Famous Last Words Page 13

  There was a Wi-Fi network called SHEPPARD. “Password?” I asked.

  He blushed slightly. “Um … I’ll type it.”

  “Just tell me what it is,” I said. “I’m not going to come steal your Wi-Fi when you’re not home.”

  “It’s, uh … ‘Wyattcutiepants.’ All one word. Capital W.”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked.

  “My mother is a creature of habit,” he said. “Every time I change it, she finds a way to get logged out and then can’t remember the new password to log back in. I finally gave up around eighth grade. Anyway, can I see the search results?”

  “Sure thing, cutiepants.” I typed in the whole sentence and hit SEARCH. The results were assorted references to people named Henry — Henry Rollins, Henry James — and a movie called 50 First Dates. No exact matches.

  “What if you leave off the name?” he asked.

  “Then we get …” I backspaced through Henry and hit SEARCH. “… a Beyoncé song.”

  “Well, that explains it,” he said. “You’re being haunted by Beyoncé.”

  “Oh, this is ideal,” I said.

  He smiled a little and then put his concentrating face back on. “What if you search for Charice and Henry — and movie?”

  I typed it in and came up with a bunch of random unhelpful results.

  “Nothing,” I said. “We need to face it. This movie doesn’t exist.”

  “What if you’re right?” Wyatt said. “Maybe the killer wrote the screenplay himself.”

  “That wouldn’t explain how it got in my house,” I said.

  “There are a lot of things in your house that don’t seem to belong there,” he said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You don’t look convinced.”

  I pulled out my phone. “I left the page at home because it’s so delicate, but I took a picture. Notice anything?”

  Wyatt took the phone and zoomed in on the photo. “What am I looking for?”

  “The letters,” I said. “The lowercase t is always a hair above the line of the other letters.”

  “And the e is lower,” he said. “So this was typed on an actual typewriter?”

  I nodded. “Nobody actually uses typewriters anymore. So it’s probably pretty old, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but look — it’s a photocopy. See how the corner is just a copy of a dog-eared page? Maybe the original is old, but the page you found isn’t the original. Someone could have made that copy yesterday, for all we know.”

  “What’s Namur?” I asked, typing the word into the computer. “In the vision I had, the girl thought about Namur.”

  Our heads nearly touched as we looked at the screen. Namur turned out to be a city in southern Belgium. I skimmed the Wikipedia entry, with Wyatt reading over my shoulder.

  “Not very exciting,” Wyatt said. “University … museum, belfry, cathedral, Del Mar Park …”

  “Wait,” I said. “Del Mar? As in …”

  I typed Diana Del Mar Namur Belgium.

  It was a hit.

  “Diana Del Mar lived in Namur for three years,” I read. “When she was a teenager.”

  “So?” Wyatt asked.

  “So … Diana Del Mar lived in my house.”

  He blinked.

  “Is this movie about her somehow?” I asked. I typed Diana Del Mar Charice and nothing came up.

  “Wait, look,” Wyatt said, holding up my phone. “In two different spots, someone made a mistake typing Charice. See how there’s a letter X-ed out? They typed an s first. Try that.”

  It seemed like a stretch, but I typed it in: Diana Del Mar Charise.

  “There!” Wyatt said.

  The very first result was an article titled “Diana Del Mar — Screen Star to Screenwriter,” from a blog called Learning the Craft. The author of the blog was named Paige Pollan. Her bio said she was “an aspiring ‘Hollywood type’ determined to do my homework before plunging into the swamp of Tinseltown.”

  I read the blog post:

  Diana Del Mar, a beloved actress in the 1930s, turned her attention to behind-the-scenes pursuits when she found herself being rejected for roles because of her “advancing” age (35! GASP!). One of her interests was writing. Rumors swirled around town that she and none other than “Hitch” himself (the great Alfred Hitchcock, newly arrived in America following the release of Rebecca) were collaborating on a project. Diana was working on a screenplay and hoped to star as the character Charise. Hitchcock would direct. Soon, however, the arrangement fell through. Some speculated that Miss Del Mar would try to produce the movie on her own, but before that could happen she was found dead in an upstairs bathtub at her home in the Hollywood Hills. [Source: Hollywood Glamour Magazine, April 1943.]

