Beauty and the Brain Read online

  BEAUTY AND THE BRAIN

  Book #2 in the “Dream Maker” Series

  Alice Duncan

  Beauty and the Brain

  Copyright © 2001 by Alice Duncan

  All rights reserved.

  Published 2001 by Kensington Books

  A Ballad Book

  Smashwords edition December 16, 2010

  [email protected]

  http://aliceduncan.net

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Chapter One

  San Bernardino Mountains,

  California, 1907

  Martin Tafft sucked in a deep breath of fresh mountain air and thanked his lucky stars that this picture wasn’t being filmed in the desert. He was sick to death of deserts.

  Indeed, Martin felt exceptionally cheerful these days. His good mood had carried him into these gorgeous mountains, and he was eager to begin production of the latest Peerless Studio offering to the world of culture: Indian Love Song.

  Life was grand—even if he was too busy to cultivate close friends other than those he’d had for years and those with whom he worked. He occasionally wished he had a romance in his life, except that he didn’t have time for one He didn’t dwell on the absence of love and intimacy; it seemed silly to do so when he reflected upon the gratifying aspects of his life.

  Peerless Studio had produced a string of smash-hit feature motion pictures. Peerless’s stature in the infant industry had grown by leaps and bounds, until it was now right up there with Biograph and Vitagraph when it came to producing quality products. And he, Martin Tafft, who for several years had been required to do pretty much everything that needed to be done in his studio’s production efforts, from finding locations to acting as wet nurse to temperamental actors, now had himself a research assistant.

  He smiled at said assistant, Colin Peters. “Isn’t this fresh air invigorating? I really enjoy the mountains.” Feeling expansive, he thumped himself on the chest. “Springtime in the Sierras, Colin. You can’t beat it.”

  Colin pushed his thick spectacles up his nose. They had a tendency to slip, as Martin had noticed before. “Actually, these aren’t the Sierras, Mr. Tafft. We’re presently in a range called the San Bernardinos.” He pointed into a clump of trees in a direction Martin presumed was vaguely downhill. “That’s San Bernardino down there. The town.”

  Undaunted, Martin went on. “Ah, but you can’t beat the natural beauty of these mountains.” Martin, who had grown up in Pittsburgh, where there was precious little of nature left, appreciated natural beauty when he saw it. “Look there!” He pointed at a couple of birds that had just flown, chirping madly, out of a tall cedar tree. “Why, even the birds are playful!”

  Colin cleared his throat self-deprecatingly. “Er, actually, I believe that blue jay—the larger bird, you see—just tried to steal an egg from that scarlet tanager’s nest. Birds don’t generally play with each other. Life’s too precarious for them out here in the wild.”

  Martin’s smile twisted slightly askew As much as he appreciated Colin, who was a bright and enthusiastic fellow and a joy with whom to work, Martin found him a trace too literal sometimes. His scholarly nature had come as something of a surprise to Martin, since Colin looked like a well-built, muscular young man. Martin hadn’t anticipated so unemotional a personality as Colin’s to be housed in such a hearty, masculine shell.

  “These are the moving pictures, Colin,” he said gently. “The San Bernardinos can belong to any old mountain range we want them to, and the birds can play if we say so.”

  “I see.” Colin frowned a little and scanned the scenery.

  Martin didn’t know how a person could remain unmoved by the pristine beauty sprawled all about them, but Colin seemed to be managing nicely. Martin sighed. He was still happy. He saw a short-tailed chipmunk sitting on a rock, clutching an acorn in its paws and darting glances all around. The thing looked darling to Martin, but he chose not to point the animal out to Colin, fearing he would predict the beast’s doom from its charming behavior.

  “In that case,” Colin went on after a short period of thought, and startling Martin, who’d forgotten what they’d been talking about, “I suppose these would be the Black Hills, since this picture is supposed to be set in the Dakotas.”

  “Right.”

