Windhall

by Ava Barry

  I tried to compose myself. “How much are you asking, anyway?”

  Ray had turned back to the mirror and continued to remove his makeup. He glanced up at me in the reflection.

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  “Fifteen…! You’re out of your mind.” I couldn’t afford fifteen thousand on a good day, but the fact that my house was falling apart and I was on the verge of losing my job meant that the figure wasn’t even in the realm of possibility.

  “I should mention that you’re not the only one who’s interested,” Ray said. He traced a finger around the lid of the canister. “I spoke with a woman this morning who is very interested in seeing this reel.”

  “If you’re asking fifteen thousand, at least let me see it one more time.”

  “Sorry, pal,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to finish my shift.”

  He cleaned off the rest of the makeup from his face, then stood up and put on an apron.

  “Wait—you’re a server?” I asked. “I thought you were some kind of hotshot magician.”

  “We all have to pay the rent.” Ray gave me a dirty look, then walked to his locker and stashed the film reel back inside. He made a big show of locking it again. “I think you can see yourselves out.”

  “Give me until tomorrow morning,” I said. “I’ll come up with the money.”

  “We’ll see,” Ray said, then stood by the door and indicated it was time for us to leave.

  * * *

  Once we were outside, Thierry turned to me. “What the fuck happened in there?”

  “What?”

  “You turned a weird color. I thought you were going to cry or some shit.”

  “I get claustrophobic sometimes.”

  “Bullshit, you get claustrophobic. We’ve done jobs together, I’ve seen you climb into a crawl space tighter than a worm’s asshole.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You don’t have fifteen thousand dollars, Hailey.”

  “I know that. Don’t rub it in.”

  “I could give you some work,” he said. “We’re doing a house near the reservoir tomorrow.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Look,” he said, gesticulating. “There’s one more thing. When I was making calls about this magician, I remembered this other guy. Said he had something that belonged to Theo, or Eleanor, I can’t remember. If you want, we could check it out tomorrow, before I go to the reservoir.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Yeah, let’s check it out.”

  “You need a ride? You going to be okay to drive?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m just dehydrated, don’t worry about me.”

  I watched him get in his car and fiddle around with the keys. Thierry was good at sniffing out bullshit, and I hated to lie to him, but I knew he wouldn’t approve of what I was planning to do. I needed to see the reel one more time, needed to hold it in my hands.

  Once Thierry had left the parking lot and driven down Hollywood Boulevard, I walked around the back of the restaurant and let myself in through the service door. I knew from experience that these doors were usually cocked open an inch or two, so servers could sneak out for cigarette breaks without getting locked out.

  Another magician had taken the stage, and I watched him pull a bouquet out of a top hat. Listless applause from the audience. Ray was taking an order from a table in the corner, and his back was turned to me. Glancing around to make sure that I hadn’t been detected, I made my way up the stairs to the office.

  It was empty. I crossed the room to stand by the lockers, then took out my phone to do some research.

  Raymond Chandler had been born in 1888 and died in 1959. Neither of those dates worked. I cursed softly under my breath. I didn’t know anything about Ray the magician, and I wouldn’t have time to stalk him online before someone found me in the office.

  I was at a loss. I pulled out my phone and called Madeleine, who was the biggest Raymond Chandler fan I knew.

  “I can’t talk long,” I said, as soon as she answered the phone.

  “You called me!”

  “What’s the best Raymond Chandler novel of all time?”

  A quick pause. “Farewell, My Lovely. No debate.”

  “Any idea when it was published?”

  “Google that shit.”

  “Cheers, bye.”

  I did as Mad suggested and Google coughed up the result: 1940. After tucking my phone back into my pocket, I spun the combination lock: one, nine, four, zero. I tugged on the cheap lock, but it didn’t budge.

  “Some Raymond Chandler fan,” I muttered.

  There were voices in the hall, and I ducked behind the door until they disappeared. I was running out of time, and I knew that I already looked like a crazy person. Worse than losing my reputation would be dragging Thierry into a convoluted criminal trial regarding a theft of some ancient, worthless footage. I was quick with words, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to come up with an excuse to protect myself if someone walked in now.

  And that’s why I didn’t give my next action another thought. The staff room was messy, and an open tool chest sat in the corner of the room. I walked over and dug through until I found a screwdriver. The lockers were cheap, flimsy metal, probably purchased from some old high school teacher on Craigslist. I jammed the screwdriver into the little clip that the lock held shut. A few cantilevered shoves of the screwdriver, and the clip snapped. The locker groaned open.

  I opened the locker and grabbed the film reel, tucking it into my bag. For a moment I thought about leaving the contents of my wallet in Ray’s locker as a form of contrition, but then I remembered that he was an asshole and, furthermore, I didn’t really care.

  After making sure that the hallway outside the office was clear, I walked down the staircase, then paused once more to make sure nobody had seen me. When I was certain that the path to the back door was clear, I walked toward it in quick strides, then made my way out into the night.

