by Chaz McGee
The butler looked at him scornfully. ‘The house. I assure you it is not a joke. Ever since I have worked here, there has been a presence here. We hear things at night. Someone running up and down the steps. Books fall off the shelves without warning. Sometimes the lights go on and off. I have felt cold patches appear without warning in the halls and heard whispering at all hours of the day, right behind me, only to turn around and see no one there. You may not believe in such things, but I live with them.’
‘And Rodrigo was bothered enough to want to do something about them?’ Maggie asked.
The butler shrugged. ‘Rodrigo is very superstitious. I tried to tell him that the spirit had lived here as long as I had, but it was upsetting to him nonetheless. He claims that one night the spirit tried to smother him in bed. That just as he was about to fall asleep, something heavy pressed down on him and tried to suck the air out of his lungs, he claims. He has not slept well since that night.’
‘Can’t say I blame him,’ Maggie said. She looked at Calvano, mystified. ‘I think we would like to speak to Rodrigo again,’ she said firmly. ‘And after that, we need to speak to your wife.’
There it was again – a wave of apprehension swept over the old man. He struggled to keep his voice under control. ‘I am afraid you will not find an interview with my wife useful,’ he said formally. He cowered slightly as he said it, as if he feared they might hit him.
‘Why don’t we decide that?’ Maggie said mildly. She was staring at the butler. She, too, could feel that he was hiding something.
But Calvano, seldom the sensitive one, had seen something on his way into the mansion that led him to say, ‘Is there something the matter with your wife?’
The butler stood stiffly, saying nothing.
Calvano tried again. ‘Sir, if there is anything that prevents her from talking to us, you need to tell us. We cannot leave until we establish that fact.’
The butler sat stoically, saying nothing. The clock in the corner seemed to tick even louder and I could suddenly feel the presence in the room, the same cold thickness of air I had walked through in the hallway. It seemed to be roaming the room. There was definitely someone there like me. I peered around, checking every corner and high up on the shelves. I could see nothing. I wondered if it could see me.
‘Sir,’ Calvano said more kindly. ‘Whatever you say will be kept in confidence.’
It was painful to watch the butler struggling between his dignity and what he knew he must do. ‘My wife is suffering from dementia,’ he finally said, his voice unconsciously dropping to a near whisper. ‘Mr Romero does not know. If he or his advisors find out, they will let her go. I do not have the money to pay someone to care for her. I will have to quit my job to care for her and then we will have nowhere to live. And no money to live on.’
‘Surely Mr Romero would never throw you out on the street,’ Maggie said.
‘I would not be so sure,’ the butler said. ‘Mr Romero has a habit of viewing people as disposable. He is particularly bad about it when his agent is involved in the decision.’
‘Then there is no need for us to talk to your wife, but we do need to talk to the gardener again. Anything you can do to convince him to be more forthright with us would be best for everyone,’ Maggie said.
‘I will inform him,’ the butler promised, hiding his gratitude to them behind a façade of formality. As he left the room, I felt the presence pass in front of me. Ouch. There it was again – a sharp pain, as if I were still alive and someone had bounced a slap off my head. What the hell? There was definitely someone else in this house, someone more like me than like the living. I glared in its direction and could have sworn I heard laughter.
The gardener was nowhere to be found. The butler returned looking shocked and apologetic. Rodrigo had left, apparently upset by the police questioning. There was nothing he could do.
‘Sure there is,’ Maggie told him. ‘You can go upstairs and tell Ms Wylie that she must come down and speak to us.’
The butler risked giving advice. ‘If you wish to speak to Ms Wylie, I recommend that you go upstairs to her. I will see that she is ready to receive you.’
Maggie agreed, but I don’t think that she, or Calvano, or any of us in the room – seen or unseen – were prepared for how odd that interview would be.
TWELVE
The whole world knew Dakota Wylie as a willowy blonde with a face so sweet that men, literally, had stopped to stare when she passed by, even before she became famous. Her hair was the color of butter and as fine as corn silk. She had based a career on appearing slightly dumb with a goofy, clueless sense of humor. As a result, everyone longed to protect her. Or at least every male. On the television screen, she had seemed forever young, caught on the cusp of womanhood and unaware of her astonishing beauty.
