Bellweather Rhapsody (30 page)

A voice. A hand on her cheek.
Natalie. Natalie, wake up.

More voices, louder, shouting. She’s being held, squeezed.
Natalie. Natalie, say something. Come back.

She can’t. She lets herself be lifted.

When she opens her eyes she sees the ceiling and all those hot lights, a blurry glow, those round recessed lights that flicker when intermission is ending, but the show must be over because they’re applauding—

No—

That’s the blood flooding her ears. Her brain feels so far away.

“Maybe next time,” says a voice, “we should have a little breakfast before we fight the power.”

She’s sweating. Breathing with her mouth open. Panting, almost.

“It was a lovely sentiment. Really.” Fisher’s lying on the floor beside her. When she rolls her head, she hits his. “A poetical antidote. You fainted, love.
Shoom.
Straight down into my arms like a sack of flour. Ever done that before?”

“Yes,” she says, emptying her lungs. “In high school.” Filling them. “In the shower.”

The world is wrapped around her head like a towel, muffling sound, warping light. She has to loosen it to bring herself back. She has to breathe.

“Where are we?” she asks.

“Orchestra pit.”

“Where did everyone go?”

“Away. There was a lot of tittering and shouting and then our friend Fabian told everyone to take themselves elsewhere.”

“She did that.” Breath. “For me, huh?”

“Yes,” says Viola. “I did that for you.”

She hovers into Natalie’s field of vision like an evil eclipse, a white-haired moon blotting out the starry ceiling. Natalie stops breathing.

“That was entirely unprofessional,
Mrs.
Wilson,” Viola hisses. “I would say I can’t believe it, but I can. Jesus, you haven’t changed. You still think your pain is the most important thing in the world, don’t you?” And she nudges Natalie in the side, just below her ribs, with the tip of her shoe. “Fisher, move her—I don’t know. Wherever. Stand her up in some corner. And get on with your rehearsal. Your precious little bastards can’t wait out in the lobby forever.”

Viola licks her lips. “You make a cute couple,” she says.

19

“W
E NEED TO
start with facts—what we know, everything we know, from the beginning.” Alice holds a can of Diet Coke up to her face, rolling it slowly over the swollen red lump beneath her eye. She doesn’t wince, but Minnie does. Minnie has a terrible feeling that she’s contributing to both the delinquency and the malnourishment of a minor; from the vending machine near her room Alice has already consumed two Cokes and a late-morning buffet of Combos, Doritos, and peanut butter Ritz Bits. “The beginning is you.”

“The beginning is me?” Minnie points a finger at her chest.

“Yes, you. Walk me through everything you remember about that night.”

Minnie’s face says,
Do I have to?

“Yes,” says Alice. “You have to. I’m sorry.”

Minnie leans against the headboard and closes her eyes. She has never stopped hating to remember. She looks at her lap. Alice, sitting in one of the wingback chairs with her feet propped on the mattress, snaps open her soda, rapt.

So Minnie tells her story, again. Jennifer getting married. Running away from the reception. She neglects to mention the bruise on her sister’s back, but she covers the flying groom, the blue cummerbund, the smell of metal, the bride in the air, calling her closer. How the groom told her to run, and she ran.

“Did you know them?”

“No,” says Minnie. “It was a murder-suicide, so we weren’t involved in any kind of criminal investigation. Last month, after I booked this trip, I did some digging at work, at the library. All I found was a short notice in a tiny local paper about two deaths at the Bellweather, a man and a woman, last name Driscoll. The way it was worded was weird, kind of gossipy and apologetic at the same time—‘unfortunately discovered hanging,’ I remember that phrase. ‘Mrs. Driscoll was unfortunately discovered hanging from an orange extension cord,’ something like that.” Her arms prickle.

Alice tilts her head to the side, reminding Minnie so much of Auggie that she stifles a laugh.

“Huh?” says Alice. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” Minnie can’t help it; she laughs out loud. “Nothing’s funny.”

Alice squints at her, and Minnie laughs again because this is all so ridiculous, so improbable, and because, with one eye almost swollen shut, Alice’s squint is hilariously lopsided. She is going to prison after this weekend—Minnie is, not Alice—or at the very least into some kind of protective psychiatric custody. None of it looked good: lying about where she was going and why. Booking specifically on the anniversary. Even Auggie’s fake working-dog getup.

