Henry & Eva and the Famous People Ghosts Page 4

  Okay, I blew that.

  I’ll make up for it later.

  Maybe a flower arrangement?

  A handwritten, heartfelt note in a card?

  But this train of thought is interrupted. Across the lawn I see Henry and Zeb rushing through the rain to the south entrance. I can only assume they have reached the finale of their adventure and are going inside to warm up and eat whatever catering you’re supposed to eat at this point of a tragedy.

  SSCCCCCHHHH.

  Wait. What was that?

  SSCCHCCC. SCCCHHHHH.

  Um. What is happening right now?

  I turn around to figure out where this strange noise is coming from and what it might be. By the sound of it, it’s a dragon mixed with a television set.

  I tiptoe backward, images of my robot–Jurassic Park end floating through my head. Yes, I will be eaten. The thing will swoop me up. The teeth will be metal antennas. The eyes will be screens!

  But as I reach the back of the colonnade, I begin to recognize the sound. It’s a security sound. A cop sound. The sound they make on their headsets or walkie-talkies or whatever those things are called.

  SSCCCCHHHH.

  SSSSSCCCCHHHHHHHHHH.

  And then, I hear a man’s voice picking up. It’s hard to hear him over the scramble of the hand radio and the dribble drabble of the rain. But it’s definitely a security guard’s voice. Deep. Indifferent. On the job.

  Strange that Henry and Zeb would go inside before they rounded up all the guards. I mean, wasn’t that their whole job description?

  I peek out over the corner and, yep, just as I suspected. Security guard. Blue uniform. Matching hat. Black work shoes. Company insignia on the breast pocket. Check, check, check.

  I’m just about to open my mouth and tell him what happened and how he has to get down the hill, like, yesterday, when I’m so rudely interrupted.

  SSCHHHHHHH. “You there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  See, just like I said. Security-guy talk.

  And just before I’m about to plop myself smack-dab in the middle of this security-guy talk I hear it.

  That same security-guy voice, coming through the speaker.

  “Are they gone yet? I need you to tell me if the coast is clear.”

  Coast? Clear?

  That doesn’t sound like security-guy talk. That’s bad-guy talk.

  Which means I, your friend, Eva, am trapped in the pool- adjacent area . . . with a bad guy.

  7

  THERE ARE NOT many words to describe the feeling I have in this moment. But I’ll start with panic.

  Followed by—

  Betrayal.

  Fear.

  Shock.

  Disbelief.

  Shock again.

  Back to fear.

  Annnnnd . . . panic.

  As if all of a sudden the entire world turned inside out, and then turned itself into a chicken.

  But a really bad chicken.

  A devastating bit of poultry.

  So, here I am, sitting here, on the other side of the colonnade, just steps away from . . . whoever these guys are. (Besides bad guys.) And what they might want.

  “Are they gone yet?”

  Are they gone? Are who gone? And why is there a yet? What exactly is the yet for? The yet implies a time issue. It implies that time is running out. What will happen at that time?

  I don’t want to know.

  And yet, I have to know. Of course I have to know.

  I freeze behind the corner and try to listen in. The rain is coming down harder, now in swooshes. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh.

  “Well, are they?”

  “Hard to tell. I think so.” That’s the guy from my side. No static.

  “Well, are they or aren’t they?” That’s coming over the airwaves. I can hear it. A kind of nasal, annoyed voice. American but not from here somehow. Not a California voice. No breeze in it. From a harder place.

  He continues, “Jesus. Who the hell hired you for this job anyway? Dipstick!”

  This job.

  Okay, this is a job. A job that they are all doing together. Which I’m pretty sure at this point has nothing to do with security.

  “You don’t have to call me names. That’s unprofessional.”

  “Unprofessional! Look, idiot, all I need you to do is take your dumb eyes and put them on the dumb driveway and tell me if they’re all gone or what?!”

  “Well, it looks like all the guys are gone, but there were these two kids running around for a while.”

  Wait. He’s talking about Henry and Zeb. Oh my god.

