Windhall

by Ava Barry

  “Oh, yes. Fritz grew up here.”

  I was taken aback. “Before the murder?”

  “Naturally. He’s not some kind of wild thing; he didn’t grow up among the weeds.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Old.” Theo poured the lemonade. “His mother worked for me. Everyone left, of course, when I moved away from Los Angeles.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Marja,” I said. “Your housekeeper. Was she his mother?”

  “You’ve done your homework.” Theo picked up the glasses and motioned with his head. “Let’s go outside.”

  Theo walked toward the service entrance and stood next to it. “You wouldn’t mind getting the door, would you?”

  “Of course not.” I went to open it.

  “Feels familiar, doesn’t it?” He winked at me. “Almost like you’ve been here before.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “It certainly does.”

  Theo led me down the path that wound along the kitchen vegetable patch. Wild magnolia trees stood like disfigured creatures, gnarled and mostly gone to seed. The path was unkempt and ragged.

  “Your garden was beautiful,” I said. “I’ve seen pictures.”

  “It was very beautiful, yes,” Theo said. “Once.”

  As we moved through the garden filled with dead brambles, I glanced up at the house. I tried to imagine that fateful night, the last party that Windhall would ever see, and a shiver ran down my spine. I could almost see them, the beautiful women and courteous men, dancing to the type of jazz that was popular in those days. They would have been so happy, so triumphant, thinking that nobody and nothing could touch them. The second great war was over; the danger should have been behind them.

  “Would you like to see the spot where Eleanor’s body was recovered?” Theo said, turning to look at me. “The roses died out long ago, of course, but it might be of interest to your article.”

  His tone was as casual as if he had offered me marmalade with my morning toast. I wasn’t sure if it was meant as some kind of test but reminded myself not to get caught up in one of Theo’s tricks. It seemed like he might be mocking me, testing my reserve, but I took the bait.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d like to see it.”

  “It was a shame that we had to kill the roses,” Theo said. “I was quite fond of them. I had a skilled gardener, one of the best in Los Angeles, but with everyone in Hollywood calling for my head, we had to get rid of them. It was only a small concession, of course, and it wasn’t enough to placate the masses. Sometimes I still dream about that rose garden.”

  “How did you kill them?”

  “Boiling water,” Theo sighed. “God, it nearly killed me. When all the plants were gone, we burned the ground. The roses became synonymous with Eleanor’s death, and we had so many photographers sneaking into Windhall to take pictures.”

  We emerged into the sunlight, and Theo pointed to an elevated section of ground. Unlike the rest of the garden, the plants there were patchy, as though the ground was still damaged by what had happened there.

  He walked up a little stone stairway, and we emerged onto a high terrace. The terrace was lined with brick, and someone had swept away all the leaves and bracken in preparation for my visit. An ornate white table and two chairs sat by the edge of the terrace, which was lined by small, dark trees.

  The trees formed a kind of natural border around the brick terrace, and even though they were mere skeletons, I could feel that they had once offered a sense of peace and quiet reflection from the rest of the garden.

  “Citrus trees,” Theo said. He walked up and put his hand against one of the trunks. “We used to have a small orchard of them. Satsumas, tangerines, lemons, and your average navels.”

  “Why so many?”

  “California wouldn’t exist without citrus,” he said. “Los Angeles was built on false advertising. It was a desert, but they sold it as an oasis, thanks to orange groves.”

  “That’s awfully sentimental of you.”

  “I used to think I would live forever,” he said. “Norse mythology holds that oranges contain the elixir of youth. Speaking of which, you haven’t touched your lemonade.”

  I took a sip. “It’s good,” I said. “Homemade?”

  “Sure is. We used to grow the lemons right here, but now I have to buy them when I get groceries, like a common consumer.”

  “Do I taste rosemary?”

  “That’s right, and arsenic from the local pharmacist.”

  “You’re funny. Quick on your feet.” I took another sip. “Do you still have the brooch?”

  “Have what?”

  “The scarab,” I said. “The one you stole from the house that night.”

  His eyes hardened, but he said nothing.

  “You gave it to Eleanor, didn’t you? She used to wear it to movie premieres, tucked against her heart. Do you know what happened to it?”

  “Fritz thinks I’ve made a mistake by inviting you into my home.” Theo tilted his head. “Leland does, too. It’s mostly boredom, I suppose. And I have a terrible ego. Can’t resist toying with someone who’s taken an interest in me.”

  “I’ve always been interested in you.”

  “So, tell me, Hailey,” he said. “How do you think I did it? Everyone has their theories, and I never get tired of hearing them.”

  “Did what?”

  “Killed Eleanor, of course. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “So, you’re admitting it?”

  “I’m always happy to hear a good story. The most popular notion is that I killed her in a closet and moved her body outside.”

  My face flushed, and I looked down. Once again I got the sense that he was baiting me, and I didn’t want to give him a reaction.

  “You seem awfully convinced that you won’t get another trial,” I said.

  Theo stretched his arms above his head and winced. “Oh, people have been trying for years, and yet here I am.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that I might be recording you right now?”

