The Perfect Ghost (12 page)

“Even at that age?”

“Even at that age,” he repeated gravely. “She was the love of my father’s life, Cordelia to his Lear. As she is the love of my life.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

He blinked his eyes and gave a shake of his head. “That’s enough about Jenna.”

“Are the two of you estranged?”

“You’re not going to rake that up, are you? Those rumors were nothing but drivel, stuff that started leaking to the press with the divorce. I had—and have—absolutely no problem with the terms of my father’s will, with him leaving the land to Jenna. It was simply a way to avoid federal estate taxes, and more to the point, it doesn’t matter in the least, because both of us want the same thing: to keep the land for the theater, to keep the theater running. And that is off the record. Understand?”

“But this is your chance to set the record straight, to give your viewpoint, your side of the story. To write history the right way.”

“I’m her legal guardian. I act for her till she turns twenty-one. Then she’ll take over. And I am not a government official. I don’t owe people an explanation of my private life.”

“You and Claire reconciled during her illness.”

“Briefly.”

“That must be a comfort to Jenna.”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course.”

“Look, that’s it about Jenna. No more.”

“It would be a big help if I could talk to her. Is she coming here? For a board meeting?”

“Where did you get that from? Of course not. She’s still a minor. There wouldn’t be any point. She’s not coming here, and even if she were, I’m sorry, but I won’t have her bothered.”

“What about your next film project?”

“I don’t have one.”

“There are rumors.” I glanced meaningfully at the pile of manuscripts on the corner of his desk.

“Always rumors,” he said lightly.

“Teddy thought you agreed to do the book because you wanted to be in the public eye before the box office opened.”

A rap at the door punctuated my remark. The PA stuck his head in again.

“I agreed to this book because Teddy talked me into it,” Malcolm said before focusing on the intruder. “What, Darren?”

“I’m sorry. Someone to see—”

Before the PA could finish, Brooklyn Pierce was in the room, saying, “Hey, sorry, Mal, gotta talk to you, okay?”

If I hadn’t been watching Malcolm’s face closely, I wouldn’t have seen the mixture of distaste and despair that crossed it.

At close quarters, I could see how wrong I’d been about Pierce not aging like the rest of us. He wore a wrinkled suit instead of rolled-up khakis, and the skin around his eyes looked puffy and dark.

“Sorry, sorry, thought you were alone.”

“Mr. Pierce,” I said boldly. “I’ve been trying to reach you through your agent.”

Malcolm stood. “We’ll have to stop.”

I jumped to my feet as well, determined not to let the movie star escape again. Quickly, I introduced myself and started stammering out an interview request.

“Hey, yeah, sorry about Teddy,” Pierce interrupted. “Great guy, great interviewer. Hey, since she’s leaving, I’ll walk her out, Mal. Be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” The movie star’s arm was under my elbow and I found myself hustled from the room, practically jogging to stay on my feet. As soon as we were outdoors, the star spun me around to face him.

“Listen, sorry and all that, but I’ve gotta have that tape back. Hell, just destroy it, if that’s easier, but forget about using it.”

I didn’t deny possessing the tape, only because he didn’t give me the chance.

His hand clamped down on my shoulder. “No, never mind destroying it. I want the original. And no copies. Understand?”

“That hurts.”

Kalver, the PA, slammed the door, stomped down the walk, and glowered at Pierce, who, having heard him, immediately turned on the charm, smiling and shifting his hand so it looked like he was giving me a gentle farewell pat.

“Great meeting you.” Pierce’s grin was boyish and sincere, just like in the movies, and he waved as he headed up the path to the house. “Catch you later.”

CHAPTER

seventeen

As I keyed the ignition it came to me: Pierce wasn’t here to rekindle the Justice franchise; he was here for
Hamlet
, to play the madman, his wrinkled suit a stand-in for Hamlet’s “doublet all unbrac’d” and “stockings foul’d.” The thought evaporated like mist, dwindled along with my delight in my haircut and Malcolm’s compliments. Panic hardened slowly, like gelatin in cold water, and took its place. If Pierce had meant the scene as part of some bizarre audition, he’d have played it for Malcolm’s benefit, in Malcolm’s view. I was no casting agent. An iron band tightened across my chest.

