The Perfect Ghost

by Linda Barnes

  I’d locked my purse in the trunk of the car. I shook my head.

  “How’m I supposed to know you’re who you say you are?” He cupped a hand around the cigarette, protecting it from the wind, and hunched his shoulders.

  “You’re the one peeping in my windows. You’re the one who wanted to meet.” I turned and took a step toward the path.

  “Wait up. Hey, c’mon, don’t get in a huff.”

  “I’m not in a huff. What do you want?”

  He shifted his eyes, but said nothing.

  “I take it you knew Teddy?”

  He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “Do you have a tape for me? A microcassette?”

  “Yeah, yeah, well, the thing is, what do you have for me?”

  “For you?”

  The wind whipped along the beach, and I shielded my eyes from the blowing sand.

  “Maybe I got something for you, but I gotta slow it down here. I gotta know the deal’s on. I figure any deal I made with him ought to go for you.”

  A deal, Teddy? A deal? I sucked in air and replied carefully, “I’m sorry, but there seems to be something I’m missing.”

  The retriever barked triumphantly and paddled into the surf, pursuing a stick. The man lowered his voice and gestured me closer. “Sorry about what happened. You know what went down? He have a heart attack?”

  I kept my distance. “A car accident.”

  “Yeah, but he was alone, no second car or anything, right?”

  “Give me the tape. Teddy would want me to have it.”

  “Tape?” McKenna eyeballed the kids with their kite, measuring the distance between their tight circle and our windswept sand. He pushed the hair off his face and said, “Walk with me.”

  His secretive hush was making me look over my shoulder, as though anyone would care what we said to each other. The kids were involved with the whipsawing kite, the father with the kids. The woman played fetch-the-stick with her dog. McKenna regarded them as though they might be cleverly disguised foreign agents.

  “Not far,” I said.

  He marched rapidly along the shoreline, in the direction opposite the woman and her retriever. I trailed behind, my short legs a disadvantage, sand squishing in my shoes.

  “So you don’t know anything about me?” He spoke as though he couldn’t quite comprehend the possibility. “Teddy never talked about me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He didn’t give you my card?” He sounded aggrieved.

  I shook my head and trudged, half a step behind. His legs were long, his stride jerky and hesitant. He tossed his cigarette butt on the sand, ground it out with his heel, yanked a cardboard square from his pocket, and pressed it into my hand.

  GLENN MCKENNA, it announced. CCTRUTHTELLER.COM.

  “You’re a blogger?”

  “Citizen journalist,” he muttered. “Run a Web site. Lot of celebs on the Cape, more in the summer. I track ’em, let people know where they are and what they’re up to. You could call me a gossip merchant. I don’t handle the Islands. Somebody else does those. You get more so-called stars on Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket, but I do fine. I do okay.”

  I nodded because he seemed to expect a response.

  “Teddy asked me to hold off doing a story about him, so it wouldn’t impede his access. You and me, we can work out the same kinda deal.” His shotgun spew of words was delivered in a flat monotone with a curious lack of emphasis that failed to underscore the urgency in his eyes.

  “I suppose you can interview me. When I have time. But you said you had something for me.”

  His eyes raked the beach, examined the dunes, scrutinized the dwarf shrubs and beach grass, glanced at the kite flyers to ensure they’d left their long-distance listening devices at home. “I had something for Teddy. Tell me, how fast was he going? When it happened? Was he speeding?”

  The rapid-fire questions hit me like punches in the gut. I turned away, shook my head, said I didn’t know, but my reaction didn’t stop McKenna.

  “Was he drunk?” he insisted.

  “No. I don’t know. No one’s said anything.”

  “Exactly. There was hardly anything in the news. You’d think it woulda gotten more press, coverage on the radio, TV.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “You should.” His eyes darted out to sea like he was scanning for lurking submarines. “It was over in Dennis Port, right? I can check it out; I know everybody on the force. They know me. I’ll ask around.”

  “I don’t want a lot of grim details, okay? So—”

  “Think about the timing. Think what it could mean.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You know why this is First Encounter Beach? Right?”