  * * *

  My nerves were buzzing by the time I got home. I’d nicked a few things in my lifetime, but that’s a phase that every poor kid goes through. I had never taken anything worth more than a hundred bucks, and I had certainly never taken anything that might land me in jail. My plan was to look at the reel, take a few notes, and get it back to Ray before he could press charges.

  I went into my kitchen and pulled out my gran’s old Atomic coffee machine, then put it on the stove and waited for it to heat up. The hole in the ceiling was slightly bigger than a soccer ball, and there were cracks shooting out from it. It looked malignant, but thankfully, Los Angeles didn’t get too cold, and I felt like I could put the repairs off for another few weeks. I had no idea where I would get the money, though; my best option at the moment was patching up the thing myself until I found another job.

  While I waited for my coffee to percolate, I went up into the attic and dug around until I found Gran’s old film projector. I set up the film projector on the living room table, then aimed it at the wall opposite, bare of decoration, because I tried to live a mostly sparse existence. My hands trembled. I knew what I was going to see when I turned the projector on, because I had already looked at the cells back at the restaurant, but the idea of seeing it life-sized on the wall of my living room was something else entirely.

  The reel was in bad condition, and I fed it into the projector with great caution. Once the film had been set up in the projector, I turned it on. There was a soft shuffling sound as the projector hummed and whirred, and then the images began dancing across the wall.

  Eleanor stood in her dressing room, rehearsing her lines. I could see her lips moving as she read them to herself, frowning in concentration.

  “Eleanor,” I said softly. “Get out of there.”

  She continued to read, then gestured at something. There must have been a sound; she looked up.

  A man stood just before the camera, partially blocking the lens; for a moment, I could see not
hing more than a full head of dark hair. He was tall, probably taller than the average movie star. I mentally flipped through images I had of Theo: tall and dark, yes, but was this him? Wouldn’t he have known that the camera was there?

  I frowned at the image as the man advanced toward Eleanor, and she looked at him in fright. Suddenly, he attacked her. And then I noticed something that hadn’t jumped out when I viewed the slides in the restaurant—Eleanor crumpled before his hands reached her throat. She wasn’t surprised by the attack; she had been expecting it. There was another thing that bothered me, and this one bothered me more—the man in the clip didn’t seem to have a limp. It was one of the things that I knew about Theo, after all: as a result of a childhood accident, he had always walked with a pronounced limp. It had saved him from going off to fight in World War II.

  “Fucking magicians,” I muttered.

  After I had given myself a moment to mull over the reel, I watched the clip three more times, taking notes.

  When I had taken notes on everything in the clip, I went into the kitchen and made myself another cup of coffee. While I was waiting for it to brew, I turned on the radio to listen to the Sound, my favorite radio station. A track by Blue Öyster Cult was playing, and I tried to lose myself in the music. I felt strangely removed from what I had watched. At worst, it seemed like inconclusive evidence. Any defense lawyer today would claim that this was a scene between two actors, rehearsing a scene. Added to a greater case, though, it could be damning evidence. As much as I hated to admit it, the first inklings of doubt crept into my mind. Was it really Theo in the clip? I had never given myself room to consider other suspects, and I didn’t relish the prospect of doing so now. I wouldn’t have the first idea of where to begin looking.

  When the song ended, the deejay cleared his throat.

  “Someone with a sense of humor requested that one,” he said. “You’ve been listening to ‘(Don’t Fear) The Reaper,’ which goes out to Eleanor Hayes. Just a quick recap for those of you tuning in now: Eleanor was murdered in 1948, and to date, it’s one of the most popular unsolved murders in Hollywood. Apparently someone has been re-creating the original murder. For those of you who live under rocks, a young woman was murdered near Theo’s creepy abandoned mansion.”

  “ ‘One of the most popular unsolved murders’?” Another deejay chimed in. “And I don’t know about unsolved. Everyone knows that Theo did it, right?”

  “Sure, sure, and he got away with it because that’s what rich white dudes have been doing for centuries. Anyway, the police have just reported that a second body was found earlier this evening, and even though nothing has been confirmed, our sources tell us that it might be connected to the murder that happened three days ago.”

  I moved closer to the radio and turned up the volume, convinced I had heard wrong. I grabbed my phone and pulled up TMZ: if you wanted to be thorough, you could go to any number of investigative websites, but if you needed quick, fast, dirty facts, TMZ was the go-to.

  Sure enough, there was the big, bold headline: SECOND BODY FOUND NEAR THEODORE LANGLEY’S HOME.

  “We’ve got a caller on line one,” the first deejay said. “Where do you weigh in on Theo Langley?”

  “He did it. There’s no question in my mind.” The caller’s voice was refined, and I guessed that it was an older woman.

  “So you think he’s back in Los Angeles?”

  “I certainly hope not,” she said. “But most violent offenders usually come back to visit the scene of the crime, especially if they got away with it.”

  “Thanks for calling,” he said. “For those of you just tuning in, there’s been another murder tonight in Beverly Hills. It looks like it might be the same culprit as the person or persons responsible for the dead art student earlier this week. We don’t know whether or not a suspect has been apprehended—”

  I grabbed my keys from the stand by the door, then ran out and got into my car.

