by Ava Barry
“I didn’t do this,” I said. “I was in jail that night. Don’t worry, the police are going to figure out who was responsible.”
“You’re the one responsible,” he said without venom. “The world had forgotten about him. They would have left him alone, if you could have let the story rest, just the way it was. You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I don’t want your sorries,” he said. “Theo doesn’t need your pity. You think you fooled him into inviting you into his house, but he was smarter than you. He was always smarter than you.”
I glanced up at the facade of the old house, the trailing roses now scorched to twigs; the gaping windows and the crumbling old roof. I thought about all the old orchards that had been razed to make way for film, and in turn all the old silent stars who had been left in the dark when they became useless, mute.
“Did you follow them to Vermont?” I asked. I wondered if Fritz knew that his mother had helped Theo with the body in the garden. “Or did you stay here?”
“No more questions, Mr. Hailey.” He reached into his pocket and produced an envelope. “Theo wanted you to have this.”
“What is it?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. It belongs to a locker at Union Station. Goodbye, Mr. Hailey.”
I waited until he had disappeared around the side of the house before I slipped a finger under the envelope flap. A key fell out into my hand. I studied it for a moment, then looked inside the envelope. There was a note, and when I took it out, I saw that it was written in Theo’s familiar, spidery handwriting.
I read the note two, three, four times before the meaning registered with me. With shaking hands, I took out my cell phone and called Marty.
“Jesus, Marty, pick up!”
When he finally answered, I could hear that he was somewhere crowded. There was a lot of background noise.
“Hailey, my man! Where’d you disappear to?”
“Where are you?”
“We’re at the Top Hat in Silver Lake. Everyone’s celebrating.”
“You have your camera?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Stay there,” I said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I tucked my phone in my pocket and took off at a sprint, nearly tripping over the ruined garden path in my haste.
TWENTY-FIVE
I drove down Benedict Canyon Road so erratically that I was surprised nobody pulled me over. I slowed down a bit when I hit Beverly Hills proper, but still managed to get to the bar in record time. People spilled out onto the sidewalk, and I had to push my way through the crowd to look for Marty.
Someone grabbed my arm, and I turned to see Madeleine.
“Where did you go?” she said. She almost had to shout to be heard over the din.
“He set me up!” I said. “Theo set me up!”
“What?” She pointed to her ear to indicate that she hadn’t heard me.
“Where’s Marty?”
“I think he’s by the bar!”
It took another five minutes of pushing through the thick crowd to find Marty, and when we did, it was clear that he was beyond sloshed.
“I need to see your camera!” I shouted.
“Man, have a drink! You’ve earned it.”
“Your camera! Where is it?”
Marty was so drunk that I had to repeat the request three or four times, but he finally agreed to lead me out to his car. His camera was in the trunk, and he got it out for me.
“I’m gonna boot and rally,” he said, swaying on his feet. “You help yourself to my darkroom.”
He wandered off into the bushes to vomit. Madeleine and I leaned on the trunk of his car, and I started going through the pictures.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Theo planned this whole thing,” I said. “Marty took shots of the event tonight. I’ll show you.”
“What do you mean?”
I gave her the note and the key that Fritz had given me.
You see? Everything works itself out by the end of the film.
P.S. Did you get a look at Olivia? Not all of our friends fade away into dim obscurity.
She read it, then frowned. “What does that mean?”
I slowly shook my head. The only thing I could do was laugh. “It means that he was at the theater tonight. Theo was at the premiere.”
“You don’t sound like you’re joking,” Mad said quietly.
I didn’t reply, trying to piece together everything that had happened after my last visit with Theo. I had broken into Windhall, been arrested for it, then returned home to find that the house had gone up in flames.
“Fuck,” I whispered, rubbing my temples. “How far back does it go? Did he plan this whole thing?”
“What are you talking about? Hailey—take a few deep breaths. Are you sure Theo sent you this note?”
I looked at her. “I’m a moron. I want that on the record.”
“Theo died in the fire,” Mad insisted. “There was an ambulance—paramedics…”
I gave a wild laugh. “You don’t think he could have arranged that? I didn’t exactly check their credentials. Theo could have arranged this whole thing.”
She put a grounding hand on my arm. “What does this key belong to?”
“It’s a box at Union Station,” I said. “He left me something.”
“Any idea what?”
“I have lots of ideas.”
I passed her the camera. Madeleine squinted at the screen. “What am I looking at?”