  He winked. “I have a good lawyer,” he said. “I’m aware that in California, you need to inform someone that you’re recording them before you actually do so.”

  “It seems awfully callous of you to joke about the murder of a close friend.”

  “Let’s talk about something else, then. Why Paul de Longpré?” he asked. “If I were going to break into someone’s house and steal a painting, I’d probably go for something more valuable.”

  “My gran liked him.”

  “It certainly caught my attention. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I invited you back. You’re not the first one to break in, you know.”

  I swirled my lemonade. “They want you to vacate Windhall.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “People are outraged about the two girls who were murdered. I’m assuming you’ve heard; it was a tribute to Eleanor, after all.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “One of the girls’ fathers is organizing a petition. He wants you to leave.”

  Theo scoffed. “Surely they don’t think that I’m responsible for those recent deaths!”

  “He thinks Windhall stands as a tribute to domestic violence. The death of innocence and all that.”

  “Eleanor was hardly innocent,” Theo muttered, then caught himself. “Why are you telling me this?”

  I set my glass on the table and looked at him. “I’m here to listen,” I said. “You have a voice. If there’s anything you want to say, anything to prove your innocence, now’s the time.”

  “My innocence! You should run a full-length shot of me in your paper, that’ll be conclusive. As soon as they see these rheumy eyes and arthritic hands, people will draw their own conclusions.”

  He was making fun of me. I had rehearsed for this moment, and it wasn’t going according to plan. I had seen hundreds of pictures over the years: when Theo was a young man, standing in front of a house covered in wild bougainvill
ea, standing beside Errol Flynn, a crooked grin on his face, and then after the murder trial, somber and gray. I had painted a personality for him, outside of all the press clippings and photographs, beyond Windhall and his brilliant movie career, but during all of that time, I had never granted him wit.

  He watched me with a gleam in his eye. I tried again.

  “I’ve been watching your movies my entire life,” I said. “I’m willing to bet that the odds were stacked against you. From what I understand, Hollywood can be a prickly place, and if you piss the wrong people off, it can be deadly.”

  “You can say that again.” He cocked his head and thought. “What was the name they gave me? The Thorn King? It’s very poetic, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Don’t you want to keep Windhall?” I was starting to get exasperated. “If this man gets his way, you’ll be forced to leave.”

  “Of course, of course.” He waved a hand. “I’ve spent enough time and money on it. Might as well keep the damn thing intact, if I can.”

  I cleared my throat and tried a different angle. “My editor wants me to run the story about Lucy’s,” I said. “We haven’t spoken to Connie yet, but my editor has a few ideas about how to find her.”

  Theo was watching me, and I thought I saw the hint of a smile.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d rather write a story about Windhall, and its cultural significance. Maybe we can keep it from getting torn down.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your grandmother,” Theo said suddenly. “She was a lovely woman.”

  “You actually remember my grandmother?”

  “She worked on two of my films,” Theo said. “Of course I remember her.”

  “I have to say that I’m surprised.”

  Theo gave me a long, patient look. “I know that the film industry has changed a great deal,” he said. “Movies are thrown together in a great haste. Studios pick a screenplay at random, then choose their highest-grossing star. They choose a director who will play nice, be a good little puppet. It’s all done very quickly, to maximize profit, and at the end of the day, nobody remembers each other’s names. Back in my day, kid, things were different.”

  I could see that he was starting to open up, and I sat back to let him speak.

  “We used to be thick as thieves,” Theo said. “Film people had to stick together. Everyone in Hollywood hated us, you know. All the original farmers and townspeople wanted nothing to do with us.”

  I had so many questions that I didn’t know where to start, but I had a feeling that it would be better not to interrupt.

  “I only spoke to Nadine a handful of times,” Theo said, “but I remember her. She was brave. Showed up to work a few times with bruises, but she didn’t let it affect her work ethic.”

  I flinched at the thought of my grandfather. I was humiliated and surprised that Theo would remember such a tiny detail from all those years before. I knew that he was trying to assert control over the conversation, and I moved to take it back.

  “It’s interesting to hear you say that,” I said. “I thought men showed solidarity for their own kind.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Are you not a man?”

  “Not that kind of man, no. Never.”

  “Nadine raised you well, then.”

  “I didn’t come here to talk about her,” I said quickly. “I came here to talk about you.”

  “You were close,” he said. “You lived with her for a while, didn’t you?”

  I said nothing.

  “You still live in her house,” he went on. “She’s the one who took you to the hospital when you were young. You were there for a while—two years, was it?”

  So he had researched me. In the past, subjects that I had interviewed for articles had become hostile, aggressive, reticent, or downright petty. It was fairly common for someone in a vulnerable position to try to turn the tables, especially if I asked the wrong questions or made them feel defensive. It never fazed me; since I had become adept at being a nonentity when I interviewed people, the attacks were never personal. With Theo, however, it was different.

  He was watching me with an amused little smile on his face.

  “A little over two years,” I said. “Good times.”