  “Yeah, how old?”

  “I dunno. Kids.”

  And now the guy on the other side is straining to be patient. “Kids like teenagers or kids like hey-Mom-read-me-a-bedtime-story?”

  My guy thinks. “Not like hey-Mom-read-me-a-bedtime-story but maybe like hey-Dad-let’s-go-play-catch.”

  Pause.

  “What the heck is the difference?!” The guy on the other side is losing it.

  “I’m just saying those are two very different stages of life. Unless, of course, the kid is really attached to his mom, which probably happens more and more these days—”

  “Jesus! What are you even saying? Just tell me. Did they look like ten or what?”

  “Maybe.”

  “MAYBE?! God, would you just?! Okay, let me put it like this. Are these the kind of kids who would be watching SpongeBob or The Simpsons?”

  “Well, The Simpsons is really intergenerational so—”

  “SWEET JESUS! Okay, were these the kind of kids who would be watching SpongeBob?”

  “Well, they looked a little old for SpongeBob.”

  “Okay, so ten. Ten or twelve. Yeah?”

  “I think so . . . I mean, does it really matter what they watch?”

  “Yes. Yes, dillweed, it does matter. Because what they watch, or what they read, which I can’t ask you because you’ve never read a book in your life, is an indication of how old they are and how old they are is an indication of whether or not they can foil our plan. Got it, genius?”

  “Yeah. Okay, yeah. I get it now.”

  “Thank you. Now let’s try again—”

  “You don’t have to worry, boss.”

  “Oh, and why is that?”

  “These kids look kinda wimpy.”

  “How wimpy?”

  “On a scale of one to ten . . . like a hundred.”

  “Okay, good. So we don’t have to take them out?”

  “Oh, no. No way. Total wimps.”

  “Okay, good. Now get back here for phase two. Don’t let anybody see you, especially those kids. You hear me?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.”

  And now the guy nearest to me packs it up. With an exhale, he shuffles off down the steps in the other direction, leaving me to try to put that whole conversation in order.

  Take them out.

  I mean . . . take them out?

  Really?

  All I can say is, I have never, in my entire life, been more thankful that my kid brother, and his friend, come across as so heavily, obviously, undeniably . . . unthreatening.

  8

  THIS IS MY first wedding and, suffice to say, I do not want it to be the last. Not least of which because I don’t think this wedding is providing me with a good window into what weddings are like in general.

  There is one thing for sure. I have to, this second, before one more millisecond goes by, go, get, grab Henry and tell him about the diabolical machinations of this fallen matrimony. Someone/someones are pulling a job here at this grand event!

  I’m still trying to figure out if I should tell Zeb. I mean, it might be really disappointing for him, since it is his dad’s wedding and all, plus there is the undeniable possibility that everyone will think I’m crazy, so that will be fun. “Greetings, wedding guests! Bad news! We’re being trapped here by a band of wild criminals!” I mean, would you ever believe that?

&nb
sp; Now that I think about it, though, the idea of a band of criminals “taking over” a town, albeit a miniscule one, also seems sort of far-fetched. But the story got more than half of the adults at this wedding to up and leave!

  I mean, does it make more sense that perhaps that was just a ridiculous ruse to get all the able-bodied folks to put on their hero hats and rush downhill to save the day? I don’t have time to ponder that now. I’ll ponder that later. Over a cup of tea in a study somewhere. For right now—Henry.

  And that’s when the sky opens up.

  Cats and dogs. Cows and chickens.

  I mean, this is almost a typhoon.

  Remember, last time this happened a huge section of the PCH was taken out and an entire new shoreline was created! So . . . not good. The roads will definitely be closed. Which means that whatever the impromptu posse finds down there at the bottom of the cliff, thirteen miles up the PCH, it may not matter. Because by the time they find out, they will not be able to get back here. Where there is actual visual and auditory confirmation of criminal activity!

  And the rain continues to pour down from the sky.

