Windhall

by Ava Barry

  I paused at the front door.

  “I always wanted to meet you, you know,” I said. “All those stories, all the different nursery rhymes and urban legends. I knew that there had to be something more.”

  “And? What are your conclusions?”

  “I think people were right,” I said. “It was always just a big illusion.”

  He was silent as I crossed the threshold and made my way down the steps. The garden had a curious, buzzing stillness about it as I walked around the roundabout, past the fountain, and made my way down the steep drive.

  In fairy tales, there are warnings not to look back one final time. If you make it out of the forest, don’t test your luck, don’t glance over your shoulder and look to see what’s waiting behind you.

  I couldn’t resist.

  As I reached the hedge where the drive started to turn, and Windhall would disappear from sight, I looked back to the house one last time. The door was still open, and Theo was still standing inside, watching me. The interior of the house was steeped in darkness, but Theo was standing in the sunlight, lit up like a phantom.

  He raised a hand and held it in greeting, or in warning, it was too far away for me to tell. He stayed there for a moment and then vanished into the house once more, closing the door behind him. I stood there for a minute longer, feeling the gardens creep up around me, the dying hedges and the withered agapanthus, and I knew that it was over. The house had managed to survive for so long by being invisible, by becoming forgotten. People had forgotten about Theo, and the world had moved on.

  I had come in with my tools and poked around, and in doing so, I had exposed a fragile, dying thing to light. And now it was too late. The garden felt like it was closing all around me as I made my way down toward the front gate, feeling for the first time that I might not be able to get out again.

  FOURTEEN

  I waited until I was halfway back to my car before I took out my phone. Two missed calls from Petra, one missed call from Alexa. I selected Alexa’s number and waited as the phone rang.

  “Hey, Max,” came Alexa’s voice. “You get in touch with Theo?”

  “I’m leaving his house now,” I said.

  “So he hasn’t fled the city?”

  “I don’t think he’s going to,” I said.

  “Any leads?”

  “There’s a missing room,” I said. “There’s definitely a missing room. I think that’s why Theo came back to Los Angeles, Alexa. I think he was worried that the police were going to find a way to get into his house, to try to connect him with these two new dead girls. If there’s something he’s trying to hide, he probably wants to destroy it before the police find it.”

  “It’s a good thought.”

  I had to tell her about the journals, but I didn’t know how to admit that I had them without telling her about Heather. If I mentioned Heather, I would have to admit that I had signed a contract with Heather, and I had promised not to publish anything until I had given Heather forty-eight hours alone with the information.

  “There’s something else I need to tell you,” I said. “I have Theo’s missing journals.”

  It took her a moment to put the pieces together. “You’re not talking about the famous journals that got the case thrown out, are you?”

  “Those are the ones.”

  “Hailey, where did you find those?” She sounded shocked.

  I had to be careful where I stepped. “I’m going to pull the source card,” I said. “For the moment, I need to protect her.”

  “ ‘Her?’ ”

  “They’re legitimate.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Look, there’s something else. I’ve been reading about a producer Theo worked with. Apparently there were rumors about him making passes at some of the actresses, and one of Eleanor’s friends confided in Theo. I think it was Reuben Engel, the man who was set to produce Last Train to Avalon, but I can’t prove it.”

  Alexa leaned back in her chair. “This is coming from Theo,” she said. “You’re reading a firsthand account from Theo’s perspective. Try to keep that in mind.”

  “Of course.”

  I hung up without telling her what my real plan was. I was going to have to find a way to break into Windhall, because unless I knew what was inside the room, there was no chance that I would be able to figure out what happened to Eleanor.

  * * *

  The next morning, I went over to Petra’s apartment. Even though I had dropped her off a few days before, I hadn’t gone inside her apartment complex. It was the standard ’70s-style two-story block complex, complete with an over-chlorinated pool and brown and yellow shingles. Petra’s apartment was on the second story.

  She looked surprised when she opened the door, then stood aside for me to come in.

  “Am I early? We did say eight o’clock, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, sorry,” she said. “I’m easily distracted.”

  Petra’s apartment was tidy and sparse, with a few newspaper clippings on the walls. An aquarium against a wall added a little color to the room. I peered inside and saw a somber-looking fish doing laps around the tank.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Todd.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Todd,” I said.

  “You want some coffee, or something?” Petra hovered at the edge of the room.

  “Sure.”

  “It’s instant,” she added.

  “That’s fine.”

  I did a quick inventory of the room while Petra busied herself in the kitchen. Her apartment was filled with mismatched, slightly apologetic furniture, the type you rescue curbside on garbage day or else pick up from a thrift store and carry home. All the pieces of furniture were small enough that they could be carried onto public transportation or lifted by one person into a small car.

  I read through the spines of Petra’s books, all of which looked like they’d been scooped up for a few bucks at Goodwill. I stopped when I saw the edge of a photograph peeking out from between two books and picked it up so I could look at it. Petra had her arm slung around an older woman with brown hair and a candy necklace, shorter than Petra by a few inches. I was still looking at the picture when Petra came into the room, holding two cups of coffee.

