CHAPTER EIGHT

I sit on the couch in the living room, exhausted in all ways by the events of the morning. The lights from the police cars outside flicker through the house.

Celeste has stopped weeping. She sits next to me, a vacant expression on her face. I have my arm around her. Evelyn is outside talking to the police detective.

Officers move through the house, checking thoroughly for anything that might indicate what happened here. The studio is roped off, and soon, crime scene investigators will arrive to take photographs, dust for prints, test for blood spatter and dig through every little thing that might shed some light on Victor’s disappearance.

From time to time, they glance at the two of us as we sit and wait our turn with the detective. Their faces are stony. I find that incredibly frustrating. I know they have jobs to do, and they can’t allow emotion to interfere with their work, but would it kill them to have a little compassion for a poor young girl whose only surviving family is missing?

I offer Celeste a smile of my own. If she notices, she doesn’t react to it. Her eyes remain riveted out the window, staring at the vanishing point where the Pacific Ocean meets the inlet that leads to the magical Fairy Cove.

Not so magical today. Not the kind of magic that warms hearts anyway.

“Come on,” I tell her. “Let’s sit somewhere else.”

She doesn’t react, but when I try to lift her to her feet, she remains rigidly planted where she is. I recognize this as a symptom of shock. She’s dissociated enough that she can’t focus on anything but the vanishing point outside, and her body is semi-consciously reinforcing her superstition by stolidly refusing to allow her perspective to be changed.

There’s nothing I can do to help with that right now. It’ll have to run its course.

In any case, I wouldn’t have the chance to move because a voice calls, “Mary Wilcox?”

I stand and smile at Celeste again. “I’ll be right back.”

Evelyn takes my place at Celeste’s side. The place is crawling with police officers, so I’m not worried about Evelyn trying anything here, but I still hesitate before following the detective outside.

Instead of leading me outside, though, she takes me up the stairs. We walk into the theater and through there to the schoolroom.

“Trying to get out of this heat,” she explains as she takes a seat.

She's a thick-bodied woman of around forty with a flat face and hair, a cross between a crew cut and a pompadour.

She gestures for me to sit. The only other chair here is Celeste’s school desk, so I reply, “I’ll stand, thank you.”

She shrugs and folds her hand on top of the table. “I’m Detective Andrea Reyes, Monterey Bay Police Department.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective. Well, not really, but you know what I mean.”

She smiles slightly. “Yes, I do. I’m sorry that you’re all going through this right now.”

“Me too. Poor Celeste.”

“How has she been?”

“Celeste?”

“Yes.”

She looks at me with the peculiar bored but shrewd expression I’ve seen on the faces of so many police detectives. I wonder if that’s something they train to affect or if it’s just a natural look for the sort of people who gravitate toward police work.

“She’s devastated,” I reply. “Up until five minutes before you arrived, she was hysterical.”

Reyes nods. “Yeah, I can imagine.” She leans back and folds her hands across her midsection. “How long have you worked for Mr. Holloway?”

I chuckle mirthlessly. “This is my second full day.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Really. I arrived at nine in the evening two days ago.”

“Hm. And what was your impression of Mr. Holloway?”

I hesitate briefly. I want to help, but I don’t know how much I can say that will be of use to them.

Reyes seems to sense my uncertainty. “Just answer the questions, Mary. I’ll take into account that you didn’t know him well.”

I take issue with her use of the past tense. “Do know him well. Until we know that he’s dead, let’s not assume.”

“Of course. Please answer the question.”

I still hesitate. I have had mixed experiences with police officers, and I fear that what I have to say could predispose them to think that Victor hurt himself. Admittedly, that looks likely to be the case, but I don’t want them to dismiss the possibility of foul play the way the Boston Police dismiss the possibility that Annie could have come to harm and not simply chosen to leave.

Then I remember the painting and the evidence Sean finds of Annie’s arrival in Monterey. It hits me rather hard that the evidence now suggests that Annie did choose to leave.

I realize I haven’t spoken yet. With no convenient lie coming to mind, I have no choice but to offer the truth and hope that Detective Reyes uses it well.

“I thought he was distracted.”

“Distracted?”

“Yes. He… well, he seemed to be all over the place. When I arrived, he didn’t know who I was at first.”

“Was he expecting you?”

“Yes. I’d spoken to him over the phone that morning and told him I was arriving late that evening. It was resolved quickly, but he was overall just very preoccupied. He seemed very focused on his art.”

“Did he seem depressed or unhappy?”

I hesitate again, not to think of a lie but because I’m actually not sure how to answer that. Had she asked me before Victor’s disappearance, I would have said he didn’t seem depressed, but now I don’t know.

“He seemed anxious,” I finally say. “I wouldn’t say unhappy. Just… I overheard him when he was painting, and he seemed very desperate that this particular work of art meet his expectations.”

“Which were?”

“The art or his expectations.”

“His expectations. Both, if you know the answer to both.”

