll all learn the method to my madness soon enough. Ah, I think I hear a car arriving now."

Several minutes later, the butler announced the arrival of Lamont Villeroy, the self-proclaimed fashion guru and beauty consultant to the stars, and Conrad Mays, the Oscar-winning screenwriter.

"Now that everyone is here, the party can begin," the hostess announced. "I've hired one of the most sought-after chefs in New York to cater your dinner this evening. Why don't we all enjoy our repast? Then I'll tell you my reason for wanting to see you all."

The meal was indeed excellent, one sure to have pleased the most discriminating gourmet. When the dessert dishes and coffee cups were cleared away, the guests gathered in the great room for after-dinner drinks.

"Mind if I smoke?" asked Lloyd Ralston, an aging actor who had once costarred in several of Charisse Arthur's films.

No one seemed concerned with second-hand smoke, so the actor took a Gauloises from a silver cigarette case and lit it with his gold-plated lighter.

It was Desmond Millington, a theatrical lawyer, a man who owed most of his success to his father's considerable fortune and his brother's political pull, who reminded Grace that she had yet to reveal the reason for the party.

"Well, now that we're all pleasantly full, I hope you'll enlighten us as to your motive behind this little soirée," he prompted.

"Motive?" Grace echoed with a laugh. "You even sound like a lawyer. Before I tell you, I'd be interested to know if any of you can hazard a guess as to why I've asked you to come here. Owen?"

The former blonde bombshell widened her eyes, pursed her lips and shrugged her shoulders, a gesture that had once endeared her as a "dumb blonde" to millions of moviegoers. That gesture may have been attractive back in the Sixties when Charisse was young and pretty, but for a woman her age it was absurd. Of the seven guests, only Virgil offered a possible theory.

"I was hoping when I received your invitation that you were going to announce plans to return to acting. I assumed you had a movie in mind, possibly your own life story, and that you might ask me to direct it. However, seeing the other people you invited, I can only assume I was incorrect."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Virgil, but it's not my life I'm here to remember."

"I always knew you were all self-centered and cruel," she continued, "but I'm really astonished that not a single one of you knows what today is."

"What's going on?" Desmond asked angrily. "I didn't come three thousand miles to be insulted."

"Me either," Lloyd added. "If you don't tell us what this is all about, I'm going to leave."

"That's a lie," Charisse insisted. "Penelope told me her mother was a housewife in New Jersey."

"I didn't know she was your daughter," Virgil said, apologetically. "Her death was such a tragedy. She was so young."

"You're being unreasonable, Grace. Of course, I'm sorry she died. She was a beautiful, talented actress. She could have gone far in Hollywood."

"Oh?" the grieving mother said. "How far could she really have gone after you blacklisted her?"

"Don't lie to me!" Grace shouted. "You threatened that she'd never work in pictures if she didn't sleep with you. It was because of you her movie career came to an abrupt end. After that, the only part she could get was a small role on a daytime soap opera shot in New York."

"If I had still been her agent at the time," Owen claimed, "I would have gotten her roles despite the blacklisting. I could have helped, but she left me and signed with another agent."

"You were her mother," Owen argued. "Don't tell me you actually approved of that relationship?"

"They were in love," Grace replied. "I think they would have been truly happy together."

"It was the 1950s. Movie audiences didn't accept mixed-race couples back then, so I had to break them up. If they had gotten married, it would have ruined any hope she had for a career."

"You're not honestly suggesting Owen was to blame for your daughter's death?" Desmond asked.

"You don't know what you're saying," Charisse protested. "I was Penelope's best friend."

"Please don't give me that line," Grace cried. "I'm not the dumb blonde here. I know what happened. You were her friend; it's true. But it didn't stop you from stabbing her in the back and stealing the role that would most likely have gotten her an Oscar nomination."

"If she'd really wanted that role, she should have fought for it. It's the business we're in. That doesn't mean I didn't like her as a person."

Grace didn't bother arguing with the self-serving actress any further. Instead, she turned her attention to Lloyd Ralston.

"And you! You knew Penelope was vulnerable after her breakup with Neil. She was drinking, taking pills and seeing a psychiatrist, but that didn't stop you from moving in on her like a shark closing in on a helpless fish."

"She was lonely, and she turned to you for comfort. You seduced and then abandoned her. When she needed you most, you moved on to your next conquest."

Desmond headed toward the foyer, coolly announcing, "I must be off. I don't know why I was invited to this little shindig. After all, I hardly knew your daughter."