The sun flamed on the horizon and made my eyes water. I veered into the breakdown lane, determined to compose myself, dabbed my streaming eyes with a tissue, rested my head against the steering wheel, counted the rapid pulse beating in my temples. My sunglasses were nowhere to be found. I twisted and grabbed my laptop off the backseat, booted it, and searched my junk-mail file to make sure my computer hadn’t relegated one of your communications to the electronic trash heap. I checked my deleted e-mail file, then reviewed all my e-mail, hunting for any mention of Brooklyn Pierce. The only hits occurred in old messages sent near the beginning of the project when his name turned up on a list of obligatory interviews or in correspondence with his agent and his manager.

How could I return a tape I’d never heard of? That was a valid question, but the question that really intrigued me concerned content. What could the tape reveal that would make Pierce demand its return so urgently? When did you tape it? Did you spot the elusive star marching over a rise like I did, grab notebook and recorder, pop your questions there and then? Even if it were a serendipitous meeting, a spontaneous interview, what could have kept you from phoning me, e-mailing, boasting? You were supposed to tell me everything.

I sucked in a breath, checked the mirrors, and pulled back onto the road. The dunes, the ocean, the quaint Cape scenery made no more impact on my senses than the speed limit signs.

At a red light I tapped my hand impatiently against the wheel. The Pierce tape might be piggy-backed onto the Sylvie Duchaine interview, stuck onto the end of the tape Caroline had held hostage, the same tape I’d recovered from the Bloomie’s bag. Yes, that could work, that made sense, if you’d been running low on blank tapes. The Duchaine interview was a short one.

I felt light-headed, faint, my stomach queasy with relief. I’d eaten nothing since breakfast. For a moment, hunger reassured me. Far from heading for a panic attack, I was merely starving. Deliberately relaxing my hands on the wheel, I indulged in a pep talk. The session with Malcolm hadn’t gone badly. He’d spoken about Jenna, confided the story of his father reciting Shakespeare to the pregnant Claire. I’d definitely include that. Teddy, I never realized how much the interviewer relied on constant, quick revision, on what seemed to me almost a mystical process, like mind-reading, the interpretation of pauses, gestures, the shift of tiny muscles beneath the skin.

I smiled in anticipation of hearing the Duchaine tape again, listening to Sylvie sing Malcolm’s praises now that I knew him so much better, so much more intimately. I wished you’d flat-out asked whether or not she’d slept with him, Teddy. Warmth crept up my neck as I recalled Malcolm telling me I didn’t need to dress up on his account.
Sweet,
he’d said,
like a schoolgirl
.

The minute I got in the house, I gulped sufficient peanut butter to quiet my stomach and fast-forwarded my way through the Duchaine tape, listening carefully to Sylvie’s brief response to your final question, then silence, silence, more silence, nothing but silence till the end. Nothing, nothing, no hint of where the missing tape might be.

I breathed deeply and began the search methodically. I delved into the corners of every drawer and cupboard you might have opened. The Pierce tape might have tumbled to the floor from the bedside table, somehow concealed itself under the bed. It could have fallen off the desk. I searched the shag carpet on hands and knees, combed the rough fibers with my fingers, sneezed at the disturbed dust.

I checked the list of tapes and transcripts. You were methodical, Teddy. Each tape bore a label; each was numbered. We were over a hundred and thirty tapes deep on Garrett Malcolm; I’d packed the most recent thirty in my duffel, along with a few of the early tapes, in case I had a question on transcription or needed to check a key quote. When I lined the tapes up in order, Number 128 was absent.

I could tell Pierce I didn’t have it. He might believe me, he might not. He might tell Malcolm, and “ay, there’s the rub,” for I’d assured Malcolm I had all your tapes, that I’d listened to each and every one.

Was this one of your surprises, Teddy, one of your little games? A pop quiz, as it were? I called your house, waited through four long rings before your voice, alive on the answering machine, shocked me so thoroughly I pressed “end call” without leaving any message. Oh, Teddy, your voice with its faint burr on the deepest notes. Heard unexpectedly, it killed me with sadness.

I sucked another deep breath and phoned Henniman’s, punching Jonathan’s extension as soon as the automated message started bleating.

