Pretty as a Picture

by Elizabeth Little

  “It’s part of his process—” I say.

  “He said it’s his process—” Nick says.

  Nick’s eyes meet mine. Then he comes to his feet and strides out of the room, calling for his men. They’re heading back to the hotel, he tells them. They’re going to talk to Tony—that’s right, their Tony. And they might want to check their weapons.

  I register all this only vaguely. I’m still stuck on the photos. Something’s pinging at me—but what?

  Shirley MacLaine, at Debra Winger’s bedside, opening her eyes—

  No, before that—

  Shirley MacLaine, at Debra Winger’s bedside, helping her apply her makeup before she sees her children for the last time.

  Maybe it’s not a movie—

  My grandmother, in the hospital the night she died, an emerald green tube of Revlon in her hands.

  Suzy shakes my shoulder. “Marissa, you still with us?”

  I blink up at her. “Yeah, sorry—just thinking.”

  “Terrible habit,” she says, seriously. “Come on, they’re taking us back to the hotel.”

  * * *

  —

  “Don’t you worry. As soon as Tony tries to get anywhere near here, they’ll get him. It’s one of the nice things about life on an island.”

  Wade’s smile is so wide, I’m worried he’s going to cause permanent damage.

  I’m standing in Wade’s private office. While the police continue to search for Tony, this is serving as the hotel’s temporary operational epicenter. Opposite Wade’s desk are eight CCTVs cycling through the hotel’s security feeds; behind it, three LCD flatscreens are showing the news. So far, Liza’s death has only made the chyron on Fox and CNN; there’s been no mention yet that anyone suspects Tony might be involved.

  On the local channel, a reporter barely out of adolescence is doing a stand-up in front of the ferry terminal at Lewes; in the background I can see at least three other news trucks. I wonder if anyone’s interviewed Georgia.

  To my right, through a wide, columned archway, is Wade and Francie’s living room. Francie’s at the walnut sideboard, standing over a tea service while the kettle steeps, folding napkins and laying out a plate of cookies. In the middle of the room is a small seating area—a coffee table, an armchair, two turquoise couches. There’s another TV, too, tuned to an entertainment news channel I don’t recognize. That’s where the girls are, delivering a nonstop stream of running commentary to Anjali and Valentina, who wear identical looks of consternation.

  Isaiah’s standing over them, his arms crossed, fingers tapping absently against his elbows. Every three minutes or so, I’ve noticed, he checks his phone and scowls.

  I haven’t said anything to him yet.

  He hasn’t said anything to me, either.

  Gavin, meanwhile, is huddled next to the liquor cabinet with Violet, who wheeled herself in from the adjoining suite for the occasion. She’s wearing gold silk pajamas and a platinum pixie-cut wig. When she catches me looking at her, she waggles her charcoaled eyebrows.

  I avert my gaze. It lands on a picture hanging just inside the door: In it, Wade is smiling as usual, standing between two other men who look vaguely familiar.

  I wander over to examine it. “Is that—”

  “Yup,” Wade says from behind me, with relish. “Season 4, episode 28.”

  “So that’s why I’d heard of this place.”

  “You’re a fan, too, then?”

  “God no. My first job out of grad school was cutting promos for Syfy.”

  He tugs at his collar. “Ah.”

  “They never actually found any ghosts,” I explain.

  “Just because they didn’t find them doesn’t mean they aren’t there,” he says, genially. “After all, who knows what went on here during Prohibition? All those smuggler’s coves and secret tunnels—”

  “They never mentioned Caitlyn’s murder,” I say. “On the episode, I mean.”

  Wade pauses. “No.”

  “Why not? It would’ve made for better TV.”

  He glances at the living room. “Well, we made the decision—as a family. We worried it would be disrespectful.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Francie’s hand freeze over a piece of shortbread.

  Wade laughs nervously. “What do you mean?”