"It's true that you didn't know Penelope very well, but your brother, the senator, did. He knew her extremely well! So well, in fact, that it might have endangered his chances for reelection. That's where you came in. You threatened my daughter to keep her mouth shut about the affair."

"Be careful what you say," Desmond threatened. "There are laws protecting innocent people from libel."

"Innocent?" the hostess laughed harshly. "Not one of you has been innocent since you were in diapers."

"A diary?" Virgil laughed. "Who's going to believe the ramblings of an emotionally unbalanced girl?"

"Penelope's diary was far from rambling. She was quite meticulous: names, dates, addresses. She even included snapshots of all of you."

The lawyer sighed. He was not upset; in his world, this sort of thing happened all the time.

"How much?" he asked, assuming his hostess had invited the seven guests to Connecticut to extort money from them.

"Then why this stupid party?" Virgil demanded to know. "Surely not to simply accuse us of taking advantage of your daughter and causing her to commit suicide?"

"It may be hard for you to believe, but that is precisely why I invited you here. You've all had successful careers, gotten married, had children and in some cases divorced and remarried. You've had lives while my daughter's body lies in a vault at Forest Lawn." Tears welled in her eyes, and emotion caught in her voice. "I just wanted you to remember her, perhaps even feel some guilt or sorrow over her death."

Overcome with emotion, Grace couldn't continue. Her guests looked helplessly at each other, uncertain as to what to do. At that moment, the butler entered the great room.

"Thank you," the hostess said, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "I think we all should retire for the night. It's been an emotionally draining evening."

"Oh, but it's after midnight, and it's a long drive back to the airport," Grace protested. "I insist you stay the night. I know I haven't been a particularly gracious hostess, losing my temper and all, but I do want to make it up to you."

"Why would you give us a gift?" Lamont asked suspiciously. "Especially when you blame us for your daughter's death."

"I feel I owe you something for making the cross-country trip. Besides, I have a confession to make. I haven't long to live. Before I die, I wanted to confront you all and get these feelings off my chest."

"I guess it would be better to stay the night and then get an early start in the morning," Charisse surmised, eager to see what gift awaited her.

Grace smiled and wished her guests a good night. When she was alone in the great room, she poured herself a drink in recognition of what she considered to be her finest performance.

At first, Owen Heenan didn't notice the television in the corner of his room. He only wanted to shower and get some sleep since he planned on rising early to get the first flight to the West Coast. He had no interest in gifts. It was only after he pulled down the bedspread and was about to get beneath the blankets that he noticed the early 1950s RCA television. Atop the mahogany console was a gift tag with his name on it.

"That's the gift Grace bought for me? What the hell am I supposed to do with that antique?"

He pushed the power button and turned the channel tuner. Since it was not hooked up to either the local cable service or an old-fashioned antenna, there was nothing but snow on the screen. He was about to turn off the set when suddenly the reception drastically improved.

He immediately recognized the woman with the pale hair in the grainy, black-and-white interview originally broadcast over station W6XAO in Los Angeles, one of the first television stations in America. She was the legendary Jean Harlow.

A reporter put an old-fashioned microphone in front of the platinum blonde's face and asked, "How do you like married life, Miss Harlow?"

The actress turned her face toward the camera and appeared to be looking directly into Owen's eyes. For a moment, the Hollywood agent was mesmerized by her gaze.

Owen was speechless. He shook his head, hoping to dispel the eerie sensation he felt.

Given the three aperitifs he drank upon arriving at the castle, the four glasses of wine he sipped with dinner and the two cocktails he consumed afterward in the great room, he had little difficulty falling asleep. The dream was a vivid one. He stared at his surroundings and realized he was no longer in a guest room in Wexford Castle. Apparently, he had returned to Hollywood much sooner than he'd anticipated. The only problem was it was the Hollywood of 1932, and he was alone in a house with Jean Harlow.

"What happened?" Harlow repeated with a laugh. "Two months ago, you and I both said 'I do,' and we were pronounced man and wife."

"Honestly, Paul. If you can't hold your liquor, you shouldn't have had so much to drink."

"I'm not Paul Bern," the agent insisted. "Can't you tell just by looking at ...."

Owen turned and saw his reflection in a wall mirror. It was not his face; it belonged to the MGM producer and director who had married Jean Harlow in July of 1932.

"This isn't happening," he insisted. "I must have been drugged. Most likely, Grace Swann put something in either the food or the after-dinner drink."

When Owen entered the legendary actress' bedroom, he thought that, for a moment, he had glimpsed Grace's reflection in the full-length mirror.

"But I'm asleep. Aren't I?" the agent moaned. "Surely, when I awake tomorrow morning, I'll be back in my own body, in my own time."

