Night Film(101)

“You’d done something to provoke him.” She smiled at my look of surprise. “Surely you’ve noticed that the space around Cordova distorts. The closer you get to him, the speed of light slackens, information gets scrambled, rational minds grow illogical, hysterical. It’s warped space-time, like the mass of a giant sun bending the area surrounding it. You reach out to seize something so close to find it was never actually there. I’ve witnessed it firsthand myself.”

She fell silent, pensive, just as her three uniformed maids entered with the tea. They set about arranging it before us on the coffee table, fine china, a five-tiered silver tower laden with cakes, petits fours, mini-cupcakes, and triangular sandwiches. Olivia slipped off her velvet heels—from Stubbs & Wootton, I noticed, the billionaire’s Nike—curling her black stocking feet underneath her. As the maids poured the tea, I noticed Nora was blinking in shock at the elaborate setup.

“Thank you, Charlotte.”

Charlotte and the other girls nodded demurely and darted away, their shoes silent on the carpet.

“You must be wondering why on earth you’re here,” said Olivia, sipping her tea. “You’ve resumed work on your investigation of Cordova, have you not?”

Her eyes met mine as she set down the teacup. They were bright as a schoolgirl’s.

“How did you hear that?”

“Allan Cunningham.”

The name rang a bell.

“The director of Briarwood Hospital? I’ve done some charity work for them. He told me he caught you digging rather shamelessly around the grounds last week. Posing as a potential guest.”

Of course—Cunningham had hauled me into the Security Center and threatened to have me arrested.

“How is the investigation going?” she asked.

“It hasn’t been easy getting people to talk.”

Returning the teacup to the saucer, she sat back, staring at me.

“I’ll talk,” she announced.

I couldn’t help but smile, amused by her directness. “About?”

“What I know. It’s quite a lot, believe me.”

“Because of your sister?”

Her smile faltered. That was unexpected; I’d have assumed she’d gotten over Marlowe long ago, had put her away in some safe-deposit box of childhood and locked it, tossing the key. But the mention of her sister visibly irked her.

“I haven’t spoken to Marlowe in forty-seven years. I don’t know what she thought of Stanislas or what her experiences were. I had my own encounters. And I’ve never wanted to speak about them. Until now.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Ashley.”

She said it matter-of-factly. Nora was leaning forward, nervously eyeing the petits fours, as if worried they’d scurry away if she went for one.

“Police think it was suicide,” I said.

Olivia nodded. “Perhaps. But there’s more to it.”

“How do you know?”

“I met her once.” She paused to sip her tea, and when she set the teacup down, she looked at me, her eyes piercing. “Do you believe in the supernatural world, Mr. McGrath? Ghosts and the paranormal, unexplained forces we can’t see yet nonetheless affect us?”

“No, not really. But I do believe in the human mind’s ability to make something like that seem very real.”

“Stanislas and his third wife, Astrid, have an estate in the Adirondacks near Lows Lake.”

“Yes, I know. The Peak.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been?”

“I tried stopping by to pay my respects five years ago. Never got past the security gate.”

Olivia smiled knowingly, sitting back against the couch. “I went there the first week of June in 1977. I was a struggling actress. Twenty-nine years old. Cordova was preparing his next film, Thumbscrew. His assistant, Inez Gallo, wrote to my agent and said Cordova had seen me in Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre and was very impressed by my work.” She smiled with visible embarrassment.

“I had a rather pitiful walk-on role, my back to the camera the entire time. So it seemed a cruel joke. But the assistant insisted he loved my look and was considering me for a very unusual part, which he’d written specifically with me in mind. He invited me to stay for the weekend at The Peak so we might discuss the role. I lived in the East Village then. I borrowed money from a girlfriend to rent a Packard station wagon, and I drove all the way up there, all by myself. I hadn’t booked a job in over a year. I was desperate. As I drove I made a pact with myself that I’d do anything—absolutely anything—for the role.”

She paused for a moment, her hand idly stroking one of the dogs.

“The drive in was quite beautiful. When you’re past the woods and the security gate, it becomes a leisurely drive through oak trees and undulating hills. There wasn’t a soul around. It was bright, hot. The sun was out, and yet I remember feeling so nervous, it soon slipped into terror, as if I were entering a graveyard in the dead of night. Every now and then I could hear a flock of birds, crows, screeching overhead. But when I slowed the car and looked up, there was nothing in the sky or the trees. Nothing.”

She sipped her tea.

“When I arrived at the house, a dark, colossal mansion straight out of—I don’t know—a Poe short story, I parked by the other cars. There were quite a few, as if other actresses had been summoned as well. Yet I found myself unable to get out of my car. It was a terrible feeling. But I wanted that part. I needed it. To be in a Cordova picture was really the ultimate, you see. I’d heard it could not just make your career, but your life.”