The Juliet (24 page)

When Willie reached the house she found more gifts on the stoop, but not as many and not as cheap. A full bottle of Jack Daniels, for example, and a satin scarf painted with wildflowers. Another stuffed bear, but bigger and made to look like an actual grizzly with a leather nose and paw pads.

Teddy bears for the dead. She gathered up the grizzly and the whiskey and the scarf. The door was shut but not locked, and Willie braced for a mess inside. Even if by some stroke of luck her house was not overrun with squatters, the police weren’t known for their tidy ways.

But it was worse than she expected; the front room was clear. Not just clean, but empty. The furniture had been shoved over to one wall, stacked and aligned, and there was nothing else except the light smell of cleaning solvent. As far as Willie could tell, anything personal to Rigg, the map segments in particular, had been taken away.

The Juliet would never be found inside The Mystery House. Willie couldn’t even pretend it was a possibility anymore.

Rigg’s daughter Debra was nothing if not efficient. Maybe that’s how she expressed her grief. Willie had spoken to her by phone as soon as the police released the scene. Debra didn’t give a damn about The Mystery House and made it clear that she never approved of her father’s final adventure. “I’m glad it’s you and not me,” she’d said, without a hint of meanness. She must have pressed a magic button in North Carolina, arranging for her father’s effects to be collected, including the Jeep. That’s what they had agreed to on the phone, that Debra would take what she wanted before Willie moved in.

Willie didn’t think it would happen so fast, though. She put the tributes on the little kitchen table. Everything scrubbed in there as well. There wasn’t a trace of Rigg Dexon left behind. Even the pieces of plaster and glass had been swept up. The holes were still in the wall, and many of the exposed bottles removed, but the edges had been tidied, sanded. Ready for patching.

If she was going to cry, now was the time to do it.

“You should have seen this dump two days ago.” It was Dexon’s voice, behind her.

Willie turned and saw a man dressed up like a cowboy with slicked-back hair and a ridiculous mustache. He tried to make his eyes twinkle as he stood on the threshold and removed his hat to hold it in front of him it like a steering wheel.

“Go away,” said Willie. “This is my house.”

He began to rotate the hat, disappointed by her reaction. “I came up the trail from the grave,” he said.

“That’s a good way to go down, too.”

“Let me just… You were the one that found him.” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “I got a camp going up a piece. I’ve been keeping an eye on the place for you, but I’m pretty sure some of the stuff got swiped before the cleaners came.”

She was supposed to be grateful. “I’m here now. You can pack up.”

“Toilet was backed up. I fixed that.”

Willie could do her own plumbing.

He cleared his throat. “I wanted to meet you. I want to make you an offer on this place.”

“Not for sale.”

He reached inside his vest and extracted a business card. She refused to take it from him, so he placed it on a windowsill. “Call me first. Promise. You won’t stay here long.”

Prediction or hex? She couldn’t tell, but it pissed her off either way. “Oh, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.” The hat was still circling, running laps in his fingers.

So the man in the chaps and the pinto vest did not want to be ridiculed. Willie said, “I’m not. I’m giving you a promise. In exchange for the toilet service. In exchange for you leaving.”

The hat stopped.

“There’s something else?” said Willie.

“Yes, ma’am.” Something he was afraid to ask for.

Empathy didn’t come easy to Willie, but she’d been developing in that area. “It was right there,” she said, pointing to the floor. “Only the sofa was along here, and the chair was over there, I guess. And the table…” She made a droopy, sweeping gesture, as if she were scattering corn.

The false cowboy stepped forward too quickly for his own good, but Willie was steady, unafraid.

“Here?” he asked. He only looked at her once, not even long enough to gain her approval. They both knew what was happening next.

He dropped to the ground and posed as best he could.

“Get up,” she said.

He didn’t want to, not just yet. “Like this?”

Fake Dexon was doing it all wrong. For one thing, there was too much coiled energy inside him.

“Or this?” he asked, tilting his elbows out.

“Get. Up.”

“Please, just…” He held his face rigid.

