The Last Guest

by Tess Little

“What would I be worried about?”

  We stared at each other.

  “What I could say about you, maybe,” she said, pulling on her backpack. “I don’t know. You’re the one telling me that women have been approaching you in parking lots. Saying they think you—”

  “Come on. Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “If they ask anything about me, tell them the truth. Why wouldn’t I want you to do that?”

  Lillie shrugged. “I don’t know. I just—I don’t think it’s going to be a big deal, tomorrow. You don’t need to be worried.”

  “Right,” I said. “But you told me to be careful. I’m just saying the same to you, and that’s my job, isn’t it? I’m supposed to worry. So can we talk about it some more, at least? Let me ask Scott what he thinks later.”

  She didn’t respond, but she didn’t refuse the suggestion either.

  “See you later,” she said, and left.

  When I opened the laptop, the article was there, waiting. Richard, Honey, and me. I could not face it in that moment. I would kill the next few hours with octopus videos instead.

  “…absolute muscle, because there are no tendons or bones,” a biologist said to the camera. “You would not want to be on the wrong side of a giant Pacific. Their suction cups alone are unbelievably strong.

  “But what you’ve got to remember is that these animals are gentle. And if I put my arm in the water like this, see”—her glove dipped in—“she’ll start crawling on up. But all she’s gonna wanna do is explore it. She’s interested. She’s tasting me with her suckers. Tryna work out what’s going on.”

  The show didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know, but it was interesting, watching the creature interact with a human. The octopus on camera, Charlotte, was about the same size as Persephone, the same brickish-red, and I remained glued to the screen until it ended. The image turned black-and-white, text appeared: Charlotte, it said, 2010–2014.

  I waited for the next video to load. Found myself reflected in the empty black screen.

  * * *

  —

  I felt the tipsy languor of each step. As it had appeared from below, Sedgwick’s rooms slotted over one another, and I wandered lazily across several levels, circling the tasteful sculptures, the furniture in velvets and gold. Brancusi, Bauhaus, Cocteau, and Ernst; Mahdavi furnishings; a Matisse lithograph or two.

  I had seen spectacular homes before—above all, in L.A. The whimsical, the novel: a home shaped like a shell; a home carved into the earth. The harsh and unforgiving: plateaus jutting from the hill; roofs stretching at great angles. Homes devoid of life and color; homes bursting with plants and people. And always, without fail, the views below: everything we were trying to escape.

  It was not the magnificence of Sedgwick that I found alluring; each house I had visited in the city was an ode to braggadocio. Instead, it was the secrecy, the evasion.

  I found my way to the mezzanine hallway.

  Deep blue and darkness. My fingers brushed over the concrete wall until they hit a ridge. I peered closer. A small pock smoothed over with cement, almost invisible to the eye.

  “I’m glad I caught you.” I looked up, quick, to see Richard emerging from the shadows. Had he noticed my absence? Searched for me among each group of guests? “Not trying your escape, I hope.”

  I shook my head, tongued my words deliberately: “Not at all—I just needed a quiet moment. But I am thinking of leaving in a few—”

  “I won’t keep you long, I promise.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “But can we talk for a moment? There was something I was trying to tell you earlier, I…”

  Had this speech, too, been rehearsed?

  “I wanted to thank you,” he said.

  My skin prickled. He took a step toward me.

  “I know it must have been difficult—and if there was any way, anything I could have done to avoid dragging you into it, you know I would have.”

  “I know, Richard.” I stood my ground. He came closer still.

  “But Dominus was released that week and—”

  “I know.”

  Every inch of my body was screaming to get away from him.

  “It would have ruined me. It would have ruined Lillie’s debut.”

  “I know,” I said, taking a decisive step backward. “And you know I only helped because Lillie asked. It—”

  “Yes, it was breaking her heart to see those lies.”

