The Perfect Ghost (25 page)

“You didn’t notice a sudden change in him? Any sadness? Worry?”

“Nothing like that.” Garrett’s deep voice boomed. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, please don’t be. I would have so hated it if he’d been devastated. I mean, it’s not as if we’d never disagreed before.” The word might have been “argued” rather than “disagreed.” Her voice was harder to make out. “The two of us have been married—we were married a very long time. People—lovers—say things they don’t mean.”

“Often.”

A Caroline aria followed, an undifferentiated flow of grating sound.

After a long silence, Garrett’s voice again: “I really don’t know what else to say.”

I cupped my hands to my ears, closed my eyes, held my breath.

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind calling, repeating what you told me, that Teddy wasn’t depressed, they can settle this, stop this torture and harassment. Teddy would never do himself intentional harm. If I told him to leave, it wasn’t the first time. Believe me, it wasn’t. They seem to think he was a man without resources, which if you knew Teddy, is utterly unbelievable.”

Her voice crescendoed on the last two words and I nodded my head in agreement. The entire scene was utterly unbelievable, unless you knew Caroline and took her personal quirks into account. In which case there were two interpretations.

One: She’d discovered some life insurance policy that contained a clause precluding suicide. If Snow had so much as hinted at the possibility of suicide, she’d instinctively begin assembling a defense.

Two: She wanted something from Garrett, his attention, his validation, his deference, his admiration. She was a mantrap and always would be a mantrap. Hadn’t she and Garrett met before, Teddy? You’d mentioned something about a dinner during which she’d monopolized the conversation.

“If there’s any way I can help, you’ll let me know, won’t you, Mal? Have you selected the photos? Teddy always asked my advice because of my background. I’d be delighted to work with you.”

“No photos in this one. We already agreed on that.”

“None? But that will be so disappointing to your fans.”

“Simpering” was the word that described her tone and manner, simpering and seductive. I pictured her in the midnight-blue velvet gown she wore the night you accepted your award. I felt hot and cold at the same time, rooted to the spot while film looped my brain: a continuous image of me racing downstairs, screaming, “Leave him alone, leave him alone, he’s mine.” The room was small, tight, and snug, with walls that pressed too closely. The books, with their yellowed pages and mouse-gnawed covers, reeked of age and mustiness. The air seeped out underneath the door. I needed to escape, to move, to run, but the ill-timed squeak of a floorboard would betray my presence. The room below went silent. What if they were ascending the stairs?

My feet miraculously freed themselves from the sticky gum that fastened them to the floor, and I took refuge in my bedroom, sitting at the dressing table, peering into my own gray eyes in the mirror, despairing at their drab and colorless shade.

CHAPTER

thirty-seven

Later that week, the weather turned for the worse, wind rising from the northeast, sky darkening to a sheet of dull gray metal. I assured Garrett the change would be good for my work, diminish the temptation to stroll the shoreline, but that proved false. The ocean’s attraction increased with the wind’s velocity; its storm-tossed surface summoned me to watch spellbound as waves smashed and broke against the rocks, rushing beyond the high tide mark to deposit seadrift treasure. Measuring spray against a seawall could absorb entire daydream-filled afternoons.

I did work: There were moments at the keyboard when power pulsed through my fingers like electric current, when I held the charged reins firmly in my grip. But then the power would sputter and short out. I needed you, Teddy, standing sternly at my side, reviewing, admiring a paragraph, reassuring me that a chapter was sufficiently polished, finished. Alone and unsure, I rewrote passage after passage, fine-tuning, nit-picking, seeking that old enemy, Perfection. I was such a good little girl, wanted to be such a good little girl.

Or was I such a bad little girl? The bedroom acrobatics Garrett and I got up to every night and most mornings were wrong, outside the code, and unlikely to end in orange blossoms, rice-tossing, and long-term bliss. I held that thought far away and stared instead at the stormy ocean, exulted in the foam-topped waves.

It seemed to me that buyers would form a line, pay any premium for the died-and-gone-to-heaven views that presented themselves from each promontory, cove, and beach. The property taxes alone must be staggering.