  “I see.” Colin pushed up his glasses again. He didn’t smile. Martin gave up trying to lure his assistant into thinking about anything but work. Far from gloomy, Colin had yet to exhibit anything resembling lightness of spirit, and Martin considered that something of a shame. His own cheer remained unabated, and he clapped Colin on the back.

  Colin, not anticipating the blow, took a startled step forward.

  After expelling another, rather more heartfelt sigh, and feeling a good deal of sympathy for Colin, Martin said, “I believe the rest of the crew and the cast have assembled. Let me introduce you to everyone. I’m sure you’ll find them all very agreeable to work with.”

  “Yes. I see.” Colin sounded unconvinced.

  Martin’s natural enthusiasm overcame his sympathy for his dull assistant, and he took Colin’s arm. “This will be a super picture for Peerless. It has all the elements in it that the public craves.”

  Colin nodded gravely. His glasses slipped a little.

  Continuing with zest, Martin went on, “Indeed. The public is wild about cowboys and Indians these days. We’re going to give them cowboys, Indians, a beautiful woman, danger, romance—why, we’ve got everything in this picture. We’re even throwing in an absentminded professor, so there will be an element of comedy.” Martin hoped Colin wouldn’t take the last part amiss.

  He didn’t seem to. “So I understood from Mr. Lovejoy.”

  “Yes. The title of the picture is wonderful, too.” Martin chuckled. He liked this whole picture a lot. “Indian Love Song. It has a good deal of zing to it, doesn’t it?”

  “Um, yes. I’m sure it does.”

  Oh, dear. Martin shook his head, wondering what it would take to draw Colin Peters out of the dusty realm of academia and into the modem world. A shotgun, perhaps.

  “Mr. Lovejoy certainly seems to understand popular tastes,” Colin ventured after ‘a moment.

  From that telling sentence, Martin deduced that poor Colin didn’t. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, since they were nothing at all alike, Martin liked Colin a lot.

  “Phin is a genius,” he said simply. “He has an absolutely infallible grasp of what the public wants.” Plus, he was rich, which was a great advantage when one journeyed into untried business territory.

  “I’m a trifle concerned about how the Indians in this picture will be depicted,” Colin murmured. His voice was so soft, Martin barely heard it.

  “That’s your department,” Martin said cheerfully. “You get to tell us what to do.” Eyeing his assistant and remembering one or two of his stuffy college professors, he amended, “Within certain boundaries, of course. After all, we have to stick to the story.” He laughed with what he hoped sounded like unconcern.

  “Yes.” A double vertical dent appeared above Colin’s nose. He looked troubled.

  “Phin would never do anything that wasn’t of the highest moral and ethical caliber, Colin.”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  Phineas Lovejoy, financial g
enius behind Peerless Studio and Martin’s best friend from boyhood, had discovered Colin for Martin. If anything had been needed to cement their friendship forever and ever, it was this. Martin had been getting physically worn out from doing all the legwork for Peerless. Not that he didn’t enjoy it. Nor did he resent the necessity for his energy being spent in so many different endeavors. Not at all. Martin believed wholeheartedly in the future of Peerless, and in the motion pictures themselves.

  But he was human, and his physical resources weren’t infinite. He did, in fact, get to feeling run down from time to time. After making twenty moving pictures for Peerless back-to-back, he was darned tired. Since it was his job to find actors, locations, food, lodging, horses if necessary, and, in the case of this particular picture, a tribe of Indians for Peerless’s use, and since he was a perfectionist, he worked constantly. He was very, happy to relinquish his research duties to an employee.

  Therefore, sensing a twinge of doubt in his new assistant and believing he knew what had caused it, he hastened to eliminate it “Think of it, Colin! This is your opportunity to educate the public about the Indians.”

  “Which Indians?”

  Martin looked at him, feeling as blank as he undoubtedly appeared. “Why, the ones in this picture.”

  “I see.” Colin nodded again.