  “Ten years ago, you wouldn’t even let a basic-cable reality series say a single word about Caitlyn’s murder, but now you’re making a whole movie about it?”

  “Well,” he says, “we trusted Tony to do it right.”

  “And how’s that working out for you?”

  Francie comes into the room, her hands on her hips. “He won an Academy Award.”

  I shrug. “So did Mel Gibson.”

  Francie opens her mouth—then closes it abruptly, her attention drawn to one of the TVs. They’re showing a picture of Tony.

  “Do you think he’s going to get away?” she asks after a moment.

  “No,” Anjali says from the archway, one hand resting against a column. “He has money, but he’s too used to having people to do things for him. He’ll fuck up in some boneheaded, obvious way, they always do. And then he’ll have to live with the knowledge that it was irony that took him down. The visionary director who couldn’t see what was right in front of his face.” She sips from the cut crystal lowball in her left hand. “I like the sound of that.”

  From the living room, Gavin catches my eye. He waves me over.

  I shake my head. I don’t have the energy for him right now.

  Undeterred, he points at the empty stool to his left—then to me.

  Next to him, Violet lets out a low, throaty laugh. “Oh don’t be shy—come keep an old lady company.”

  Well, damn. I can’t exactly say no to that. I give Gavin a poisonous look as I head over to perch on the edge of the horsehair stool.

  “So,” she says when I’m settled. “I hear you like movies.”

  It surprises a laugh out of me. “Yeah, I do.”

  She quirks her lips and holds her glass out to Gavin; he tops it off with whiskey. She draws it close and sweeps her hand briskly back and forth above it, breathing in the scent.

  “I can’t drink anymore,” she explains when she opens her eyes. “All I can do is smell. I have to rely on Gavin here to tell me what it actually tastes like.”

  Gavin inclines his head in acknowledgment and takes a sip of his own drink. He rolls the liquid around in his mouth.

  “Charcoal and sticking plasters,” he pronounces.

  She smells her drink again. “Should’ve known better than to ask an Englishman.”

  “I am Welsh, madam.”

  She sniffs and adjusts the angle of her chair, turning her back on Gavin. “You know,” she says, “I never wanted them to make this fucking movie.”

  Gavin’s whiskey goes down the wrong way; he sputters and slaps his chest.

  I shift on the stool. “Well, between you and me, the script was terrible.”

  She hums in agreement. “It was Francie who insisted, and of course I couldn’t say no. Not to my own family. I only tell you this because I heard you asking my granddaughter about it.”

  I glance at Gavin, lifting my eyebrows a little.

  He shrugs.

  I turn back to Violet. She’s watching me closely over the rim of her glass.

  “How did she convince you?” I ask.

  “She told me that after all these years, Tony was finally going to bring Caitlyn’s killer to justice.” Her lips press into a smile. “Imagine that.”

  “Yes,” I say, slowly, my hand going to my mouth. “Imagine that.”

  “I suppose I wasn’t surprised he was stuck on her,” she adds, looking at her glass. “Young love isn’t built to last
forever—but you have to let it run its course. Even as a boy, Tony never could let things go unfinished.”

  Normally I would never be able to look at someone directly for so long—especially someone I don’t know. But with Violet, I find I’m incapable of looking away. There’s just something about her. Maybe that’s what they call star quality.

  But maybe it’s something else.

  “Were you and Caitlyn close?” I ask.

  She nods. “Very. Caitlyn wanted to be an actress—poor thing. We had some fun together, though.”

  “You ran old movie scenes together, right?”

  “How did you—oh yes, I forgot. That awful scene.” She glances over her shoulder at Gavin. “Would you believe Tony had me read his first draft? He wanted to be sure his blocking was accurate.”

  I choke a little. “Tony wrote the script?”

  “He insisted. Said he was the only one who could do it right—with my help, of course.”