But for Owen Heenan, the morning would never come. Somehow, he was trapped inside Paul Bern's body. Even worse, the night was that of September 5, the date on which Bern was shot through the head. His nude corpse was discovered by his butler the next day. A .38-caliber revolver and what is believed to be a suicide note were found near the body. What neither the butler nor the police knew was that not one but two men were killed with that gun. Whether he committed suicide—the official cause of death—or was murdered—as many people suspected—Jean Harlow's husband took Owen Heenan with him when he died.

Unlike the ill-fated Hollywood agent, Lloyd Ralston found no fault with his accommodations. "Any port in a storm" was his motto. A man with a love of strong drink, his looks faded rapidly and his career as a handsome leading man took a plunge. When he went from male lead to supporting roles, he drank more than ever. Thus, he had often woken in the mornings to find himself in a shabby hotel with a horrific hangover, sleeping next to a woman whose name he did not know and whose face he couldn't remember.

As he prepared for bed, he wished he had taken a bottle of something—anything—from the bar in the great room, but he hadn't.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," Lloyd mused as he tried to fall asleep. "I don't know what I was expecting but certainly not this. I sure as hell didn't think I'd be accused of driving Penelope Brock to commit suicide!"

A chronic womanizer, he felt no guilt over seducing the young starlet at a time when she was most vulnerable. It was her own fault, he reasoned, for falling in love with a Black man. In the 1960s, should word of such a forbidden romance be leaked to the press, it would have created a scandal that would lead to the end of her nascent career. He didn't blame Owen Heenan for putting a quick end to the romance. Besides, no one knew Penelope was Grace Swann's daughter. Maybe if he had known her mother was a Hollywood icon, he would have behaved differently. Maybe but not likely.

He turned to rest on his right side, and moments later he flipped onto his left. After close to thirty minutes of tossing and turning, he remembered that Grace had left him a gift in his room.

Lloyd searched the room, but all he found was a copy of The Los Angeles Chronicle. The yellowish tint to the brittle paper indicated that it was an old edition. He looked at the date: February 13, 1976. It was doubtful it had been lying on the dresser for more than three decades. Could it be the gift to which the elderly actress referred?

"Maybe the old bag is senile. Why the hell would I want a thirty-six-year-old newspaper?"

The actor glanced at the headline on the front page. In bold letters, it read, "Rebel Without a Cause Actor Murdered." Beneath the headline was a large photograph of Sal Mineo. Curious, he opened the paper to the second page and read the article. Briefly, it stated that Mineo was coming home from a rehearsal on February 12 when he was confronted by his attacker. The thirty-seven-year-old actor died of a single stab wound to his chest.

"Interesting, but why would I be concerned about a murder that happened so long ago?"

Lloyd continued to flip through the pages but found nothing evenly remotely of interest to him. He folded the paper and tossed it back onto the dresser. Maybe it wasn't his gift after all. Maybe Grace had forgotten to put one in his room.

He went back to bed, and after more tossing and turning, he fell asleep. Soon thereafter, he woke. At least, he thought he was awake. Maybe not. Maybe he was only dreaming he was awake. It was hard to tell.

Lloyd found himself in the driver's seat of a 1973 Plymouth Duster. He had apparently just pulled into an open carport and turned off the engine. When he exited the car, he felt an eerie premonition. It was as though something terrible was about to happen, but he was powerless to stop it. There was a narrow alley that led from the carport to the Park Wellington Towers. As he approached it, he recalled the article he had read in the old newspaper. A sudden realization came to him: this is what happened to Sal Mineo.

He felt a momentary sense of relief. This was a nightmare, one brought about by reading the account of the actor's death.

Lloyd was halfway down the alley—so close to home yet so far away—when suddenly, a figure approached him. There was a sudden pain in his chest. Was he having a heart attack in his sleep? He looked down and saw the blood on his shirt. He cried for help, but by the time someone arrived to answer his entreaties, he was dead.

Some people have claimed Sal Mineo fell victim to an alleged curse that took the lives of several of the stars of Rebel Without a Cause. However, not even the most crazed conspiracy theorist ever linked Lloyd Ralston's death with either Mineo's murder or Grace Swann's quest for revenge.

Although Desmond Millington was from a vastly different background than Lloyd Ralston, he was to face a similar fate as the former leading man. Whereas Lloyd had lower-middle-class roots, Desmond was born into a life of wealth and privilege. His father was a multimillionaire who had his hands in several lucrative businesses. Both Desmond and his brother, Randolph, attended a respected prep school before going on to Harvard. The two Millington boys then studied law. At that point, their career paths diverged. Randolph briefly practiced criminal law before going into politics while his younger brother preferred the glamour of working in the motion picture industry, not as an actor but as a corporate lawyer for one of the largest studios in Hollywood.