Her bedroom at the mansion felt nothing at all like this public persona. It should have been painted pink with a white frilly bedspread and flowers everywhere. Instead, it was painted an unforgiving white, harsh even in the dimmed lighting. The curtains were blood red and shut against the afternoon sun, creating a permanent twilight in the room. Her bed was a huge canopy affair, with white gauzy curtains all around, creating a barrier between her and any visitors. When Maggie and Calvano entered her room, with me hot on their heels, she was leaning back against a pile of satin pillows behind the bed curtains, her head wrapped up in a blue silk scarf as if she were heading out for a drive in a convertible on a winter’s day. Huge sunglasses covered most of her face. All you could see of her fabled beauty were her hands, which she clasped on top of a pillow she had pulled over her lap as if to shield her from bad intentions.
Her maid sat in a chair by her side, looking apprehensive. I got the feeling she was as close to a female friend as Dakota Wylie had ever had.
The starlet did not seem to take any notice of Maggie or Calvano at all. She was staring at her windows, though the heavy curtains made it impossible to see anything outside.
‘Has he left yet?’ she asked her maid in a whispery voice. That voice had been her trademark. It was three-quarters Marilyn Monroe and one quarter her own – a throaty honey-colored voice with just a trace of southern drawl.
The maid jumped up and scurried over to a window, opening the curtains a crack to peer outside. ‘He is leaving for the airport now,’ the maid said.
I followed her to the window. Below us, an entire caravan of luxury cars rimmed the circular brick driveway that curved in front of the house. Enrique Romero was sliding into the back seat of a Rolls-Royce as the butler stoically packed the trunk with enough bags for a three-year stay away. His agents and lawyers were each eyeing their own cars, anxious to leave. Rats deserting a sinking ship. For a man with a young and heart-stoppingly beautiful wife, he was curiously willing to leave her to fend for herself.
‘I expect he has a plane to catch and is in such a hurry that he forgot to say goodbye,’ the star told her maid in a dreamy voice. ‘He can be so silly that way.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the maid said dutifully, though she surely knew the truth.
Dakota Wylie knew it, too, if only in her heart of hearts. I could feel the sadness leaking from her, and there was a familiarity in her yearning to not be abandoned. Then I felt a flash of fear from her, followed by memories of hunger and I knew that she had come from humble beginnings. How she had ended up here, in an immense mansion with a Hollywood star husband, was a story I did not know. All I knew was that the ending had not been a happy one. She was no more than a prop to Enrique Romero. She had been his ticket to a few more inches of tabloid fame. He didn’t give a crap about her.
‘We need to talk to you alone,’ Maggie said, addressing Dakota Wylie directly for the first time. It was hard to read Maggie’s tone. I think she felt sorry for the woman hiding behind gauze curtains and sunglasses, but she had no patience for her at the same time.
‘Mr Romero says she is not to be questioned alone,’ the maid said apologetically.
&nbs
p; ‘Then maybe Mr Romero should have stayed with his wife,’ Calvano snapped back. He sounded angry and I knew what he was thinking: if she were my wife, I would treasure her. I would never abandon her like this.
‘It’s OK, Lupe. I will sit with her while they question her,’ a familiar voice said from the bedroom door. It was the man who had interrupted their meeting in the library earlier and I realized that he must be Lamont Carter, Dakota’s manager. His expensive clothes could not disguise his rough edges or mannerisms. He held himself coiled, as if he were waiting for someone to pick a fight. Judging from how the other men in the library had treated him, it was an understandable attitude.
‘But Mr Romero said—’ the maid began.
‘Leave,’ the man said sharply and she scurried from the room.
Maggie did not like him. At all. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
The man responded by sitting in the chair by Dakota Wylie’s bed. He crossed his legs as if he were there to stay. He ran a manicured hand through his hair. ‘My name is Lamont Carter.’ He sounded unconcerned about Maggie’s abruptness. ‘I am Ms Wylie’s manager. I am also her financial advisor, hold power of attorney over her affairs and have been her legal guardian for the past sixteen years.’
