Windhall

by Ava Barry

  I punched the button on the box of numerals, and a moment later, a singsong voice came crackling through.

  “Ye-es?”

  “Max Hailey to see Heather,” I said, then added “Engel-Feeny.”

  “That’s her!” replied the voice. “Do come in.”

  With a tiny click, the gate retreated into the white wall, and we were confronted with Heather’s mansion. It was much more impressive than the photos I had seen in the Vanity Fair article, which hadn’t quite managed to convey the warmth and grand scale of the thing.

  Heather’s wide, well-groomed lawn was decorated with palm trees, bougainvillea, and jacarandas. The gardeners must have been extremely diligent, because not a single blossom or leaf marred the stretch of clean, white stones that expanded up to her front door. A wide brick pathway led up to the house itself, a spacious Spanish hacienda.

  After parking, we approached the front door and I knocked. The door swung open to reveal a young man with dark hair and perfect teeth. A Bluetooth glinted in his ear.

  “Max,” he said warmly, taking my hand in both of his. “I’m Barney. And who’s this?”

  “Madeleine Woolner,” Mad said, stepping forward.

  “She doesn’t like apples,” Barney muttered. “And she’s allergic to cinnamon.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh,” he said, waving his hand at me. He pointed to the Bluetooth. “Caterers.”

  “Got it.”

  We stepped into the foyer, which was suffused with warm light. The walls were cream-colored cob, and the floors were made of dark wood. All the doorways were arches into other rooms, and I looked up to see vaulted ceilings.

  “Follow me,” Barney said, then turned and looked at our shoes. “Are your feet clean?”

  “Yes…?”

  “You can take your shoes off, then.”

  Madeleine and I stooped to remove our shoes. We exchanged a look, then made our way through the foyer behind Barney, who was delivering lines in a dreamy monologue.

  “Heather’s particular about who she lets into her house, as you can imagine,” he said. “She has some dogs, which won’t interfere with your business; they’re locked up in the nursery. Also, Heather has an appointment this afternoon, so she might have to cut your meeting short.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Now, is there something we can do about that ridiculous color? Heather finds yellow to be confrontational.”

  I glanced down at my outfit. “Are you talking to me?”

  “No,” Barney said, irritated. “The caterers’ uniforms are offensive to anyone with eyeballs.”

  “Max Hailey! Is that Max?”

  Heather emerged in the hallway before us. She looked the same as she had in the photos that I had seen of her, but it looked like her red hair had been recently permed. She wore a crisp oxford shirt and slacks, and a small dog quivered in her arms.

  “Barney,” she said, turning to address the young man. “Did you lock the dogs in the nursery?”

  “They were highly animated this morning.”

  “Well, one of them’s done a shit in the vintage bassinet. You’re going to have to clean that up.”

  “Of course, Heather.”

  “It looks runny,” she said. “Have you been giving them lamb again?”

  “We were out of kibble,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “No lamb!” she snapped. “Pedigree can’t take anything but mince. Take care of that now, please.”

  Barney disappeared, and Heather turned her attention to Madeleine.

  “Who’s your friend, Max?”

  “I’m Madeleine,” she said, stepping forward to offer Heather her hand.

  “Are you a journalist? Do you write?”

  “No, I work with a historical conservation society.”

  “Which one?” Heather narrowed her eyes.

  “Aiden-Harms.”

  “The Jewish one.” Heather pursed her lips, then noticed our bare feet. “You took your shoes off.”

  “Barney asked us to.”

  “I’d watch your step, if I were you,” Heather said. “Barney gave the dogs lamb this morning, so all bets are off.”

  We followed Heather toward the back of the house, and I tried to absorb as much of our surroundings as possible. The thick walls of the estate managed to keep out the heat of the day, and the tiles were cool against my bare feet. Each room followed the same basic color scheme: cream and dark wood. We passed a living room lined with French windows and a formal dining room with a modern art chandelier, and I caught a glimpse of a library down another long hallway.

