by Maria Hummel
I froze, hand extended, breathing the chemical odor of Nelson’s clean clothes.
What would I say if someone came in?
I waited. Each goose bump on my still-damp body multiplied by dozens, and my nose began to itch. I wondered if my feet would leave footprints in the plush rug. I was just looking for an extra towel, I mouthed. It sounded weak to me, especially when I imagined uttering it to Layla’s sly, glittering gaze. Better to hide. I counted to sixty. The noise did not repeat. Turning, feeling every inch of my exposed spine, I reached my hand into the back of the closet (blank wall), shut the door again, checked under the bed (more dust bunnies), then peered into the hall. It was empty.
Nothing about Nelson’s bedroom suggested secrets, just the life of a meticulous bachelor who didn’t have a very good house cleaner. There was one more door on the hall besides the bathroom, and I paused there, wondering if I should risk it. How long had I been gone?
A doorbell rang downstairs. “More delivery,” shouted Zania.
I tested the knob. Unlocked. The door opened soundlessly. I stood on the threshold, stunned.
Glass cases lined every wall but the far one, each lit inside, each holding objects. In the closest case was a red guitar, propped on a stand, and a punk leather suit zipped up over a mannequin. A handwritten note from a rock star cheerily thanked Nelson for repping him. In the next case, a crumpled metal sculpture and a stained pillow also came with thank-you notes. In the next, a chunk of wall, splashed with bright graffiti, perched next to a clock made out of some pastel foreign currency. More notes, presumably from other famous artists.
It looked like one of those restaurants where the owner hangs up hundreds of photos of himself shaking the hands of celebrities. A trophy room.
No, that wasn’t quite it.
The lighting was too dim. The vitrines both illuminated and shrouded. More like a place of worship. A shrine.
And there were cameras here. Two. Aimed from the ceiling at the cases. I looked around for Kim Lord. A portrait, a signature. Nelson would have something of hers.
As I stood, unmoving, I felt Brenae’s eyes across the room before I saw them. There she was, in a framed print, staring. It was a video still from Packing, the cereal-eating scene, the gun in Brenae’s hand, raised just below her parted mouth, its silver tip dripping white milk. Brenae’s eyes were half shut, as if she had just looked up from her private hunger to see the viewer watching her. The image was so sexual and intimate that it made a wave of heat spread through me. At the bottom, a white space had a block of type on it, and a quick handwritten scrawl below, but I couldn’t read either from across the room.
I don’t know how long I waited, staring at the print, before I remembered where I was. It might have been mere seconds, but it felt like ages, the act of seeing Brenae here, mounted in Nelson’s collection. Of course the two of them would have crossed paths, and Brenae would have been just the type of rising star to interest him. But nowhere, in anything I’d read or heard since her death, had I learned that she had ever signed with his gallery.
I calmed myself by observing the rest of the room. The desk had no papers on it. The computer was off. The bookshelves held a predictable arrangement of monographs on major artists like Kandinsky, Matta, O’Keeffe. There appeared to be a number of books on antiquities as well: cuneiform tablets, Babylonian sculpture, cities from the Old Testament.
If I stayed away from the cases, I could remain off camera. I had a clear line to the trash can. It had a mess of papers in it.
I hesitated. I was running out of time.
I wrapped my towel around my head, obscuring my face and shoulders, and slunk to the wire receptacle, sifting silently through it. British chocolate bar wrappers. A W-9 form. A crumpled, printed page from the web, the URL etched on the top margin. It was a petition for a police order of protection against stalking and/or harassment. I believe I am a victim of and then there were checkboxes for stalking and harassment. Some of it had been filled in, but a dark hand had slashed all over the words, making the letters impossible to read.
I felt Brenae’s gaze on me again. I was too close now not to look. I stepped over to her photo, a glossy print. Underneath was a typeset list of student names, including Brenae’s, for a semester show at LAAC. It was a gallery guide, Brenae’s artwork chosen for the honor of visually representing all the rest. Over the names, she had scribbled a message: Thank you for coming! Can’t wait to meet.
