The Perfect Ghost (24 page)

“Jamie. Call me Jamie, since you’ve seen me act.” When he sat on one corner of the desk and arranged his lean face in a rakish smile, I saw a younger version of the man, the villain in
Red Shot
, looming up from under the bridge. He looked disconcertingly like his cousin, the same mouth, the same eyes.

“You were terrific in
Red Shot
,” I said, “and I recognized your voice from the tape you did with Teddy.”

“You’re not going to use any of that, are you? I thought I was deep background.”

“Your cousin doesn’t want to focus on his childhood.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. Nothing alcoholism or a lifetime of therapy couldn’t overcome. Do you mind if I smoke?” He retrieved the cigarette from the ashtray and regarded its mashed end regretfully.

“It doesn’t seem to have damaged him,” I said. “His childhood.”

“Don’t let the actor in him fool you. I take it you haven’t come to rent or buy a house?”

“No.”

“Want me to open a window?” he said as he lit up. “Or we could go for a walk? I do quite a mean tour of Ye Olde Ancient Windmill.”

“Can we talk here? I don’t mind the smoke.”

He nodded me into a straight-backed chair by the side of his desk. I wondered where Mr. Picarian was, or if a Mr. Picarian existed. The room was far from spacious, just the lone desk, a worn credenza, two filing cabinets, and a computer. I hadn’t thought to bring the recorder, but I was able to pull a small notebook and a pen from my purse.

“I’ve got a lot of properties to rent,” Foley said wistfully. “May’s wide open and that’s unusual this late in the year. Economy sucks and with gas prices high, people are going nowhere. Plus the kiddies are still in school in May. You could get a real deal.”

We stared at each other in silence.

“You want me to talk about my cousin?”

“Yes.”

“Everyone does.”

“It annoys you.”

“Just because he’s famous and talented and I’m obscure, if not untalented? Just because he owns half the damned Cape and I own a teensy sliver grudgingly forked over by Uncle Ralph?”

“Like Shakespeare’s second best bed.”

His smile was a flash of white teeth. “So Teddy did take a gander at the will? There was a brief and glorious moment when it looked like I might come into a windfall, but the old man came to his senses. His lawyer did, anyway. Not that I’d have wanted to do Jenna out of the land, not like that, but I’d certainly be willing to do a deal, split the spoils. She can have plenty for the theater. I’ll just take a bit of the seaside for a small resort hotel, maybe a few upscale condos. Think she’d go for that?”

“I haven’t met her.”

“And you won’t. Not with cousin Garrett keeping her safely out of the country. A small chunk of Cranberry Hill and I wouldn’t be slaving away at a desk on a day like this. Doesn’t seem fair, but then ‘Fair is a word for weaklings,’ that’s what Uncle Ralph used to say. ‘Talent isn’t fair, life isn’t fair.’”

His face as well as his accent altered as he spoke and I understood that he was acting, doing Garrett Malcolm’s father as the old autocrat.

“So I hear he’s doing
Hamlet
again? The old revenge tragedy. What’s he thinking? Modern dress? Rags? Leotards? Fire? Planning to outdo Branagh with fire and brimstone?”

“You should ask him.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Did Teddy tape you here?”

“We went to the Cove over on Twenty-eight. Nice quiet bar. Little early for that now.”

“And I think you mentioned you were writing a screenplay? With Brooklyn Pierce?”

He glanced at me warily. “Did I? Well, let’s just say we’ve talked about collaborating on a few things.”

“And you asked Pierce to get in touch with Teddy. That was kind of you.”

“Brookie’s a decent guy for a superstar. Hasn’t forgotten the debt he owes to Lady Luck. And he’s got plenty of tales to tell about old Malcolm.”

“Ralph Malcolm?”

“No. Dear Cousin Garrett. Only a tad older than I am, but I rub it in whenever I see him. And when I don’t.”

“What kind of tales?”

“The kind he won’t repeat. Brookie doesn’t leak other people’s personal stuff. Or his own, for that matter. He’s smart that way, gabs just enough to keep the press interested. It’s a neat trick. Give ’em the shit they think they want, not the shit you know. Give ’em stuff you make up out of thin air. If you don’t, they’ll make it up themselves. Brookie does a good job.”