“Did Teddy send you a tape?”

“Em? Are you okay?”

It was like waking in the middle of a dream. I carefully adjusted my tone from desperate to curious. “Oh, Jonathan, sure, I’m fine. I just wondered whether Teddy sent anything in the mail.”

“Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine, Jonathan, it’s going so well. Malcolm is absolutely cooperating.”

“So you’re on schedule? You’re ready to send the manuscript?”

“I will be. Soon.”

“I didn’t get any mail from Teddy, but do you know somebody named McKay, McCann, something like that? He left a couple of messages, mentioned Teddy? No?” He rushed on briskly. “Well, now that I’ve got you, why don’t I transfer you over to Ellie? I know she wants to set up some publicity dates.”

“No, Jonathan, I really don’t have time now.”

I ended the call, punched your home number again, listened stone-faced through your greeting, and left a message for Caroline. Please, could she call as soon as possible?

I reconsidered Brooklyn Pierce’s mad scene:
No, don’t destroy it, give it back, no copies.
He hadn’t ordered me not to listen to the tape before returning it. He hadn’t said I couldn’t use the material.

What could he have told you? What could have slipped out? Was Caroline devious enough to bait the Bloomie’s bag with the Duchaine tape, hide the Pierce tape? Did you talk to her, give her a hint that the tape contained potential dynamite? Talk to her, not to me? The more I considered the scenario, the more likely it seemed. How she must have laughed. How she must be laughing now.

There was nothing for it. I’d have to see her, make some kind of deal for the missing interview. I’d have to disrupt the schedule I’d painstakingly set with Malcolm, plod the bus back to Boston, find transportation to suburban Lexington, confront her. The idea of all that travel made the peanut butter churn in my gut.

I roamed room to room through the unfamiliar house, tried to focus my restless energy on the book, conjure the blinders I needed to work at anything near full capacity. I kept imagining the summoning trill of the phone, the ensuing argument with Caroline. At the apartment, in my tiny kitchen, I’d have brewed chamomile tea and sweetened it with honey; I’d have sipped from my flowered china mug while I turned out finished pages, adding them to the tidy pile on the right-hand corner of my desk. Here, I spooned peanut butter from the jar, licking the utensil slowly while I stared out the kitchen window into darkness. The silent phone seemed to shout Caroline’s triumph. She must have played the tape. God knew what she’d do with it, what she’d done with it already.

I could leave for Lexington now, drive myself, brave the terror of crowded highways. I had a car; I could drive. I checked the clock. Too late to make Lexington before Caroline went to sleep, but I could break the journey in Boston, spend the night in my own bed, surrounded by my own possessions, untouched in their orderly ranks, waiting like good children for their mother to return.

The thought of sleeping in my own bed decided me. Determination hardened into action. I folded my new periwinkle sweater, tucked it into an unfamiliar closet, changed into my uniform, and crept out of the darkened house, negotiating the porch steps by the light of my cell phone, wary of the neighbor’s prying eyes.

The whoosh of wheels on pavement soothed my ears. Route 6 was a ribbon of straight moonlit road with surprisingly little traffic. Driving felt good, purposeful, a task to complete in a discrete chunk of time, a solace and a comfort. Given reasonable luck, I could deal with your precious wife first thing in the morning and return in plenty of time to keep my appointment with Malcolm.

CHAPTER

eighteen

Massachusetts isn’t California; it’s not prone to earthquakes, but when thumping jarred me awake, “earthquake” was the word that shrieked though my brain. The thumping continued, mild and rhythmical, while I peered quizzically at the familiar face of the round clock on the bedside table. I’d set the alarm for six thirty, I was certain of it, but six thirty was past and the floorboards shuddered with thuds that came in clumps, three, then a pause, then three more. Melody downstairs. My sleep-drenched brain made the leap and I successfully connected the noise to Melody downstairs, who’d once declared she’d tap on her ceiling with a long-handled broom if she needed me. She’d said it years ago; I’d considered it a remote possibility, almost a comic one. If Melody needed help, she’d ring 911.

I dragged myself out of bed, feeling disoriented and disgruntled. The alarm had failed. It was almost half past seven. I threw on last night’s jeans and tee and plunged down the steps.