  “A problem with your spine, was it? I heard that you never learned how to swim. A shame, in Los Angeles.”

  “With all the sharks and pollution? Hardly.”

  “That’s why you learned to write.” He tapped his head. “No strength in your body, so you had to have a weapon.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you set a building on fire. We can’t forget that.”

  “It was a youthful mistake.” I cleared my throat. “How are we doing on time? Were you going to give me the tour this afternoon?”

  “Of course, of course,” he said. “Now, I’m not a doctor, but I did some reading about your condition. Do you find it difficult to walk?”

  “No.”

  “You’d think all that spine damage would have a lasting effect. Do you still have scars?”

  “Not where anyone can see them.”

  “We used to have a saying in Hollywood,” he said. “Keep the scars out of sight. Never let anyone know that they can break you.”

  I glanced around the orange grove. The bracken came creeping in at the edges, the dead brambles and tapping branches an eerie reminder of how much time had passed since Eleanor had been killed. All the dead plants seemed to make a slow progression toward the house, tapping their fingers against the panes of glass, eager to see inside. There was something dark about the garden, and I shivered, imagining the plants slowly suffocating the windows and high turrets. No one would even hear the screams.

  “So how about that tour?” I said.

  Before he could answer, the kitchen door opened, a glint of sunlight slashing across the pane. A man stepped out, and I felt my stomach jump as I recognized him. He wore a button-down shirt and jeans, and he carried an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.

  It was Ben.

  He squinted against the sun, then raised a hand and waved.

  “Hello, Theo,” he said, and then, seeing me, nodded. “Mr. Hailey.”

  “Ahh, the good doctor,” Theo said. “I’d forgotten that you two had met.”

  “Not the most auspicious circumstances.” Ben came up the path toward us and set his bag down on the table. He turned to Theo. “Did you forget that I was coming?”

  “My mind is a sieve these days.”

  I quickly put the pieces together. “Wait—you’re Theo’s doctor?”

  “We’ve got an appointment today.” Ben nodded. “Theo must not have mentioned it.”

  “You’re welcome to stay,” Theo said. “Dialysis is a real hoot, in the right company!”

  “How long will this take?” I asked Ben.

  “A few hours, at most.”

  I considered my options. “Would you be able to give me a tour afterward?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Ben said. “This is a rather taxing procedure, and Theo will need his rest.”

  I was struggling to make the connection between Ben and Theo’s house; why Ben had been upstairs with Leland, and why I had seen Ben at the murder scene of the second dead girl.

  “Come back this weekend,” Theo said. “Saturday. I’ll give you a tour on Saturday.”

  I could see that my hands were tied. I was eager to see the house, but I didn’t want to antagonize my subject more than necessary, and after a moment of deliberation, I nodded.

  “I’ll see you Saturday,” I said.

  I made my own way out of the house, somewhat surprised that Theo hadn’t tailed me to make sure that I actually left. As I walked through the grand foyer, I stopped and took out my cell phone, then snapped a quick picture of the ruined light coming in through the stained glass windows. Leland’s contract prohibited me from taking pictures of Theo, but it said nothing about the house. Seeing that nobody had followed me, I took a few mo
re quick pictures, then stepped outside and took a picture of the garden from the front door.

  A Range Rover sat in the driveway, spattered with mud. It hadn’t been there when I arrived, so it must have belonged to Ben. The back passenger window was open a few inches, and I glanced around to make sure that nobody was watching me, then went around the side of the car and reached inside. I could just reach the lock. I quickly opened the door and hopped inside, then reached for the glove compartment and picked through the registration papers until I found what I was looking for.

  A name, and an address in Burbank. Dr. Benjamin Lewis. Bingo.

  TWELVE

  When Fritz saw me walking down the driveway, he offered to give me a ride home, but I declined. It had occurred to me that the Beverly Hills Public Library might have a copy of the Windhall blueprints from back when it was a tuberculosis facility, and even if they didn’t, they might have a copy of the blueprints from when Theo had made his renovations. It might give me some insight into where Theo had killed Eleanor, if there were any dark, secret rooms.

  I left Windhall and walked down the street until I hit Benedict Canyon, then called a cab, which dropped me off at the library. I had visited it on a few occasions and enjoyed the art deco architecture but hadn’t spent much time there, because it felt more like a museum than a public space. Still, there was a chance that they might have something that could help me.

  “Hi,” I said, approaching the librarian at the archives desk.

  “Help you?”

  “I was wondering if you have the blueprints for an old house in Beverly Hills,” I said. “It’s called Windhall. I can give you the address.”

  “I know Windhall,” she said. She looked suspicious. “We don’t have the blueprints.”

  “Have you ever had them?” I said.

  The woman adjusted her glasses and gave me a hard look. “Are you hunting for treasure?” she asked.

  “I just want to see the blueprints.”

  “I know about the reward offered for leading to Theo’s arrest. People come in here, no respect for the fact that this is a library, and they take things.”

  “I’m a writer,” I said apologetically.

  “And which restaurant do you work at?”