  “But he didn’t get everything right. The roller coaster—”

  “Oh that. I don’t know how I forgot to mention it. Just slipped my mind, I suppose. The year before, a little boy lost his leg on that thing. There was a terrible lawsuit—the whole park had to shut down. I couldn’t believe Tony hadn’t heard about it, but I suppose those are adult concerns.” She pulls out a white linen handkerchief and dabs her lips. “Nothing a young man need trouble himself with.”

  She folds the handkerchief into thirds and slips it back in her pocket, and that’s when it finally comes to me—what I was trying to think of back in the police station.

  Francie, in the theater, her arm extended: “My grandmother has worn bright red lipstick every day of her life since she was thirteen. She says no one should have to face the world without it.”

  Violet’s lips: They’re red. Bright, cherry red.

  I know this color.

  My eyes fly to Violet’s face, but I can’t make sense of it. Is she happy? Guilty? Sad? Has she been confessing to me this whole time and I just didn’t notice? Does she even know what she’s telling me?

  “It would have been a real shame,” I say after a moment, “if you’d had an accident like that at the hotel.”

  “A disaster,” she agrees easily. “My husband, you see, he was a bit of a gambler. Didn’t believe in insurance—said it wasn’t ‘sporting.’ But I don’t suppose I can complain. After all, if he hadn’t had a nose for trouble, he never would have married me.”

  She waves her hand over her whiskey again and draws in another breath.

  “Up to then, we’d had the most wonderful year,” she says, eyelids fluttering. “Francie had just fallen in love with Wade, and they were just two peas in a pod. They had so many ideas for the hotel. All the things they wanted to do!”

  “The hotel is lovely,” I say, the sound of my voice dim even to my own ears.

  She drops her chin and opens her eyes, and she may be ninety-seven, but there’s still something vital in her gaze. “It is.”

  “I don’t think—” I break off, searching for the words, but then I decide that’s all I’m going to say.

  At my silence, her shoulders settle, her expression satisfied. Her hand—narrow-boned, blue-veined, liver-spotted—reaches out to curl around my knee. Her grip is incredibly strong.

  “See that you don’t.” Then she cranes her neck around to look at Gavin. “Charcoal and Band-Aids. Really.”

  THIRTY

  I tell everyone I’m going to the bathroom, but really I’m going to see if I’m right.

  I slip out of Wade and Francie’s rooms and hurry down the hall toward the elevators. This time, I find the movie theater on my first try. I jog toward the projection room, grimly saluting the headshot that hangs behind the concession stand as I run past.

  The scene is already playing out behind my eyes: Caitlyn and Violet, rehearsing Rebecca. The projector craps out, like always. Violet reminds Caitlyn to be careful on those stairs—and in those shoes!—but Caitlyn’s young, and she’s done this a thousand times before. So what if the lights don’t work? She’s bubbling up with adrenaline, with all the energy your body makes when you get to do the thing you love, and maybe she’s excited, too, thinking about a boy she’s going to meet the next day. Or maybe she has something planned with Billy, her best friend. Maybe she’s just in a hurry. Whatever the reason, her concentration slips. Her toe catches.

  I skid to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. I fumble for my phone and flip it open, aiming the display at the third tread. There it is: the splatter Isaiah and I saw earlier today. It wasn’t mine after all.

  I wonder how long it took before Violet found her.

  My throat clenches; the scene continues.

  Violet quickly concludes that no one would be served by the truth. She thinks through her options. She’s slender and in her seventies, but she’s still strong—she dances every day—so she could move Caitlyn’s body all by herself. Maybe to another part of the hotel, to an area where the lighting is up to code. At least then they could make the argument that the accident wasn’t strictly due to gross negligence. Or she could take the body to the beach, through the same tunnels the rumrunners used during Prohibition.

  Yes, she thinks. That’s it.