  “This is far enough.” I planted my feet in the sand, football fields away from the kite flyers. The dog yipped faintly in the distance.

  “Pilgrims.” The wind parted his hair as he turned to face me. “December 1620, third expedition in the shallop, the boat they carried over in pieces on the Mayflower. Twelve men, Winslow, Bradford, Carver, three crewmen, and the captain, too. They’d seen the Indians—Wampanoag, probably—gotten hints of them. Hell, stole their seed corn. Came ashore right here, looking for a decent harbor, fresh water. Ate their dinner, set watchmen while they slept. Disturbance around midnight, yells and noises. Thought it was wolves or foxes, but then, early morning, they heard voices and knew it was Indians: The first encounter.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and shivered, imagining the beach in December with the wind cutting like shards of icy glass. Sundown in chilly April was cold enough for me. The light was failing in the sky; the kids reeled in the kite while the father folded his beach chair.

  “If you have something that belonged to Teddy, you should give it to me. Okay?” I wanted to get back to the car before they left the parking area.

  “You don’t like history?”

  “It’s cold and I have work to do.”

  “We’ll walk back.” He suited his actions to the words and we set off into the wind. “I’m coauthor?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I want to make sure you’re gonna give me the same kinda deal Teddy promised. I’m not as concerned about the money; that would be gravy. But I want the credit.”

  “Credit?” I had the impulse to scratch my head, like a cartoon character showing puzzlement. “What kind of credit?”

  “On the Malcolm book.”

  Utterly baffled, I tried not to show my confusion. “I assume you have something in writing?”

  “You gotta be kidding. What I’ve got is information, stuff that will tip the book right over the edge.”

  “Over the edge?”

  “Into bestseller-land.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Exactly,” he said, nodding his head.

  “We’re not gossipmongers or sensation hunters. We don’t do that.”

  “Right. Teddy said get him proof, get him people willing to talk.”

  “About?”

  “Don’t you believe the people have the right to know? Don’t you believe in transparency? I’m planning to set up on the Gawker network, with CCtruthtelling or, if I can swing it, with Evan Russell’s Gossipnet. You’ve heard of that, right? But so far I’m small potatoes; they don’t want to hear from me.” He spoke so quickly I wasn’t sure I was following him. “Listen: When the Pilgrims came here, they weren’t the first. They dug stuff up. Half a mile from here, corpses: a man with yellow hair attached to his skull, maybe a French trader, and a child. Think of it: December, and they didn’t have their harbor yet, no shelters, no place to make a stand against the winter.”

  “Wait. You were talking about now, about Teddy.” For the first time, I wondered whether Glenn McKenna might be slightly deranged. Something rabbit-like and shifty lurked behind those brown eyes.

  “Just because a man’s famous, he can’t walk over everybody else. He can’t ref
use his duty. A man ought to be held accountable, just like the rest of us. Maybe you don’t agree; I didn’t think Blake would. I mean, you make your livelihood off these people, these rich creeps. You tell what they want you to tell, one side of the story, right?”

  “This is about Garrett Malcolm?

  “Teddy gave me an advance. ’Course, if he didn’t, I’d have gone to one of the magazines. People would pay for this, but I’d sooner go to a webzine.”

  “Teddy gave you money? How much? Did he give you a check?”

  “But the credit, that’s more important. Are you down with this or what?”

  The woman whistled and the dog raced out of the foam, stumbling and shivering. I mumbled something about needing to know more.

  McKenna’s eyes raked the sand for hidden cameras. Then he knelt, removed his backpack, and unzipped the front pouch, shifting his stance to shield his actions. I leaned to the left and watched him finger through the single manila folder, removing sheet after sheet, reviewing the few remaining pages, making quick, penciled marks.

  “This’ll give you a kind of idea where I’m going. Keep it safe.”

  He handed me the folder like it was secret-agent stuff. I started to back away.

  “Don’t you want to know how the first encounter ended? Pilgrims and Indians?”