‘And here I thought Lincoln had freed the slaves,’ Maggie snapped. She did not like short men in general, they postured too much for her, and this one she hated.
‘Ms Wylie started out in the business very early on,’ Carter explained, sounding bored and unapologetic, as if he had explained it one too many times before. ‘It would have been ridiculously easy to take advantage of her had I not been looking out for her interests. Believe me, people would have tried. Hollywood is full of bottom feeders.’
‘You’ve convinced me of that,’ Maggie said, giving him the once-over. The man did not flinch. He shrugged, examined his cuticles and waved toward Dakota Wylie as if giving permission to Maggie to get started.
Maggie decided to ignore him. She looked around, seeking a chair, but Calvano had beat her to it. He was dragging a vanity table chair and an armchair over to the far side of the bed, across from the manager, and had taken the closest one for himself. He was about to see his fantasy in the flesh and he wanted a front row seat, even if there was a curtain between them.
‘Ms Wylie,’ Calvano asked softly. ‘Are you feeling up to answering some questions?’
Instead of answering, she let out a long sigh and tilted her head back against her pillows. The blue scarf wound around her head slipped away from her face, revealing small white butterfly bandages underneath, as if keeping her face in place. She had clearly had some sort of surgery and was in the healing phase, but something was wrong. I had only caught a glimpse, but her face seemed out of kilter. Her famously symmetrical features were gone. She tucked the scarf back around her face, adjusted her sunglasses and turned to Calvano. When she spoke, there it was: the trademark voice. I could feel Calvano surrendering to it.
‘I will do the best I can,’ she said. She waved her hand over the top of her embroidered covers, a gesture as graceful as water lilies floating in a stream. ‘As you can see, I am not feeling well. My pregnancy has proved to be a difficult one. But I am determined to see it through. Enrique wants a family badly.’
I knew what Maggie and Calvano were thinking, because it was the same thing I was thinking: if Enrique Romero wanted a family so damn badly, why had he just ditched her and fled to California with a coterie of advisers but not her?
‘We won’t take up much of your time,’ Maggie said. ‘May I hand you a photograph?’
The actress nodded and reached languidly through the gauze curtains. She definitely had a flair for the dramatic. Maggie brushed her fingers lightly while Calvano looked on longingly. Boy, he had it bad.
I was less enchanted. I was confused by the emotions tumbling through the room, by the territorial way the manager hunched over in his chair watching every move Dakota Wylie made, no matter how small. His eyes darted back and forth between Maggie and Calvano as if he were certain they were out to harm his client.
It was odd, but he and Dakota Wylie seemed so much in synch they gave off what was almost a single aura, as if they were very nearly the same person. How long had he been protecting her? Perhaps he had been telling the truth. Perhaps, without him, she would have been used and discarded like so many other young actresses. Instead, she was a millionaire married to a multimillionaire, and the whole world watched to see what she would do next.
Dakota Wylie was studying the photo of Arcelia Gallagher carefully, and though you could see little of her face except for her swollen mouth, she exuded an air of concern. She was an actress of course, and it could all have been for show, but she seemed genuinely distressed about Arcelia Gallagher.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said in her breathy voice. ‘I’ve never seen her before. I’m sure of it.’
‘What about you?’ Maggie asked her manager.
Lamont Carter barely looked at the photo and shrugged. ‘I can’t be expected to remember everyone who works here. They all look alike to me.’
‘She didn’t work here, asshole,’ Calvano interrupted. ‘She’s a preschool teacher and a lot of people are upset that she’s missing. She was spotted here at the mansion. Are you telling me you don’t know anything about that?’
Lamont Carter looked surprised at Calvano’s anger. I realized that he had little sense of how others saw him. He was one of those people who go out into the world with a determined sense of self – but absolutely no clue as to how others perceive them.
