Five hundred dollars.
“And when did you get her? In the spring?”
“Yeah,” Ellie said, looking a touch more uncomfortable.
“You said you earned the money by making art. What did you do?”
Now Ellie was shifting in her seat a bit.
“Sold some drawings and stuff,” she said.
“Five hundred dollars’ worth of drawings,” Stevie said. “That’s really good. How many other times have you sold drawings?”
“A few,” Ellie said. “Look, if we’re not going to play and we’re not going to drink, everyone can leave.”
Nate looked at Stevie. He knew. He understood. Janelle started to get up, but Stevie motioned for her to stay.
“Why don’t we talk about Hayes for a second,” Stevie said. “It seems like we should, you know, take a moment.”
“Yeah,” Ellie said. “I’m not feeling that.”
“What are you doing, Stevie?” David asked. He was smirking but there was real concern in his voice.
“The thing about Hayes,” Stevie said, “he kind of took stuff that wasn’t his. He would have had to drink just then. He had other people do his work. Like me. Like Nate. Like Gretchen. Ever do any work for Hayes, Ellie?”
Ellie’s eyes were locked on Stevie now. They were such a light brown that they were almost a gold color.
“What are you even talking about?” Ellie said.
“Yeah, Stevie,” David said. “What are you talking about?”
“Weird thing,” Stevie said. “Hayes himself told me that he made The End of It All in Florida at the start of last summer. He lied. He made it on June fourth, and Ellingham closed for the summer on the sixth.”
“What?” Ellie said. “I . . .”
“I know this because I went through his room,” Stevie cut in. “I go through rooms. I’m the worst. I get curious when things don’t make sense. But I found some things out. I found out Hayes lied. He made the show here, and he didn’t make it alone. And last spring, he borrowed five hundred dollars from Gretchen, his ex-girlfriend, that he never paid back. And you paid five hundred dollars for making some art last spring and bought Roota.”
“You’re being a freak, Stevie,” Ellie said, but there was a tremble in her voice. “Get the hell out of my room. Everyone get the hell out of my room.”
“Something else,” Stevie said. “Sometime between the time Hayes died and the time I went into his room, someone had taken his computer. That person shoved it under the tub. It left three scratches down the front. Those scratches weren’t there before. There’s proof.”
“Stevie . . . ,” Janelle said, her voice fearful. “What’s going on?”
But Stevie had gone down the road now, and there was no going back. There was a thick atmosphere in the dark room, with the stink of old patchouli and paint. There was no coming back from this night, this sudden drilling into Ellie’s background and Hayes’s life and death. If she was wrong about this, she would have to pack up and go. She felt like someone walking out onto the branch of a tree, feeling it bounce and give under each step.
And she loved the feeling.
“One more thing. Beth Brave. She was Skyping with Hayes at the time Hayes was supposed to have been removing the dry ice from the workshop. Did he know about the dry ice? Was it his idea?”
Ellie’s face had taken on the cast of one of the masks on the wall of the ballroom—features wide, long, stretched in emotion.
“Get out of my room,” Ellie said. “Everyone get out of my room.”
David had shifted and was now half squatting. Janelle was moving back toward the wall. Nate, however, was like a rock, watching all of this with folded arms.
“Stevie,” David said slowly, “you know this thing that you’re saying is kind of intense?”
“I know,” she said.
“So you’d have to be pretty sure . . .”
“I am.”
“So I helped him with his show,” Ellie said. “God! I helped him with his show.”
The first piece slid into place.
“The movie,” Stevie said. “He was going to go to Hollywood and work with P. G. Edderton and take all the credit.”
“So? Do you think I wanted people to know I helped make a zombie show? I just needed money for Roota.”
“So why did you take his computer?” Stevie said. “The police were here. You had to see if there was evidence on there about your involvement because you knew . . .”