  Heather opened a set of double doors, and we emerged into the backyard. There were paths of swept marble and another tidy, immaculate lawn. Chaise longues were gathered around the lip of a marble swimming pool, and I couldn’t help wondering when someone had last gone swimming.

  “Do you swim?” I asked.

  “Not here,” Heather said. “I have a personal trainer and a gym membership.”

  “I see.”

  “Pools have a ghastly history in Los Angeles,” Heather said, turning to look at us. “Did you know that Cecil DeMille’s grandson drowned in his neighbor’s pool? Maybe it was a duck pond. Charlie Chaplin nearly died in the swimming pool at Pickfair—oh, he was a devout atheist, he was trying to make some point about the lack of God in Hollywood.”

  “Didn’t Cecil DeMille live here?” I asked.

  “You’ve done your homework,” she said, impressed. “The accident happened near Los Feliz, though. This was the summer house. I’ve done some extensions and renovations, as you’ve probably noticed.”

  Heather set down the dog and found her keys. We stepped into the pool house, and I felt a surge of envy when I saw the interior. One wall was just windows, looking out toward the San Gabriel Mountains. The other walls were covered in framed posters of old movies.

  Heather followed my gaze. “My father’s pictures,” she said. “He was a prolific producer.”

  “I’ve seen some of them,” I said. “Last Train to Avalon was supposed to be one of his best.”

  Heather pressed her lips together, and I realized that I had broached a taboo subject.

  “His other movies were great, too,” I added hastily. “The Queen’s Shadow was excellent.”

  “It was,” Heather said warmly. “You like movies?”

  “Of course. Los Angeles would be nothing without the film industry.”

  “Moving on,” she said. “Did you bring what I asked for?”

  “I did,” I said. “But first, you said you have something for me.”

  I had miscalculated my advantage. Heather narrowed her eyes and laughed once, without mirth.

  “You listen to me,” she said. “That reel doesn’t belong to you. Ray wanted to call the police, but I talked him out of it. You’re going to hand it over, because if you don’t, I’m going to have to call the police myself.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t like to play games, young man,” she said. “You’re a guest in my house, and you’re overstepping your bounds.”

  I stared at her, mute.

  “Max,” she said, and her voice had softened. “Have you seen the reel? You took it home, so you must have had a good look.”

  I nodded.

  “Surely you realize,” she said, “how damaging it would be for MGM if the reel got out. My father’s name would be tarnished. It’s a producer’s job to protect his stars, you know.”

  “Your father is dead.”

  “It’s my job to protect his legacy.”

  I reached into my satchel and took out the reel. Before I handed it over to Heather, I hesitated, stalling for time.

  “You said you had something for me,” I tried again.

  “The reel, Max.”

  I handed it over, and Heather smiled. “Thank you for that.”

  “You should be careful with that film,” I said. “Nitrogen film is highly flammable. That magician’s lucky i
t didn’t set fire to his restaurant.”

  “Hailey’s a pyromaniac,” Mad said helpfully. “Went to jail and everything.”

  Heather ignored her. “I’m aware of the dangers of nitrogen film,” she said. “My father used to tell me stories about how old studios would go up in flames because of it.”

  She knelt by a safe and punched in the code. The door opened, and she withdrew a metal box. With a smile, she set the box in front of me.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Open it, don’t be shy.”

  I flipped the latch and opened the metal box. Inside was a sheaf of papers, tidy black notebooks, and a few old photographs. I was suddenly short of breath.

  “What is it?” Madeleine craned her neck to see.

  I picked up the top notebook. Beneath it was a stack of similar notebooks, as well as various photographs, clippings, and bits of memorabilia. May 12, 1944, began the first line. I flipped through the first few pages of the notebook, which was filled with the same, whimsical script. Page after page of meticulous, careful notation.

