There is an art to finessing a conversation into areas where people prefer not to go. There is a reward, too, as their revelations are more authentic because of their freshness, never having been shared before. This is one of the most valuable skill sets for a ghost—being able to get close enough to your clients to help them find the meaning in their lives, and then to bring it to their readers, who are seeking meaning of their own. Do this without leaving any sign of your own fingerprints on the material, and you will prevail.
The flight attendant standing before Mari was prettier than many models and wearing a fitted skirt and sheer silk blouse. She extended a tray, holding a single cobweb-thin flute.
“No, thank you,” Mari said. “I’ll wait until everyone boards.”
“As you like.” The woman smiled, retreating.
Mari pulled out her laptop and recorder so everything would appear normal to Dante and Sigrid. She couldn’t take her eyes off the cabin door. She didn’t know how she was going to hold it together. Quickly reading her list of remaining questions, she decided she’d assess his mood and ask him about either his father’s passing the previous year or, for a lighter tack, his collaboration with Stetson on a signature hat. It seemed impossible to look Sigrid in the eye. Mari forced herself to breathe.
Sigrid glided into view as she climbed aboard the jet. As Sigrid approached, Mari watched the iron-bar rigor of her spine. Feeling her nerves prickle, she tried to forget her suspicions, as if Sigrid would be able to read them on her face. Mari used her childhood acting skills—put the other person at ease, have no feelings of your own. She plastered on a cool smile.
Sigrid sat down across from Mari, but still, Dante didn’t appear. The flight attendant closed the door. Mari wouldn’t give Sigrid the satisfaction of asking where he was.
“Diana,” Sigrid said, turning to the flight attendant, “bring us some champagne.”
In a flash, the woman was at their elbow, tray extended, with two flutes of bubbly. Mari’s nerves sparked. Sigrid was flashing her usual smile. Having spent the past week immersed in a story about a secret drugging, and the past hour in the room of a writer who had been blackmailed into rehab, she felt suspicion was warranted. But when Sigrid reached for a glass, Mari couldn’t see a way to refuse. She focused on keeping it together while taking a small sip.
“Thank you,” Mari said to the woman. She nodded to Sigrid. Hopefully, the champagne would soothe her and help her to play along.
“Dante sends his regards,” Sigrid said. “He had a last-minute band meeting. The plane will fly back and retrieve him.”
Mari nodded, although this made no sense. If there was a band meeting, why wasn’t Sigrid there? And why would they fly Mari on ahead by herself? Her mouth went dry.
Sigrid reached into her giant Chanel bag, and Mari’s heart stuttered. But Sigrid only pulled out a stack of manila files.
“Since you have told me how you are a perfectionist, I brought you Dante’s press photos you did not yet look through. I know you will want to see each and every one.”
Again, it felt like Sigrid was fucking with her, but she couldn’t see why. Rather than thwarting her or wasting her time, Sigrid should have wanted to help Mari succeed at her job—so Dante’s book would not only be a bestseller but also well reviewed. Mari took the folders, but she didn’t open them. She must keep pushing, as long as she still had access.
“Since this is our last day, I was hoping you could answer—”
“No, I am sorry, I cannot,” Sigrid said. “I have important work to finish. As do you.”
The flight attendant reminded them to turn off their cell phones, and then she took her seat, and Mari was alone with Sigrid. The plane rose into the air, and Mari sipped her champagne, trying to pace herself. But Mari had never been good at moderation—that’s why she was such a stellar ghost, her obsessiveness, her ability to forgo her own comfort. After the day she’d had, Mari was on the edge of panic. She accepted another glass from the flight attendant. As she drank it, she pretended to look at the press photos while trying to get inside Sigrid’s mind. What made people do their worst? She thought about her own transgressions of the past week. Fear.
Flipping her perspective, Mari wondered how scared Sigrid had been when Anke had almost lost her place with the band and Sigrid had nearly been sent back to East Germany. And then, once Sigrid had done the criminal, or at least the hateful, certain she had earned her safety, how it had felt to have Anke leave her behind. Or maybe this was Mari’s romantic projection. She considered what V had said about the cruelty of women. How much more at ease Sigrid seemed around the band without the wives. Sigrid had done well for herself after Mal died, on her own, whether she had orchestrated his death or just Anke’s incorrect flight. But it had to be the darker version of the story, or else the first writer would still be here instead of Mari, right?
