Windhall

by Ava Barry

  I wondered how I could get out of my contract with Heather without incurring her wrath, or if there was a chance I could simply give her false information. A part of me knew that would be impossible; according to the contract I had signed with her, I wouldn’t be able to run any kind of article unless I had shown her the information first.

  Griffith Park was always busy on weekends, and even though it was cold and blustery, this Sunday was no exception. I drove past the Southern Railroad and the merry-go-round, and then saw that security barriers had been set up to block the road. I pulled into the parking lot and got out, then walked toward the barriers.

  A man in a black baseball cap saw me coming and held up his hand. “Can’t come this way,” he said. “Private event.”

  “I was invited.”

  “You have a pass?”

  “Call Isabel, she’ll tell you.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me, then spoke into a walkie-talkie. “You got a read on Isabel? Yeah, send her to the front.”

  He put the walkie-talkie back in his belt, then stood with his legs spread and his hands clasped.

  “You enjoy your job?” I asked, but he ignored me. I knew that I was being an asshole, but I was starting to feel paranoid about what I had learned about Linus and Heather, and pleasant small talk seemed beyond me at the moment.

  A few minutes passed, and then a woman came walking down the footpath toward us. She had short dark hair, and I guessed that she had Chinese heritage. When she saw me, she nodded.

  “Max Hailey?” she said.

  “Are you Isabel?”

  “It’s fine, Scott,” she told the security guard. “He’s with me.”

  I followed Isabel down the path.

  “Marcus is excited to meet you,” she said, as we walked. “Theo has always been a bit of an obsession with him.”

  “What are you guys filming?”

  She gave me a tight smile. “I can’t say,” she said. “Confidentiality, and all that.”

  “Of course. I don’t know very much about the film industry, but is it normal for composers to visit a film set during production?”

  “I can’t say whether it’s normal, per se, but Marcus feels that he can’t get a good feel for his subject matter unless he’s involved in every aspect of the movie.”

  The old zoo came into sight. I had visited it on a handful of occasions, sometimes with Madeleine, and sometimes by myself, but it had been a few years. The cages were rusty and disused, and piles of leaves collected in the corners of the enclosures. The bear and lion enclosures were made to look like caves, with big, blocky rocks, but the spaces were small and dingy. Every time I had visited, the zoo had been completely empty, but now it was crawling with film crew and actors. I narrowed my eyes.

  “Is that Bérénice Bejo?”

  “Wait here, please,” Isabel told me. “I’ll be right back with Marcus.”

  I watched her as she disappeared down the path. She went over to a pair of men and addressed them. One of the men towered a foot above her, and he looked like he was in his sixties. He bent his head to listen to her and adjusted his little glasses, then nodded and looked toward me.

  A moment later, the pair of them approached me.

  “Marcus, this is Max Hailey,” Isabel said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “You’re the kid who’s hunting Langley,” Marcus said.

  “That’s me,” I said. “And you write music for movies about dead people.”

  He laughed. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

  I found myself liking Marcus. He was taller than everyone on set, looming over all. His hair floated above his head in a wispy fringe, and his round glasses made him look like a cross between Bacchus and an old-fashioned British accountant.

  Marcus led the way toward one of the old enclosures, and we sat down on a little precipice.

  “I’ve been listening to your music,” I admitted. “It’s really haunting.”

  Marcus closed his eyes and nodded. “So, Theo,” he said. “How did you get an interview with him?”

  “We came to an understanding,” I said, deciding to skirt around the topic of the photograph. “I know his lawyer.”

  “You know, my dad never liked Theo,” Marcus said. “He was always convinced that Theo had something up his sleeve. He wasn’t surprised when Eleanor was killed, and he wasn’t surprised when Theo got away with it.”

  “What do you think of Theo?”

  “He was a brilliant man,” Marcus said. “Well, is, I guess, since he’s still alive.”

  “What do you think really happened that night?”

  “I’ve been in Hollywood long enough to know that I’ll never know.” Marcus winked. “Nearly everyone who was at that party is dead now. Theo probably won’t be around much longer, either.”

  I was dying to tell Marcus about the journals.

  “It seems like Theo really cared about Eleanor,” I said, instead. “Why would he kill her?”

  “Maybe he didn’t.”

  “Do you think he was framed?”

  “I’ve considered that possibility,” he said. “It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a star was punished at the height of success. When a star becomes too powerful, the studios get scared. In some ways, that’s still true. You’re old enough to have seen a young actress rise quickly and then get toppled by some minor scandal. We crave stories of success, but we don’t want our stars to be too successful. We want them to remain within reach. You see?”

  “Do you know about Last Train to Avalon?”

  Marcus nodded. “I do.”

  “Do you think that’s why Theo got framed for Eleanor’s death? I’ve heard that people in charge were trying to teach him a lesson.”

  Marcus sighed. “The one thing that has remained constant in my entire tenure in Hollywood is that the studios will do whatever it takes to protect themselves. Anyone who threatens that will be jettisoned without thought.”