Oddly enough, it was Randolph Millington, a respected member of the U.S. Senate, who had several affairs with well-known and not-so-well-known actresses. Despite his image as a clean-cut, all-American war hero with strong family values, the senator frequently cheated on his socialite wife. To keep his name clear of scandal, he relied on his brother to make potential problems go away. Desmond, who was in a long-standing, secretive relationship with a former Olympic athlete turned actor, had no interest in women himself. Yet he was the one called upon to do the dirty work. While most actresses could be bought off with either money or a promised role in a major motion picture, Penelope Brock proved to be a more serious threat.

"The neurotic kid actually expected my brother to leave his wife and marry her!" Desmond grumbled as he made his way upstairs to his assigned room. I can't believe someone working in Hollywood could be so naïve."

One day after leaving the set of the soap opera where she played a minor role—the only job she could get after being blacklisted by Virgil Jennet—Penelope was attacked by two masked thugs. One broke her wrist, and the other left a gash on her arm that required ten stitches. The men, hired by Desmond, left her bleeding in an alley with the threat that she would get far worse treatment if she dared speak of her affair with Senator Millington. Needless to say, she heeded the advice of the switchblade-wielding attackers.

Desmond was not proud of what he did, but neither did he feel guilt or shame. Although the lawyer disliked being involved in covering up his sibling's sordid affairs, Randolph was the only family he had left after his parents died. They had to stick together. Besides, Penelope ought to have taken the money he had offered her.

"What's done is done. It's all in the past, or it should be. Now Grace Swann claims I'm one of the people responsible for her daughter's suicide. If she was any kind of mother, she would have looked out for the girl herself."

When Desmond opened the door to his room, he immediately noticed a key on the bedside table. He knew it was not one of his own since his keyring was in his jacket pocket and had been the entire night. He crossed the room, picked it up and examined it. It was a key to a Porsche. He was able to easily identify it because he was both a collector and connoisseur of fine automobiles.

Then he remembered the gifts Grace said were in her guests' rooms. Surely, she did not buy him a Porsche!

After a quick shower, he donned his monogrammed silk pajamas and got into bed. Normally, he called his partner every night before turning in, but he was too tired for this nightly ritual. Only moments after his head hit the pillow, he drifted off to sleep.

Desmond knew he was dreaming, but the sensations felt so real! He was driving in a convertible, and he could feel the sun beating down on him and the wind rushing through his hair. A sign on the side of the road identified the highway as California Route 466. Something sparked in the lawyer's brain. Why did that road sound familiar? He examined the dashboard. It was a vintage 1955 Porsche Speedster. There was another gentle tug on his memory. He turned his head to his right. A man sat beside him in the passenger seat. His name sprang into Desmond's mind: Rolf Wütherich.

Suddenly, his memory connected the dots. Rolf was a trained Porsche mechanic. The car was a Porsche 555 Spyder, nicknamed "Little Bastard." He and Rolph were on their way to a race being held in Salinas.

The thought abruptly escaped him when he saw the Ford Tudor sedan pull out in front of the Spyder. His foot hit the brake, but he had no hope of stopping in time to avoid a collision. The resulting crash flipped the Porsche. Before his death on Route 466, Desmond Millington had one last thought.

Like Lloyd Ralston, he had unknowingly fallen victim to the so-called curse of the stars of Rebel Without a Cause.

"Imagine that!" Virgil Jennet chuckled to himself. "Penelope Brock was Grace Swann's daughter! Clearly, she must have been a bastard child. Why else would her mother put her up for adoption?"

He briefly wondered who the father was. However, he soon put all question of Penelope's parentage out of his mind when he walked into the guest room and found what he assumed was his gift from Grace on his dresser. It was a framed, autographed photo of George Reeves in his Superman outfit.

He wondered if the octogenarian actress might be suffering from dementia. She must be. Why else would she invite seven people to a century-old castle in Connecticut for a ridiculous Halloween party? And that nonsense about Penelope Brock being her daughter. It might not even be true.

"Come to think of it, her story doesn't make any sense. If her daughter was raised by another woman, how could Grace have known so many details of Penelope's life?"

What did it matter? Penelope Brock was dead, and Grace Swann did not have long to live. Virgil shrugged his shoulders and prepared for bed. As he closed his eyes and waited to fall asleep, he recalled Penelope's face. There was a time when he desired her—so much so that he ruined her career when she refused to sleep with him. He knew it had been foolish to do so. Had she not resisted his advances, he would have tired of her soon enough. Funny, but his anger and hurt pride lasted for years whereas his fascination with any woman was quickly over.

