Page 10 of The Ghostwriter

After my father leaves for his appointment, I jump in my car, deciding to do a little location research.

First I drive by the motel where they stayed for the three days the house was a crime scene. My father had named it in our conversation, and I remembered it from my childhood. The Starlight Motel out on Highway 150 had been bright yellow with blue trim and had a neon sign that flashed on and off. But when I circle by now, it’s a Radisson. I sit in the parking lot and stare at the beige building, trying to imagine what rooms they might have had.

From there, I head toward my father’s old house on Van Buren. As I drive west, the houses grow smaller, poorer cousins of the estates on the east end. Dirt front yards, aluminum window frames, and older-model cars in driveways: this is where Ojai’s working class lives. No Airbnbs over here. No city transplants living out their retirements in a quaint country town with world-class restaurants and trendy boutiques that cater to the tourists who keep Ojai running. The people who live over here are the ones who work at the resort. Who teach at the schools. Who wait on customers in those fancy restaurants and boutiques.

Another right, then another left, and I’m heading down the quiet cul-de-sac, many of the driveways empty of cars on this beautiful Saturday afternoon. And there it is, the house that still looms large in my memory.

I park and take in the familiar features. The porch that spans the front of it, covered with a shingled roof propped up with four posts. Two concrete steps that lead up to the front door. The windows that flank it are uncovered and I think again of my father’s night terror. His certainty that the knife hadn’t been where he’d left it in Poppy’s hiding spot, and I feel a flutter of nerves, wondering if I’d be able to convince whoever lives there now to let me in and look.

I get out of my car and head up the front path as an older man exits the house next door, carrying a basket of gardening tools. “If you’re looking for Frieda, her nephew moved her into a home a few months ago,” he calls to me.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I say, improvising. “Was she ill?”

He shakes his head, studying me. “Just old.”

“Any idea what they’re going to do with the house?” I ask.

His smile fades, and he sets his gardening tools down. “Are you a reporter?”

I feign confusion and say, “No. Why? Who owns it?”

I close the distance between us and take in his features, placing him around my father’s age, give or take a few years, though he looks much healthier than my father, with tanned skin and muscular legs. “There’s a management company that handles the property,” he tells me. “Markham and Sons. You should direct your questions to them.”

A phone rings from inside his house. He glances toward his open front door and says, “I’d better get that.” He looks back at me as if he’s unsure whether he should leave me unsupervised.

He finally turns and closes the door behind him, leaving his gardening tools on the steps. I’m about to approach my father’s old house again, but the curtains next door twitch and I see the neighbor watching me. I give a friendly wave and head back to my car, navigating slowly out of the cul-de-sac and around the corner, where I park and google the number for the management company he mentioned.

A woman’s voice answers my call. “Markham and Sons Management Company. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m interested in the house at 554 Van Buren.”

Her tone turns abrupt. “I’m sorry; we can’t help you with that.”

“I thought your company handles that property.”

“We do, but that house is not for rent.”

“But it’s vacant,” I tell her.

“That may be, but the owner isn’t interested in renting it at this time. We have other properties available if you like.”

“Who is the owner?” I ask.

Her voice grows chilly. “Like I said, that property isn’t available. Please let us know if you’d like to see something else.”

Then the line disconnects. I sit, staring at my phone. A woman walking her dog passes, glancing at me and then continuing.

As a journalist, I used to have access to all kinds of databases and sources I could call, but it’s been a long time since I moved in that world. I could spend the day figuring out how to pull a property title, or I could find a new source.

I pick up my phone to text my real estate agent, Renee, but when I open the thread, I realize I didn’t call her after that last text she sent about reducing the price of the house.

Sorry I never responded to this. I’m up in Ojai and would love your help on something. I’m interested in a property here, but I’m having a hard time figuring out who owns it. It’s not on the market, but it’s vacant. Is there any way you could you look it up for me? And I’ll seriously consider reducing the price. I promise.

I type the address into a separate text, then stare at my phone, hoping to see the three dots showing that she’s responding. But after five minutes of silence, I drop my phone into the console and head back to my father’s house.

***

I decide to take the long way back, letting my memory spool out—not just of my time living in Ojai, but the first year I lived abroad. I remember feeling cut off, lonely for the routines of home, the sound of my father in his office writing, or of his voice on the phone. I missed everything—even the things I claimed to have hated. My father’s drinking. His late nights. His frequent trips. I realized how much I missed the possibility of his presence when his presence was now thousands of miles away, out of reach. Other parents would come and visit their kids, but my father only attended one parents’ weekend the entire time I was away at school.