  “Janet,” she said. “Not a great story.”

  “Recent?”

  “Bay to Breakers in San Francisco,” she said. “We flew up for the race last year.”

  “People almost never print photos anymore,” I said. “She must have been special.”

  “She was,” Petra said, shrugging. “She is. Not talking to me, though.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the maid’s room,” I said, putting the photograph back. “I’m convinced that Eleanor died in there.”

  “How will you prove it?”

  “I’m going to break into Windhall.”

  She gave me a cool look. “Don’t you already have some kind of criminal record?”

  “Why does everyone keep mentioning that?”

  “I thought Theo was supposed to give you a tour of his house,” Petra said. “What happened to that? Change his mind?”

  I briefly detailed the events of the day before. Petra nodded, but she seemed distracted.

  “I thought you’d be all over this. What’s on your mind?”

  She gave me a shy smile. “That movie set,” she said. “The special city that was made for Last Train to Avalon.”

  “You mean… Avalon.”

  “It still exists,” she said. “I found it.”

  It took a moment for her comment to register. “What do you mean, you found it?”

  “Just that. The whole set is intact, it’s all together. It was bought up by a private collector a few years ago.”

  I stood up so quickly that I splashed coffee all over my jeans. “Shit, sorry. Where did you get this information?”

  “Well, I went down to the Los Angeles courthouse to look at the remaining documents from the trial,” she said. “It turns o
ut a lot of them have been stolen over the years, since it was such a popular case. After Theo was acquitted, the remaining pieces of Avalon were packed up into crates and sent to MGM.”

  “And?”

  “They were stolen over the years,” she said, frowning. “I went to talk to someone in the props department, and apparently there’s a bit of a conspiracy theory surrounding the whole movie. God, you should have heard what this one guy told me about actresses who went off their contract. Supposedly the studio had ways of making people disappear.”

  I could only think about the movie set. “If the pieces of Avalon were stolen over the years, how did one guy end up with the whole set?”

  “He had to track them down,” she said. “I called a few antiques dealers, and I finally got in touch with the man himself. He lives in Eagle Rock. I called him. Wouldn’t leave him alone, actually. When he found out that you’ve spoken to Theo, he opened right up. He told me that Theo was framed, and then he said he could prove it.”

  “So who did it?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me over the phone.”

  “You still have his number? Can I have it?”

  “I’ll give it to you, on one condition,” she said. “When you meet him, I’m coming with you.”

  “That’s fair.”

  “He said he can meet up with us tomorrow.”

  “Great work,” I said, and I really meant it. I was on the verge of telling her about Theo’s journals, but something told me to be a bit cautious. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust her, but nobody else knew about the contract that I had with Heather, and I didn’t want Petra to be complicit with that information.

  Shit, Heather, I realized. I was going to have to reveal the maid’s room in Windhall to her, or else risk breaking my contract.

  “You okay?” Petra asked, tilting her head to look at me.

  “I just realized what we’re up against. It’s not going to be easy.”

  “Are you still serious about breaking into Windhall?”

  I scratched my head. “This does change things,” I said. “But Theo’s definitely hiding something.”

  “What happens if you do manage to break in to Windhall? What are you looking for?”

  “I’m going to go in there with a black light,” I said. “Theo might have done a bit of cleaning up in the last few weeks, but there’s bound to be something. I mean, even if someone framed him, there could still be blood spatter, evidence, something.”

  “How are you going to get in there?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “Oh,” Petra said, going over to her desk. “Before I forget. I looked into that doctor of yours—Benjamin Lewis. I found out a few things about him, not too much information, but it might be of some help.”

  She glanced down at her notes, and hesitated. “I had a crazy thought,” she said. “What if Dr. Lewis is actually Theo’s son? Not just his doctor, but an actual blood relation?”

  I almost laughed. The idea was so absurd that it might actually be possible.

  “Holy shit, Petra,” I said. “What did you find?”

  “Ben was born in 1950,” she said. “A little over a year after Eleanor was killed.”

  “And who’s the mother?”

  “Someone named Rebecca Lewis,” she said.

  “Was she on the guest list for the party?”

  “No, she wasn’t, and I can’t find anything about her. I couldn’t find a death certificate, so there’s a chance she’s still alive.”

  My hands were tingling. “That’s a great lead,” I said. “Maybe Rebecca Lewis was some unknown actress. She had an affair with Theo, got pregnant, and had Ben. If Eleanor and Theo were an item, it would give Theo motive to kill her.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “Maybe she attacked him. Maybe she was really angry. Things escalated, before Theo knew what was happening, she died. Petra,” I said, sitting up. “Maybe Rebecca was the second person in the garden. Maybe she helped Theo kill Eleanor.”

  “Jesus.”

  We both stared at each other for a long moment.