"Faster than a speeding bullet," he laughed, remembering the George Reeves photo.

Soon, he drifted off and entered Morpheus's realm. He found himself in a house that he assumed was located in Benedict Canyon. He further surmised that the date was June 16, 1959. Due to the lateness of the hour—it was after one in the morning—he left his fiancée and group of friends downstairs in the living room and went up to his second-floor bedroom. Although there was no clear evidence to support Virgil's assumptions, he knew them to be true. Just as he knew he was still asleep in bed in Wexford Castle.

It was not a nightmare, per se, since the idea did not frighten him. On the contrary, he was intrigued. He wondered how the dream would end since Reeves's passing was surrounded by controversy. While the forty-five-year-old actor's death was officially ruled a suicide, many people believed he was murdered. Virgil wondered which way his dream would lean. Would the gunshot to the head be delivered by Reeves's own hand or someone else's?

While the sleeping director, inhabiting the body of George Reeves, mounted the stairs, he heard the familiar narration that began each episode of The Adventures of Superman.

Narrator: Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
Man 1: Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird.
Woman: It's a plane.
Man 2: It's Superman!
Narrator: Yes, it's Superman, strange visitor from another planet who came to Earth with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. Superman, who can change the course of mighty rivers, bend steel in his bare hands. And who, disguised as Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice and the American way.

Moments later, George Reeves lay dying on his bedroom floor. The director felt cheated. He had not seen the actor pick up a gun and shoot himself nor had he seen a murderer fire at him. As Reeves breathed his last, so, too, did Virgil Jennet. His final thought was that the deceased actor was no Superman who could leap tall buildings in a single bound or bend steel in his bare hands. He was just a Clark Kent who lost his battle for truth, justice and the American way.

Charisse Arthur held tightly onto the railing as she walked up the stairs to the second floor of Wexford Castle. Like many of her fellow party guests, she had far too much to drink, and she did not want to stumble and fall. When she accepted Grace Swann's invitation, she had no clear expectations in mind. She only agreed to attend because she was rarely invited anywhere these days. Sadly, her popularity had ended after her last film tanked at the box office.

"I never imagined the evening would turn out as it did," she mumbled as she made her way down the long hall to her room. "Penelope Brock was Grace's daughter. I can't believe it!"

When the two young women first came to Hollywood, they shared an apartment. Both had dreams of stardom and winding up in a Beverly Hills mansion, but only Charisse fulfilled that lofty goal. It was not that she was prettier or more talented than Penelope. She wasn't. Success came to her because she was willing to work harder than her roommate did. Like many actresses eager to risk all for their careers, she got many of her roles by auditioning on the fabled "casting couches."

Both she and Penelope were being considered for the part of Dixie Scruggs in the movie A Silent Cry. It was a big-budget film adaptation of the bestselling novel of the same name. After screen testing both actresses, the casting director promised the part to Penelope. However, Charisse was able to convince the producer to give her the role instead. The movie was both a critical and commercial success. It went on to win seven Oscars—although none were given to the leading lady.

A Silent Cry catapulted Charisse to stardom. Not only was she able to then command an A-list salary, but she was also given her choice of roles. She moved from her small apartment to a house in the Hollywood Hills where she lived the life of a diva. She had it all: designer clothes, expensive jewelry, luxurious cars, world travel, well-publicized love affairs with Hollywood's most handsome leading men and an unlimited supply of recreational drugs and alcohol. Meanwhile, Penelope struggled to get a breakout role. But it never came. The only time she got close was when Virgil Jennet propositioned her. She declined his offer and was blacklisted.

"I don't know why Grace thinks I played any part in Penelope's suicide. So, she was promised the role of Dixie Scruggs, but I got it in the end. Big deal! She could have slept with the producer, and he probably would have agreed with his casting director. Hell! Miss Goody Two Shoes ought to have slept with Jennet. But no. She was too high and mighty. Well, look where her lofty morals got her—nowhere!"

Too drunk to remove her clothes, the aging actress simply kicked off her high heels and stretched across the top of the bed, not even bothering to pull down the spread.

It was a postcard of the famed Hollywood sign. Erected in 1923 to advertise the Hollywoodland real estate development, the sign has stood on Mount Lee for the past century. Despite being renovated twice and having its last four letters removed, it reached the status of a national landmark and cultural icon.