‘There’s no need to get nasty,’ Carter said. ‘I just meant that I don’t know her and I have never seen her.’
‘What do you know about your gardener Rodrigo?’ Maggie asked Dakota Wylie.
She shifted slowly in the bed, as if it were taking a long time for Maggie’s question to permeate her brain. I wondered if she was on some sort of medication, or if she was acting this way on purpose. I know I was not the only one wondering.
‘Ms Wylie does not know anything about the help. That’s why she has me, not to mention a butler to manage the staff.’ Lamont Carter’s voice had taken on a hard edge and I knew with a certainty that he was a man who could not keep his temper in check.
‘Are you all right?’ Calvano asked Dakota Wylie directly. ‘Can I get you a glass of water? You don’t look well.’
That was both an understatement and a kindness. Once you got used to the dim lighting of the room, it became more apparent that something terrible had happened to Dakota Wylie’s face. Her lips were not only swollen, they were misshapen, and flesh-colored bandages braced her nose on either side. Bruises snaked up from her nose to disappear underneath her huge sunglasses. I didn’t want to think about what had caused those marks.
‘I would love a glass of nice, cool water,’ she told Calvano. She leaned forward and reached through the curtains to briefly stroke his hand. It had an almost magical effect on Calvano. He rose and went to a pitcher of ice water that was sitting on top of a table in one corner of the room, poured her a glass and returned, walking as carefully as if it was plutonium, unaware of the silence as both Maggie and the manager watched him curiously. Calvano parted the curtains, leaned forward and steadied her chin with one hand as he carefully tipped the glass until the water trickled through her swollen lips. She drank as if she were a baby, nodding when she’d had enough.
Calvano sat back down holding the glass of water like it was the Holy Grail. Maggie was staring at him, dumbfounded.
‘I believe Ms Wylie has told you everything she knows,’ the manager said sharply. He made a big show out of checking his incredibly expensive-looking watch. ‘I have some business matters to discuss with her now, if you don’t mind.’
Maggie knew it was useless to try to get anything more out of her anyway. She rose and tapped Calvano on the shoulder. He was lost in staring at Dakota Wylie.
‘Let’s go, Adrian,’ she said sharply, hoping to penetrate his ho
rmonal fog.
Calvano nodded, then rose and made a half bow. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms Wylie,’ he said. ‘If ever you need anything, please do not hesitate to call on me.’ Lamont Carter was staring at his nails, bored with the spectacle. He had no doubt witnessed it dozens of times when he was out with Dakota Wylie in public.
‘Thank you so much,’ Dakota Wylie told Calvano. Her mouth stretched in smile that quickly turned grotesque. What had she done to herself? ‘You’re such a gentleman and it was so nice to meet you.’
Calvano nodded mutely, unable to speak.
I followed Maggie and Calvano out into the long hallway toward the curving grand staircase that led to the ground floor. Once again, we stepped through an icy patch of air and I wondered who or what was holding the mansion hostage. At least this time I felt no pain.
Amateur, I thought to myself. Patches of cold and shoving books around. Sitting on the gardener’s face? Big deal. I could do that. I could do something even better than that. If you’re going to haunt a house, then, by god, haunt it.
As if my fellow traveler could read my mind, the huge chandelier that anchored the center of the foyer began to tremble. It shook faster and faster until the hanging squares of glass began to clatter against one another.
Well, excuse me.
Maggie and Calvano were staring at the chandelier.
‘Was that an earthquake?’ Maggie asked after a moment. Calvano shrugged and she did not speak again until they were halfway down the stairs when she turned to Calvano, stopping to emphasize her words, and asked, ‘What the hell was that all about up there? Is it just me or was that interview creepy as hell? What was with her face?’
‘I think she’s had plastic surgery,’ Calvano admitted. ‘Up close, you can see the scars at the base of her hairline. She can’t be more than thirty years old. Why would she feel she has to get plastic surgery?’
‘That’s not the main question, Adrian,’ Maggie pointed out. ‘The real question is why anyone would risk getting plastic surgery when they’re pregnant? How self-centered is that?’