  SIX

  If the newest murder was another tribute to Theo, I knew that the body would have been found somewhere near his house, just like the first. It didn’t take long for me to find police cars and yellow tape, only three blocks away from Windhall.

  I parked haphazardly and got out of my car, but no sooner had I approached the yellow tape than I was stopped by a cop in a bright yellow vest.

  “Can’t let you past.”

  “You gonna tell me I can’t stand right here? It’s public property, isn’t it?”

  I could tell that he was not in the mood to be messed around with. “Your vehicle’s in violation of the parking code unless you’ve got a Beverly Hills permit. Do I need to have you towed?”

  I took out my press pass and waved it at him. “Can you tell me anything about this new victim?”

  “Move your car, sir.”

  He started to walk away.

  “He’s back, you know,” I called. “I know how to find Theo. The murders aren’t going to stop on their own.”

  “Fantastic,” he said, turning around to give me a sarcastic look. “Write up your little report for the National Enquirer. I’m sure your fans will be thrilled.”

  “I work for a highly respected online magazine!” I called, but this time he didn’t turn around.

  A small crowd of people had gathered, pressing against the yellow tape. I could see the flares of the police, the bright lights and vehicles, but nothing beyond that.

  Two people near me were having a heated conversation. The woman, a middle-aged blonde with a streak of gray through her bangs, was gesturing toward the police.

  “They’re saying it was another young woman,” she said. “The same age as that art student who got killed on the fire trail. They were both wearing the same green silk dress.”

  “Just like that dead actress,” her male companion said. “What was her name again?”

  “Eleanor Hayes,” the woman said. “I’ve been reading all about it. They were both stabbed through the heart. It’s kind of poetic, don’t you think?”

  “It’s tragic.”

  “And apparently Theo what’s-his-face is back,” she went on. “The director who killed the actress in the first place.”

  “There’s no way that dude is still alive,” the man replied. “Didn’t the original crime happen in like, the thirties?”

  “Forty-something. And yes, he’s in his nineties. I don’t know if he’s spry enough to go around killing young women. Maybe someone’s helping him.”

  I stopped paying attention to their conversation, because I had just noticed someone familiar in the crowd. His face was turned in profile, his hands were shoved in his pockets, and he didn’t look as eager and curious as the rest of the crowd. Dark hair, somewhere in his fifties. I struggled to place him until he turned and I saw his face.

  Ben, the man from Windhall.

  If I needed any more confirmation that it was him, I got it a moment later, when Leland appeared at his side. I slipped my phone from my pocket and snapped a few pictures of the two men. Ben listened to something that Leland was saying, then nodded. He scanned the crowd and did a double take when he saw me.

  I put my phone away and headed toward them, but before I could get close enough to call out Ben’s name, he turned and vanished into the crowd.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  Leland spotted me and frowned. He turned on his heel and followed Ben.

  I tried to push through the crowd, but a police officer grabbed my arm.

  “This is an active crime scene,” he said. “We’re asking everyone to move backward!”

  I might have argued, but Leland and Ben had both disappeared. Frustrated, I turned and headed back toward my car.

  * * *

  My phone rang early the next morning. I glanced at the screen and saw that it was Thierry.

  “It’s five o’clock, T,” I mumbled into the phone. “This better be important.”

  “You asshole!” he shouted. “I get a call at midnight last night from that s
hitty magician. He accused me of stealing that movie or whatever, and it took me about five seconds to figure out it was you.”

  I bolted upright. “T, I can explain.”

  “I don’t need to hear an explanation,” he said. “Next time you think about asking me for a favor, think again. I’m not going to help you out if you drag my name through the mud. He said he’s going to have me arrested if that reel doesn’t turn up! Next time he calls me, I’m going to give him your number—and your address!”

  “I’ll take it back to him this morning,” I said. “I had to take a closer look.”

  Thierry had already hung up. I swore to myself and realized that it had been selfish to steal the movie when the magician might blame Thierry.

  I rolled out of bed and went into the living room. I had to figure out a way to get the reel back to the magician without incriminating myself, which wasn’t going to be easy. I doubted that I would be able to sneak back into the restaurant without being detected.

  I carefully unwound the reel from the projector and placed it back inside its case. While I was trying to decide how I should proceed, I went into the kitchen and started up my Atomic.

  * * *

  Thierry’s car was in front of his house when I pulled up an hour later. I hopped out, carrying a sack with breakfast burritos and french fries. Thierry was an insomniac, and even if he hadn’t called me at dawn that morning, I knew that he would have been awake.

  He opened the door a few minutes after I knocked.

  “Go away,” he said. “I don’t want to hear your bullshit excuses.”

  “Come on, T,” I said. “I got your favorite from Los Nopales.”

  He eyed the bag. “Set it on the stoop and walk away.”

  “Come on, fat man. I got fries on the side.”

  He growled and moved to the side, and I walked in. We moved into the kitchen and Thierry fetched plates, then we sat down to eat in silence.