  Dead. In an upstairs bathtub.

  Yeah, that just about fit. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  “So they changed the spelling of the character’s name,” Wyatt said.

  “But she doesn’t say what the movie was called.” My voice sounded slightly frantic. “How could she not say what it was called?”

  Wyatt reached over and scrolled farther down the page to the comments. The first one, from someone called “G.A. Green,” read: Fascinating. What was the movie called?

  And Paige P. had replied: The Final Honeymoon. It had a different working title, but I don’t know what that was, sorry!

  We Googled The Final Honeymoon, but nothing came up. Interest in the project vanished when Diana Del Mar died. It was strange to think that even the stuff that was really important to a huge, famous movie star could disappear forever, except in dusty old copies of Hollywood tabloids.

  “We need to get in touch with this Paige Pollan person and see what else she knows,” Wyatt said. “This is a solid lead.”

  “I’m not denying that it seems significant,” I said. “But how does it connect to the murders? Is the killer going to use this scene? Does the ghost somehow know that?”

  “That would break the pattern,” Wyatt said. “This screenplay never became an actual movie.”

  I breathed into my balled-up hand. “Are we ignoring the obvious answer?”

  “That Diana Del Mar is the ghost?” he asked.

  I nodded. “And she knows something about the killer.”

  “No. Let’s not ignore it. Let’s look into it. Maybe when you get home you could …”

  “I could what?” I asked, even though I knew what he was going to say.

  “Ask her?”

  I bit down on my knuckle and stared out at the dark blue of the morning sky. “Oh, goodie.”

  “In the meantime, let’s try to find out more about the movie itself. That’s obviously an important part of her message to you. Even if we know who she is, we’d better find out what she wants.”

  “All right,” I said, going back to the blog. “Fine. I’ll ask the ghost what she wants. And I’ll email Paige.”

  “Do you want anything to eat or drink?” Wyatt asked. “My mom is addicted to paying for designer water. For every four million bottles they sell they adopt an elephant or something. I’d be happy to bring you a bottle.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. As he left, I opened a new-message window in my email.

  I kept it simple: I read your blog about Diana Del Mar and her project The Final Honeymoon. I have some specific questions and wondered if you’d be willing to talk to me over the phone. If so, my number is 323-555-8333. Thank you for your time.

  I hit SEND and sat back, looking around Wyatt’s room and trying to picture him there. It was simple and spare, but if you looked closer, you saw some personal touches — a stack of books in the corner, a small movie poster, artfully framed.

  There was more to it than there seemed to be at first glance.

  Kind of like Wyatt himself.

  He came back, carrying a glass of water.

  I read him the email I had sent Paige Pollan, and he nodded in approval, but he was distracted.

  “All right,
” I said. “Let me have it.”

  He looked perplexed. “What?”

  “Whatever it is you want to tell me, but were holding back on before,” I said.

  He frowned, then kind of smiled. Then frowned again. “Well, last night, I … How do I say this? … I figured something out. Something that I think you’ll be interested to know.”

  “Great.” I sat back in my chair, expecting to hear him gleefully recount that Leyta Fitzgeorge actually had a long criminal history or something. “Hit me.”

  He looked nervous, which was unusual.

  It made me a little nervous.

  Then he spoke. “A normal, healthy adult won’t have a heart attack from an isolated burst of anger.”

  “What?” I said, almost laughing. It was so random….

  And then the words sank in, and it wasn’t random anymore.

  “Wait,” I said. “What?”

  “Your dad.” His smile was long gone. “I know what you think happened, but you’re wrong. You didn’t kill him.”