  “No, Richard. I was going to say that it could have harmed her career, her reputation. But it would not have destroyed her. God knows you’ve broken her heart countless times before and she’s survived.” Then I repeated: “I did it because she asked.”

  “That doesn’t make me any less grateful.” He put a finger to the tank, traced an invisible crescent.

  “It was such a mess, Elspeth.” He closed his eyes for a few seconds. “Just a silly fight, you know how it can be. I said some things I regret, and he did too, but I didn’t hurt him. It was just the emotions. You know how it is with love: all those emotions. He regrets it now. He didn’t mean to spread those lies.”

  This speech was perhaps the emptiest of all.

  I said nothing, left him in the hallway. Alone, with his vacant wall of water.

  * * *

  —

  Lillie was still out when I came back from the police station that afternoon, and I fell asleep before she returned. But I heard her the next morning—the sound of her engine woke me. I checked my clock. She wouldn’t be going straight to the station at this hour. So she’d deliberately left before I could discuss whether Scott could accompany her. Typical; any attempt to convince Lillie to change her mind only resulted in resolute stubbornness. She’d probably left to spare us both the argument.

  I lay under the covers for another fifteen minutes, frustrated with myself for not approaching the subject more gently. It wasn’t that I thought she might say something to incriminate me or that she needed legal protection. It was the thought of her alone in that cold, hard room with the flickering light and two detectives. At least if Scott was with her, she wouldn’t be alone. I tried not to let it worry me too much: The questions the police could ask. The things that Lillie might discover about her father.

  My own interrogation yesterday had been the most frustrating so far.

  “Would you say that of all of the guests, you were closest to Thomas Coates?” the female detective had begun.

  I took a moment to answer. After the revelations about Jerry, I had been holding on to Tommo as the only person I couldn’t find a reason to suspect. And now that too was lost.

  The detectives hadn’t given me much, but they spent two and a half hours attempting to link us:

  I hadn’t seen Mr. Coates since the divorce?

  But hadn’t he just opened an office in New York?

  We hadn’t even met for a casual drink?

  But we had mutual acquaintances—hadn’t I heard he was in New York?

  Wasn’t he my daughter’s godfather?

  And then came the strangest part: A waitress had seen us “cuddling” in the kitchen. I would have laughed at this if it weren’t so infuriating. Each question was an accusation, but I didn’t understand why. If I’d known why the police were so interested in Tommo, maybe I’d have felt it was worth it.

  The closest I came to a hint was the question the female detective ended with. “And what,” she threw in, after a line of questioning on Lillie’s relationship with Tommo, “was the argument that night between Mr. Coates and your ex-husband about?”

  I tried to charm the male cop again, said it might “jog my memory” if they shared what they already knew. But his colleague put her foot down, and I left the station no wiser. Racked my brain driving home: Had Richard and Tommo argued that night? All I could recall was their bickering about school and that alter
ego game.

  I hauled myself out of bed. At least I had a day off from the interrogation. I would begin by cleaning the house—it could be a nice surprise for Lillie. I scrubbed the fridge again. Straightened the pictures on the wall. Polished the espresso machine.

  Lillie had given me a tour of her house when I’d first arrived. It was concise at the start—after our awkward conversation about Julian, driving from the airport, neither of us had felt like lingering to discuss why she had chosen each shade of paint, each cushion, and each rug. But by the time we reached the kitchen, she couldn’t help but show off. The multifunction oven, the expensive espresso machine.

  “A gift from Dad,” she said, patting its red-lacquered shell. It stood out among the silver appliances. “He was horrified when he found out I still had one of those cheap twenty-buck drip machines. Don’t tell him,” she dropped her voice to a mock whisper, “but I never threw it away.”

  I laughed.

  “But it was very generous,” she added quickly. “My friends are all impressed.”

  “What time are we going to head over?” I asked, happy that our drive had been forgotten. “I’d like to wash my hair, if we have time.”

