The Dollhouse

by Fiona Davis

  “I look so different.”

  “You look pretty.”

  Darby wasn’t so sure. “Mother would be horrified. I look like one of those girls.”

  Esme’s grip on her shoulders tightened. She put her face next to Darby’s and looked at her in the mirror with a quiet tenderness. “For ten minutes of your life, forget about your mother. You will be one of those girls, the ones who fool around and don’t care and get into trouble. But it’s all an act. I know you’re a good girl. I’m a good girl. We do it for the audience, ’cause they got hunger for girls like that.”

  The pretense and bravado fell from Esme’s face, replaced by a look of desperation. “You have to do this for me. One song, three verses, that’s all I’m asking. No one will know. Please.”

  Underneath the rough voice and confidence, Esme was scared as well. Not scared of change, like Darby was, but scared of staying put, staying unchanged.

  The place where Esme touched her bare skin tingled, the beginning of an illicit thrill that shimmied down her spine. Could she be a bad girl? Esme refused to define herself as a hotel maid. And maybe Darby didn’t need to define herself as a boring secretary. At least not tonight.

  “Okay. I’ll try.”

  Esme squealed and hugged Darby close. “Go out there and get a seat at a table up front. I’ll call you up when it’s time. And act like you’re having fun.”

  “I’m not swaying my hips.”

  “Okay, don’t sway, just sing. Keep the mic a few inches away from your mouth, not too close, not too far, and look at me if you get scared.”

  Tanya moaned again.

  “Should we do something for her?” Darby asked.

  “She’ll be fine. She got herself into this mess, and she’ll have to get herself out. Buckley will make the busboys dump her in the gutter if she’s still here at closing.” She turned back to the mirror. “Off you go. I’ll see you under the lights of stardom.”

  When Darby emerged from the green room, the club was three-quarters full. As directed, she took a table near the front. The stage was steps away, but she’d have to be careful getting up there so as not to fall or hike up her dress too high.

  The undercover policeman whom she’d seen the first time walked by her table and gave her a nod, staring at her two beats longer than what was considered polite. In fact, several of the men at the nearby tables held her gaze, or tried to hold her gaze, before she looked away. A hot rush of shame traveled through her, from her forehead to her feet. Did they think she was a prostitute, sitting alone?

  But so what if they did? They’d see soon enough that she was part of the show. She hummed the notes under her breath, imprinting them on her memory.

  Finally, Esme’s name was announced and she bounced up to the stage to stand in front of the center mic. Darby nodded along with the beat and clapped at the end of the first song, but her mind was racing, her heart pounding faster than it ever had. A dry stickiness spread over her tongue, a combination of the lipstick and fear.

  “And now I’d like to call up Darby McLaughlin to join me.” Esme’s voice thundered across the room.

  A sprinkling of claps covered the endless walk onto the stage. Darby positioned herself behind the backup singer’s mic. Esme counted off and launched into “The Bluest Blues.” At one point, she looked back at Darby and gave her an encouraging wave of her hand, which Darby knew meant that she should stop standing like a statue and move in time with the music. She bobbed her head, the best she could do under extreme circumstances.

  She couldn’t see a thing out in front of her with the bright lights shining down from the ceiling. It was as if a black fog hovered just beyond the foot of the stage, and she welcomed the darkness, the inability to see people staring back at her.

  Esme swiveled her head around. Darby had missed her cue. She joined in, shocked by the loudness of her voice, then pulled back from the mic a couple of inches, remembering Esme’s advice. The first chorus was over before she’d even had time to think.

  She was prepared the second time, and matched Esme note for note. The bassist raised his eyebrows and gave her a solemn nod. By the third chorus, she had relaxed enough to let her shoulders dip from side to side in time with the beat. Esme finished with a flourish, holding the last note with no vibrato, a muscular sound that lifted the audience to its feet in appreciation.

  “I want to thank everyone,” Esme said over the clapping, then listed the band members one by one. “And especially Darby here, who stepped in at the last moment and saved the day for us. Let’s give her a special round of applause.”

  Darby curtsied. As if she were a debutante at a ball. Then turned beet red at her mistake. They trailed off the stage, Esme accepting the accolades of the patrons as though she were Cleopatra on the Nile. At the back of the room, Sam stood next to the door to the kitchen, still in his apron, staring at her. He put his hands to his lips to let out a loud whistle, which soared above the clamor. Darby gave a little wave before a press of well-wishers trying to get to Esme blocked her view.

  When they finally got into the green room, Esme turned around and gave Darby a huge hug. She smelled like cinnamon and fresh laundry, unlike any woman Darby had ever known. Then again, she was unlike any other woman she’d ever known.

  “You did it, Darby. We did it.”

  Darby could only nod, unable to say out loud what she was feeling, a mixture of relief and giddiness.

  From the couch, Tanya snored on.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  New York City, 2016

  Twelve hours after the migraine struck, the pain finally passed. Rose had spent the entire night on the couch, raising her head for a sip of water only once, trying to breathe through the nausea in her gut and the pounding in her head. Now relief flooded through her body, and everything she usually took for granted, like sunlight and the sound of construction and traffic outside the windows, she welcomed with what could almost be called joy.