“I knew it didn’t look good. Hayes . . . Hayes said all kinds of dumb shit. Hayes did dumb things and he died and I’m sad about it and now you all need to get out.”
When no one moved, she got up herself, snatching her bag from the floor.
“Ellie,” David said, getting up and following her, “where are you going?”
He reached out for her, but she yanked away her arm. She hurried down the hall to the common room and was at the door in a moment.
Stevie scrambled to her feet and followed. Ellie threw open the door and hurried outside . . .
. . . right into Larry.
“I texted him about fifteen minutes ago,” Nate said, coming up behind Stevie. “I kind of didn’t want you to get us all killed.”
“Fair,” Stevie said, slumping against the wall. “That’s fair.”
The residents of Minerva were taken as a group to the Great House, where everyone was loaded into Albert Ellingham’s office. The night closed in around the house, and Larry drew the heavy curtains.
Charles looked like he’d been woken up and was dressed in a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater. Dr. Quinn was also present, wearing a stark black dress and looking like she had been called back from some other affair. Pix came down with them and oversaw the proceedings in an oversized sweater and army pants.
Ellie compacted herself into one of Albert Ellingham’s leather chairs, tucking her head into her knees. The events of the evening were recounted. When Stevie was finished, the room was silent for several moments.
“Element,” Charles said, finally speaking, “did you help Hayes write the show?”
“Sure,” Ellie said. “Fine. I helped him with his show. Who cares?”
“Didn’t that show make a lot of money?” Larry said.
“I have no idea,” she said. “I don’t care about money. I grew up on a commune. This isn’t about money. Not for me.”
“What’s this mean?” Charles asked.
“Just . . . this. Whatever.”
“Did you take Hayes’s computer?” Larry asked.
“I don’t want to talk about this. This is bullshit.”
“Element,” Larry said. “Did you take his computer? It’s a simple question.”
“I looked at it,” she said.
“Why?”
No answer.
“Did you put the dry ice in the tunnel?” Larry asked.
“No,” Ellie mumbled from her knees.
“There’s something here you aren’t saying,” Larry said. “You need to explain to us what’s going on. This is serious.”
Ellie pulled herself upright suddenly. Her eyes were full and tears were starting to run down her face.
“God, he was so dumb. Why did I pay attention to him?”
“What do you mean?” Larry pressed.
“This whole place,” she said, shaking her head and smiling grimly. “This whole place. Hayes and his stupid ideas. That’s what got him killed, his stupid ideas.”
“I have real concerns about going on with this,” Dr. Quinn said, raising a hand. “Ellie, I think you should stop speaking until we get you representation. And everyone else, let’s get you out of here.”
“I agree,” Charles said. “I’m going to call our general counsel and have them come here to consult with you. Larry, if you could take the others back to Minerva . . .”
Larry went over to say something quietly just to Charles and Dr. Quinn.
“Okay,” Charles said. “Dr. Pixwell, if you co
uld take everyone to the teachers’ lounge. They can use the guest rooms if anyone needs to go to sleep.”
“We can’t go home?” Nate said.
“Let’s just keep everyone here for a while,” Dr. Quinn said. “Until we sort this out.”
“What, am I under arrest?” Ellie said. “Is Larry arresting me?”
“No,” Larry said. “And I agree. Let’s wait for the lawyer, Element. You wait in here, all right? Just sit tight.”
The change was a stark one—from a group of students recounting a dorm room conversation to the school administration, to full names and calling for a lawyer. Ellie suddenly looked very small and a bit wild, her eyes red and bright.
“I’m leaving,” she said, standing up.
“Element,” Larry said in a warning tone.
“You can’t keep me here.”
“Ellie,” Charles said, stepping in. His voice was calming. “I know this is frightening. But we’re getting you help. The very best thing you can do is be calm and sit. If you stay and talk to the lawyer, things will be better, but if you leave now . . .”
“There’s nowhere to go,” Dr. Quinn said. “We’re on a mountain and it’s the middle of the night. Ellie, sit.”