"Is this the gift Grace mentioned?" she wondered. "A goddamned postcard? How cheap can you get?"

Charisse was so disappointed by what she had received that she tore the postcard in half and tossed the pieces onto the hardwood floor. Then she closed her eyes and fell asleep. Although her eyes were still tightly closed, she could clearly see the forty-five-foot-high letters looming above her. She turned her head and saw all thirteen letters that spelled out HOLLYWOODLAND.

Charisse was both a participant and a spectator of the action. She felt her legs move and saw herself walk toward a workman's ladder that was leaning against one of the letters. Then she began to climb. Hand up. Leg up. Repeat. One rung at a time. She was halfway up the ladder when she recalled the legend of the British stage actress Peg Entwistle who in 1932 committed suicide by jumping off the top of the letter "H." Her body was found the next day in the ravine below.

"But I'm not Peg Entwistle! I'm Charisse Arthur. I have no desire or reason to kill myself."

Regardless, her arms and legs continued to climb despite her attempts to make them stop. Eventually, she reached the top. She teetered momentarily.

They say if you fall in your sleep and don't wake up before you land, you die. Charisse Arthur never put much store in silly superstitions, but in this instance, she was about to learn that the old wives' tale was true.

Of the seven people Grace Swann accused of driving her daughter to suicide, Conrad Mays had the most reason to feel guilty. However, he felt no remorse. He had met Penelope Brock when he first arrived in Hollywood. Back then, he was an unknown writer with dreams of penning an award-winning script. The former magazine journalist never doubted his talent. In New York publishing circles, he was often compared favorably to Truman Capote. He was certain that success would come knocking on his door once he put his mind to completing his half-written screenplay.

Unfortunately, Conrad had not realized the temptations that would be put in his path. In Hollywood, beautiful women were as plentiful as grains of sand on a beach. He had no doubt that, in time, when fame and fortune smiled down upon him, he could have his pick of any number of gorgeous blondes, redheads and brunettes. Until then, though, it was unlikely any woman would give him the time of day. Fate, which had blessed him with brains and creativity, had also cursed him with a face that could best be described as ugly. The most gifted plastic surgeon in the world could never have made his features more appealing.

The writer had no illusions about his appearance. In fact, he often likened himself to Charles Laughton's Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

A weak-willed man, Conrad gave in to temptation. Since no woman would willingly sleep with him and he had a fear of catching a disease from a prostitute, he had to resort to more unscrupulous methods to fulfill his urges. Today, they refer to certain substances as "date-rape drugs." Back when he met Penelope Brock, the accepted terminology was "slipping a Mickey." His sexual conquests began with the usual promise to make the woman a star, followed by a doctored drink and a trip to a cheap hotel room.

More than a dozen women succumbed to this trap with little difficulty. Then he met Penelope Brock. She proved to be no fool; she was suspicious of his motives. But after slipping her two Mickey Finns, he was able to get her to a motel where he had his way with her. Afterward, he carried her unconscious body to his car, drove off and left her, half-naked, on a park bench.

Those days, thank heaven, were long gone. Conrad was now one of the most popular screenwriters in the industry. As he had predicted, women were no longer repulsed by his looks. It had been years since he had to drug a woman to get her into bed.

"What I can't fathom is how Grace Swann knows about what I did to Penelope. And what does she hope to get out of all of this?" he wondered. "Revenge?"

Sure, she could publicly accuse him of sexual misconduct, but she had no solid proof other than a diary. And wasn't there a statute of limitations for such crimes?

Conrad entered his room and flicked the light switch on the wall beside the door. He had come to this so-called party in hopes of getting Grace Swann's permission to write a screenplay based on her life. What a disappointment the evening had been. Now, all he wanted to do was go back home.

"What's this?" he asked himself when he saw the well-worn paperback book on the dresser.

It was A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams, one of Conrad's favorite plays.

He stripped down to his shorts, turned on the bedside lamp, opened the book and turned to Scene One. As he read the description of the setting that led up to the first line by Stanley Kowalski, he felt his eyes grow heavy and close. The paperback slipped from his hands and fell to the floor.

The dream-Conrad was no longer in a guest room at Wexford Castle but was in a suite at the Hotel Elysée in New York City. On the table beside the bed was a bottle of eye drops. A sudden fear clutched at the writer's heart. It was long believed that Tennessee Williams ingested the plastic cap from a bottle of eyedrops and choked to death. (Although it has since been speculated that he actually died from an overdose of barbiturates.) Conrad felt the muscles of his arm move and saw the hand of a much older man reach for the eye drops. He knew what was coming but was powerless to stop it.