  What I wanted was to be inside the car with the doors locked and the heater blasting before the dog-walking woman left the beach. The wind picked up till it was almost a howl. I wanted to run, but the man’s intensity was compelling, a force as implacable as the wind. I nodded as he straightened and shouldered the backpack.

  “Nobody knows who fired first. Everybody ran around and hid. Arrows and bullets both. Scared the shit out of each other, but nobody got hurt.”

  The dog lady hitched the leash to the retriever’s collar and started up the dune path. Clutching the folder to my chest, I followed her, moving as quickly as I could in the sand.

  “Stay in touch,” McKenna called.

  I paused. “How can I reach you?”

  “Through the site. Or tomorrow night, I’ll be over at Coast Guard Beach. Yeah, you can meet me there or e-mail me through the site. You’ll want to know what I find out. You know, over in Dennis Port?”

  I flew up the path, digging my toes into the sand. To my relief, he didn’t follow. In the rearview mirror, the sun quenched its fire in the bay.

  CHAPTER

  twenty-five

  Samoset Road’s unmarked curves defied my determination to drive so rapidly McKenna couldn’t follow in the van. When I reached Route 6, I yanked the steering wheel left instead of right to throw him off the trail, which was stupid because he knew where I was staying.

  My God, Teddy, what were you thinking, associating with that creepy scarecrow, dealing with him? Thank God, he hadn’t asked to meet in a bar where I might have reaped the full benefit of his body odor. The thought of a bar, or rather the conjunction of the thought with the flashing neon of a pizza joint, pulled me almost forcibly off the highway. Parking spaces were available in front, but I pulled quickly around the side and hid in the back lot so McKenna wouldn’t spot my car if he drove past.

  The call of food and drink was strong, but I ignored it and grasped my cell phone. When Darren Kalver picked up on the second ring, I requested his boss.

  “He’ll be able to see you tomorrow at ten-fifteen.”

  “That’s fine. May I please speak with him?”

  “Is it necessary?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t bother adding that I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. The phone went silent and I wondered whether the PA had put me on hold or cut me off.

  “Em, I’m so sorry I had to cancel. How are you?” Malcolm’s baritone soothed me instantly, the way a pacifier mollifies an infant. I remembered how he’d complimented my appearance and my cheeks flushed as though it were happening all over again.

  “I was hoping to get in touch with Brooklyn Pierce.”

  “Half the women in America are hoping the same thing,” he said drily.

  “I need clarification on a point in his interview.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d interviewed him.”

  “Teddy did.”

  “Of course. Well, maybe I can help. Clarify whatever it was.”

  “It would be better if I spoke directly with Mr. Pierce.”

  “Can’t help you there.”

  “You don’t know where he’s staying?”

  “I think he already left town, to tell the truth.”

  “Then he’s not your Hamlet?”

  “My Hamlet? Are you kidding?”

  I thanked him and ended the call. His mention of the truth, that wholly unnecessary “to tell the truth” struck a false note, made me uneasy, made me think he was lying. Flicking on the overhead light, consulting a guidebook, I keyed in the number of the Chatham Bars Inn, a castle-like hotel surrounded by gray-shingled cottages, the local resort most likely to host celebrities. No one named Pierce was registered. I tried the Wequassett Inn, the Queen Anne, and several other deluxe retreats with no luck. Pierce might have registered under a pseudonym. He could be staying with friends in a private home.

  Two loud and jovial men piled into a nearby pick-up truck, faces red with beery afterglow, balancing boxes of pizza on their knees. I inhaled the scent of molten mozzarella as I exited the car.

  The counter man carded me when I ordered a beer. I paid in advance and an elderly woman with an apron over her jeans brought reheated slices—one mushroom, one cheese—to my rickety table. I bent and tucked a folded napkin under a table leg, then held both hands over the steaming pizza, absorbing the heat, considering how odd it was to eat in a public place, sit down to a meal surrounded by strangers. The walls were orange and grimy, but the light was cheerful and the sounds of clattering silverware and idle chatter pleasant. The slices looked limp and unappetizing, but I felt a surge of confidence shoot through my veins. I drank beer. I took a bite, felt the cheese squish against my palate as I opened McKenna’s folder.