Ellie sat.
“We’ll get you something to drink, something to eat,” Charles said. “How about that? You could use it. Pix, could you . . .”
There was some awkward shuffling getting out of the room, as it wasn’t really clear what condition Ellie was in. The Great House creaked and groaned a bit in the fall wind. Ellie was left in Ellingham’s office. Once everyone else was outside the door, Larry turned the key in the lock.
“You’re locking her in?” Charles said.
“You’re damn right I am. And the French doors are secured from the outside.”
“She’s not a prisoner,” Charles said.
“No, but she may have killed someone. She’s safe in there.”
“Well, I’m getting her some food and water,” Charles said.
“Whatever you want,” Larry replied.
He gestured for a security officer to stand in front of the door.
“You,” he said to Stevie. “With me.”
He took her into the security office and shut the door.
“Sit,” he said.
He called for a police cruiser to be sent at once. When he got off the phone, he looked at Stevie gravely.
“You should have come to me,” he said.
“With what?” Stevie said.
“When you knew Hayes was on the phone when he was supposed to have been in the workshop.”
“Sorry,” Stevie said. “It didn’t seem like enough.”
“Enough for what? This was not your call. Do you realize what could happen here? It’s clear Element is hiding something. It’s possible she killed Hayes. More than possible. You don’t play with that.”
“I know,” she said.
Larry rubbed under his eyes.
“So you’ll wait here until the police come and we’ll sort it out.”
He got up and left, leaving Stevie in the chair to look at the security screens that showed nothing but darkness and the forms of trees and the occasional glowing pair of animal eyes. She went into a kind of trance for a moment.
The letter she had seen on her wall re-formed itself in her mind. It had body now. The words began to return. Riddle, riddle, on the wall . . .
. . . murder comes to pay a call.
That’s what it said. Maybe it was real. Maybe Ellie had done it? Maybe it was an art thing. Because there would be no reason to say you were going to murder someone, right?
There was yelling outside the door. Stevie sprang up and looked out. The door to the office was open, and Charles stood by it, holding a water and some fruit. The other security officers ran to the door.
“What do you mean?” Larry was saying. “Goddammit, she could get killed out there if she goes too far . . .”
“How did it happen?” Dr. Quinn said.
“She must have popped the panel,” Larry said. “How the hell did she know about the panel? Dennis, get to the basement. The passage leads to the basement. Lauren, Benny, get outside, check all the windows. . . .”
The panel. Stevie had read about this. There was supposed to be some kind of passage between Ellingham’s office and the ballroom, mostly used for jokes and games. It led to the basement. But apparently it was worked cleverly into the wall, not easy to see.
Ellie was gone.
October 30, 1938
THIS PARTICULAR MORNING WAS STUNNINGLY BRIGHT AND BLUE, A PERFECT fall day, not a cloud in the sky. The trees were holding on to the remains of their golden crowns.
Robert Mackenzie sat at his desk, listening to the ticking clock on the mantelpiece. This was more or less the only sound he heard, aside from Montgomery or one of the other staff walking past the door, or the occasional voices of the students moving from building to building. But even they were subdued. When he watched them from the window they always turned away when they saw someone in the Great House looking back.
Mackenzie now had far more space than he needed, since he’d been moved out of Albert Ellingham’s office and into one of the front sunrooms after the trial was over.
“You might as well use the space,” his employer had said. “It’s not being used for anything else.”
But he knew that the real reason was that his employer wanted to be alone. Alone in that office all day, the doors shut. Meals were taken on occasion. Visitors were rare. The curtains were closed to the world. But there was always the possibility of Alice.
The possibility of Alice. Never found. The question, always hanging. Was she . . . ? Was she . . . ?