No wonder Garrett was considering a conservation land trust to lower the property tax. Since most of the land was unspoiled and empty, with only a small portion devoted, one way or another, to the theater, such a trust seemed a good arrangement. With a conservation trust, the estate would be taxed far more leniently on condition that no one would subdivide or develop the property.

I wondered what the estate had been worth in Ralph Malcolm’s day, whether the old man had been tempted to cash in and sell off a few acres to an eager developer. I wondered where James Foley’s small slice of land was located, whether it possessed an ocean view, a house the size of the tiny beach shack or something larger, more on the order of the Red House or the Old Barn. I wondered whether Foley, the real estate broker, disapproved of prohibiting development on such a large tract of land.

The rain beat down on my hair and face, but I felt strangely at home, comfortable on the windy beach. Who had the old man’s lawyer been, and how had he convinced Ralph Malcolm to ease his male chauvinism and allow the fortunate Jenna to inherit? Thoughts of Malcolm’s will flowed seamlessly as the tide into thoughts of your will, Teddy. Garrett had said not a single word about Caroline’s visit. I took it for granted that I was your literary executor, but was that true? I checked my cell phone. The service was uneven, but I was considering phoning Marcy to discover what she knew about the business of literary inheritance, when my cell buzzed so violently I almost dropped it in the sand.

“Em? Is that you? Can you hear me?”

“Jonathan?” It would be bad news, bad news to counter the good, the lovely book club offer he’d relayed in his previous call. Now there would be a delay, some unforeseen obstacle, or worse, a talk show, an appearance you’d scheduled that couldn’t be postponed.

“Can you hear?” His tone was filled with suppressed excitement.

“Yes. How are you? What is it?”

“You know who Amory Russell is, don’t you?” he said. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“God, you’re so young. You probably only know his son, the start-up media guy, Evan Russell?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“But did you know Teddy was after him? Amory Russell? Did you have any idea? No, don’t tell me, because if you knew about this and didn’t tell me, I might get angry and I’m so thrilled, yes, I’d have to say thrilled. This could be incredible. Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“The next book. The new book. I mean, you know the Garrett Malcolm book is the last one in this contract. Teddy hinted that he had a big one up his sleeve, but I never thought he’d land a whale like Amory Russell.”

“The lawyer.”

“God, yes. Lawyer with a capital L. The Henry-Rothschild divorce? The Jenson thing, that Ponzi scheme that lost billions? Teddy had nerve, I’ll say that. Everybody’s been after Russell’s story, but most of us, myself included, thought the old bastard would go to his grave without spilling a single rotten bean. Look, I can’t promise you’ll handle it, not on your own, but I need to know whether you think you’re up to it. Now that you’ve done some interviewing? Maybe there’s someone else you want to partner with? I’ve never had any trouble with your writing.”

“Jonathan, I don’t know what to say.”

Say thank you, a voice roared in my head. Say thank you, and hang up, get off the phone.

Amory Russell. The lawyer’s card in the Bloomie’s bag. The Russell in Russell, Ames, and Huber was Amory Russell. And Jonathan wanted to know if I was up to interviewing the great man.

CHAPTER

thirty-eight

Time expanded and contracted, widening and narrowing, elongating and compressing like an old-time squeezebox accordion. Hours with Garrett, in my bed or his, passed in lightning flashes of sensation. Minutes of close manuscript study stretched into hours as I agonized over an adverb or pondered shifting a sentence, even an entire paragraph from one chapter to the next.

Garrett was so sweet, so considerate and kind. His thoughtfulness threw me off balance, teetering between joy and despair, made me debate my precise location on the unimportant-to-important person scale. Over and over I replayed his comments concerning actresses he’d bedded, parsing exactly what he’d meant when he’d declared sex “another way of getting to know” a person. I wondered whether I’d turn up as a character in one of his movies someday, went so far as to cast my role, choosing among upcoming character actresses, wondering whether I’d turn out secretly beautiful, shedding hair clips and eye-glasses as character actresses so often did at the end. Or if the actress playing my role would perish, walk into the ocean with stones weighting her pockets.

That kind of thinking drove me outdoors earlier than usual the next morning, determined to take a brisk walk as a remedy. I’d discovered a magical alchemy between walks along the seashore and writing, a sort of cross-fertilization. If I didn’t consciously think about work, if I packed it away and exercised legs rather than brain, answers to tangled problems often came scurrying sideways, like crabs scuttling across the sand.