“I’m not familiar with what he was working on,” I say, “but he said that reality was a facade, and he needed to transcend that facade and find the true essence underneath.”

Reyes's expression remains mostly unchanged, but the slight lifting of her eyebrows tells me that she finds that intriguing. "He said this to you?"

“No, I overheard it.”

“How?”

Heat climbs my neck. “I heard noises coming from the studio and climbed the stairs to see if he was all right. When I reached the studio, I hesitated and listened.”

“Why did you hesitate?”

“I was told the room was off limits.”

“So you heard all of this through the door?”

“Yes.”

She taps her finger twice, then asks, “You were present at the dinner last night, yes?”

“Yes.”

“How was Mr. Holloway’s behavior during dinner?”

“During dinner? He was… well, he was polite and charming. An excellent host.”

“You paused when you said that.”

I’m starting to feel uncomfortable with Reyes’s probing stare. I shift on my feet and say, “Well, prior to dinner, he was anxious once more. He was concerned that dinner be perfect. He was worried about wine choice and searched his kitchen several times, but I’m not convinced he was looking for anything. He said he was, but it seemed almost…”

“Compulsive behavior?”

“I don’t want to make that claim,” I demure. “I’m not a psychologist.”

She nods. “And these guests were his art dealer and a local gallery owner, right?”

“Yes. A Miss Lisa Reinhardt and a Mr. Marcus Fairfax.”

“And what was your impression of them?”

“Normal enough. Marcus was a little uncouth when the wine got to him, but he seemed pleasant. Lisa was rather uptight, but—if you’ll forgive me—not much more so than most people of a certain class.”

She gives a half-smile which is probably the closest to laughter she ever comes, then says, “And how did Mr. Holloway seem to like them?”

"It was hard to tell. There was definitely some tension between the three of them, however all three seemed very concerned that the tension not become an actual fight. Marcus and Lisa seemed to respect Victor's talents, and Victor seemed to respect their business acumen."

“So it was important to them that they maintain a positive working relationship.”

“Oh yes. That was more important to them than anything.”

She nods. “That matches Mrs. Torres’s version of events. What about Celeste?”

My hackles rise slightly. I have a feeling I know where this is going. “What about her?”

“How did she feel about the guests?”

I don’t answer right away. It is important to me to protect Celeste. I’m not above thinking that children are capable of malice, but Celeste clearly couldn’t have been responsible for her father’s disappearance.

Then again, the way she looked at Lisa… I chalked it up to jealousy, I suppose, but now that I think about it…

“She didn’t like them at all. She particularly seemed to dislike Lisa.”

“She said so?”

"No, but she looked at the woman with a great deal of anger. I thought that she was jealous. Her mother died when she was very young. Victor is the only family she has, as far as I know."

“She has grandparents in Utah, but they’re estranged,” Reyes replies.

I’m not sure why she volunteers this information or why she searches my face when she does. “I see. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Maternal or paternal?”

“Maternal. I guess they blame Victor for Julia’s death.”

Again, she watches me closely. I still don’t know what she expects to find.

“Well, in any case, Celeste was very disdainful of Lisa. She didn’t seem so angry with Marcus, just a little disgusted.”

“Because of his uncouthness?”

“That would be my guess.”

Reyes nodded. “How long have you known Lisa and Marcus?”

I stare at her for a moment. That question is entirely out of left field. “Well, I don’t know them. I’ve only just met them last night.”

“And you’re already on a first-name basis with them?”

I stare for another moment. What on Earth could she possibly be insinuating? "They asked that I call them by their first name. That's fairly common."

“Sure. Of course.” She stands. “Okay, Miss Wilcox. Thank you for talking to me. One last question: do you intend to remain here?”

“Yes,” I reply firmly. “I was hired to care for Celeste, and that’s what I’ll do.”

"Good. That's what I want to hear."

She gestures for me to leave, but I lift my hand. “Please go easy on Celeste, Detective. I know that you have to interrogate her, but she couldn’t have been responsible for what happened to Victor. She was with me at the beach when Victor went missing. She’s very much in shock and she’s very worried for him. Please don’t be hard on her.”

“We won’t. Mrs. Torres already told us that you two were at Mr. Holloway’s private cove when she discovered he was missing.” She searched my face again. “You care a lot for Celeste.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

I’m once again surprised by the question. “Because she’s an innocent young girl who needs someone to care for her. Is it really so shocking that I do?”

Reyes doesn’t respond to my question. She only nods and gestures again for me to lead the way from the schoolroom.

I do, and my head spins as I try to figure out what just happened. I think one thing that frustrates me about police officers is that they’re far more difficult to read than the average person. I can’t tell if Reyes suspects me or Evelyn or Lisa or Marcus.

It might be prudent for me to look over my shoulder every once in a while. I am sure that if Detective Reyes digs far enough, she will learn of my past employers and wonder if my arrival here has brought death to her quiet town.

I must confess that I wonder the same thing.