Heart slamming, I shoved the papers back in the trash and retreated, my head still encased in terrycloth, only the eyes showing. I twisted the knob, opened the door a crack. The hall was still empty. Thank God. I reorganized my towel situation and crept toward the stairs. The carpet was so soft it tickled. I had almost reached the steps when the bathroom door opened and Pearson walked out. He was dressed in a T-shirt and cargo shorts again. The chlorine had roughened his pale cheeks, and his size once again struck me. His arms were like cudgels.
“Oops,” he said, staring at me.
“Oops,” I repeated hoarsely.
“Were you waiting to change?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “But I can go downstairs.”
“No, please,” he said. “I’m all done.”
I took a step back to let him out.
“It was nice of you to come,” he said, drawing nearer. “Are you glad you did?”
“Yes,” I said faintly.
His wide palms grazed my bare shoulders, then pulled me toward him. The kiss happened before I registered it, his lips parting mine, his tongue in my mouth. It wasn’t a bad kiss, and it wasn’t what I wanted, but I let it go on for a moment, weighing my options, before I pushed him back.
“Sorry,” he said, still holding my shoulders. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Me, neither,” I said, smiling a little, playing the part. I pushed him again, and this time he released me. “But I’m starving. Let me change, okay?”
I HID IN THE SAGE-SCENTED bathroom, hunched over my knees on the closed toilet seat, long enough to slow my breathing. The bathroom sink was not wet. Pearson had not been carrying his swimsuit. If he had come upstairs to pee, he had not washed his hands. This was not unheard of for a dude, but Pearson was about to eat. Wouldn’t he wash his hands if he were about to eat? And yet why would he follow me up here and hide in the bathroom? To ambush me and kiss me?
I had to go back downstairs and face them. I dropped the damp towel on the floor and peeled off my swimsuit, my naked body flashing in the mirror. I kept my head down, avoiding my reflection, as I tugged on dry clothes over my sticky damp skin. I knew my eyes were red-rimmed from the pool water, my hair lank and wet. My makeup had washed off and I had nothing to reapply, my crow’s feet visible. Pearson had noticed them, too. Pearson was noticing a lot about me.
I didn’t want to pursue that thought further, so as I tried to finger-comb out my tangles, my mind jumped to the petition for protection against stalking and harassment. Who was it for, Zania or Nelson? Or was it against Nelson? Either way, the last five minutes, starting with Brenae’s picture and ending with Pearson’s kiss, made my spine crawl. I didn’t need to see anything more. I needed to leave.
AS I SLIPPED BAREFOOT DOWN the shiny wood stairs, Layla, Zania, and Erik were munching from a chaos of white containers and arguing about something in low, intense tones. It was dark out, and the pool shimmered beyond, looking bluer and deeper than ever.
Layla set down her fork as I appeared. “Want some takeout, Mary?” she said to me with controlled warmth.
“Thank you.” I put a couple of wings on my plate. “I have to go soon, though.”
The women watched me silently. Erik’s drunkenness had deepened to a leaden focus on his food. He kept trying to pin a red slice of sashimi with his chopsticks. “Get over here,” he muttered to it.
“Where’s Pearson?” I said.
“He went for more wine. Or to smoke his ciggies.” Zania made a face. “He likes to pretend we don’t know.”
“There’s a door out to the yard,” said Erik. The sashimi slipped from his chopstick, and he slammed the table with his fist. “I can’t do this,” he muttered.
“Erik,” said Layla. “Calm down.”
“Stay,” Zania said to me. “We ordered too much. Besides, if you’re looking for a real job in L.A., there will be tons of networking tonight.”
“Great.” I sat and tried to chew through the chicken, but it tasted too salty, too wet. I had twenty-five minutes left before I was supposed to meet Ray. I listened to Layla talk about her portraits of nail salon workers and how she was eye-dropping chemicals the salons used on the photos, melting holes. “The problem is, I can’t stop the holes once I start them. They keep spreading.” Beside her, Erik ate savagely. None of the three would look at one another. It all seemed like a stage set. Unreal. Fixed for an audience. My T-shirt clung to my damp skin and I tugged it loose, struggling to keep even breaths.