  “Right,” I said. “Well, keep looking for this Rebecca Lewis. We don’t have much time, so you should make her your main priority.”

  “Hailey,” she said. “I don’t want you to treat me like your secretary. We’re partners in this.”

  “I’ve never treated you like a secretary.”

  “You might not realize it,” she said, “but you have. Look into this, research that. You didn’t let me come to interview Theo, and you never tell me what you’re working on. That needs to change. We’re in this together.”

  “You’re right, Petra, I’m sorry,” I said. I hesitated a moment, and then said, “I found something else.”

  “Oh?”

  “There was another actress,” I said. “Someone else who died. She was also close to Theo, and I’m wondering if he was responsible for her death, as well.”

  She looked intrigued. “Who was she?”

  “She was never very famous,” I said. “Her name was Cate Chapelle. It’s another angle I’m going to look into, though.”

  “Thanks for sharing that, Hailey,” she said. “I’m glad you feel like you can trust me.”

  * * *

  I was on my way home when Heather called.

  “What do you have for me, Max?”

  “I’m still working on a few leads,” I said. “I’ll let you know when I have more.”

  “It’s been a week,” she said. “Your contract means you’re obligated to share findings with me.”

  “It hasn’t actually been a week,” I started to point out. “It’s only Saturday.”

  She made an impatient noise. “Time is irrelevant. Do you have anything, or not?”

  I racked my brain for something I could share with Heather. “You’ve heard that Caleb Walsh wants Theo to leave Windhall?”

  “Of course, everyone knows.”

  “If he leaves,” I said, “we might lose track of him. He could disappear forever.”

  “I’ve taken care of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have someone watching the house,” she said. “If Theo leaves, he won’t get very far.”

  “Great,” I said. “Look, my phone battery’s getting low, and I don’t have a charger handy. Do you mind if I call you later?”

  She sighed irritably. “I haven’t heard anything from you yet, Max. I hope you know I expect to get something for my money. And that new roof I put in.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that.” I was annoyed that she had brought it up.

  “I wanted you to know that I was serious about my offer.” The way she said it made it sound more like a threat than a gift. “I need to see something by the end of the weekend, or we’re going to have to reassess the situation.”

  “Thanks, Heather.” I hung up before she could respond.

  I was pulling into my driveway when I received another text. I thought it might be from Heather, so I parked and got out of my car, then went into my house and put the Atomic on the stove. Once I had made myself a cup of coffee, I took out the phone and looked to see who had texted me.

  Dr. Ben Lewis. I knew that much without opening it, because ever since I had saved Leland’s contacts to my phone, Ben’s number had been under his own name.

  I sat at my kitchen counter, running my thumb across the screen, wondering if I should open it. The only reason that Ben would be contacting me now was if something had gone wrong. Perhaps Petra hadn’t been discreet enough when she was looking into him, and he knew that we had found out about his mother. There was a chance he knew that I had found the room, and perhaps he was planning to take actions against me.

  I opened the text.

  Hello, Max, it read. You have no reason to trust me, but consider this a friendly warning. Heather isn’t telling you everything. If you want to know the truth, ask her what happened to Lola DeWitt.

  I was on the verge of replying, when I
remembered that my contract with Heather was supposed to be secret. I had no idea how Ben could have found out that I had been speaking to her, but I wasn’t about to find out. I went to my computer and searched for “Lola DeWitt.”

  There were a few results for modern women with the same name, or names that were similar. After scrolling through the results, I finally hit one that I thought might be the woman Ben had referenced. The page led me to Lola DeWitt’s IMDb profile. There were a few results under her filmography, and I was surprised to see that she had acted in a few movies with Eleanor. The last movie that she had been in was one that Theo directed, called The Man Who Death Forgot. According to the profile, Lola had died in 1951, three years after Eleanor’s death.

  After her IMDb page, Lola’s trail disappeared. I scrolled through the Google search results for almost thirty minutes before admitting that I wasn’t going to find anything. I thought about texting Ben back to ask him but thought that it was probably not a good idea to acknowledge his text until I figured out what his angle was.

  Instead, I decided to continue reading Theo’s remaining journals. If he had directed Lola in a movie, there was a chance that he would say something about her, especially if Ben thought that she was someone important. Even if there was nothing about Lola, I might find some gem of information about the mysterious Rebecca Lewis.

  I finished my coffee, then went out to the greenhouse and sat down with the next journal.

  * * *

  August 3, 1947: Los Angeles, California—

  “You’ll be lucky if they don’t try to kill you,” John Cromwell warned me, when we told him about my new script. “People who piss off the studios have a way of disappearing.”

  It turns out that all my obnoxious scribbles between rehearsals have served me well: we’re making a movie about Hollywood. I’ve got plenty of documentation from the last few years, all these journals and conversations jotted on the backs of paper bags. We’re going to use all of it when we piece together our script.

  Nora and I went round to see John and tell him about the project, which I’ve been working on the last few weeks.