  Martin, perceiving a grave lack of imagination in his companion, gave it up. Not everyone held his views on motion pictures. Martin saw the emerging industry as something close to the salvation of mankind.

  What better way to prove to the residents of the world that, underneath all their surface differences, men were alike everywhere? How better to show people that we all have the same desires, aspirations, and goals for our lives? How else to show the world that everyone in it deserved to live a life free from strife, hunger, and war? How better to show people where areas of famine, drought, flood, and other pockets of need were? After all, if no one knew where want lurked, no one could help the wanters, could they?

  Ever since Martin had become involved with Phineas Lovejoy in setting up and operating Peerless Studio, he’d felt himself to be on a mission. The world had been damaged enough by megalomaniacal dictators, separatist fear-mongers, socialists, anarchists, and so forth. Martin’s plan was to create universal understanding among the world’s people. That would put a kink in the Kaiser’s tail! Pompous, strutting, insufferable—He realized he’d become sidetracked and shook his head to clear it.

  “I’m sure you’ll find the leading lady of our picture a delight. Her name is Brenda Fitzpatrick”

  “I see.”

  Colin’s enthusiasm was liable to get him into trouble if he didn’t try to curb it, Martin thought ironically. “She’s a lovely girl. Modeled hats and gowns in New York City before she was picked up by a company doing musical comedies on Broadway. Got a great voice, although, of course, we won’t be able to exploit that in a silent picture.” He laughed again. Colin didn’t.

  Martin went on. “She’s been very successful on Broadway. I’m sure when you meet her, you’ll understand why. She’s a true beauty.” Because he wanted to stir his companion, if only a little bit, Martin winked. He tried to make it a lascivious wink but, having had little to do with lasciviousness in his life, wasn’t sure he succeeded.

  “Oh.”

  At first Martin thought he’d failed to instill even a tiny degree of intrigue about Miss Fitzpatrick in his assistant. Then he saw a dull red flush spread over Colin’s neck— and he felt guilty, both for trying to disconcert Colin and for even hinting .that Brenda wasn’t what she should be.

  Because she was. Bright, charming, not unlike one of those splendid peonies they had back east, Brenda was a real brick. There wasn’t a hint of temperament about her. “But she’s a fine girl. An upstanding girl. I understand she’s been supporting her family for some time, because her father became ill and died when she was a young girl.”

  “Hmmm. Too bad, that.”

  “Yes. But she’s so pretty that it wasn’t hard for her to get modeling jobs. And then the stage came along.” It sounded romantic and exciting to Martin.

  “I see,” said Colin.

  Martin was very, very glad when the two of them exited a stand of sycamore and incense cedar trees and saw the lodge where the cast and crew were to be housed during the filming of Indian Love Song.

  Colin feared Martin must think him a stodgy old thing and regretted it. But Colin couldn’t help it. He was who he was. Most of his life had been spent inside his head and at various schools and universities. He’d achieved his bachelor’s degree at Boston College before he was sixteen years old, a master’s degree in philosophical history at Harvard when he was nineteen, and completed the work for his Ph.D., creating in the process a philosophical and anthropological masterpiece, according to his professors, in the history and significance of modem philosophical thought in the study of native anthropology in the western United States last June.

  Scheduled to begin work as an assistant professor at the new university in Los Angeles in September, he’d been at loose ends after moving to California from Massachusetts. He’d also been pretty low on funds, although he came from a fairly wealthy family. Colin chose not to rely on his parents’ good graces now that he was a man. He believed men ought to be able to take care of themselves. If they couldn’t, then perhaps one or two of Mr. Darwin’s more controversial theories ought to be put to the test.

  This job, therefore, was a godsend. Not only would he be able to do what he loved—research—but he’d be able to witness work in a new and booming industry. Colin was fascinated by moving pictures, and he went to see them as often as he could.