  I turned to Heather. “Where did you get these?”

  “Does it matter?” Heather smiled. “They’re authentic. I had them tested for fingerprints. Not that it matters, but the handwriting is a perfect match. There’s no faking this stuff.”

  “But… how did you get them? I thought they were destroyed a long time ago.”

  “Someone kept them safe.” She shrugged. “They weren’t cheap, but I knew that they were valuable. They’ll give you a lot of insight into Theo’s life back then. I think they can help you prove that he killed Eleanor.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Information,” she said. “That’s all.”

  “You already have Theo’s journals. Can’t they tell you everything you need to know?”

  I counted the notebooks—there were six of them. Madeleine’s hand was on my arm, and I turned to look at her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “These are Theo’s notebooks,” I replied. “These notebooks are the reason that the trial was thrown.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Heather interrupted.

  “Well, the judge threw out the case because he found out that the district attorney paid someone to sneak into Theo’s house and steal these,” I said. “Apparently he thought they were valuable enough to risk the case.”

  I rested a hand on top of the journals. I felt like I was vibrating at a low frequency, and my feeling of boundless optimism had returned. A long time had passed since the last time I felt so carefree.

  “The journals are yours,” Heather said. “If.”

  “If?”

  “In exchange, I need you to do something for me,” Heather said.

  “I’m not sure I can offer you anything.” My hand was still on the journals. I had never allowed myself to really believe that they still existed, and now I wasn’t going to let them out of my sight. I already knew that I was going to agree to whatever Heather asked of me, no matter how ridiculous.

  “I heard that you’re trying to get in touch with Theo,” she said. “You’ve been speaking with his lawyer.”

  “I can’t confirm that.”

  “Cut the shit, Max. I’ve got connections, I hear things. I don’t expect you to understand this, but my father’s career was nearly ruined because of Theodore Langley. I want to see him brought to justice before he dies.”

  “You think I can make that happen?”

  “When you meet him,” she said, “and I’m sure you will, because you’re resourceful—I want you to find out how he did it. I get first dibs on any evidence you find. I don’t want movie posters with Theo’s signature, I want proof that he killed Eleanor. If you can get the district attorney to open a new case, I’ll pay you handsomely. Let’s call it thirty thousand dollars.”

  “And the journals.” I was having trouble wrapping my head around the agreement.

  “And the journals. It should go without saying that you can’t publish an article until I’ve looked at it.”

  “Thirty thousand is tempting, but that would last—what? A year? This story would make my career.” I lingered on the thought. “I’m thinking long-term, here. Money runs out; I’m more interested in keeping my job.”

  “You’re forgetting the journals, Max,” Heather said. “You won’t get anywhere without them.”

  I reached into the box and picked up a stack of photographs. I recognized a lot of the players in the shots—Errol Flynn, Jean Harlow, Mae West; Rita Hayworth posing next to Porter Hall and Jimmy Stewart. Some of the shots were at Windhall, but others were in the Hollywood Hills, when they were still somewhat wild, or else on the beach.

  There were also quite a few shots of Eleanor, sometimes alone, and sometimes with others. I flipped through pictures of Eleanor wearing a tennis outfit, a racket swung over her shoulder, or Eleanor and another woman brushing a horse, so absorbed in their task that they didn’t even seem to notice the photographer. There was a photo of Eleanor standing in a garden, her hair pinned at the base of her neck. I peered closer and recognized the hedges of Theo’s garden, and a shiver went down my spine.

  I stopped on a photograph of Windhall. Some dark-eyed stars languished around the lip of Theo’s pool, social malaise written across their features. I frowned and held the photo closer. I could make out Barbara Stanwyck, and it looked like Robert Taylor was shading his eyes against the glare of the sun.

  “There’s one more thing,” Heather said. “I expect you to give me weekly updates, let me know what progress you’ve made.”

  “Why can’t we just meet at the end of the month? I’ll tell you everything then.”