She had no idea how long she stood over him before she began to help, but soon Willie was using her foot to nudge a bend in the knee, to move the arm up. There weren’t enough opportunities in life to do things correctly, but this was one of them.

When he was in position, she said, “There.”

He said, “I’m ready, then.”

It took her a moment to decipher just what he was ready for, but then she knelt next to him and touched two fingers to the man’s neck. What a strong pulse. She saw a tear roll from his eyes, and he apologized.

She said, “We’re not done yet.” She tugged his shoulders and rolled him flatter. Made his boots point up to the ceiling. She put her finger on his chest.

He looked at her finger, expecting a lot.

She felt the heat through his ridiculous shirt. And his heart beat. Just the way it was when Dexon was sprawled out and still.

She dipped two fingers into the actor’s pocket and read his last words.

There was a beat. A single spasm and then nothing else.

Willie checked him all over again, but there was no other sign. If Rigg was still alive, he’d pulled the cosmic short straw, because now he was under the care of Willie Judy. And he’d left his note, which she read over the body.

She let Rigg be. Easy to do in the dark. She pulled the syringe from his arm and stashed it in the sack with the rest of Carter’s poison.

Now in the light of a waning afternoon, the Dexon look-alike wanted to know, “What else?”

“What else?” she echoed. Her throat and chest ached from the memory.

“Yeah, what else?” he asked, as if he knew.

All she could do was whisper, “How about forgiveness?”

THE OPERA HOUSE

Chapter 9

May 1, 1930: Centenary, NV

When Hobart Oliver finally returned to Centenary, it wasn’t to make movies, even though he was now one of cinema’s most influential figures. In fact no one made movies in Centenary anymore—not after the fire. Centenary was, without a doubt, still the most beautifully ruined of the west’s abandoned towns, but there were plenty of others out there with ghosts that were more distant. Distant ghosts were a mercy.

Once hoisted over the false altar, Mollina Grease had gone up like a candle, possibly due to a cross draft caused by an unrepaired gap in the eaves. The hem of her costume petticoat had been treated with a concentration of naphtha, meant to burn steady and stay contained for the duration of the scene. Oliver had decided to film at dawn when the day was at its coolest, partly as a consideration to the girl, but also because he wanted to finish early and hit the road. However, the cool morning came with a soft, deadly breeze.

There had been some damage to the Opera House. He’d promised to return with men who could fix it. He never did. He remembered watching the Skinners as the convoy pulled out with Mollina’s remains in the bed of a truck under an oilcloth tarp. The old man and his beautiful wife stood by in silent shock.

Well, shock was a kind of privilege, wasn’t it? Oliver convinced himself that the girl died doing what she loved. That was his position every time there was a loss on one of his films, and his crew had learned to be stalwart and philosophical about the risks. The only time there were tears was when a horse went down.

He also convinced himself that the Skinners never truly expected him to return.

That was seven years ago. Now Centenary’s main road had been re-graded, and as Oliver’s car approached the Opera House, he could see the words
Opera House
freshly painted above the entry. The exterior was light pink, and there were new red tiles on the roof. In general there was a buzzing, living feel to the building, despite the broken structures of the town that surrounded it.

“Looks like a giant teat in the desert.” Oliver tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Pull up, this is going to be interesting.”

The driver looked doubtful. “Who in their right mind is going to come all the way out to the middle of nowhere when there’s a Northern in every town?”

“Ah, but this is no ordinary card parlor.” Oliver tapped his topcoat, suggestively. “Don’t worry about me. I’m well prepared.”

The driver did as he was told.

Marcus Skinner was waiting for Hobart Oliver in the sheltered entryway, looking more like a doorman than proprietor. Skinner hadn’t changed much—old men stayed old men for a long time—but Oliver certainly had. He could see it reflected in Skinner’s eyes; the boy director had grown to become a man of significance.

Skinner greeted Oliver warmly and escorted him inside. “Thank you for honoring us with your return,” he said, as if there would be no mention of that earlier abandonment, no hard feelings at all.