“You’ve been friends a long time.”

“Did Brookie talk to Teddy? Before he—you know? Before the accident?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Brookie’s been a true pal. Never high and mighty, just because he’s good at what he does. No great family, no background, just a natural actor. He used to invite me out to his place in Brentwood. God, the parties he threw. He’s been a good friend, to me and to my cousin. Garrett owes Brookie.”

I kept my face carefully neutral and waited, pen and pad clutched tightly in my hands, wishing I’d brought the recorder, wishing I had your gift for inspiring confidences.

“Brookie deserves better than he gets from Garrett.”

The second hand of my wristwatch swept several times around the compass as I waited, reluctant to break the intimate silence. Several times I thought he might speak, take the plunge. He seemed to want to unburden himself, but he kept his mouth shut and concentrated on his cigarette, watching smoke rise from the glowing tip and accumulate in the small room.

“But then Malcolms don’t forgive or forget, do they?”

He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. The room grew stuffier by the second. I should have agreed when he’d suggested opening the window.

“What do you mean?” If I had been taping, the counter would have clicked through fifty digits before I finally spoke.

“Huh?” He did a lovely double take, a reaction that made me remember I was dealing with an actor.

“‘Malcolms don’t forgive or forget’?” I prompted.

“Oh, that. It’s like I told Teddy. They never forgave my mother for marrying out of the profession.”

“I thought you were talking about something else, about Brooklyn Pierce?”

“I don’t talk about my friends. But hey, it’s your job to ask. Like selling and renting is mine. And I really ought to get back to it, writing keen little snippets about charming cottages on Salt Pond, only eleven K a week to you, ma’am, in high season.”

“One more thing.” I spoke even though I knew I’d been dismissed.

“Yeah?”

“You said Garrett was keeping Jenna out of the country?”

“You haven’t heard that she’s coming home, have you? To meet with the lawyers?”

“You mean with the theater board?”

“She can meet with them till hell freezes over. With the lawyers about the trust, the conservation trust. Garrett’s mentioned that, I suppose.”

“Yes, he has. And no, I don’t think she’s on her way home.”

He seemed relieved. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Take those early pratfalls out of the limelight: a lot of pressure being the last of the Malcolm dynasty. I can’t imagine my cousin wouldn’t do whatever he thought best for her. I mean, he absolutely adores that girl.” He rose as he spoke, ready to usher me out the door.

“Thanks for talking to me.”

“No problem, and if you think of anything else, you know where to find me.” He hesitated, biting his lower lip, an actorly moment: man considering whether or not to confide.

I waited, hoping he’d tell me more about Garrett and Brooklyn Pierce.

“Things working out all right for you?” His eyes, more gray than blue, were the same shape as Garrett’s.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Garrett’s not giving you any trouble, is he? I mean, he’s going along with it, with you taking over for Teddy?”

“I’m good at my job.”

“I’m sure you are, but just a cautionary word, okay? Don’t let him bully you into anything.”

I couldn’t tell by his tone if he was mocking me or warning me, but I was washed by the same embarrassment and confusion I’d felt when I first entered the cottage, as though the intimacy of my relationship with Garrett was emblazoned on my forehead or written across my chest.

Determined to display my professionalism, I quickly asked another question. “Do you know anyone with the initials ‘HMB’?”

He smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Is there a prize?”

I shrugged.

He opened the door, putting an end to the interview. “I guess the prize goes to the next contestant.”

The artist, defeated by the breeze and the darkening clouds, was packing his canvas into the trunk of his pickup as I strolled past. I wondered what it was like to be James Foley, son of the famous Ella Malcolm, grandson of the great Harrison Malcolm, living on the same small peninsula as his cousin, a man who’d succeeded in the field for which they’d both been bred. Did Foley watch his cousin’s movies on late-night TV or change the channel if one appeared onscreen? Had he come to terms with the limits of his own stage career or did he imagine he might be a star someday?

I was sure Garrett had told me it was Jenna who’d insisted on leaving the country. Foley must have gotten it wrong.