But it was so real. He felt his left hand grasp the bottle and the fingers of his right hand untwist the cap. Was this what actually happened or was his dream tinted by false reports of the playwright's passing?

At the same moment the first drop wet his eye, a piece of plastic entered his mouth. He struggled to dislodge the cap from his throat but was unable to do so. He tried to breathe but failed. Darkness soon overtook him.

Sadly, the bizarre experience was not only a dream. Conrad Mays's last thought was that at least he had died in good company.

Despite the weird and untimely deaths of the other six guests at Wexford Castle, Lamont Villeroy felt neither fear nor a sense of impending doom. The reason is simple; he did not know what tragic ends had befallen them. What he did feel—an emotion his fellow invitees had shared before their demise—was a keen disappointment. As Hollywood's leading fashion maven, he had flown to Connecticut expecting a gala with A-list celebrities wearing remarkable outfits, some of which would be included in his Best Dressed and Worst Dressed lists. Instead, the evening was nothing more than a quiet dinner attended by only eight people, none of whom were especially well-dressed.

"What a waste of time!" he grumbled. "Even the legendary Amazing Grace wore a dress from the past rather than a new one. True, it was Dior, but I don't comment on vintage fashions."

Always fastidious with his own attire, Lamont carefully removed his Armani suit, intending to place the pants, shirt and jacket on hangers in the closet. However, when he opened the closet door, he was stunned to see an evening gown inside.

"I don't believe it!" he exclaimed, carelessly tossing his own clothing onto the bed.

With the care one might use when handling a priceless ancient relic or religious icon, he removed the gown from the hanger. He remembered the first time he saw the dress. It was in 1994, and he was attending the premier of Four Weddings and a Funeral. When Elizabeth Hurley appeared in the now iconic black "safety pin dress" by Versace, Lamont's eyes widened with admiration—not for the gorgeous British actress and model but for the stunning outfit she wore. That daring, innovative gown began his lifelong love of the designs by Gianni Versace.

"Heavenly!" he exclaimed as though he were speaking to a lover and not a piece of clothing.

The plunging neckline, the high side slit and the cutaways held together by oversized gold safety pins made Lamont wish he were a svelte young woman and not a pudgy, middle-aged man.

After the initial shock of discovery was over, he wondered what the dress was doing in the closet. Then he recalled Grace Swann's mention of a gift for each of her guests.

"Grace, Grace, Grace! You are indeed amazing! I've never received such an exquisite gift."

It never occurred to him to wonder if the gown was an original or a reproduction. Nor did he question the aged actress' motives for giving him such an expensive item especially in light of her accusation that he and his fellow guests had driven her daughter to suicide. He was too busy admiring the garment to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. It was only when exhaustion threatened to overtake him that he placed the Versace dress back in the closet.

He then hung up his Armani suit, took a quick shower and donned his Dolce & Gabbana briefs and pajama shirt. Before climbing into the four-poster bed, he took a peek inside the closet to make sure the gown was still there. Only after he was assured it was, did he crawl beneath the sheets. As he often did before falling asleep, he thought of his favorite and least-favorite fashions over the years. (Some people counted sheep; he preferred recalling the works of Chanel, Valentino, Prada, Gucci, Dior and, of course, Versace.)

The faces of the women who wore them briefly flitted across his mind: Nicole Kidman, Angelina Jolie, Charlize Theron, Jennifer Lopez and Halle Berry. Another face, far less famous, intruded into his thoughts: Penelope Brock.

"God! What a mess she was! She had no fashion sense at all! I can't believe she was Grace Swann's daughter."

Seeing her face in his mind led him to recall the one and only time she had attended the Academy Awards ceremony. She was neither a nominee nor a presenter but had attended as the guest of a young man whose work was nominated for Best Documentary Short Film. Normally, Lamont only commented on well-known celebrities. He would not waste his time on an actress who appeared in only a dozen or so feature films, none of which was in a starring role. However, she looked so ridiculous in the dress she chose to wear that he could not keep silent. Her name and picture appeared on his Ten Worst Dressed list the following day. Her outfit was so awful that she made it to Number One on the list.

Not content to humiliate her that one time, he frequently referred to her in his columns, claiming hers was the worst outfit he had ever seen bar none. He mocked Penelope so frequently that she became the butt of late-night TV hosts' jokes for months afterward.

"Maybe Grace Swann should have given her daughter some fashion advice," he muttered as sleep overtook him.

A cool breeze wafted across his face. He looked around and saw a beach and an ocean.

