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A week later, Claudia and Mason were standing in the guesthouse, which was set a little up the hill behind the main house. Mason privately thought it was maybe the nicest house she’d ever been in, guest or otherwise, but she did her best to maintain her cool. No one was fooled, but it didn’t matter.

Downstairs was one big open room, with a fireplace at one end, and a small kitchen at the other. One wall had French doors that opened onto a narrow patio and the path down to the main house. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a bathroom bigger than Mason’s old apartment. A claw-foot bathtub was big enough for her to float in, or would be once they’d finished cleaning up and repainting. Mason insisted on doing the work herself, and despite Julia sulking about it for two days, eventually she’d won that argument.

Now she was scrubbing the kitchen floor, as she and Claudia discussed where to put in a cat door for Phil. The cat in question was sitting on the spiral staircase that led upstairs, which he thought was a structure specifically created for him.

Suddenly, they heard Julia’s dulcet tones from somewhere outside. “Where the fuck is everyone? Why is no one here when I need them? You’re all fired!”

Sighing, Mason tossed her brush in the bucket of warm soapy water, and they headed out to see what the songbird wanted. Down the hill, Mason could see laborers starting work on the reframing of the living room wing, the architect standing there clutching her hair. It was going to take a while, but it was happening.

Julia was standing on the path, a red filing box in her arms, a letter in her hand. She was as furious as Mason had ever seen her, and the younger woman stopped a safe distance away. Claudia had more experience, and just kept walking.

“What’s up?”

Julia waved the letter. “This just came from Patty! It was supposed to come to me but went to the museum instead. Read this shit! Even dead that bastard annoys the crap out of me. Pull the car around, Mason. We’re going to dig him up and stomp on his decomposing nuts. I mean it. Any car will do. We’ll have to stop for a shovel, but we’re doing it.”

Claudia calmly took the note and read it out loud:

“ Dear Julia ,” it began, “ If you’re reading this, then I’m dead already, which is something I’ve always wanted to say. I’m heading to your place now to give you some film that might help you find out who really killed Jonathan. I also want to explain in person why I’m not leaving you any of the studio. I’m scared you’ll donate it to a home for old donkeys or something. That would be like you. This letter is in case you refuse to see me, which would also be like you. In this box you’ll find documents that I hope you’ll use to clear up Jonathan’s death. I was too much of a coward to give them to the lawyers back then, too scared to lose everything both he and I had worked for. Too scared, also, of the people I think killed him. You’ll see in the video—Mikey Agosti was an investor in the studio and had a lot of power. I don’t think he killed Jonathan himself, but I suspect the two men in the film with him were somehow involved. I don’t know for sure, but I know the police didn’t look as hard as maybe they should have. Their names were Don and Lucio, but I never knew their last names. They’re still out there, and they still don’t want to pay for what they did. But now I’m too dead for them to kill, and you’re too tough for fear, always have been. Go talk to Jack Simon, in Palm Springs. He might have more information you can use to clear your name. I love you. I always have. Yours, Tony. ”

Claudia looked up and made a face at Julia. “You want to clear your name?”

“No! I already went to jail. They can’t give me back the time! I’m burning it all!” Julia was spitting mad. “It’s all over and done with, I couldn’t give less of a flying dog’s fuck about it.” She turned and stomped away. “Go get the car. I’m not kidding. I’ll dig him up myself if I have to. Cocksucker!” She disappeared into the house, still cursing.

Mason opened the document box. She could see diaries, photos, letters. She looked at Claudia, who looked worried.

“Burn it, Mason. No good can come of it. It’s just ghost stories.”

Mason shook her head. “We’ll see.”

Julia appeared again, wearing a pale pink coat that was wholly inappropriate for digging in the mud. Mason sighed and turned back to the guesthouse. “I’d better go put on my boots,” she said, “and find a shovel.”