  It was like my body had turned to stone. My voice had turned to stone, too. “What do you know about my dad, Wyatt?”

  “Um,” he said, “I overheard Leyta last week … when she said his name. So I Googled him, and saw how he … he … passed away.”

  With every word, he seemed to be growing sorrier and sorrier that he’d brought it up. But, because he was Wyatt, he kept pushing forward.

  “The morning of May sixteenth,” he said. “When you guys were at the YMCA for your regular morning … swim.”

  He’d caught sight of my face. I don’t know, honestly, what he saw there. I wasn’t really occupying my own body at the moment. I felt like I’d been launched into outer space without warning. Or oxygen.

  Unwisely, he took my silence as a cue to continue. “You had a big argument about something, and the desk clerk saw you storm out of the natatorium —”

  “What is a natatorium?” I asked, my voice low.

  “A room with a swimming pool.” He waited to see if I’d ask anything else.

  I did not.

  “And after you went back in, she heard you screaming for help, and then she ran in and saw your …” It was like he couldn’t stop. It was like he was a machine, a heartless, cold, meaningless creature whose only actual purpose is to spew information, and if he stopped, he’d short-circuit and explode. “She saw your dad. And then the ambulance came, but it was too late. It was a heart attack. And you blame yourself, and that’s why you’re so afraid to be angry.”

  I let my stare slide from his face to the floor.

  “But it couldn’t have been your fault,” Wyatt said. “Healthy adults don’t have heart attacks provoked by anger or stress. That’s not a normal physiological response to —”

  “Enough.” The word was like a concrete wall, twelve feet thick. “Enough, Wyatt. Stop.”

  “I’m … sorry,” he said.

  “All right,” I said. “You’re sorry. Great. Just do me one favor.”

  “Okay.”

  “Never speak to me again.”

  “But …”

  I turned away. My eyes burned like they were fighting back a million tears, but the rage inside me was so hot that the tears vaporized. I felt pressure in my face, and electrical currents flooding my fingers with every thump of my heart.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, sounding helpless. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  I stood abruptly. “I should have listened to Marnie,” I said. “She told me you were a stalker. But I thought, nah, maybe she misunderstood something you said or did — maybe she was exaggerating.”

  The light had gone out of Wyatt’s eyes. He stared up at me, but he didn’t answer.

  “Here it is,” I said. “Proof. She was right. I must be the dumbest person on the planet. I was actually starting to trust you, Wyatt. I thought we were … friends or something.”

  He didn’t say a single word.

  “I’m leaving,” I said.

  Somehow, I got out of his room and down the stairs and out the front door without losing my mind. And then somehow I made it home and ran upstairs and locked myself in my bedroom before Mom could see the look on my face.

  In my room, I melted to the floor and stared at the ceiling.

  And somehow — but I don’t know how — I didn’t die of a broken heart.

  The next couple of days passed in a dull blur. At school, I wouldn’t even look at Wyatt. He followed my instructions and didn’t try to talk to me, either. At home, the ghost was mercifully silent, which was good, because my nerves were down to their last gasp.

  My investigation had been on hold since Sunday morning, but I knew I couldn’t pretend the calm was going to last forever. Regardless of my feelings about Wyatt, I had to figure out what was going on in the house.

  Thursday, as we sat at our chemistry table and studiously ignored each other, it hit me that I didn’t actually need Wyatt’s help to figure out what the ghost wanted. I could do it alone. Yeah, it might take me a little longer, and maybe I didn’t have his freakishly honed detective skills, but I could do it. And then, by figuring it out and unlatching the spirit, I would also unlatch myself from Wyatt forever.

  So after dinner and homework, I decided to get back on track. I turned on my computer to check my email for a reply from Paige Pollan. It had been four days since I first tried to contact her.

  As the computer booted up, I summoned as much courage as I could (not much) and said, “Diana?”

  There was no answer.