Erik’s phone buzzed and he looked at it.
“Hal,” he said. “I’m answering it.” He stumbled up and pressed a button, holding it to his ear. “Here,” he said, walking out of the room, out of earshot.
Layla and Zania watched after him. After a few minutes, he came back and slumped down, hanging his head.
“What did he want?” Layla asked.
Erik’s curls fell in his face and his white teeth flashed. “He said he hopes we’re having fun. He says I shouldn’t worry. The board can’t prove anything. It’s all going to blow over. Because no one”—his open palm slammed the table—“did”—slam—“anything”—slam—“wrong.” He looked at Layla. “I can’t do this. I can’t let him fall on his sword for me and my career.”
Layla gaped at him as if unsure she’d heard him right. “You think they’ll spare you?” she said distantly. “That you’ll have a career?”
The phone slid from Erik’s hand onto the table. “I can’t do this,” he repeated.
“Can you excuse us three for a minute?” Zania was talking to me, her eyes hard points.
I checked the clock. It was 8:47. “I’m going for a cigarette,” I mumbled, then grabbed my purse and scooted down the steps to the wine cellar.
Behind me, I heard Zania say, “Everyone’s going to be here in an hour. You need to get it together, or you’re going to embarrass my dad.”
The staircase was narrow and led down a single flight to a dim room lined with shelves and bottles. Red clips held the bottles in. A nod to earthquake security, I supposed, but they looked like claws. A wall of claws. Each set gripped a cylinder of dark liquid.
Most L.A. homes I knew did not have basements, and the dense, close atmosphere felt foreign, oppressive. The air tasted gritty, like it had been carved out of a packed, ancient mud. The light shining behind me ended in lakes of shadow. The room had two doors. In the dimness their outlines blurred. Neither appeared to lead outside. Instead they seemed like entrances to somewhere deeper.
Upstairs, a chair scraped across the floor, and there was an explosion of voices. Then I heard footsteps. The door to the upstairs shut, casting the wine cellar into darkness. I couldn’t see my own hand in front of me.
I hadn’t turned on the cellar light. The switch must have been at the top of the stairs. I could climb back up the steps and flip it on, but the voices above had gone silent. As if they were waiting. The darkness pounded around me. I wanted away from this house. I walked forward and felt for the doors, my fingers touching cool glass oblongs, then the rough gloss of varnished wood. Voices erupted again.
My fingers traveled down the wood, knocked something metal. I almost cried out when I realized it was a doorknob. I groped for a grip, twisted it. It did not give. Locked. What was it hiding?
Upstairs, they were talking loudly. Arguing. Footsteps back and forth. A bottle touched my cheek as I felt around for the other door. I shrank back, losing my bearings in the darkness. The next step was a stumble into the wall of hooks and glass, and then I found the other flat opening.
This knob turned. I pushed the door and stumbled through.
The corridor beyond stretched for ten feet, ending with a wall and another threshold leading off it. Evening light purpled the air. I strode down it, trying not to make a sound, palm flat on the smooth cement. A shadow on the far wall twitched. I froze. It wavered again, then I heard a groaning sigh. I crept forward and peered around the edge of the turn. It was a hatch to the night outside, filled with faint cigarette smoke and Pearson, his broad back toward me.
I braced my shoulders and stalked toward him.
“I heard you were smoking,” I said calmly before I emerged.
Pearson tilted his head at me and blew out a puff. “I am,” he said, sounding surprised. “Are they getting anxious for wine?”
I shrugged. “I’m anxious for a smoke,” I said.
“No doubt,” he said, and tilted his pack at me.
“But the rest of them are definitely anxious for wine,” I said, taking one.
Pearson whipped something from his pocket. I flinched.
“Jesus,” he said. “It’s just a lighter.”
He held the flame for me. My hands shook, but finally I pulled in a long tug, suppressing a cough.
“I like the evening here,” Pearson said, leaning back, taking another puff. “I try to get outside to see it. So I can forget the parts of L.A. that I don’t like.”