  Lillie had looked at me apologetically. And then she’d told her lie: She needed to drop in to see a friend; I would arrive at the party alone. But there was time to take me to the car rental that afternoon, if I still had my heart set on driving myself everywhere. I did—I needed the independence. And so she dropped me at the rental agency, gave me the spare keys to her house so I could go back and get ready, and repeated the lie once more: She would see me at the party in a couple of hours.

  What was she actually doing that night? Why did she lie? I’d only heard Richard’s side of the story; I hadn’t remembered to ask her for the truth since my first clumsy, aborted attempt. But maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was inconsequential in the face of Richard’s death, in the face of the murder investigation.

  I pushed the question out of my mind as I stripped the sheets from my bed for the laundry, then thought, I should wash Lillie’s bedding too.

  Her bedroom was a little more lived-in since I’d seen it last—since I’d left her in its emptiness, with an insect tapping at the window, to go and learn of her father’s murder. It was minimal, in keeping with the house. White sheets and pillows, strewn plumped and messy—she had never been one to make the bed. There were photographs on the wall, people I did not recognize. Polaroids, back in style once more. A pile of Vogues took the place of a bedside table. On top of them, a glass of water, some earrings, and a velvet scrunchie.

  As I lifted the covers, papers tumbled to the floor. I shuffled them to a pile. A script, Lillie’s script. Lillie’s script from Dominus. I placed it on her bureau, took the sheets to the washing machine. The plants needed watering; the furniture needed a polish. I returned with a duster. And then I noticed it—a little cardboard tag that must have fallen beneath the bed with the scattered script. I opened it without thinking. Lilliput, I read, I can’t tell you how proud I—

  I shut the card. It had a little hole where a ribbon had been attached, perhaps tying it to a bouquet of flowers. I had received one just like it, for my own debut.

  (Can you feel that?)

  (Good girl.)

  (Take it from the top.)

  I slipped the card between the pages of the script. Busied my mind with bathroom bleach, then vacuuming.

  It was only in the silencing of the vacuum that I noticed the noise—a low thrum of voices from the road. I opened the front door without thinking, and chaos broke loose.

  “Elspeth.” “Elspeth, over here.” “Hey, Elspeth, was your daughter at her father’s birthday party?” “Elspeth, were you there when your ex-husband died?” “Elspeth, did you kill your ex-husband?” “Elspeth, over here.”

  They were a horde of crows, cameras snapping, climbing over one another. Ten or fifteen men, maybe, but it was difficult to pick the swarm apart. I froze in the flashes.

  “Did you kill Richard Bryant?” “Do you know Thomas Coates?” “Did your daughter’s godfather kill his best friend?” “Do you know Honey Carlisle?” “How’s your ex-husband’s new boyfriend, Elspeth? D’ya think he did it?” “What about Jerry Debrowski—isn’t he a friend of yours?” “Why was Jerry at the station?” “Did you kill your ex-husband, Elspeth?” “Give us a smile.” “Give us a smile, sexy.” “Did you and Thomas kill Richard?” “Is your daughter a killer, Elspeth?”

  I slammed the door shut. Stood, shell-shocked, in the sudden darkness for a few moments, then reached for my cell. Lillie’s phone was off—I left a voicemail message. Scott picked up on the first ring.

  “They’re here,” I said. “Photographers, at Lillie’s. Journalists too, maybe. I—I don’t know. They’re here.”

  “Slow down, Elspeth,” he said. “Breathe. Are you inside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are they? They didn’t follow you onto the property?”

  “They’re in the street,” I said.

  “Can they see the house from the street? No wall or anything?”

  “There’s a wall, but you can see over it.”

  “Ah,” said Scott. “Unfortunately, if they’re not on private property, there’s not much we can do. Keep the curtains closed. Stay inside as much as possible. Any reason they’d visit today?”

  I closed the front-facing curtains, violently, quickly. Paused to look when I reached the last. The men weren’t watching the house anymore. They were checking phones and surveilling the road.