  I could tell that he was dodging the issue, and I couldn’t exactly blame him. I was a journalist, and if he said anything too damning, he was running the risk that his name might end up next to an unsavory quote in the Lens.

  “Marcus, this is off the record,” I said. “I’m not going to write about anything you tell me. If you want me to put that in writing, I will.”

  “Very well,” he said after a pause. “You asked me if I thought that studio has something to do with Eleanor’s death. Yes, Max, I think they had a hand in it.”

  “Do you think Reuben Engel was the one who actually killed her?”

  He thought for a long moment. “Engel had a reputation for being studio muscle, even if his official title was producer. I’m sure the studio knew what was going on, but he made them so much money, they looked the other way.”

  “What do you mean? What was going on?”

  Marcus studied me for a moment. “Do you know anything about Engel?”

  “A lot of women around the studio didn’t like him.”

  “Yes, but do you know why?”

  “Well,” I said. “I know that he made advances toward a lot of actresses.”

  “He was a rapist.” He spoke quietly, matter-of-fact. “I’ve heard different accounts about how many women he assaulted, but he had a habit of blackmailing women who didn’t give him what he wanted. I heard that Last Train was about how Engel raped a woman and she had an abortion, then died from it.”

  I was dumbstruck. “You’re not talking about Cate Chapelle, are you?”

  “That sounds familiar.”

  “And Eleanor? Did he… I mean, was she one of his victims?”

  “That, I can’t say. I don’t know. I would venture to suggest that he would probably be angrier with someone who stood up to him, though.”

  I sat there, numb and disbelieving. “Are you saying that Theo was prosecuted for a crime he didn’t commit, and then spent his life in hiding as a result?”

  “He wasn’t ever convicted, remember?”

&n
bsp; “But he disappeared,” I said. “He had to leave a life that he worked so hard to build.”

  “ ‘We destroyed our gods; we tore them limb from limb.’ ”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a line from Last Train to Avalon,” Marcus said. “I got to read the script a few years ago. Shame it was never released, it’s probably the most honest movie ever written about Hollywood.”

  “Where on earth did you get a copy of the script?”

  Before Marcus could answer, Isabel materialized beside him.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “We’re ready to start filming, and David needs a word.”

  “I have to go, Max.” Marcus rose to his feet.

  “Just one more question,” I said. I had to frame it so that I didn’t reveal my contract with Heather, because I didn’t want it to get back to her.

  “It seems like people know about this,” I said. “They know about Engel. Why hasn’t it gotten out yet?”

  “His children, I would assume,” he said. He looked thoughtful. “His daughter doesn’t work in the industry, but she has a lot of political sway. Works in city planning, or something like that. I’m sure her own career would suffer if the truth got out, so she’s probably invested in making sure that it never does.”

  EIGHTEEN

  I stopped for Vietnamese takeout from Silver Lake on my way home. While I waited for my order, I pulled out my phone and called Petra. It went straight to voicemail, and since I wasn’t sure exactly what to say, I hung up.

  The roofers’ cars were gone when I pulled into my driveway. I walked up my path, fumbling for my keys, then tucked the bag of food under my arm while I let myself in.

  It wasn’t until I was halfway across the living room before I realized that I wasn’t alone in the house. A light was on in the kitchen, and I could hear the clink of ice cubes. For a moment I thought that Madeleine might have stopped by for a surprise visit, but as soon as I walked into the kitchen, I saw that I was wrong. My stomach sank.

  “Hello, Max,” Heather said. She raised her glass to me, and I saw that she had helped herself to the bottle of Macallan.

  I sighed. “You hired men to fix my roof without consulting me, and now you’ve taken the liberty of letting yourself into my house. Did you make a copy of the spare key?”

  “Don’t be so ungrateful!” She laughed. “You’re doing me a favor by looking into Theo, and I did a favor for you, by having the roof fixed.”

  “It’s been a long day,” I said.

  She took a sip of Scotch. “Oh, I see, you’d like me to leave. You’re trying to be polite. Is that it?”

  “Please leave my house, Heather.”

  She stood and closed the distance between us. “I’m not leaving until you show me all the evidence you’ve collected,” she said. “You’ve been to see Theo twice now. What have you learned? Can we open a new case against him?”

  “I’ve gained some insight into a development project in Highland Park,” I said.

  It took her a moment to gather my meaning. “You’ve been to Highland Park? Good for you! What do you think?”

  “Have you killed anyone yet, or will you leave that part to your friend Linus?”

  “Don’t be naive, Max,” she snapped. “It’s not as black-and-white as that.”

  “What happened to those protesters? All those girls who died?”

  “You’ll have to ask someone who knows.”

  “I’m tired. Please don’t make me ask you to leave again.”

  “We signed a contract, and so far, you’ve given me nothing. I gave you Theo’s journals, and now I’m calling to collect on our agreement.”

  “I haven’t found anything.” I spread my hands. “The house has been scrubbed, from top to bottom.”

  “What about that doctor? You must have learned something about him.”

  Rebecca Lewis. The name came back to me, then, but it meant nothing to me. I could offer it to Heather, but something held me back. I didn’t want to give her that information until I had decoded it myself.