As hard as Mari had been pushing for the truth, she hadn’t believed she would uncover a suicide, let alone a murder and blackmail. She had no idea what to do. What did Dante know of all this, and how could it ever appear in his book? Even if she told Anke everything—her trip to Vegas, her attempt to help her sister—she doubted Anke trusted her enough to let her make use of this material in her book. Mari needed to tell Ezra everything, but there was no time now.
When Sigrid dozed off, Mari was so wound up, she accepted a third glass of champagne. Nervous as Mari was, the jet was luxurious, the service impeccable. She had said no to herself every day for years, forcing herself to sit, endlessly, at her computer. It felt so good to say yes. Hopefully, a light buzz would ease her approach to the obstacle course of dinner.
The little plane bumped down in Palm Springs, and Mari drained the last of her glass, to avoid letting the liquid spill. She had trouble putting the glass down on its base, and she could barely keep her eyes open. It felt like she’d had three bottles of champagne, not three thin flutes. She should have given herself enough time to grab that double capp before she had left the hotel. She had no idea how she would get through the long night ahead, especially with as little sleep as she’d had. The wine would be abundant, and she would have to pull it together if she was going to seem laid-back and fun—worthy of her inner circle status. Sigrid’s eyes remained shut until the plane stopped. Then they popped open, and she looked straight at Mari, who was already smiling in answer to Sigrid’s familiar grin. The hair on Mari’s arms stood up.
Sigrid left the plane without saying a word. Apparently they were done with niceties. In a way, it was a relief when she wondered if she could even speak coherently. At least she could disappear into the chaotic frivolity of the family dinner. As she stood, her insides shifted in a strange way, like her blood was sand. But she forced herself to act normal. She was glad Sigrid didn’t see her smash against the leather seats as she tried to walk down the aisle. Just before the door was a basket of drinks and snacks, and she grabbed a Coke for its jolt of caffeine.
A black Escalade waited on the runway. Sigrid was seated in the back. Deep within Mari, a voice told her to run back onto the plane and insist they return her to Vegas. Or to take a taxi to Anke’s house in Palm Springs. But as usual, she silenced her inner protector and did the scary thing to maintain the status quo. Now she had even more at stake—she had made a promise to Vivienne, and she felt responsible for the other writer, not to mention Dante and Anke.
The romance of the wild landscape was revealed in swaths by the sweep of the car’s headlights. As they made the right turn onto Highway 62, she and Sigrid locked in cold silence, Mari’s thoughts fuzzed into static. The car raced up the long gliding hill to the first town of the high desert, Morongo Valley. They careened up the second hill, to Yucca Valley, where the windswept magic gave way to the generic everywhere of strip malls and fast-food spots.
Mari felt like her neck was a pile of loose rocks as they bounced down a long dirt driveway, no lights visible anywhere. Sigrid remained still. It was a relief when they pulled up to the well-lit house. Mari could ask to turn a spare bedroom into a temporary office, close the door against Sigrid’s prying eyes, and sneak a nap before Dante arrived. She felt so tired, her eyes drifted closed. This was unlike her, and it was very bad.
Stumbling out of the van, she was slapped awake by the cold, fresh air. The vast structure was made of white stuccoed adobe that glowed against the dark hills. Mari put on her game face to meet the family, but the hot kitchen was silent.
“The bathroom … please?” Mari slurred.
These were the first words she had spoken in an hour, and her throat was silty and parched. Sigrid pointed to a wooden door that was ajar. Mari did her best to walk like a sober person, Sigrid’s gaze boring into her back. Mari caught sight of framed photos, which she was sure were incredible cultural artifacts, but she couldn’t trust herself to turn her head and look.