“I like both,” I said. “The evening and L.A.” The nicotine hit my adrenaline panic, swirled in my skull. My mind swam. “You think Hal’s show will go over well?” I asked.
“Well enough,” said Pearson. “It’s his best work in a while.”
“Because of you.”
“Because of Hal.”
Ask him, I thought. I was almost free now. The house had not held me.
“You sound like you would do anything for him,” I said.
“Do I?” said Pearson, his voice going hollow.
I waited. The little lawn before us had darkened to silk, and I couldn’t quite see Pearson’s face, just the red glow of his embers.
“You talking about Brenae?” he said.
“Actually, yes.” I ignored the spike of fear down my spine. “You’re the one who wiped the files from her laptop.”
He didn’t move.
“You never watched them,” I said. “You just did what Hal asked. No questions. You knew she was dead, and you were shredding her work.”
“Do you always go by Mary?” Pearson said. “Your license says Maggie.”
He loomed beside me, rigid as stone. The air from the wine cellar felt cold on my spine.
“I never liked Maggie,” I said. “Why were you looking at my license?”
“I was curious,” said Pearson. “The private investigator. The new gallerina. All on the same day. All the questions your guy asked me.” He stamped out his cigarette. “You both find what you need?”
His face drew closer to mine, his brows low, his lips pressed. This time he wasn’t about to kiss me.
I took another tug on my smoke and blew it out, hoping Pearson would step back. He didn’t. “Not enough,” I said. “I want to hear your version. All of it.”
I met his livid gaze and didn’t wince.
“Erik’s not a killer,” said Pearson. “Neither is Hal. Maybe he warned Erik about that video. Maybe Erik said something to Brenae that hurt her deep. But she took her own life, and that is a terrible, cowardly choice. For anyone. They didn’t pull the trigger. She did.” A frowning grin broke his face. “LAAC gave Brenae a full ride, and she squandered it. I got the whole bill. Sixty thousand dollars in loans. I’m still paying them off, and Hal’s the only reason I can, and still be making art for a living. So am I going to protect him and the school, and not some tragic narcissistic bitch? Yes. Did I know what was on the videos? No. I thought they were just some protest message. Brenae whining about the system that obviously doted on her. I never guessed it was that.” He
looked away, his neck pulsing. “I could bash Erik’s face in for what he did.”
I waited.
“Anything else?” said Pearson. He folded his arms.
“Do the others know?”
“About you?” he said. “I think Layla suspects something. She’s the one who wanted to invite you tonight.”
Pearson swung away and lunged through the doorway, into the inky dark of the cellar. “You ask me again, I’ll deny everything. You quote me, I’ll sue you.”
20
WHEN I CRUISED FROM NELSON’S driveway at precisely 9:00 p.m., Ray appeared in his sedan and motioned me to keep driving, so I took a number of twisty turns until I reached the Pacific Coast Highway. I skimmed south along the edge of the continent, watching the steel-gray ocean stretch westward on my right. Ordinarily, I would have been relieved to see the sea, but I felt taut and sick. The surface looked impenetrable and unimaginably powerful, barely suppressing a violence that could sweep over us all.
When I hit a standstill, my phone rang and Ray told me to pull into the next beach parking lot. His car slid in beside mine, facing the water, and we both got out and leaned on the hood of his sedan, arms crossed.
“How much time do we have?” I said.
Ray checked his watch. “About twenty minutes.”
Pulse racing, I told him about the party, the trophy room upstairs, Brenae’s photo and message, the stalking petition, leaving through the wine cellar, and Pearson’s confession. I left out the kiss. As usual, Ray didn’t interrupt me once, and I wondered what his mind was fastening on.
“So there it is,” I concluded. “Hal asked Pearson to do it. I don’t know if he’d ever go on the record, though.”
“Might not matter,” said Ray. He was looking far out to sea, his eyes on a shipping vessel close to the horizon. “At least for Janis.”
“What’s her update?”
“There’s a special meeting of the LAAC board of trustees tomorrow with Hal. Closed session,” said Ray.