But the pièce de résistance was assaulting and kidnapping a stranger. A young girl, a minor, probably. For a while in her teens, Minnie had had a particular fear (ironically enough) of being kidnapped. Learning how to pick a lock seemed the least she could do to prepare for that horrifying prospect, so getting into 712 had been a snap. She didn’t want to stay long. She didn’t want to mess up the covers on the beds, even. The safest, snuggest place in the whole room was the narrow channel between the far bed and the wall, and there Minnie lay, her sweatshirt pillowed beneath her head, her heart beating like a kettledrum. Auggie close and warm on her side. Two Dramamine pills dissolving in her bloodstream.

Fall asleep,
she sang to herself.
Fall asleep, Minnie. It’s just a room. It’s just a room. It’s just a roo—

She was in her parents’ house, alone. There was no air. The anniversary clock under its dusty glass dome did not swing or spin or tick, and neither did Minnie—she wasn’t blinking, her heart wasn’t beating, she was stuck in space. She stood facing the front door, which was wide open, the screen door propped. She heard high heels clicking on the flagstones.

The bride’s shoes thumped dully on the wooden steps.

Mrs. Driscoll stands just outside the door and smiles at Minnie. Her face is fat with death. A deep purple line runs from ear to ear beneath her chin, and she holds a bouquet of vicious red roses at her chest.

“Hello again, little girl,” Mrs. Driscoll says.

The roses are bleeding.

Minnie is stuck and Mrs. Driscoll steps into the house and then—then—

Oh God, thank God, she can move her arm, she can stand, she can swing—

She was still asleep, still dreaming, technically, when her fist connected with Alice’s face. She was half awake when she saw a stranger slump backward on the bed, unconscious, her own trembling fist held high. Only it wasn’t a stranger. It was the girl from the elevator that morning. The girl whose roommate hanged herself.

Minnie would like to blame it on the drugs—and it was true they had fogged her decision-making—but the real reason she threw the girl over her shoulder and ran out of 712 was because she was afraid to be alone. Even unconscious, here was a soul who would listen, here was the only other person in the world who knew how it felt to see a body hanging in this hotel room. She was Minnie’s mirror, and Minnie couldn’t bear to leave her behind.

“I have to be honest with you,” says Alice. “When I met you yesterday in the elevator, you jumped to the top of my list of suspects.” She pauses. “You’re still there.”

Minnie shrugs. “That’s fair,” she says, and then, a little wounded, “The top? Really?”

Alice nods gravely.

“Am I still?”

“Maybe . . . maybe not the top,” says Alice.

“Who else is on the list?”

“Jill’s mother. Her name is Viola Fabian. She’s in charge of the festival. Jill was afraid of her, legitimately afraid, and not in an ‘I’m going to be so dead’ way. In an ‘I’m going to be actually dead’ way.” Alice shakes her head. “I’ve met Fabian twice. She’s a colossal bitch.”

“But is she a murderous bitch?” Minnie reaches down to feed Auggie a Dorito. “What do you know about her or about Jill? I thought we were still in the gathering-facts stage.”

Alice tucks her legs beneath her and hugs herself. “Her name is—was—Jill Faccelli. All I know I learned from reading magazines and articles and stuff. She’s super-famous. As music prodigies go, at least. Traveled all over the world. She plays the flute.”

“Have you heard her play?”

“You know,” Alice says, “I never have,” and the twist of her mouth tells Minnie that this realization makes her stupendously sad. “We were roommates, random roommates. Right before she disappeared I was telling her fortune. Doing a tarot reading.”

“Ooh, neat. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Well, if I ever get my cards back—they’re missing. Housekeeping took them or threw them out when they turned over the room.” It still bothers her, clearly. “Her reading was all over the place. Scary and awful. Then she spilled some wine and I left the room to get stuff to clean up. When I came back she was—”

Alice’s eyes lose focus.

“Um. She was—”

“I know,” Minnie says softly, and when Alice meets her eyes they both understand. They have decided to trust each other. For whatever that’s worth.

Minnie pushes herself off the bed. “I want to go on record as saying this mystery is probably not nearly as complicated as it appears. That said, I’ve got an idea.”

“Are we going somewhere?” Alice asks.

“Yes,” says Minnie. “Detecting.”