  “Let’s talk in the morning.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “Do you know what my next story will be about? It’s going to be about the unsolved death of two protesters in Highland Park. Do you even know their names?”

  She put a hand to her chest and pretended to look hurt. “It’s not for me, Max. I’m doing the Highland Park project for the sake of posterity.”

  “So the rumors are true? You’re responsible for those deaths?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. “The problem with your generation is that you’re too idealistic. Let’s go for a drive sometime, and I’ll show you the state of those houses. The better houses are afflicted with mildew, rot, bad infrastructure. The worst of the lot are crammed with illegal immigrants, crack whores, and unwed mothers. They tear down the interior walls and fill them with cots, then rent them out for five hundred a week to pregnant illegal immigrants, so they can give birth in America as a way to stake their claim on a green card.”

  “I’m tired,” I repeated. “I’d like you to leave.”

  “You’re shortsighted,” she said. “I bet you’ve lost sight of Eleanor, too. Has Theo convinced you of his innocence yet? He will, I can assure you of that! He’s a charming bastard, that Theo, and he managed to convince a judge.”

  “I heard something about your father,” I said slowly. “He had quite the reputation around Hollywood.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Did your father kill Eleanor, Heather?”

  She tilted her head, then burst into laughter. “God, you’re all alike,” she said. “You meet someone high up on the food chain and he spins a pretty theory for you. Next thing you know, you’ve dropped all your convictions and sterling evidence, and you end up swallowing the tastiest pack of lies.”

  “So it’s true.”

  “My father had nothing to do with Eleanor’s death! I could sue you for even suggesting it. Now, I’d like to see what evidence you’ve collected. You’re bound by contract, or did you forget?”

  “It’s at the office,” I lied. “Well past business hours now, though. You’ll have to wait until morning.”

  “You expect me to believe that? Let’s see what’s in that greenhouse of yours.”

  “You can’t go in my office, Heather.”

  “It’s made of glass, Hailey,” she said, wagging a finger at me. “Not very secure, is it?”

  “Threats are beneath you.”

  “It’s not a threat,” she said. “I’ll give you one more chance to hand over your evidence.”

  I remained silent, and she shrugged.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “You can expect to hear from my lawyer in the next few days. You haven’t realized that you’re nothing more than footnote in history. You can’t stand in the way of progress, Hailey. Theo’s going to have to pay for what he did eventually.”

  * * *

  I didn’t sleep well that night, and when I reached for my phone the next morning, I saw that I had a list of text messages, asking me if I had seen the headlines. Before I could wrap my head around the onslaught of communication, I went to my computer and opened up a new browser.

  MURDER SUSPECT APPREHENDED, read the top result. Beneath that, the caption went into more detail: Pasadena woman responsible for two deaths, third attempted murder.

  It took a solid minute for the concept to gel in my mind, and I had to read another article to be completely sure that the news was true. The Beverly Hills murders had nothing to do with Heather, or Linus Warren; the woman responsible was a narcissistic performance artist. A fucking performance artist.

  The woman hadn’t been formally charged yet, just held for questioning. The articles were as definitive as they could be, given the fact that there had been no trial yet. There didn’t seem much room for doubt, however, given that the woman had reportedly provided the police with details nobody but the murderer could have
known.

  “Shit.”

  I got my things ready and then headed out the door. I was going to have to talk to Alexa about everything that happened, even if it meant breaking my contract with Heather.

  If I was going to break into the hidden maid’s room at Windhall, I was going to have to do that soon, too. I decided to wait until Friday to make my move. According to the website for the Beverly Hills Council, the neighborhoods along Benedict Canyon had banded together to set up various cordoned-off areas with an assortment of festivities. According to the announcement, there would be bands, costume competitions, and treats galore for young children who wouldn’t fare well with all the mayhem of teenagers on the real Halloween.

  “Amen for helicopter parents,” I muttered, then turned off my computer and gathered my things up to go to the Lens office.

  I hadn’t even made it to my desk before Alexa found me.

  “We need to talk about your story,” she said.

  “They found the murderer,” I said. “I know people will probably lose interest in Theo in a week, but I should be able to finish this story either today or tomorrow.”

  “Come to my office.”

  I followed her down the corridor and stepped into her office, prepared to tell her about what I had learned about Highland Park and Linus Warren. Even if I didn’t have a great story to write about Windhall, I might be able to scrape something together about the protesters.

  When we stepped into Alexa’s office, Brian was sitting in a chair. He grinned at me.

  “I have some good news,” I said, ignoring Brian. “But first, I’d like to come clean about something. Petra was upset because I didn’t treat her with the respect that she deserves.”

  “Petra quit altogether. She won’t be coming back.”

  “Shit.” I said, and ran a hand through my hair. “It’s probably my fault, to be honest. I really wasn’t fair to her.”

  Alexa nodded and pressed her lips together. “Anything else you want to come clean about?”

  Brian leaned forward in the chair. “Hailey, we know. There’s no point in lying anymore.”