  She wagged a finger at me. “I’d like to know everything as it comes. Anything you learn about Theo, you tell me straight off.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the journals.

  “Thirty thousand,” Heather repeated. “I’ll give that to you once you’ve fulfilled your end of the deal, of course.”

  “Hailey—” Madeleine started, but Heather cut her off.

  “Do we have a deal or not? I have a very important meeting in a few minutes.” Heather was starting to sound impatient.

  “Can I take everything in this box?” I asked.

  “You may, but only if you sign something.”

  I hesitated, looking at Madeleine for confirmation. She looked exasperated, and I felt like I must have missed a hidden signal at some point.

  “Look, I can’t promise not to run the article,” I said. “If I find something conclusive, I can show it to you, but I can’t promise to sit on the story.”

  “Promise me seventy-two hours,” Heather said. “Give me the information seventy-two hours before you run the story. I’ll take it to the district attorney, and we’ll get the case reopened.”

  “Hailey, can we talk outside?” Madeleine gave me a hard look.

  “Max, this deal evaporates once I walk out that door.” Heather glanced at her watch. “You’ve got about thirty seconds before I change my mind.”

  “Forty-eight,” I said. “I’ll give you forty-eight hours with the evidence before I run my story.”

  “Excellent.” Heather walked around her desk and opened a drawer. She pulled out an iPad and swiped the screen, then made a notation. “I’ve got a contract for you right here. I’ll just make a note on here that we’ve changed the terms, and my lawyers can go over it and send you a new copy. Sign with your finger at the bottom of the screen.”

  I took the contract and scanned it. It was disheartening to see that for all my strong words and negotiations, Heather had known that she would get things on her terms in the end.

  I signed at the bottom of the paper, then picked up the box of notebooks.

  “Thank you, Max,” Heather purred. “I really think we’ll do well together.”

  NINE

  Madeleine waited until we reached my car before turning to me.

  “What was that?”

  “This i
s an incredible opportunity,” I said. “Reading through these journals might give me motive, and it also might shed some light on how Theo planned to kill Eleanor.”

  Madeleine looked at me like I was crazy. “How long do you think Heather has been holding on to those journals?”

  “No idea.”

  “Don’t you think she might have already looked through them? They’re clearly worthless, Hailey. Heather hasn’t found anything, so why would you?”

  I hadn’t considered this, but I wasn’t willing to admit defeat. “Well, they might give me an upper hand on Theo,” I said. “Maybe I can find something in here that will convince him to confide in me.”

  “Oh, Hailey.” Mad sank her head into her hands. “I know you don’t like taking advice, but damn. You played right into her trap. Do you even know what happened back there?”

  “It’s cute when you explain my job to me.”

  “Don’t be an asshole,” she snapped. “Thirty thousand is Heather’s annual hair budget. That money means nothing to her. Her assistant probably spends more than that on drugs. Heather thinks she owns you now. You’re never going to get that article.”

  “You know what?” I snapped. “I’m not hungry anymore. You can eat lunch by yourself.”

  “That’s mature.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come along so you could Madsplain things to me.”

  “She was patronizing you,” Madeleine said, exasperated. “You work for a progressive, quasi-queer online magazine. You might as well have walked into her house wearing a rainbow flag and a T-shirt that reads CLIMATE CHANGE IS REAL. Any deal that you make is going to be to her benefit, fuckwit.”

  “You wanted to come here, remember?” I retorted, trying to hide my hurt feelings. “You said that Heather was a legend for history nerds.”

  “She was,” Madeleine said. “But I got a bad feeling, Hailey. Right off the bat, she made some racist comment about my conservation society. Oh, the Jewish one. What a bitch.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  There was a click and then a pressured release as the front gate opened. A moment later, Heather’s gate retracted, and a sleepy black MG convertible rolled on through. Madeleine and I watched as the car drove past us and parked in front of Heather’s front door.