The Elizas: A Novel(75)
And that’s who I need to be afraid of.
After all, who filmed that video of me in my hospital room? I’d asked Gabby, and she swore up and down it wasn’t her—she’d gone back to the hotel for the night, and my parents could corroborate the alibi. And who do I keep seeing lurking about? And who sent my novel to my parents? A different person might have let this go. You could say I chase strife and welcome complication. And yet, after I dial Gabby for the seemingly zillionth time and yet again get her voice mail—so she’s avoiding me? She knows that I know there’s more to the story?—I find myself dialing the Shipstead bar again and asking for the elusive Richie.
It’s the Aussie who answers, and I swear when he hears my voice he starts to snicker. I hang up and toss my phone to the mattress. But then I grab it again and type in the website for the Tranquility resort—if Aussie is lying about Richie being there, then maybe I can file a complaint. A picture of a stucco archway surrounded by succulent desert flowers serves as the resort’s homepage. I consider the navigation options, settling on “amenities.” A list of the bars within the resort pops up along with pictures of each. I click on the Shipstead and narrow my eyes at the familiar swaths of polished wood and the rigging ropes. No list of bartenders, though. Not even a name of a manager to whom I can grouse.
Still, I can just ask for a manager of the hotel and go from there, right? I click on a link marked Management, and pictures pop up. When I notice the face in the upper right-hand corner, my gaze brushes over him fast, the way it does when I see him in real life. But then I blink and look again. I’m confused. This guy belongs here, in Burbank. Not grinning in a suit next to a bunch of old guys in a photo titled From Our Family to Yours.
It’s Andrew. Dirty, Random-Sex Andrew from the whorehouse bar down the street.
I click on the photo to make it larger, gawking at his oily grin. How has Andrew snuck into a photo of the resort’s founding family? Is this some kind of joke?
There is no caption on the picture, but I notice a link titled Legacy. I am led to a page about how the Tranquility resort was built by the Cousins-Glouster family of hoteliers and how it’s the Cousins-Glouster family’s pride and responsibility to keep their resorts intimate, luxurious, and exclusive. There is a roster of Cousins-Glousters who keep the resorts afloat: George Cousins, second generation, balding and paunchy and pink-faced. Marvin Cousins-Glouster, second generation, taller and handsome, with an overbite. More old men, an incredibly old man, and then Andrew Cousins-Glouster, third generation, with that lascivious prep-school smile and that scar cutting across his eyebrow that I have focused on quite a few times while having a post-coital cigarette.
I gawk for a few still moments. Andrew? As in the guy who always buys the cheapest whiskey the bar sells? As in the doofus who wants to be part of a TV writing staff? An heir to a hotel fortune? A cog in a From Our Family to Yours? How did I not know about his connection to the Tranquility? Did I know?
The front door creaks open, scaring me. I run to the landing, almost expecting it to be Andrew, somehow instantly knowing what I’ve figured out. But it’s Desmond, fresh from work, carrying clothes he’s going to change into in a garment bag.
“Hello, mistress,” he trills, dropping a kiss on my forehead. “I’m going to take a quick shower and then we’ll go, yes? Are you excited?”
“Uh, sure.” I take too long to answer.
Desmond frowns and steps back. “What’s the matter?”
Don’t tell him, a voice in my head begs. I chew on the side of my hand and make a distracted mm.
He starts to massage my shoulder. “If you’re nervous about the show, don’t be. You’re going to be great.”
I dig my nails into my leg. I just can’t hold it in. “Say you just found out someone you know has insider knowledge to the Tranquility. Maybe access to security cameras. And say this person is more than likely down the street at the wine bar that used to be a brothel right now. Would you maybe call that person, or pop in quickly, and ask some questions?”
Desmond sinks onto the couch. “Why does it matter?”
“But it would prove unequivocally what happened.”
“But didn’t Gabby tell you what happened?”
“Maybe not everything. Maybe there’s more. I think Gabby only came at the end. She might be lying about what else I saw . . . or she might not know. If I had a video feed, something, I would know for sure what all went on.”
Desmond looks shaken. “But didn’t that guy you were talking to from the police say the cameras had been out during that time because of a storm?”
“So we ask a bartender. Just something to prove I spoke to Gabby and only Gabby.”
“But why does it matter? Gabby’s the one who pushed you in the pool, right?”
“Yes, but I want the whole truth. I want to make sure . . .” I’m not sure what I want to make sure of. I’ve lost so many memories; it’s puzzling why I’m so driven for this particular one back. Or is it?
“Eliza.” Desmond’s eyebrows knit together. “You know I totally support you on unlocking your memories. But maybe today isn’t the right time. Your mind should be clear. You should be thinking about being on TV. It’s going to be live, after all. You have to be at your best.”
“I know, but it’s not like this would take very long, and . . .”