Sheila briefed Hastings as soon as he arrived (early, but he could tell his presence was appreciated) on which staff had either spent the night on a folding cot or braved the elements on snowshoes, sleds, or snowmobiles that morning. She fell into the latter category, she told him with a glimmer of pride. Statewide would apparently go on as planned for Saturday, but the musicians would be performing only for themselves and the Bellweather staff on Sunday. Sheila dropped her voice to tell him, impishly, that there’d been some sort of outburst at the morning assembly, that one of the teachers had had a fit and climbed up on the seats to yell at Viola Fabian.

“About what?” he’d asked, incredulous.

“An old grudge or something.” Sheila bugged her eyes. “She called Fabian
evil
. Can you imagine?”

Hastings caught himself before he could nod. “And the girl. Her daughter. Has she turned up yet?”

Sheila shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

He hoped Viola Fabian’s daughter was as eerily resourceful as her mother, that she wasn’t hiding out in the games shed or the tiny golf clubhouse, someplace without heat. He asked Sheila to send one of the grounds boys to check. Just in case.

Now, if it weren’t for the constant apocalyptic chatter on the radio at reception (this was apparently the worst storm in fifty years) or the occasional whine of wind against the front windows, Hastings wouldn’t know it from any other Statewide Saturday. He rather enjoys weathering storms at the hotel, snug in the one place on earth he feels safest and most needed.

In the quiet, his mind drifts back to the strange case of Viola Fabian. He flattens the printouts from the library on his concierge blotter. The first is the article detailing the mysterious death of Kevin Montrose. The second is an obituary, also from the
San Francisco Chronicle
but barely two years old.

ALEXANDER BRIAN FACCELLI
. April 18 at the age of 62. After a long career at Microsoft, Mr. Faccelli dedicated himself to serving his local community. Neighbors say they will miss his infectious laugh. He is survived by his wife, Viola Fabian Faccelli, and a beloved stepdaughter. Burial will be private. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Muir Woods Volunteer Coalition, c/o the National Parks Conservancy.

Viola is a widow? Of course she is. He sees her through a soft-focus lens, pale and lovely as death, tears glistening like melted snowflakes on her lashes and cool white cheeks. Lips black, the corners turned up ever so slightly; she’s a merry widow, if she’s anything. The beloved stepdaughter must be the still missing Jill. The grounds boy had snottily informed him that no one was currently or had been in the clubhouse or the shed for months. Hastings involuntarily raises his hand to his heart. A monstrous mother, a dead stepfather. No wonder she ran away, poor girl.

The rest of the articles are fluff. A profile of mother and daughter, manager and child phenom, describing young Jill as “tremendously gifted, otherworldly, grave.” A caption for a missing photograph, an image the computer didn’t have on file, that referred to “Viola Fabian and student,” and a short accompanying article about a series of youth concerts and recitals in San Francisco. Hastings scans the text for familiar names: Marcus Bellman. Casey McGregor. Viola Fabian, again
.
Natalie Wink.
He curses the computer, the all-knowing machine with its brain full of holes. These names mean nothing. They’re too old, too far away. If only he could see the picture. The blank page sneers at him.

The final piece is another pictureless caption, but a bit more helpful:

On hand at Lincoln Center, L to R: Frances Hallowell, Viola Fabian, Fisher Brodie

He’d sensed something between Viola and Fisher during that bizarre scene in the office: an overfamiliarity, a closeness that went beyond the professional. Of course it was natural that they knew each other—the Statewide circle isn’t
that
large, especially at a certain level—but Hastings’s gut had told him it went beyond that. The year on the caption is 1980. So they’ve known each other for nearly two decades. Fisher had called Viola dangerous. What did he know about how dangerous she could be?

Hastings glances across the lobby at Sheila. She stands with her hands clasped behind her back, shifting her weight from foot to foot. What had she said about the morning assembly? Someone—a female someone—had yelled at Fabian. About an old grudge. He pulls out the Statewide packet he keeps at the concierge desk and flips until he finds the master participant list. He’s looking for a Frances. A Casey. A Natalie. He’s looking for an echo from the past. The first Casey he finds, he circles with blue ballpoint. Then he finds another—no. He shouldn’t be looking at the students, they’re too young. There are fewer participating educators and chaperones. He circles a single Natalie, a Natalie Wilson of Ruby Falls Central School District.