It was November of my first year and I’d begged him to come. My father had seemed more like himself on our calls—he was working on a new book he was excited about. He seemed sharper, responding to my questions and asking some of his own. No long pauses where I’d wonder if the call got dropped or if he’d fallen asleep. Instead he seemed excited to see me. I imagined having him there—his old self, the one who knew how to entertain with a great story. Who made anyone he spoke to feel special.

He’d arrived late Friday night and we’d made plans to meet at the dean’s coffee reception the following morning. I’d stood in the entry to the Alumni House, the last student waiting for a parent to arrive. Wondering what version of my father would be showing up. Or if he’d show up at all.

When he finally arrived, he seemed hurried. “Let’s get this over with,” he’d said.

I trailed after him. “What do you mean?”

“I set up a meeting with one of my foreign publishers while I’m here. Just a quick meet and greet.”

I halted. “On parents’ weekend?”

He turned to face me. “This school isn’t going to pay for itself.”

“I never even wanted to come here.” I hated how petulant I sounded, and I knew it wouldn’t go over well with him.

He sighed, exasperated. “Not this again, Olivia.”

I followed him into the reception, watching him grab a cup of coffee from a table set up by the back wall. We stood there, not talking, and I noticed how his cup rattled against the saucer. My father must have noticed too because he ditched the saucer on a nearby table.

One of my teachers approached us. “Mr. Taylor, a pleasure to meet you. My name is Francesca Williamson, Olivia’s English teacher and adviser. You have quite an extraordinary daughter.”

“Thank you. I’m glad to hear she’s settling in.”

Ms. Williamson said, “She’s more than just settling in. Olivia is the founding member of a new student group, the Women’s Empowerment Club. So far, we have about twenty members.”

My father rolled his eyes. “Oh for god’s sake.”

Ms. Williamson looked startled. “Excuse me?”

“I sent her here to get the best education money can buy. Not to start some feminist club that won’t accomplish anything other than to make a lot of noise and cause a lot of trouble.”

“I disagree,” Ms. Williamson said. “So far, the club has given a voice to many young women about issues they care about. Equity in student government. Making sure female authors have representation on class syllabi.”

“Jesus,” my father muttered, setting his coffee cup down and looking toward the exit. His voice grew louder, catching the attention of several people around us, silencing their conversations. “When history repeats itself, only the fool stands around and watches it happen.”

“Please don’t do this,” I whispered.

“Do what?” he said. “I want you to focus on getting the education that I’m paying tens of thousands of dollars for you to receive, not become the next Gloria Steinem.” At this point I could see the sweat blooming on his forehead. The panic rising in him—a caged animal looking for an escape.

More people were looking at us now and I could feel my face burning. The silent judgment of Ms. Williamson, who I’d desperately wished would excuse herself so that she wouldn’t have to bear witness to my father’s unraveling. “Why can’t you just behave?” he asked. “Do what you’re supposed to do—go to school. Do your homework. Listen to the adults. Why do you always have to be agitating toward something? Making waves. Noise.”

He wasn’t making any sense, although that wasn’t new for me. “All I wanted was to have more current authors on my reading lists,” I said, though my voice was low, barely above a whisper.

“I need to go, but we can discuss this more at dinner,” he said. “I made reservations at the hotel; I assume you can get there on your own?”

“No,” I said. “I need you to pick me up.”

But he was already turning away from us.

“Students can’t leave campus unless an adult signs them out or it’s a school-sanctioned trip into town,” Ms. Williamson explained.

“Call Melinda. She’ll sort it out,” he said over his shoulder.

“In California?” I called after him. Melinda could make pretty much anything happen, but I doubted she could sign me out of my boarding school thousands of miles away.

He pushed through the doors and was gone. Around us, conversations resumed, and I suddenly noticed how the other parents were with their children. A mother straightening a collar. Brushing hair off a forehead. A father’s hand on a shoulder.

“I think I’ll go back to my room,” I said to Ms. Williamson.

Thankfully, she let me go.

***

Renee gets back to me later that night. I’m sorry but I’ve been called out of town for a family emergency. I’ve got another agent in the office handling all my clients, though to be honest, you won’t get much more interest on the property until you drop the price.

My thumbs hesitate over the keypad of my phone, wondering if I should fire her or press her for what I need. She didn’t even bother to include the name of the agent covering for her. But another option comes to me—my friend Allison, who works for an escrow company. I’m sure it would be no problem for her to look up the property and get me what I need.

I type out the text quickly. Doing some research on a potential project and need to track down the owner of a house in Ojai. I drop the address into the message and then hit Send, hoping for a quick answer so I can get into that house and search Poppy’s hiding place myself.