  “Diana Del Mar,” I said. “Hello?” For a moment, I thought of getting out the moldavite ring and the candles. Would those make it easier to reach her? If they had attracted her in the first place, why shouldn’t I just use them now? It seemed counterproductive to ignore the most effective means of getting in touch, just because some near-stranger was feeling overly cautious. Leyta Fitzgeorge wasn’t the one being awakened in the middle of the night and shoved into a bathtub.

  I was about to dig the box out of my closet when the computer finished booting up. Since I was there, I might as well do a little research before opening the portal again. To be honest, I wasn’t all that excited about disregarding Leyta’s warning. On some level, I believed she knew what she was talking about.

  I clicked on the web browser. Explore every lead, I thought. Leave no stone unturned.

  So I decided to start with something easy — I Googled Paige Pollan.

  That’s when I realized that there would never be a reply to the email I’d sent.

  Because Paige Pollan killed herself last August.

  On Friday morning, as I stood at my locker, Marnie raced toward me, a blur of green and white. She grabbed me around the neck and jumped up and down.

  “Willa!” she squealed. “Willa, seriously!”

  “What?” I asked, trying to peel away from her. I was exhausted from the sheer hopelessness that had descended on me after I discovered Paige’s fate. I almost wished I could talk to Wyatt about it — but not badly enough to break our silence. It was lab day in Chem, so I was already planning an imaginary headache and a trip to the nurse’s office to get me out of having to interact with him. Now, with Marnie shrieking and hopping around, my “imaginary” headache could easily slip into all-too-real existence.

  Marnie put her hands on my shoulders and beamed at me. “It’s so awesome, I don’t even want to tell you. I want you to bask in the anticipation for a minute. Could you bask, please? I need to see some baskage.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, smoothing my cardigan where Marnie’s embrace had flipped it up. “But okay, I’m basking.”

  “What if I said … I had something amazing to show you?” she asked, hooking an arm around my waist and leading me toward the courtyard.

  “That would be … nice?” Her excited energy was actually starting to make me antsy.

  “Feast your eyes … on THIS.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket and
handed it to me.

  It was a photo of two random glamorous girls —

  No, wait — it was a photo of Marnie and me. From the premiere.

  I stared at myself — my luminous skin, the rosy pink of my cheeks, my large doe eyes. My hair was perfect, the red dress so elegant.

  I’d never seen myself look like that before. I never even knew I could look like that.

  And next to me, Marnie embodied retro awesomeness, from her wild sequined dress to her glasses.

  “Wow us,” I said quietly.

  “It gets better,” she said, grabbing the phone and scrolling down. “Look at the caption.”

  Can you say “totes adorbs,” Stalkerz? Gorgeous Hollywood starlets Ramona Claiborne and Bernadette Middleton arrive at the premiere of the new Kurt Conrath flick The Never Time.

  “We’re … on … Starstalkerz,” Marnie said. “Willa, you and I are on Starstalkerz.”

  I’d heard of it. It was one of those gossip sites that has its own TV show and is always posting famous people’s mug shots.

  “No, Ramona and Bernadette are on Starstalkerz,” I said. “And I’m sure the website will take the photo down when they realize that Ramona and Bernadette aren’t real people.”

  “Look at the comments!” Marnie practically shrieked. “Look — ‘Bernadette is so beautiful I hate her.’ Someone hates you because you’re pretty. And this one — ‘Where did Ramona get those glasses they R so kewl I want them.’ Someone wants my glasses. People want to know who we are. They want to be us.” Marnie’s face was animated in a way I’d never seen. “Willa, here’s what I’m thinking — we find a way to get into every party and event we can find. We always go as Bernadette and Ramona. Soon we’ll be the It Girls. We’ll have fan pages and thousands of followers. I mean, if we handle this right, we could get … like, I don’t know — our own reality show!”

  I scrolled back up to the photo. “But how did they even find out your name was Ramona? We decided that after we went inside, didn’t we?”