CHAPTER

thirty-six

Since I’d never before spent time as a guest in a big house, I had no way of knowing that as a guest I would wander the hallways, that rooms would call to me, murmur,
Come in, come in, look around
as I passed their narrow doorways. A strange curiosity possessed me, and I justified and fed it, assuring the nosy cat-pawed beast that we were searching for relevant information, clues that would yield a glimpse into the still and mysterious center of the hyphenate actor-director-producer Garrett Malcolm, who had grown up in this house or a smaller version thereof, who had lived here as a child, a newly married man, a father.

I should have quizzed James Foley concerning the Big House, its origin, history, and specifically its current worth. Maybe those huge figures on the pad of paper that resided in the Bloomie’s bag, the numbers I’d automatically labeled lira, represented the value of this enormous hunk of rare oceanfront land on the expensive Cape Cod real estate market.

I wrote for hours at a stretch, head bent to the task, which was not unusual for me. What was unusual was the restless wandering, pacing corridors, climbing staircases, touching vases and lamps, shading my eyes and staring blindly out windows, even venturing up to the narrow rooftop balcony, the traditional ship captain’s widow’s walk, to contemplate the flat and endless sea.

Whenever I escaped outdoors to plod the sandy shoreline or clamber across the dunes, it generally signaled that I was finished writing for the day, although I kept an index card folded lengthwise and a pen or pencil shoved into my back pocket always, in case a felicitous turn of phrase or an apt revision should spring to mind. I had a firm grasp of the book’s structure now. The entire first section was complete, and most of the second. The third and final meaty portion boasted a finished chapter here and there, with teetering walkways connecting them, transitions that needed fine-tuning.

Three days after visiting Picarian Realty, I was brooding over one of those creaky walkways, strolling idly down an unfamiliar corridor, fingers caressing a wall sconce here, a tasseled curtain there, when I came upon a room I’d never entered before, a small room, like an afterthought, and heard her voice. Startled, I lifted a hand to my mouth.

Caroline. Her tone and her piercing, drawling vowels were all but unmistakable. I thought I was having some sort of hallucination because it seemed impossible that she would be nearby, impossible and yet her voice cawed crow-like in my ears.

What was she doing within these walls? How dare she invade my space, my haven? Answers tumbled forth as quickly as questions. Caroline was a fame junkie, a tracker of the rich and famous. She hounded you if we were writing about an attractive man, someone involved in the arts, a wealthy person who might buy a painting from her precious gallery or attend a gala opening where she could show off her catch. I should have expected she’d find a way to intrude on Garrett and demand his attention, playing the widow card for sympathy.

God, please, don’t mention me, I willed Garrett, don’t say a word. Because I could hear his voice as well, distinguish it in the burble of sound. I moved into the small room as though propelled and shut the door behind me, chasing the sound instead of recoiling from it, which didn’t feel like the wrong thing to do. It was like listening to a recording, a logical extension of my daily work. The voices rose from the floor beneath. As I tiptoed into a corner near a painted bookshelf, I glanced out a window to fix my location by the view of the coastline, and determined that I must be above the great room, which seemed odd, this being such a tiny room. Here, in the very corner, the voices grew louder.

Garrett’s tone was deep and reassuring, but a bubble of rage swelled in my throat. Why should the impeccable Caroline need reassurance? I imagined her perched on the sofa or in one of the leather chairs, silken legs tucked demurely beneath her, wearing a dress selected to display her lush cleavage, the proud figurehead of a sailing ship. I waited, still as a photograph, and the broadcast got clearer, as though I were fine-tuning a dial, homing in on a faint and distant radio signal.

The word “police” from Caroline rang crystal clear, followed by another blur of sound and the word “snow.” If Caroline had driven as far as Dennis for an interview with Detective Snow, she might have continued on up the Cape, dropped in unexpectedly at Cranberry Hill. If Garrett’s schedule had included an appointment with Caroline, he would have mentioned it, just as he would surely mention it tonight, maybe at dinner, confiding that she’d appeared out of the blue with some odd and inconvenient request.

For a while, strain as I might, I could make out only an indistinct word or occasional phrase, disjointed as the titles on the nearby bookshelves, where World War II memoirs mixed with car repair manuals and modern fiction squatted next to Shakespeare. Then either my ears adjusted to the distance or the station started broadcasting at a stronger frequency.