  The expressive side of his nature, however, had not been nurtured, and he wasn’t very good at showing people how he felt. And now Martin Tafft, a fine man and one whom Colin liked a good deal, believed him to be a stuffed shirt. Colin sighed, and wondered if he’d ever learn how to live in the world and not in his head.

  An, opportunity for practice occurred not more than two minutes later, when Martin opened the heavy door of the wooden lodge and the two men entered the main parlor.

  A large wooden structure built late in the last century, the Cedar Crest Lodge had been the scene of many parties, the headquarters for many hunting expeditions, and the vacation home of choice for wealthy Southern Californians who wished to rest and relax near their homes. Not everyone cared to spend their holidays in the big city, and the mountains in the area had been discovered to be ideal for such a purpose.

  The half-timbered building had an odd but appealing quality about it, Colin thought, and didn’t look as out of place as might be supposed. One normally didn’t expect to encounter a faux Tudor edifice in the middle of a California forest. But the Cedar Crest gave the appearance of being both rustic and elegant, a combination difficult to achieve but very effective.

  With appreciation, Colin entered through the heavy double timber doors of the lodge and left behind the brightness of the day. Inside, the furnishings were warm and comfortable, but they also exuded qualities of excellence and luxury. No shoddy, splintery old wooden chairs for visitors to the Cedar Crest, as one might encounter in several dude ranches in Wyoming or Montana. Such discomfort was not what wealthy Southern Californians expected during their days of rest. All of the Cedar Crest’s furniture was crafted of native wood, sanded to a fare-thee-well, and polished until it gleamed.

  The lodge, inside and out, was a fine example of the new Craftsman school of architecture, Colin noted to himself, although he didn’t, mention it to Martin because he sensed Martin wouldn’t care. Long ago, Colin had learned to temper his thirst to gain and disseminate knowledge with caution. Not everyone in the world was as eager to learn about everything in it as Colin himself. Nor, it was true, did most people possess the spongelike quality of Colin’s own intellect.

  With a sigh of regret that it should be so, he followed Martin into the lodge. The day outside was sunny but chilly, and a fire had bee
n built in the huge fireplace in the parlor. The pleasant aroma of wood smoke made Colin think of a trip he’d taken to Montana once. He’d never quite understood why people who trucked with long-horned cattle seemed impelled to make furniture out of the horns. Some of the ugliest hat racks and chairs he’d ever seen lived in Montana. It was almost enough to make him glad he didn’t.

  He was surprised to see four people kneeling on the gorgeous Bokhara rug in front of the roaring fire. He squinted, trying to discern what the people were doing.

  “Snake eyes! Blast!” cried one of them, and Colin blinked. Good heavens, were they throwing dice?

  “Seven!” cried another—a woman, much to Colin’s shock—and then she crowed, “I win!” She gave a delighted whoop, making Colin’s considerable mind go blank for a moment—but only a moment.

  He couldn’t see her face because her back was to him. He did notice that she had very light, golden blond hair piled on top of her head in the mode made famous by Mr. Gibson. Her hair gleamed in the firelight and reminded Colin of some old, polished Roman coins he’d seen in a museum once.

  Since Colin’s thirst for knowledge was all-inclusive and often unintentional—his mind absorbed trivia read in newsprint and periodicals with the same zest as it did tidbits gleaned from musty historical texts—he recognized that she wore a pinafore gown. If he’d been asked, he couldn’t have said where he’d learned the name of that particular style of dress.

  However he’d learned it, he also knew the gown had been sewn of velvet the color of priceless sapphires. Underneath the dress the woman wore a lacy white lawn blouse. Her clothes were very well made. Colin knew these clothes had cost a lot of money, and he deduced therefrom that the young woman was probably Miss Brenda Fitzpatrick, who was a successful actress. These days actresses earned far more than, say, college professors. Colin’s turn of mind wasn’t bitter, and he didn’t resent the fact, but only noted it with interest. His assumption of the young woman’s identity was confirmed only seconds later.