Afraid the muckraker McKenna might catch me in his lens, I scrupulously avoided the shoreline near the beach shack. I indulged in a brief fantasy and imagined the scruffy man behind bars, but even if Garrett had heeded my warning and alerted the police, I doubted he’d gotten the gossipmonger arrested. It wasn’t hard to imagine what McKenna would do if he knew about Brooklyn Pierce, how he’d run with the tale of his drunkenness, destroy the man’s dignity.

I had no wish to compromise Pierce’s dignity. I simply yearned to solve not only the case of the missing microcassette, but the puzzle of the relationship between the movie star and the director. Initially, I’d assumed dislike, an enmity that precluded a fourth Ben Justice film. But if Pierce could take refuge in Garrett’s beach shack whenever he needed it, that bespoke a friendship, a kind of sponsorship.

My feet pounded the sandy turf. Garrett could have tired of the Justice series. The memory of Claire Gregory’s perfection in
Red Shot
could have rendered thoughts of another sequel unbearable. A red-tailed hawk flew low over a spit of land, veered, and rose into the sun.

I would never jeopardize Garrett’s memories of Claire. When he looked at me he’d see no scrap of resemblance; I was unthreatening, a safe, plain woman: That was my charm, my only charm. But the actresses were coming soon. The girl who played Ophelia had the face of a tombstone angel, a body like Venus rising from the sea. Who did I think I was, who did I imagine I’d become? In which fairy tale does the handsome Prince’s kiss transform a serving drab into a royal beauty?

The scalding tones of yet another stepmother rang in my ears. If I wasn’t good enough for my own mother to keep, who would want me, who could ever want me? Would I never stop whipping myself with that particular scourge? No wonder the power shorted out when I needed it most. No wonder the words wouldn’t flow.

Two TV stars, one rising, one fading, still sparred for the role of Hamlet. Each was book ready, prepared to perform at a finger-snap, and each would cheerfully chew cement for the chance to work with Garrett Malcolm. Just as a multitude of potential Gertrudes and Ophelias would do anything to grace his bed.

I crested a hill. My steps had taken me overland to the beach shack, but I hung back, intimidated by the fear of McKenna’s hidden cameras. From this angle the place was more outline than building, a high peaked roof pierced by a smokestack. Over the wash of waves, I heard the distinct sound of a door opening and my heart lifted. If I happened to see Brooklyn Pierce out for a walk, that would be different. Then, I’d pounce.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs, then ceased, drowned by the pulse of the waves or the sound-deadening sand. I took shelter behind a dune and waited. The red-tailed hawk circled overhead, but no actor ambled along the shore toward the Amphitheater.

The second noise was speech, not distinct words, but chatter. I should have turned smartly and retreated, but I edged closer to the lip of the dune, protected from view by its precipitous rise, and crouched to peer through the woody stems of bayberry bushes.

Two men fought the wind, spreading a striped blanket on the sand. One kicked off his flip-flops. I assumed Pierce’s companion was Garrett at first, and anger flared because Garrett had carefully outlined his agenda, so much work we’d be unable to lunch together and all of it at the Amphitheater.

The men wore low-slung bathing trunks, one bold plaid, the other Hawaiian floral. Brooklyn Pierce, in the floral trunks, seemed to have regained his golden glow. His companion patted him on the shoulder, turning slightly and revealing more of his profile.

Not Garrett, but cousin James Foley, the family resemblance stronger here than in the stuffy realty office. My anger died, replaced by the interviewer’s lust for answered questions. My eyes sought a path down to the beach. I could casually happen on the scene, enter stage right, inquire about the screenplay collaboration James had claimed. And if Pierce asked about the missing tape, I could say it had gotten lost; no, better, destroyed in the car crash.

An outburst of laughter drew my focus to the sand. The men were racing into the icy surf, shedding their trunks as they ran, tossing them aside, and whooping as they plunged naked into the foam. It was a flash, a moment engraved in memory: the twin dimples in the very small of Pierce’s back, the shoulders and pale flanks, the golden hair. I watched, and after that I could no more have appeared on the beach than I could have sprouted pin feathers.