  She’s nothing if not practical, so she forces herself to consider whether she can bring herself to weigh down Caitlyn’s body, to feed it to the ocean, to let the waves carry the evidence away. But she decides she can’t. Caitlyn meant too much to her. So instead she settles her friend in her favorite chair, arranging her hair to hide the worst of the head wound. And then, in a last act of—what, love? Affection? Contrition? Vanity? She paints Caitlyn’s lips a rich Victory Red.

  Because no one should have to face the world without it.

  She vows to never breathe a word about it to any other living soul. If there’s anything Hollywood has taught her, it’s that you can’t trust anyone with your secrets but yourself.

  I close my phone. And there, in the darkness, I let myself linger on the image one last time: A girl in an orange swimsuit, her hair lifting in the ocean breeze.

  Only then do I realize: There’s a light on in the projection room.

  * * *

  —

  Before we get too excited, let’s be realistic: It’s probably just Gary the Projectionist. The police have collected their evidence; the production has collected its equipment. The only things left in that room are the DP70 and the Autowind. Therefore, the only person with a benign reason to be up there is the person charged with maintaining those machines.

  But if it’s not Gary, then I think there’s only one other person it could be, which presents me with a dilemma. Do I, Marissa Dahl, professional film editor and avid cinephile, climb these stairs to satisfy my curiosity and find out who’s up in the projection room—even though, if this were a movie, everyone in the audience right now would be thinking, Don’t you fucking do it.

  Or do I do the sensible thing and call for help?

  If I go up there now—and if it’s Tony who’s in there—and if it’s Tony who killed Liza—it’s entirely possible he’ll kill me, too. He’ll see me and immediately conclude that, as usual, I’ve been sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong and that, therefore, I am most likely responsible for the fact that he’s currently the target of a three-state manhunt.

  Again, just to be clear, the person in that room right now is almost definitely Gary the Projectionist, that is absolutely the explanation that makes the most sense.

  But if it’s not—

  And if I leave—

  It’ll take me ten minutes, minimum, to get to a part of the hotel that has cell service. By the time I call the police, Tony could be long gone. And what if he has a Brazilian alias all ready to go? What if he just came back to the hotel for one last sentimental item? What if I’m the only thing that stands between him
and a long, fruitful career of light, critically acclaimed misogyny? What if this is our one chance?

  What if I really am Obi-Wan Kenobi?

  What if I really am their only hope?

  And anyway, it’s just Gary up there—right? So what am I afraid of?

  I sink down to my hands and knees and crawl up the stairs, using the elbow of my left arm for balance. Six steps up, I freeze, alerted by some up-to-now dormant piece of my reptile brain. A second later, the entire staircase shifts an inch to my right. I hold my breath, listening for any movement upstairs.

  No one comes.

  I keep going.

  Ten steps left.

  Five stairs.

  One.

  At the top, I flip over onto my butt and scoot back until I hit the wall. I take a moment to catch my breath. It occurs to me that now would be a great time to change my mind, if I’m so inclined.

  But all I can see is Tony boarding a private plane to Rio de Janeiro.

  Mothersmucker.

  I nod a few times to myself—It’s totally just Gary! You can do this!—and swallow back the stomach acid that’s burning the back of my throat. Then I come up on my haunches and creep forward until I can just barely manage to peek around the edge of the doorway.

  It’s totally not Gary.

  Tony is working at the melamine table on the opposite wall, his back to me. He’s replaced the hot plate with a task lamp and is using the microwave as a laptop stand. He’s wearing a pair of Sennheiser headphones that probably cost more than most high-end divorce attorneys.

  I crane my neck a little to try to see what he’s doing—is he looking at dailies?

  He removes his headphones and turns. I go still.

  God, he looks terrible. Pasty skin, stubble, new lines that bracket his lips. But when I steal a quick glance at his eyes behind his spectacles, they’re the same bottle-glass green—although, again, what does that even mean? Are we talking Perrier? Heineken? Mountain Dew? Be specific, people.

  He shakes his head and turns back to the computer. I ease my way back into the hall, holding my breath until I’m safely out of sight.