“At the back of the theater,” I said. “Zoom in.”
She toggled the zoom button until she could see what I was trying to show her. “Jesus,” she said. “Is that really Theo? How on earth did he come to the premiere without anyone seeing him?”
“It’s what we always said about him,” I said. “It’s easiest to hide in plain sight. Everyone had already mourned him, they’d already moved on.”
“I thought he died! Isn’t that what you wrote in your article?”
“I’m so fucking stupid,” I said. “I can’t believe I fell for it twice.”
Petra came out into the parking lot and spotted us.
“Hey,” she said. “I thought you left.” She came over to join us and glanced between me and Madeleine. “What’s going on?”
“The story isn’t over,” I said. “Theo didn’t die in the fire.”
She didn’t laugh. “What are you talking about?”
I quickly filled her in, and Madeleine passed her the camera. Petra’s eyes widened when she saw the picture of Theo.
“What’s in the locker?” she asked. “Have you told Alexa what’s going on?”
“Not yet.”
“We could still find him,” she urged. “He’s probably somewhere nearby.”
“What’s the point?”
“This makes an even bigger story than we thought,” she said. “He escaped the fire that burned his house down.”
“He’s gone,” I said quietly. “He wouldn’t write me this note unless he had already planned his escape. He’s long gone.”
“What’s in the locker?” Madeleine piped up. “We need to find out.”
“Sure,” I said, without much enthusiasm. “Let’s go to Union Station.”
* * *
Union Station was one of my favorite buildings in Los Angeles. The gorgeous art deco building was flanked by palm trees, and the high ceilings and decadent floors always made me feel like I had stepped back in time to the 1930s. Even late at night, the station wasn’t quiet; as the main hub of Los Angeles transportation, there were always people arriving, leaving, and lingering in the hallways.
Marty had disappeared from the bar’s parking lot by the time we were ready to leave, so we took his camera with us. Once we were at Union Station, we found the locker that corresponded to the key that Theo had left for me in the envelope. I hesitated before sticking the key in the lock, and
turned to look at Petra. She nodded.
The key stuck for a moment, and then it turned and I opened the locker. Inside was a parcel wrapped in brown paper. It was about the size of a coffee table book, and I had an idea of what it might be before I undid the tape and removed the paper.
“It’s a painting,” Madeleine said, once I had unwrapped it. “Why would he leave you a painting?”
“It’s not just any painting,” I said. “It’s a Paul de Longpré painting. It’s a joke. Theo told me that de Longpré was the first real celebrity in Los Angeles.”
“That must be worth a fortune.”
I didn’t respond, because I had noticed that there was another envelope inside the locker. I opened it and found another note: That which burns brightly burns quickly, but oh, see how it burns.
“Wasn’t that the last line of the film?” Madeleine leaned over my shoulder.
There was something else in the envelope. I slid it out, and it took a minute for the meaning to sink in.
“Hailey,” Petra said. “Is that…?”
It was a single, spent match.
“The fire at Windhall,” I said slowly. “I thought for sure it was Heather.”
“So… Theo planned this whole thing?” Petra asked.
“My God,” Madeleine said.
“Why would he do that, though?” Petra asked.
“He’d wanted to get rid of that house for years,” I said. “Ben told me so himself.”
“You think Dr. Lewis was in on this? I thought he was helping you write the article.”
“I thought so, too,” I said. “Maybe this whole thing was about revenge against Reuben.”
“He must have been looking for a writer. You thought you were looking for him, but he was waiting for you,” Madeleine said.
“But why?”
“Because of her,” Petra said. She was holding Marty’s camera, and she was looking at a photo. “Look.”
Madeleine and I moved to stand next to her, and she showed us the picture. It was one I had skipped past while looking for Theo. Marty had taken it before the film started, when everyone was milling around in the lobby. It was a throwaway snap, or at least I would have thought it was. It was the type of shot you take when you’re too busy to focus on a single subject.
Standing to the left of the doors, arms around herself against the cold, was a face that I had studied so many times that I could see it in my dreams; indeed I had, many times. The years had been kind to her, or at least, kind enough. So many years had passed that I wouldn’t have recognized her if she had passed by me in the lobby, but on her face was one of the most famous smiles in the world.
It was Eleanor Hayes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Books may get written in the privacy and solitude of dark rooms, but they do not exist as the efforts of a single person.
