The Women in the Walls (6 page)

I DON'T SEE
Margaret until the night of the dinner party.

In our world, the world of trust funds and property estates and children who either go to private boarding schools or have paid tutors come to their homes, the reputation that is tied to your family's name means everything, especially within a hypersocial group like the country club.

Now that my mother and Penelope are both gone, my father has to work especially hard to uphold the family name. He is the one who changed his name to my mother's,
Acosta
, not the other way around. It was the Acostas who kept this historical estate in the family for generations, which is part of why Penelope was so angry when she wasn't the one to inherit, despite being the older sister. It was the Acostas who always kept to the top of the brutal socialite food chain, the most impressive family, the prettiest and wealthiest and most well involved. And now my father has inherited that burden, until it can be passed on to Margaret and me.

The evening of the party, when I'm done with my shower and am walking back to my bedroom, towel-wrapped and dripping onto the carpet, I hear my father bellow to Miranda from downstairs to use the plates with the real gold trim, not the china. After I step into my room and close the door, I go through my closet looking for a dress, wishing more than anything that I could pretend I was ill and skip out on this entire thing.

I wonder how Margaret is feeling tonight. She's been avoiding me since we got back from the woods, although the few times I've passed her in the hallways or the dining room she looked fine enough. No more dark circles, no more dirty clothes. I'm desperate to know if she still thinks she can hear Penelope in the walls. If she does, it's not like she's going to tell me about it. I'll need to keep an eye on her.

I take as long as I possibly can to get ready. By the time I'm finishing up on my hair, I can already hear the buzz of mass chatter coming from the usually silent downstairs area. I spray my pinned-up curls with hair spray, then carefully slip into my black party dress. A pair of matching pumps completes the outfit that feels much more like a uniform than anything else. When I was little, I loved dressing up. Now it's just a hassle that happens all too often.

I'm about to head downstairs when I spot the bejeweled rose hair ornament on my vanity, just as beautiful as it's always been. It used to belong to Penelope, but after I kept asking to borrow it for events like this, she just gave in and let me have it, despite Margaret's hard expression as she watched from the doorway.

I stand over the vanity and run my fingertips over the ruby petals of the piece for a moment. I get that awful feeling in my stomach again, the feeling that Margaret knows something about Penelope's disappearance that she never told me. She never denied it when I asked her in my room; she only got defensive. I don't know what to believe anymore.

In the hallway, I can hear the sound of jazz playing from the record player in the dining room, hardly audible over the bursts of laughter and waves of voices all trying to talk over one another. I pause at the staircase, looking below to the sea of suits and fur shawls and hands holding glasses with cocktails or champagne. There appear to be about twenty of them in total: ten vainglorious men with their giggling, diamond-studded wives.

“Here comes our Lucy!” one of the more longtime members, Gregory Shaw, says as I step off the last stair and onto the polished floor. “Have a drink and chat with us, my dear!” Standing behind him is his wife, Nancy, the woman Margaret and I were mocking so ruthlessly earlier in the week. She really is the worst of them all.

Almost all of the furniture in the parlor has been removed or relocated against the walls, giving the already-spacious area a ballroom effect. Penelope always made sure it was set up this way for the dinner parties she orchestrated—my father must have filled Miranda in on what to do.

I think about how far he's willing to go to accommodate the club, to keep the Acosta name relevant. For the first time, I think about how that same pressure would have been all on Penelope before she disappeared. She always appeared to love it, but what if inside she was struggling? Desperation can make people do things that nobody would expect. The tender, still-healing skin on my hip is a raw testament to that.

“Hello.” I smile and bow my head slightly in Gregory's direction, then give Nancy a little wave. “It's so wonderful to see you both again.”

“Likewise, honey,” Gregory says before taking a gulp of his martini. “I was a little surprised to hear that we were still on for tonight. Felix didn't have to go on with hosting if he didn't feel up to it.”

I scan the room from where I stand, searching for Margaret. So far, no sign of her. I see Vanessa along the back wall, setting a tray of food onto a table with her back to me. She's gone out of her way to avoid me ever since that morning in the kitchen, which I am grateful for. It's like Margaret said: it's best that she knows to leave us alone.

“Well,” I say, meeting Gregory's eyes again, “I think he probably liked having the distraction, to tell you the truth.”

“So sorry to hear about your aunt, dear,” Nancy says in a hushed voice, her lips painted bright with fuchsia. Her words are already starting to slur together from the gin in her nearly empty glass. “I truly adored her, such an Acosta she was, meticulous in every aspect of her life. This party isn't anything like the ones
she
used to throw.” She pauses to take a sip from her drink, her eyes darting around the parlor to the snack table. “But I guess you can't hire that sort of perfection, can you, dear?”

“No, you can't,” I say, forcing my smile to stay bright. “Of course, our family is still holding out hope regarding Penelope.” It's a lie, but I know it's the right thing to say to keep up the reputation of the Acosta name. Any and all weaknesses are to be kept hidden out of sight.

“Of course you are,” Gregory says, patting me on the shoulder. “As you should be. Nothing is ever certain, you know.”

I'm surprised you feel that way
, I feel compelled to say.
Especially since you were the first to stop coming to help search for her.

I finally spot Margaret at the break in the staircase that leads to the second floor. She looks down at me, wearing a dress of rich jewel-toned blue that goes all the way down to the floor. There is a gold ribbon tied in her hair.