  You may be wondering if I plan on just staying out here in this deluge. Well, dear friend, I think you know me better than that by now. I am sensible. I’ve found a little alcove to slip into, here on what must be the fortieth landing of this baroque castle. This would be an epic place to pay hide-and-seek, by the way. Henry would never find me.

  There’s a little arched window with diagonal panes, each like diamonds, like there should be a dragon somewhere around. I look in and realize it actually stands above the chapel, aka the place where the wedding was taking place before disaster struck. The guests down there are sitting around, but they don’t look bored or impatient exactly.

  Strange.

  Why wouldn’t they just adjourn to the reception area and try to make the best of it? It’s clear the wedding’s not happening. Might as well take advantage of the vittles and libations. But there’s something else. They look nervous. Every once in a while, I see one of them cast a fleeting glance at another and then look away.

  And then I see it.

  What in the Sam Hill?

  Okay, I need to take a breath while I process this. Breathe. Breathe, Eva. Slow down. Get ahold of yourself. Okay.

  So, what’s happening is . . . the entirety of the wedding is sitting there, in the chapel, in their formalwear, shaken, while at the perimeter of the chapel, in each of the four arched doorways, stands a man in heavy security garb. Yep, ladies and germs, these guys are holding the entire room hostage.

  But why?

  I mean who in the world holds an entire wedding hostage?

  But then it hits me: We are in the biggest depository of precious art on the west coast—or even maybe both coasts. This place, Hearst Castle, must be filled with millions of dollars’ worth of art. Maybe even a billion. So, they had hired security for the wedding. That was part of the deal. But, clearly, the security they hired is not the security they got.

  What they got was a gang of robbers in disguise.

  I’m just about to contemplate what to do next when the unthinkable happens. I look down at the left back entrance, near the holy water, and see both Henry and Zeb being ushered in by one of these security brutes.

  Ushered is putting it gently. They basically just push them into the room and point to the rest of the group, to take a seat.

  Zeb takes a seat and puts his arm around a septuagenarian woman who looks extremely upset, comforting her. Maybe she’s his great-aunt or something?

  But not Henry. I look at Henry and know exactly what is going on.

  The wheels are turning.

  He’s already put all of this together.

  And he’s figuring out a way out of it.

  9

  I HAVE TO wonder if this isn’t all some elaborate party setup, like a Murder Mystery Wedding, or some dinner-theater thing we went to once where the actors were also the waiters. Very disorienting. I remember being disappointed our waiter wasn’t one of the leads. Just a minor character asking if we wanted a baked potato or fries.

  That would be the perfect explanation, wouldn’t it?

  But it wouldn’t explain why Binky was crying, or why half of the guests were sent away.

  The guests that are left are being guarded. But if I’m honest, it’s a relaxed kind of monitoring. It’s as though these criminals, or art thieves, or wedding crashers, are just assuming the women and elderly left in the chapel can’t do anything. I mean, have they ever met a woman before?

  There’s a dark medieval-looking door across the alcove I can make it to, if I duck so no one sees me through the window. Not that anybody seems to be looking up here, but better safe than sorry. I’m just hoping it isn’t locked, that these “security guards” left everything open to make their epic thievery that much easier.

  I duck under the arched window and find myself in some kind of parlor. A sitting room of sorts? Or, if I were in any other place . . . a ballroom. The wallpaper is a kind of teal damask and there’s gold molding in a line near the top of the fifteen-foot ceiling. Also, the ceiling. There’s a mural on that ceiling, which is mostly black and white, gilded in shades of gold. There’s a giant painting in the middle, and then a series of little, also gold-gilded, paintings around it. I’m sort of breaking my neck trying to discern what exactly is being depicted here, but that doesn’t matter because while I’m taking it all in I back into the enormous gray stone fireplace.

  Yes, I am now standing inside the fireplace, it’s that big. But that doesn’t matter, either, because as I look up at the ceiling from my little cove in the fireplace, I realize that the figures in the painting are . . . they’re moving. Swirling in and out of the gold-gilded picture frame. Yes, they’re coming to life and emerging from their frames.