  The first two pages were reprints of letters in tiny blurred print, jammed together eight to the page, deploring the immorality of actors, letters that, except for their explicit and modern vocabulary, could have been written at the time of Will Shakespeare or Joseph Jefferson or when Eugene O’Neill lead his dissolute company to the dunes. Each was dated, and the initials C.C.T., added in pencil, indicated they’d all been published in The Cape Cod Times. Occasional sentences were heavily underscored. “At Cranberry Hill, the only work girls do is the Devil’s work” featured a string of hand-drawn exclamation points. The names of the senders had been carefully obliterated.

  I downed half my Budweiser. Teddy, I have to say I didn’t see the need to pay some wing nut for the startling revelation that the Cape housed its share of screed-writing cranks.

  In addition to excoriating the behavior of actors, there was an underlying drumbeat of financial dissatisfaction, an echo of the kind of stuff Donna, the hairdresser, had mentioned. Letter writers warned that the land surrounding the theater, a valuable town asset, was in grave danger of disappearing from the tax rolls forever. Two recommended closing the theater outright, encouraging commercial development of the site so that more year-round jobs would gravitate to the Cape.

  One letter, with even smaller type and an official-looking logo, proved indecipherable. I strained, but the print was so tiny I couldn’t make it out. I studied the letterhead, but McKenna had used a Sharpie to mutilate the name and address. When I held the blotchy document to the light, I could make out four letters of the last name. I wrote them down along with the only legible words in the next line of print: “Islands District.”

  When I flipped to the third page, the letters gave way to rough copies of photographs. I chewed pizza and ran my eyes down the page. Attractive young men and women cavorted in foam-topped waves, faces blurred, bodies hard and lean. Two or three girls were topless and I wondered if they were local girls following the devil’s
dictates. A photo near the bottom caught my eye. A man who might be Malcolm, a younger Malcolm with no gray in his hair. The background was a street scene, no hint of the ocean, a low-slung building.

  I flipped to the fourth page and discovered remnants of a cramped list. Glenn McKenna may have been in your pay, Teddy, but he was nuts. The CIA did less redacting. Line after line had been heavily X’d out. The remaining text seemed to be a record of occasions on which police had been summoned to Cranberry Hill, a list of complaints by neighbors concerning loud parties, or heavy traffic on narrow roads after a performance.

  Aha! On July 27, 2004, actors lit a beach bonfire without obtaining the required permit. If this constituted the dark and seamy underside of a great man’s life, it was less than compelling. I was tempted to ball the papers up and use them for target practice on the over-the-counter TV screen, blacken the eye of the perky sportscaster previewing the upcoming Red Sox season. I wanted to forget McKenna, declare him a homeless bum who stored squirrel food in his backpack along with whatever current “project” he imagined himself “working” on. But you weren’t a fool, Teddy. If you gave him money, you must have had a reason. Surely you hadn’t entrusted him with a tape on which Brooklyn Pierce made some game-changing, book-altering revelation?

  I finished my beer and imagined Pierce, Ben Justice himself, striding into the pizza parlor, waltzing through the neon-lit doorway. What a stir that would cause. The idea made me reconsider McKenna’s usefulness. If Pierce were staying on the Cape, McKenna, the celeb freak, might know where to find him. I left half the pizza, cold and shining with grease, on the table.

  The rented house sat quietly on the dark street. Moonlight picked out the skeletal branches of overhanging pines. I pulled into the drive, killed the engine, and listened to the silence, glad I’d left the living room lights on. Their welcoming glow shone through a crack in the curtains.

  I dumped my coat in a heap at the door, booted my laptop, consulted McKenna’s grimy business card, and entered the URL for CCtruthtelling.com into my browser. If McKenna were any good, he’d have Pierce splashed across his home page. Brooklyn drew eyeballs. His antics, rehab stints, girlfriends, and excesses were the stuff of gossip Web sites. Not till I was staring at the opening screen did I admit my desire to view McKenna’s brainchild whether or not it led to Pierce’s current whereabouts.