  The apartment smelled yeasty and stale. She opened the windows and took a shower before heading out with the dog. Bird seemed as happy as she was to be outdoors, and didn’t charge any of the other dogs they passed on the narrow pathways in Central Park.

  Rose made sure to enter and exit through the building’s service entrance, where the doormen were unlikely to engage her in conversation. When she turned down the hallway to Miss McLaughlin’s apartment, a woman with a walker clomped her way, stopping to let out a phlegmy cough.

  As Rose drew closer, the woman regarded her with suspicion, one bushy gray eyebrow raised. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the dog sitter for Miss McLaughlin.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “I’m not sure. On vacation.”

  “Darby never goes on vacation.”

  “She’ll be back in a couple of weeks. I’m Rose.” She stuck out her hand and the woman gave her a limp handshake.

  “Alice Wilcox.”

  Bird sniffed the legs of her walker.

  “Have you lived here long?” asked Rose.

  Alice laughed. “I came to the hotel in the sixties. Long enough.”

  “And do you know Miss McLaughlin well?”

  “Nope. Keeps to herself. But I don’t like that dog. Barks too much. ’Specially when she comes home after midnight.”

  “Does Miss McLaughlin often stay out late?” Seemed strange for an octogenarian.

  “Sure does. She goes out in the evening, dressed all fancy, and returns home at one A.M., sometimes. Damn dog barks when she comes home and it wakes me up. I’ve talked to her, but she just nods in that weird way of hers. Not very neighborly.”

  “I’ll try to keep the dog quiet for you.”

  As they chatted on, Alice eventually recognized Rose from the news and agreed to be interviewed for the WordMerge story.

  Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult aft
er all.

  Rose thanked her and stuck the key in the lock of Miss McLaughlin’s front door. Instead of continuing on to the elevator, Alice turned around and clomped slowly back. “I’m doing my laps,” she said by way of explanation.

  Rose nodded and ducked inside.

  As she made coffee, she heard voices in the hallway and stuck her ear to the door. The doors were cheap, not like the ones in the renovated apartments, and the conversation rang clear.

  “Who are you?” Alice appeared to have resumed her guard duty.

  A young woman’s voice explained that she was Stella’s grandniece, Susan, and she was picking up some of her things. Stella would be staying with her and her husband in New Jersey while she recuperated.

  Rose stepped out into the hallway and introduced herself. Susan wore dangly gold earrings, skinny jeans, and a friendly smile.

  “Stella asked me to take care of a neighbor’s dog while she was away,” Rose explained. “How is she doing?”

  “She’ll be fine. She thought it was something to do with her nerves, but it was a heart condition. They caught it early, thank God, but she needs to take it easy. I’ll be stopping by to get her mail and water her plants. Since I work in the city, it’s easy enough.”

  “Tell her I said to get well soon, and that I’ll take care of the dog in the meantime.”

  Rose retreated back into the apartment and leaned against the door. She shouldn’t be in here; she was risking the story, her job. Miss McLaughlin might even call the police when she found out. But she hadn’t stolen the key. Stella had given it to her, then an emergency had come up. And who else was going to take care of her damn dog?

  The ceiling creaked above her. Griff must be home, with Connie. They were probably wandering through the apartment, figuring out where their divan would go, how quickly she could replace the king-size bed. Rose had been reduced to a memory. She wanted to throw her head back and scream at the ceiling, release all her pent-up anger at him for not knowing his mind better, for having fallen in and out of love so quickly. She should have been more wary of him, but he was a force of nature. It was part of what made him so good at his job. She’d been sucked in by his charm.

  In any case, she was alone. She’d end up like Darby, living in a cave, no family left to worry about her or care for her. When sad-old-lady Rose, homeless and ancient, hobbled down the street, young women would look away quickly, worried that her fate would be theirs. She’d add a catalog of physical pains to her mental anguish until she petered out, unceremoniously.

  Jesus, she sounded pathetic. She gave herself a good mental shake and resolved to think positive. It’d been a week since Griff had blown up their life, and who knew what the future held? She didn’t do herself any good sulking around like a petulant teenager. Back in high school, when she’d flung herself facedown on the couch after getting a less than flattering haircut, her father had drily observed: “At least you have two arms and two legs.”

  And that was still true today. She was healthy and strong and it was time to buck up.

  In the kitchen, Rose poured hot water into a mug. Darby had only instant coffee in her pantry, and no matter how many spoonfuls Rose put in, it tasted watery. She wandered over to the small bookshelf and studied the spines. Several historical romances, along with a couple of biographies. Old LPs by jazz greats like Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Sarah Vaughan, and Thelonious Monk filled two entire shelves.

  A silver-framed photograph on the highest shelf caught Rose’s eye. She reached up and moved it into better light. It was a black-and-white studio portrait, the kind they did back in the fifties, of a young woman with glowing skin and lustrous hair. She was pretty enough, but her eyes were truly astonishing. Large and liquid, almost alive. Even though Rose knew it was silly, she shifted the frame from side to side to see if the girl’s gaze would follow her, like an old portrait in a haunted house.