  “Lillie,” I replied. “She has a session with the police.”

  “Okay,” Scott said. “They’ve probably been staking out the station to see who’s being questioned. But it’s not like the police would put up with paparazzi on their doorstep—it would interfere with the investigation. So my guess is the photographers wait for the high-profile figures to return home. Try to provoke a response there. I’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

  “It’s inhumane.”

  “It is,” he said firmly. “And, quite frankly, they’re assholes. But it’s not illegal to be an asshole. I’m checking state laws as we speak, and…Yeah, I’m sorry, Elspeth, there aren’t any options. Watch out for trespassers; obstructing drivers too. Not much you can do beyond that.”

  “We can’t make them leave before Lillie comes home?”

  “No. If it continues, she’ll have to get a taller fence. But I don’t think it will. They’ll get their photos today, and if Lillie lies low for a while, they’ll lose interest.”

  I thanked Scott and tried to call Lillie again. Her phone was still off. I left another message.

  And then I was alone with the faint sound of the men outside, their jeers and taunts and questions still ringing in my mind.

  What had they been shouting? It sounded like they knew very little, if they were accusing Lillie of anything. Scott was right, they were only trying to provoke a response—to catch me countering one of their claims or exploding in anger at their allegations. Did you kill your ex-husband, Elspeth? Give us a smile.

  But they had asked whether I’d been there that night. They’d asked about Jerry, and Honey, and Tommo too. They knew little, but so did I.

  I was still questioning everything—every memory, every guest. And the memories were resurfacing, incessantly: Tommo recounting the failure of Dominus, Jerry’s melancholy mood, Charlie and Kei whispering at the foot of the stairs. And what was the argument that night between Mr. Coates and your ex-husband about? Eight limbs, three hearts, suckers, two by two.

  I had walked into Sedgwick an outsider, believing that each of the guests loved Richard—and that he loved them all in turn. But I knew nothing of their relationships, their histories. What did I know? That there had been some kind of friction during the filming of Dominus involving Charlie, Sabine, and K
ei: Richard had treated them poorly; I’d overheard Kei disparaging him to Charlie for this. And that would have been around the time of Richard’s argument with Jerry, the fight, and the firing. And then what? The film had done terribly at the box office, which would have hurt the careers of Kei and the actors—but, more significantly, it affected Miguel. So, there were four guests who had attended Richard’s party despite recent trouble with Richard—Jerry, Charlie, Sabine, and Kei—and four guests who could benefit, in money and prestige, from the death of Dominus’s director—Miguel, Charlie, Sabine, and Kei.

  Was I certain that I could trust Tommo? He had mentioned his schoolboy rivalry, how he had suffered at Richard’s hands. I’d seen my ex-husband jibe at him throughout the party, and now I could see them both in my mind: the two schoolboys in caps on a cold winter morning, one shivering in his river-soaked clothes. There must have been a reason for the police to devote an entire session of questioning to our friendship. And for the paparazzi to ask about him—had they seen Tommo entering the station, or was there something else?

  And what of Honey? I had seen him lying unconscious that night. Could I entirely rule out the possibility that he had woken up later? After the rest of us had fallen asleep? I tried to recall the scene. He had been lying facedown, and with the position of his limbs, I was certain he hadn’t just been sleeping. People don’t wake up, sharp and lucid, only an hour or two after collapsing like that. How’s your ex-husband’s new boyfriend, Elspeth? D’ya think he did it?

  There was a shout outside, and the crowd exploded again. I ran to the door.

  There they were: surrounding her car, scrambling over one another, frenzied, to flash their cameras.

  “Get away,” I shouted. “Let her through.”

  I couldn’t be heard over the din. Lillie was inching her car through the swarm. The gate rolled open. Her face was flinty beneath sunglasses and a baseball cap, stare fixed straight ahead. The gate closed behind her, but the men continued peering over the wall—the ones at the back of the crowd lifting cameras aloft, snapping and snapping.