Ellingham spoke of Alice in the present tense, always. The household always prepared for her return. Three times a year, Ellingham had a buyer in New York send back a full wardrobe of that season’s children’s clothing, each time in the approximate size Alice should be. Piles of dresses and pinafores, tiny sweaters and stockings in every color, pajamas, coats, hats, gloves, fur mufflers, patent leather shoes . . . all of it would be unboxed by Iris’s personal maid, who was still on staff, and arranged in Alice’s closets. The previous, unused set would be given to charity. She received birthday and Christmas presents—a magnificent Stewart Warner radio, a rocking horse from London, a library of classics, a porcelain miniature tea set from Paris, and a stunning dollhouse replica of the Ellingham Great House.
These tasks were so depressing that the staff frequently cried while performing them, but never in front of Mr. Ellingham. In front of him, they always spoke of Miss Alice positively. “Miss Alice will love her new spring dresses, sir.” “Wonderful radio for Miss Alice, sir. She’ll be thrilled.”
It was the possibility of Alice that led to the draining of the lake last June. An anonymous tip suggested that Alice’s body might be on the bottom. Despite the fact that this was unlikely, Ellingham ordered the lake to be drained. Robert felt that this was almost an act of revenge against the lake for its unwitting role on that horrible night. Now the lake was a pit, a constant reminder of loss.
This was the airless atmosphere in the Great House that morning when the buzzer went off on Robert Mackenzie’s desk. He picked up his notebook and pencil and went into Albert Ellingham’s office. This morning, the curtains were open. The wall of French doors revealed that still-surreal view of the empty lake. Robert would never quite get used to seeing the gaping wound in the ground.
“I am going to the yacht club,” Ellingham said. “The weather is fine and clear. I’ve asked Marsh to come with me. We could both use some time in the air. We’ve been in dark places too long.”
“That’s a very good idea,” Robert said. “Would you like me to arrange a picnic basket for the trip?”
Albert Ellingham shook his head.
“No need, no need. Here. I wrote a riddle this morning. What do you think?”
He passed Robert a Western Union slip. Albert Ell
ingham hadn’t written a riddle in some time, so Robert took it eagerly.
“Where do you look for someone who’s never really there?” Robert read. “Always on a staircase but never on a stair.”
He looked up at his employer. There was a strange intensity in his eyes.
“It may be the best riddle I’ve ever written,” Ellingham said. “It’s my Riddle of the Sphinx. Those who solve it pass. Those who don’t . . .”
The thought trailed off. He plucked the paper back and set it on his desk.
“I have something very important for you to do today, Robert,” he said, putting a paperweight on the riddle. “Get out in the air. Enjoy yourself. That’s an order.”
“I’m going to. I have about ten pounds’ worth of correspondence to get through first.”
“I mean it, Robert,” Ellingham said more sternly. “The winter will be here soon and you’ll wish you took advantage of days like this.”
The remark was so thick with meaning that Robert had no reply.
“You’re a good man, Robert,” Ellingham said. “I wish you had the happiness in your life that I’ve had in mine. Remember to play. Remember the game. Always remember the game.”
He would remember later that Albert Ellingham didn’t look morose as he said these words. There was more vigor in him, suggesting, perhaps, that he was making a marble monument of his grief. Maybe it was time to resume life. It had been a year since the trial. Maybe it was time.
Robert ignored the order to go out and had a productive afternoon at his desk. He handled calls from New York and the new movie division in Los Angeles. He caught up on correspondence. He barely noticed the passing hours and the creeping dark. His mind felt lighter than it had in some time. Perhaps, he thought, everything might turn around a bit. Perhaps Albert Ellingham would begin to heal. He wasn’t old. He was rich. He was vital. He might marry again, have another family. Perhaps the terrible curse on this place would be dispelled. Perhaps something would be made right again.
At seven thirty, Robert stopped, satisfied at all he had done. There was a tidy stack of completed paperwork. His correspondence tray was empty. It was fully dark and the wind had kicked up. It whistled around the corners of the room and snaked down the chimney.
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