It was a relief to be alone. When she was done, she fixed her clothes, shut the lid, and sat down. The gears of her brain were jammed, and she couldn’t make her thoughts move. Struggling with her bag’s zipper, she found her phone. She had to get out of here. She had come because she believed Dante and his family would be here, and Sigrid continued to think she had Mari fooled. This situation was clearly way more dangerous than making a social gaffe or losing a client. She hadn’t been sure what she would do, now that she was so close to the truth of what had happened to Mal. But she could feel Sigrid in the process of forcing her to decide, now.
Vivienne was not trustworthy or dependable, especially today. Anke was still evading her, while dangling the prize of her book. Ezra would tell her to flee. Izzy was the only friend Mari had made in a long time. She tried FaceTiming Izzy, but she had no signal. She recorded a short audio text. Before she could talk herself down, she hit send, desperate for an ally, or at least a witness. The bar crawled across her screen, inching toward completion, then got stuck.
Mari slapped her cheeks, ran cold water over her wrists. She could barely keep her eyes open. Hopefully, Dante would arrive soon. But the silence in the house felt spooky and resonant, and she couldn’t picture dinner. She opened the old-fashioned casement window. Teetering for balance, she stuck her phone into the night sky. Reaching with her other hand, she hit retry on her text to Izzy and nearly fell over. Her phone caught a bar of service, and after what felt like three days, her message went through. The knots in Mari’s stomach loosened.
After several goes at the latch, she managed to open the door. As she did so, an incoming text chimed nearby.
Sigrid stood on the other side, waiting for her.
“Oh, maybe she forgot to tell you. Izzy has a new phone. A new number.”
Sigrid held out an iPhone so Mari could see its home screen, featuring a picture of a younger Izzy, singing backup with the band. There was a text notification, from Mari.
“What did you do to Izzy? She’s my friend.”
“Izzy is smart. She is a survivor. She has told me about your Hercule Poirot game and how you asked her many questions. She will go far. Dante will produce her solo debut for her.”
“Ody won’t let you hurt me. He’ll be here for dinner soon.”
“He was called to Palm Springs at the last moment. Anke needed him right away. She never could wait for anything. She always take, take, take.”
“You’re lying,” Mari said. She leaned against the wall, willing herself not to sit. But she could imagine Anke inventing an errand for Ody, too proud to admit her own human need.
“It is for the best. When the secrets show their bones, Ody will get hurt. Lose a father who is dear to him. I have always known, but now you have given me the need to use this intel.”
Too late, Mari caught up with what was happening. Whether it was drinking on an empty stomach, being at altitude, running on coffee fumes for days, or something Sigrid had put in her drink, she had let herself fall into a terrible state. And Sigrid was confronting her. Realizing she was way past making a good impression, she opened the Coke and chugged it, forced her shattered molecules back together as much as she could.
“But why would you hurt Dante like that?”
“Yes, it hurts father as much as it hurts son. But it also hurts Anke.”
The sugar hit Mari’s empty stomach and, psychosomatic or not, she felt a little better.
“You’re afraid Anke is going to expose you in her book.”
Sigrid gave her a long look. “Anke is not loyal.”
“What if I promised she won’t?”
“What promise? She fired you.”
“You don’t know Anke anymore,” Mari said.
Sigrid surprised Mari by linking their arms. Mari recoiled at being so close to her, and her dense, spicy Chanel perfume, but she could no longer stand. With a scorpion sting of fear, she realized she hadn’t drunk too much. Sigrid did this. Just like she did whatever she did to the other writer. Now Sigrid led her outside, her head lolling on her neck. The cold air helped. But she was too far gone. Mari’s eyes closed. Her mind was afraid, but her body felt wrapped in gauze.
“Step down,” Sigrid instructed.
Like two separate animals, her mind fought while her body was docile as a child. Mari obliged. Her boots filled with warm water. Her eyes flew open. Sigrid had led her onto the top step of Dante’s pool. The water danced with shadows in the low light. Mari fell through time, back to the night Mal died. He was small for a man, and on that night, he’d also been drugged, and suicidal. Sigrid had been young, strong, ruthless. Yes, it was easy to understand how it had happened. Mari whimpered.