First and foremost, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my agent, Annie Bomke. Thank you for taking a huge risk—and for investing weeks, months, years—on an unknown writer. Thank you for your honesty, your fast responses, kind words of encouragement, and all the hours you spent helping me scrape my ideas into a digestible form. I am constantly humbled and honored by your sharp memory and how much effort you dedicate to the work of others.
Huge thanks to fellow noir and Los Angeles history enthusiast Katie McGuire, who was my wonderful editor. Thank you so much for choosing my book. Thank you also to Claiborne Hancock for your encouraging words, and thank you to all their colleagues at Pegasus Books.
I am hugely indebted to my family, both near and far: all the Barrys in Northern California, the Christens-Barrys in Maryland, the Leones in Minnesota, the Hinshaws in Michigan and Georgia. Even though our geographical distance means that I see some of you only once every few years, I feel lucky that I am related to each and every one of you. Thanks and love especially to Owen Christens-Barry, a cousin who is more like a brother, and his wonderful parents, Bill and Carol. You all mean a lot to me.
Thank you to Marsh’s extended family (especially Suellen) for welcoming me into the fold. I am grateful to have been accepted by your wonderful group.
Special thanks to Christine and Tony DeMaria for dinners and for checking in. Thank you for reminding me, again and again, that nothing creative thrives in a vacuum. Thanks and love go to Natalie Carmen, my earliest extended family. I love your family and appreciate everything that you’ve done for me. Pierre Bienaime—I’m not sure you realize how much your enduring friendship has meant to me over the years. Thank you for inspiring me when we were at university together, then visiting me once we no longer lived in the same zip code, then continuing to reach out and call when we weren’t on the same continent.
I would have been lost without the direction and encouragement of some incredible teachers at UC Santa Cruz: J. Guevara, who introduced me to Richard Brautigan and the power of short stories; Kate Schatz, who taught me how fun writing can be in a group of like-minded people; Natasha V., who championed my freakish ideas and crossed out 70 percent of the work I turned in. All of you made me a much better writer.
Love and thanks to my local writer friends: Louise Wakeling, Linda Moon, Becky Head, and Rebecca Lang. I deeply appreciate all the time and effort you give in critiquing each piece I hand in each month. Thank you to everyone in our community who has shown me how wonderful the people of small towns can be, especially Paulina Kelly, whose warmth and generosity continues to amaze me. Thanks for short shifts, possum noises, and Jason Momoa references. Thanks also to my dear friend Bec Carr—and her partner, Rich Cass—for their warmth and hospitality.
Endless love and gratitude to my adopted family, Don Allinson and Melanie Ivanhoe. You are a port in a storm. I don’t think I can ever repay how much you have given me over the years.
Leslie Plesetz: I think you know how much I love you, but I know that I don’t say it enough. You mean the world to me.
A big thank-you to my parents, David and Camilla Barry, who taught me the love and joy of stories, who told people I was a writer years before I was comfortable using the label myself. Dad, I would give absolutely anything to be able to share this with you. You championed my creativity before it was even there. Thanks to my mom for making up stories and sharing them with my brothers and me.
I have a lot of gratitude for my older brother, Nico, who continues to inspire me with his intelligence and patience. Thank you for sharing my weird sense of humor. Thanks also to Elyse, the newest member of our family, for contributing her own humor and compassion. Clive, I miss you.
Tilda and Huon: thank you for letting me join your family. I am always proud to tell people that I have the best stepchildren that anyone could ask for. I love you both very much.
For being there for me each morning, each distracted afternoon, I owe enormous thanks to my supportive partner, Marsh Wilkinson. Thank you for listening to rambling thoughts and half-formed ideas. Thank you for traveling with me, quarantining with me, reading next to me in silence. You make this lonely type of work quite a bit less isolating.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author photo by M. T. Wilkinson
Ava Barry was a script reader for Bold Films and Intrigue Entertainment, and an editorial assistant for Zoetrope: All-Story, Francis Ford Coppola’s literary magazine. This is her first novel. She lives in Australia.
WINDHALL
Pegasus Crime is an imprint of
Pegasus Books, Ltd.
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Copyright © 2021 by Ava Barry
First Pegasus Books cloth edition March 2021
Interior design by Timothy Shaner, NightandDayDesign.biz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmi
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Front cover photo: © Getty Images / Shutterstock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN: 978-1-64313-626-4
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64313-627-1
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