In his dream, Lamont was walking along Ocean Avenue in Miami's South Beach neighborhood. A smile lit up his face. He knew the area well since he was no stranger to the nightlife of the playgrounds of the rich and famous. Frankly, he preferred the Hamptons, but Miami wasn't too bad. In his hand, he held an assortment of magazines, which he had just purchased at the nearby News Café. The sight of the periodicals made his smile quickly disappear.

Moments later, Casa Casuarina, the Mediterranean Revival-style mansion owned by Gianni Versace, came into view. Lamont had visited the home on more than one occasion, both when Gianni owned it and when it was turned into a luxury hotel and restaurant after the designer's death.

"I must be dreaming," he concluded, feeling relief flood over him. "I suppose it's to be expected after I received that dress."

As he approached the mansion, he saw movement in his peripheral vision. Suddenly, he knew not only where he was but what day it was: July 15, 1997. He also deduced the movement he had glimpsed was that of Andrew Cunanan. Although Versace was unaware of what was about to befall him, Lamont knew it only too well. As the fashion designer mounted the stairs, Cunanan shot him twice in the back of the head.

Lamont Villeroy never woke up from his dream for he had died on the steps of Casa Casuarina along with Gianni Versace. The safety pin dress remained in the closet beside the Armani suit, neither to ever be worn again.

After checking all seven guest rooms and confirming that each inhabitant was dead, having fallen victim to the cursed gifts she had given them, Grace Swann went to the living room and poured herself a glass of Dom Pérignon. The servants had left hours ago and would not return until the following morning, so there was no one to share her triumph. Her hunger for revenge sated, she took a photograph of her daughter out of her purse and propped it up on the bar.

"Hopefully, you can rest in peace now," she declared, pouring herself a second glass of champagne.

Yet even as the words left her mouth, Grace knew there was one other person who, perhaps more than the other seven, had contributed to Penelope Brock's desire to end her own life.

"Things were so different back when you were born," the elderly actress said, speaking to the photograph. "The Hays Code was in full force, and there were morals clauses in actors' contracts. When I learned I was pregnant with you, I had just relocated to Hollywood. I was young, unmarried and on the cusp of success. I suppose I could have found a doctor willing to help solve the problem, but I didn't want an abortion. So, I went to Europe where I gave birth to you. Afterward, I left you with an old friend of mine from back east to raise as her own. Throughout your childhood, I stayed in constant contact with her and her husband. They told me everything they could about you and sent me hundreds of pictures."

Grace ran the tip of her index finger over the photograph as though she could touch her daughter's face.

"We all wanted what was best for you. I was hoping you would marry a nice man and live happily ever after. I never dreamed you would want to become an actress. When you came to the West Coast, I wanted to tell you who I was, but I wasn't sure how you would react. So, I kept quiet, but I hired a private detective and kept tabs on you."

Grace poured herself a third glass of champagne and wiped the tears from her eyes with a napkin.

"It was only after the couple you believed were your parents died that I found the courage to approach you. I suppose I should have just kept my damned mouth shut since I was right in believing you would be angry at me, but I never dreamed you would hate me so much!"

The actress put down her fluted crystal glass and headed for the staircase. She climbed to the third floor where the master suite was located.

A bottle of sleeping pills was on the night table. She had purchased them from the same sorceress that sold her the seven gifts she bought for her guests. She removed the top and shook out two capsules. Part of her wanted to swallow the entire bottle down, but suicide was the coward's way out.

"I just need them to fall asleep," she said, knowing what awaited her when she did.

The Amazing Grace lay on the bed, closed her eyes and drifted off. Soon, she was sound asleep. In her dreams, she was not alone. Jay Sebring, Abigail Folger and Wojciech Frykowski were in the house on Cielo Driver with her. She knew what was about to happen. Susan Atkins, Patricia Krenwinkel and Tex Watson were on their way to "do the devil's business." Although Grace was doomed to share the same horrible fate as Sharon Tate, she made no effort to avoid it.

"Unlike that poor, innocent pregnant actress, I deserve what's coming to me. For I, more than anyone else, drove my daughter to suicide."

On the morning of November 1, 2012, the caterers and servants returned to Wexford Castle. There was no need to prepare the elaborate breakfast buffet they had planned since the hostess and all seven of her guests were dead in their beds. The medical examiner could find no logical cause of death. He knew only that each one of them had died in their sleep.

Wexford Castle is inspired by Gillette Castle in East Haddam, Connecticut. It was designed and built in 1914-19 by actor William Gillette, who gained fame by portraying Sherlock Holmes on Broadway.

Salem likes to tell everyone he's a fashion maven. The coat may not be Versace, but the sunglasses are.