“You are certain you are so smart. You think you see everything. Now I believe you see reality. We are eight miles from town. The cell signal is very bad. But there is a house phone. If we call now, the ambulance will arrive to pump your stomach. It is embarrassing for you, to have taken barbiturates and champagne for your nerves on the flight. But you live. Or you are one more accidental drowning. One more casualty. One more writer who goes off the rails. Jack is good. Dante is good. The band is good. We go on. Enjoy our lives. Make money. You do not.”
Sigrid forced Mari to step down again, up to her ankles.
“It’s not like you can just”—Mari put all of her effort into getting out these few words—“have another accidental drowning, lose another writer, and no one suspects.”
“It is rock ’n’ roll,” Sigrid said. “At the most rarefied level, where only the few can go. Accidents happen all the time. Especially to the weak. Who can’t keep their heads together. Who do not belong here. Like Mal. Like the first writer. Like you. The story writes itself. You are inexperienced, under too much pressure. You are scared, you overindulge, you die.”
It sounded plausible, even to Mari. Sigrid gripped Mari’s arm and continued talking, fast and hot, with the intensity of someone who had not been free to speak before.
“You, of all people, should understand, Mari. Always have to earn your place. Always have to be useful. Not beautiful. Not charming. Not talented. You must do whatever it takes to be invited to stay. Don’t you dare judge me for something you would do yourself, in a heartbeat. And now, you are how old? Thirty-five? Forty? Think how tired you are. Now, imagine to be seventy. You have given away your whole life. You have nowhere. I am being more than fair, because Dante likes you, because now he has said he will write with no one but you. Your talent as a ghost could save you. But you will have to play by my rules. It is time to decide.”
Mari’s eyes were slits, but she understood Sigrid as she hadn’t before. There was nothing else for Sigrid—this was her whole life, had been for a long time. Mari comprehended everything, slow as her brain was working. If Mal had dumped Anke, she and Sigrid were both out. Through Anke’s influence, Sigrid had been put in charge of Mal’s estate. She had gotten the will signed. Then he fired her. Started acting crazy. Threatened her. The life insurance would be null if he committed suicide. So, she had made it look accidental, providing Anke with money, igniting the spark between Anke and Dante, securing Anke’s position with the band and therefore her own. Much more valuable than money to someone with nowhere else to go.
Sigrid made her focus, her fingernails like knives against Mari’s skin.
“Times have changed, Sigrid,” Mari said. “Crimes are much easier to detect. I was in Axel’s room—I saw the documents. I saw Mal’s note. I know he didn’t just have a meltdown.”
“So you have broken and entered into this room that is not yours, and yet you have no papers, no proof,” Sigrid said. “I have lots of friends in the police, from all these years, being a fixer for the band, as you want to label me. My friend in the police department in Las Vegas would want to question you—I mean, how else would you get an important job like this? Your résumé is not so good. This friend, he called me late last night. Told me about a young woman he booked. Assault. Theft. Solicitation. You see, I had asked him to run a check on Dante’s writer, before we hired her. And he noticed this young woman has the same last name as Dante’s ghost. He knows this could be very embarrassing for Dante, for the band.”
“Vivienne? But she didn’t hurt anyone. She got thrown out of a car by her date.”
“Maybe you are not so good at learning the truth after all,” Sigrid said. “When I bail her out this morning, which, let me say, not just anyone can do on a Sunday, I told her what her story is. If she wants to keep from hurting you. If she wants to make it all go away. This is not her first arrest for solicitation, as you must have known. She could have done real time.”
Of course, how else did she think V got by? She didn’t want to see it, so she didn’t look.
“Oh,” Mari said, all her clever words used up.
Mari’s sleepy mind drifted to Anke, alone, smoking, holding a vigil for her drowned men; Vivienne, alone, in the back of a police car the night before, all her pretty survival tools smashed and ruined; Mari, right here and now, alone, about to lose it all. But she hadn’t lost yet.
“Do you know what most prostitutes go down for?” Mari forced her voice to be steady. “Tax evasion. I wrote a book with an escort, and I’m sure her accountant can help V get ahead of any financial liability she might face. What’s more concerning is your suggestion of local law enforcement corruption. When V goes before the judge to clear all this up, I’m sure he’ll want to know just how she got bailed out on a Sunday and by whom—” Her eyes closed like mousetraps.