  To Darby, with love was written on the right-hand corner in loopy cursive letters. Rose removed it from the frame and turned it over, but the back of the photograph contained no clue to the identity of the sitter, nor the year taken.

  The photo had been placed upon a large tome that lay on its side on the top shelf, too big to fit upright. At first glance, it looked like an old photo album or scrapbook, with a black leather cover marred with scratches and scuffs, and a gold clasp on the side. She carried it with her coffee back to the couch and curled up with her legs underneath her. The clasp opened with a satisfying click; the pages inside were wafer thin, brittle with age.

  The first page had Sam Buckley, 1952 written on the top right-hand corner, as well as a hastily written inscription.

  Darby, Stay where you are. Once the coast is clear, I’ll find you and we’ll make our escape. Keep this as proof that I will come back for you. Love, Sam.

  Rose traced the writing with her finger, her pulse racing. She’d been right to trust her instincts. There was a compelling story here, no question.

  Inside, the book was set up like a diary, with dates on the top right of each entry. But instead of words, drawings of various plants and seeds and strange Asian characters covered the pages, along with names Rose had never heard before: annatto, noomi basra. Like a chant from yoga class. The pages were worn at the edges and as fragile as ice shavings.

  Every so often a familiar word caught her eye: turmeric, fenugreek, chili.

  The book contained a list of exotic spices, with adjectives describing their essence. Halfway through, the writer had started to create blends of spices, along with descriptions that made her mouth water: Crush rosemary, lavender, and fennel. Roll in goat cheese or sprinkle on lamb.

  Who was Sam Buckley and why did he keep such a meticulous record on the subject of spices? She went to her computer and googled the name, but it was too common, even if she narrowed the search field by including the word spice. The book was obviously a keepsake, as Darby had never cooked with it. No grease stains or spills marred the paper.

  A pocket in the inside back cover held a number of loose papers. One was an ancient menu from a place called the Flatted Fifth. The entrées were banal. Bourbon for ninety cents, imported brandies for ninety-five cents. Cheeseburger, chili, fries. No lavender-rubbed goat cheese here.

  Also inside was a small vinyl record, about six inches in diameter, with the words Esme and Darby scrawled across the paper sleeve.

  The maid.

  Rose opened the portable record player and put on the record. The turntable spun into motion and she stepped back and enjoyed the scratchy silence at the very beginning of the recording, like the quiet crackle of a fire. Giggles followed, and then a girl’s voice rang out, soon matched by another, higher voice. The same song Rose had heard from her apartment, before Griff had shown up and blown her life to bits.

  Even though the recording was rough, the girls’ voices worked well together. The harmonies, now familiar to Rose’s ear, were perfect and lilting. A moment of silence fell once the last note drifted off, followed by the bookend of giggles.

  She played it again and went back to her laptop. Who was Esme, other than a maid who died under horrific circumstances, with no fanfare? She’d searched for the name online, with no luck. The past was a black hole.

  The record was in beautiful condition, not a scratch on it. Rose returned it to its sleeve with the care of an archivist and tucked it back into the pocket of the book.

  “And why should I care?”

  Rose sighed. Tyler had been in a foul mood all day, and she’d tried her best to avoid him. This was not the time to ask for a raise, no matter how much she needed one. But he’d sought her out on his own, calling her into his office after lunch and lobbing question after question about the Barbizon story. She was certain they had an interesting story on their hands. He wasn’t easily convinced.

  “Because Darby McLaughlin is a link between the way women were treated in
the 1950s and the way they are now.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Back then, they were supposed to get married, have kids, maybe work part-time if at all. Even the girls who came to New York City only did so to learn a skill until they found Mr. Right.”

  “Like most of the girls I know.” He held a pen under his nose as if it were a mustache, curled up his lip to support it without any hands. “Just kidding.”

  Rose took two deep breaths to keep from losing her temper. “Darby’s story is part of the fabric of the city, one we don’t want to forget.”

  “What did she do with her life that makes her so unforgettable?”

  There was no way to spin the answer to that question. “According to a neighbor, she worked as a secretary for the same company until she retired.”

  He tossed the pen down on the table. “So it’s sad, pathetic. What’s the draw?”

  “It has the bones of a juicy airport novel. A good thriller.” She leaned forward. “I want to find out what happened when the maid, Esme Castillo, slashed her. Why were they fighting? And what other intrigue went on behind those walls? I’ve uncovered evidence that Darby was trying to escape some kind of dangerous situation.”

  “Huh.” Luckily, he didn’t press for more details. “What about the video element?”

  She’d hoped he’d forgotten that part. She never liked video, even when she was working for network news. Being in front of a camera changed people. When she carried only a notebook and pen, maybe a small recorder, her sources stayed relaxed and said things they might not when a camera was stuck in their face. Not to mention all the time it took setting up the lights and sound. By the time the camera was rolling, they tended to offer up careful, canned sentences.

  “I haven’t heard from the freelance video guy you mentioned yet. What was his name?” She stalled, glanced down at the notebook on her lap.

  “Jason Wolf. Hold on. I think he’s in the office today.”