“Stop talking about Penelope,” Nancy whispers drunkenly to her husband once she spots Margaret. “We don't want to upset her daughter, the poor thing.”

Poor thing is right
, I think sullenly as I watch my cousin descend the stairs.
If only they really knew.

Margaret's smile is empty as she approaches. “Hello, everyone,” she says after she's reached my side, nodding at Gregory and Nancy. “I sure hope dinner is ready soon, because I am starving.”

“Me, too,” Nancy says with a hiccup, emptying her glass of what little gin remains. “The food here was always divine, a perfect fit for an estate that's practically royal. You two are the luckiest girls in the world.”

“No, we're not,” Margaret says with unmistakable bite. “Both of our mothers are dead.”

I feel myself blush in the awkward pause that follows. So much for holding out hope.

“I only meant that you live somewhere special, dear,” Nancy replies drily, her eyebrow raised. “There's no need to get feisty. Historical landmarks like this are something to be respected.”

My cousin frowns. “Respect, huh?”

“Excuse us,” I say as politely as I can manage, then walk with Margaret to the food table, where we're alone. I watch as she inhales a tomato-sausage toast and two scallops straight from their shells. I want to ask her if she's all right, but I feel like that's one of the worst questions you could ask someone who just tried to convince you that she's hearing voices.

“So,” I say after reaching for a tiny cup of puff pastry filled with avocado puree and spiced prawns. “How are you doing?”

“I'm okay,” she says through her chewing. “Listen, I know I said some messed-up stuff before, about my mom, but I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for all that. I was...mistaken. Things are fine now, they really are.”

“Mistaken?” I ask, hopeful. “So you're feeling better, then?”

“Yes,” she says, offering up a weak smile. “I'm feeling better.”

Miranda calls out from the entrance of the dining room that dinner is being served. The club members make their way across the parlor immediately, talking about the food and recent golf scores and each other.

“So no more voices?” I ask as we trail behind the crowd, daring to feel relief. “And no more attic?”

“No, she's still in there,” Margaret says, and I close my eyes in pained disbelief. “I just said that I was mistaken. She doesn't want to hurt me. She just wants to
be
there for me. It's quite amazing, really, how she had to die for us to get so close.”

I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. We file into the dining room, finding our places marked with handwritten name cards. Margaret and I are placed together, as usual, but tonight I wish we weren't.
How does she know for sure that Penelope is dead?

My father enters once everyone is seated, wearing a blue suit with a silver tie. He thanks everyone for coming, his voice artificially warm as he wishes a satisfying feast upon us all before sitting at the head of the table. The opposite head, where Penelope usually sits, remains empty. There is a black cloth draped over her chair.

“I want to say again how grateful I am for all the warm wishes and support you've provided in the wake of Penelope's disappearance,” my father says, which is the easiest he's spoken of it in front of me yet. “Our family appreciates the help more than you could ever know.”

“No thanks necessary, my friend,” Gregory pipes up from where he sits across from me. “Your sister-in-law was one of the brightest and most outstanding members that this club has seen in years. Such potential she had. She will be sorely missed.”

“Hear, hear,” murmur random people from all around the table. A few members raise their glasses expectantly.

“To Penelope,” Gregory speaks over my father. The rest of the drink glasses raise together in one swift movement. “May we always remember the grace she brought to this wonderful estate, her family birthright.”

My father's eyes narrow, just in the slightest. Discomfort blooms in my belly, causing me to shift around in my seat. That mention about family birthright was a dig at my father, since he's only an Acosta by name. What idiot convinced everyone into thinking that kind of thing even matters? These are grown men in expensive suits and all they ever put into the world is pettiness.

Margaret's eyes are stuck on Gregory, her glass of sparkling cider raised, her eyes soft with affection at his words. I'm not surprised that she doesn't find the old man's comment to be inappropriate and disrespectful to my father. In fact, I'm sure she loves it. She'd love it even if she wasn't out of her mind right now.

The air becomes filled with the sounds of clinking glass, then long, thoughtful gulps. Margaret drains her glass before lowering it, which I find to be needlessly dramatic considering the toast. The fragrance of the platters upon platters of food before me calm my nerves. The featured dishes are clearly from Penelope's recipe book: lamb chops that have been seared and dusted with edible gold flakes, chickpeas and chorizo, whole roasted chickens and sea bass and blackened mackerel.

People begin serving themselves immediately, and the chatter goes on as though it never stopped. I watch as Margaret loads her plate up without turning to look at me once.

“We need to talk about this,” I say to her under my breath, once I'm sure nobody is listening.

“No, we don't,” her reply comes, quick and sharp. “It's clear to me that you aren't capable of understanding what's going on. I'm keeping this for myself.”

I'm about to retort when a man named Kent Dickens, whom I've known just as long as I've known the Shaws, speaks up over the buzz of the crowd to address my father.

“Felix,” he says through a horridly visible mouthful of sea bass. “What are your plans for the estate now that Penelope is gone?”

My stomach clenches in the same way that it did when Gregory gave his toast. Why must these people linger on things that are none of their business?

“My plans for the estate?” my father replies to Kent, his voice already on edge. “I plan to continue running it, of course. Penelope may have lived here and helped raise the girls, but I've been the one managing the immense responsibilities of this place since Eva passed away.”

The murmur of chatter in the crowd dies down.

“I had no idea overseeing a staff was so difficult,” Kent says in a lighthearted tone. “Still, I meant no offense by the question, Felix.”