  And moving toward me.

  10

  THERE’S NOTHING WORSE than being stuck in an enormous stone fireplace with paintings flying at you. Or people from paintings. Or two-dimensional representations of people. But here we are.

  As the figures come closer they begin to morph into something less High Renaissance and more low American. Especially the first one . . . Beaumont.

  Now, as I mentioned briefly before, Henry and I became acquainted with a few of our ancestors almost a year ago. And I don’t mean we read about them. I mean they showed up. In ghost form. All five of them.

  If you don’t remember, I’ll give you the broad strokes.

  Great-great-great-great-grandfather Beaumont. Gold miner. Founder of the family fortune in the 1849 gold rush. Overalls. Corncob pipe. (Which is what eventually killed him, by the way. Ahem. Smoking is stupid.)

  Then there is his wife, our great-great-great-great- grandmother Plum. Stout. Loving. Sensible. Victorian dress and ever-present lace fan. She’s the one that kind of comes across as warm milk and cookies.

  Then there are the two sophisticated twins, August and Sturdevant, dandies of the roaring twenties. The grandsons of Beaumont. And our great-uncles, I suppose. They lived in tandem and died in tandem, in a convertible Model A car crash in Rome. See, even their death was sophisticated.

  And then there was Maxine. The morose, melancholy flapper. We think she just died of gloom.

  But whatever the case may be, somehow these renaissance paintings have floated down from the ceiling, through the ether, and metamorphosed into our darling, most dear ancestor ghosts.

  Startling, yes.

  Also kind of cool.

  “Hey, there, little filly! Seems you got yourself in a real pickle here!”

  No matter how many times they materialize, my ancestors’ actual appearance always results in a racing heart and a dry throat. It’s the effect the supernatural has on the living.

  It takes me a moment to regain myself.

  “I . . . you . . .”

  “Don’t worry, darlin’. Hope we didn’t scare ya, poppin’ out of the pictures like that! The boys here wanted to
show off!” Beauregard gestures to August and Sturdy.

  “Quite right, quite right.” They clink martini glasses, proud of their expert ghosting.

  Maxine slumps toward them. “Couldn’t you have chosen something a little less gaudy for us to make our appearance? All this gold. Gold gold gold! As if life was more than a walking shadow—”

  “Aw, jeez. There she goes! What did I make all this money for if you’re all just gonna slump around groaning?!”

  Plum turns to me, changing the subject. “Oh, dearest Eva. I’m afraid we’ve been summoned again. There’s trouble afoot.”

  “I’ll say,” I answer. “Did you see those guys in there? Wait a minute, how can you even be here? I mean, we’re like miles away from our house. Where your graves are. How are you able to get this much range when I can’t even get a signal on my cell phone?”

  “Oh, honey, there is so much to understand, and so little time, but we have years of experience ghosting. Years and years of practice—”

  “Yep, we can follow you anywhere! London! Tokyo! Bombay! Heck, we’d follow you to the moon if we had to! We are sworn to protect our kin, and dagnabbit, that’s what we’re gonna do. Rain or shine!” Beau smokes his corncob pipe, the smoke wafting up through his translucent body.

  Plum comes forward, confidentially. “To tell you the truth though, August and Sturdy used to practically live here.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” They nod in tandem.

  Plum adds, “And Maxine came here once.”

  “It was a bore.” She sighs.

  “Can you beat that? Man builds a real-life wonder here and this little filly calls it a bore! Well, excuuuuse me while I just paint Mars green for you, your ladyship!”

  “I’m just saying it was tedious,” Maxine laments.

  “Tedious, shmedious!” Beau snaps.

  We’re clearly getting off track. “Look. You’re right. Your kin, aka me and Henry, are in serious trouble and I don’t know what to do. You have to help me. Henry’s down there!”

  “Don’t I know it! Whattaya think we’re here for!” Beaumont exclaims.

  “Indubitably, indubitably.” August and Sturdy nod.