The grand symmetry of the Opera House was unaltered, promising salvation to the lost, but the interior decoration was entirely new. The foyer took them past the cloakroom, now expanded and refitted as an elegant lounge, and the main hall was flooded with light and loaded with the trappings of a French salon. There were golden-framed paintings that filled the walls like pieces of a puzzle, depicting European landscapes, virile horses, and fleshy women cavorting with mythic creatures. The hall was furnished with sofas and oriental rugs and giant ceramic urns containing dangerous looking desert plants. At first there were too many colors—pink, green, gold, and cream—but it only took a moment for the soft jumble of their arrangement to make sense. Like the exterior, the hall sizzled with a strange excitement.

The slope of the gallery kissed the curve of the stage, as before. The curtains were gone, and the balconies had been walled off and converted into six apartment chambers, giving The Opera House the most expensive ratio of guest capacity to square footage Oliver had ever seen. What a folly. What a beautiful folly.

“The stage,” said Oliver.

“Yes, we’re most proud of that.”

They’d cut a large circular hole in the hardwood boards and replaced it with an inset of lapis tile. “That’s where Rebekah holds her sessions,” Skinner explained. He seemed unwilling to use the word
séance.

“A stunning achievement.”

“An expensive one,” joked Skinner. “However, we are solidly booked for six months.”

“I assume there is a gentleman’s parlor.”

“I would never give up my games, no matter how louche they might seem in this feminized environment.”

Oliver chuckled, but his smile faded when he saw that the ceiling was unfinished. At the very peak there remained the ruined pulley tackle, still connected to a partially blackened beam. Above it, a stain that resembled a giant black halo spread out and blended with the new paint. The center was unscorched where Mollina Grease’s body had protected the boards.

Oliver said, “And that?”

“That,” said Marcus, “is atmosphere.”

* * *

In the evening they ate an excellent dinner of venison, French cheese, and roasted apples. Rebekah Skinner had yet to make an appearance, but her beauty flowered in Oliver’s memory as soon as he bit into a golden crust of bread, still warm from the oven. Everywhere else in the country the depression raged, but there was no sign of it here.

Jazz music was playing. A modern touch, but the phonograph was out of sight. Skinner drank most of his meal, picking away at a small portion of mashed squash and cream.

Oliver stabbed a piece of meat and asked, “What animal is this?

“Mule deer, surprisingly.”

“Why surprisingly?” He plopped the bite in his mouth and chewed.

“The meat can taste a little ‘rutty.’ Our provider is very discerning, though.”

Oliver said, “I can tell that your lovely Rebekah supervised the baking. I assume we will not see her until later?”

“Yes, quite. She must prepare.”

“Is it indelicate to ask how she prepares?”

“Only a little.” Skinner smiled. “She fasts. Meditates. She has always been gifted, but in recent years she has learned how to control those gifts.”

Oliver said, “You know I pride myself on my skepticism, don’t you Skinner?”

“Yes, of course. That’s one of the reasons we invited you, in particular. There’s no theatrical trick that will escape your discerning eye, now is there?”

“I shall bring my analytical prowess to the table, as it were.”

Later, after whiskey and cigars were consumed in the parlor, Skinner addressed the matter directly as he guided his guest back to the theater, now referred to as Communion Hall. It was evening and the hall lights were dimmed, as if a curtain would soon rise on the performance.

“Ours is a unique venture. The Opera House will, as you can see, offer the most comfortable accommodations, combining the grace of high society with a frontier enthusiasm. It is also a mystical destination, a locus for spirits in natural residence.”

And here he paused to gesture towards the ceiling, no longer visible in the low evening light. A gesture towards Mollina Grease’s horrible fate. “As well as the ones we will call forth, using the considerable skills of my wife. And her angel, of course.”

“Angel?” asked Oliver. He had heard this sort of spiel before. “You mean her spirit guide.”

“Yes,” said Marcus Skinner. “Ours is home grown. Locked in Centenary, if you will. Her name is Lily Joy. It’s a terrible story.” Skinner shuddered as if the details would cause him digestive distress. “Mr. Oliver, we’ve invited you here because our vision for The Opera House is too close to realization to abandon, and yet we find ourselves with unanticipated obligations that require immediate satisfaction.”