Page 47 of The Ghostwriter

I use the time alone to look around, my gaze scanning past the cookbooks and self-help section to the nonfiction shelves, automatically finding several of my own books. Projects I’d poured my heart and soul into, passion for each subject taking over my life for a period of weeks or months. A time when my father was relegated to a dark corner of my past, not someone front and center, demanding once again to be dealt with. A time when I didn’t owe a misogynist hundreds of thousands of dollars for speaking the truth. A time when I was simply falling in love with the architect designing my studio, before I knew what my mistakes would cost me.

A voice from behind me says, “Can I help you find anything in particular?” She’s standing behind the counter, looking at me over the top of a pair of black-framed readers.

I walk toward her. “I’m Olivia Taylor,” I say. It’s the first time in over twenty years I’ve said it aloud, and the name rattles around in my ear.

She takes a step back, as if unsure whether to talk to me or not.

I hold my hands up and say, “I’m not here for anything other than to learn about my aunt Poppy.” I wait to see if she’ll retreat, but the mention of her friend pins her in place. “I’m sure you’ve heard through the grapevine, but my father is ill. I don’t know how much time he has left, and there are things I’d like to know before he dies. What happened to Poppy and Danny is one of them.”

Approaching someone cold is what I used to have to do as a journalist. We were taught that when people might be unwilling to meet, it’s better to seek them out. Ask a few questions and see what you get. But Ivowed when I transitioned into ghostwriting that I’d never do that again. Ambush someone, asking about their most painful moments. Pressing them to talk about things they don’t want to remember. And yet, here I am, doing it again. “I know this is hard for you and I really don’t want to cause you any more pain.” I look at her, beseeching. “I’ve read everything there is to read about what happened. Every retrospective. Every piece ever written, from every angle. You’ve been interviewed in all of them.” I shrug. “I just figured you’d be willing to answer some of my questions as well.”

“Does your father know you’re here?”

I’m glad to be able to answer truthfully. “He absolutely does not, and I have no intention of telling him.”

She nods once, and gestures toward two chairs in the alcove.

I sit in one and set my computer bag on the floor next to me. “What can you tell me about Poppy?” I ask.

Margot sighs. “She was sunshine personified, and when you were around her, you felt like anything was possible.”

My heart breaks to think about the kind of aunt Poppy might have been to me. The kinds of things we might have done together, had she been given the chance to grow up. “How long were you friends with her?” I ask.

“Since the third grade. Poppy had skipped second grade and didn’t have many friends in our class yet. We sat next to each other at lunch one day and were inseparable from that moment onward, until the day she died.”

“I read that the police focused their energy looking for a mysterious car that had given Poppy a ride the weekend before. Can you tell me more about that?”

Margot rolls her eyes. “Not that again.”

“You don’t think that was worth looking into?”

“Maybe,” she admits. “But not exclusively.”

“Why was Poppy hitchhiking?” I ask.

“There was an ERA rally in Ventura. We were both going to go, but I had to visit my aunt instead,” Margot says. “I assumed she would skip as well but turns out she went anyway.”

“Bold, for a fourteen-year-old to hitchhike alone,” I say, thinking of that stretch of highway. Of how deserted it must have felt in 1975 before Ojai became a vacation destination for the wealthy.

“That was how it was in 1975, but that was also Poppy,” Margot says. “Her parents had a double standard that used to drive her crazy.Why should my brothers get to hitchhike wherever they want to go but not me?she’d ask.I refuse to accept there are things I can’t do simply because I’m a woman.” Margot smiles a sad smile that makes her whole face wilt.

My fingers itch to take notes or, at the very least, record the conversation on my phone. But I hold my focus on Margot. “What did she say about it afterward?”

“She got a ride into town from a woman with a kid. But on the way back she said it was some guy. Kind of creepy, so she said she had him drop her at the high school so he wouldn’t know where she lived. The police latched on to that. Said that he must have seen them setting up for the carnival, or perhaps Poppy said something about it, and he returned the following week looking for her.”

“Not a terrible theory,” I say.

“A complete dead end,” Margot insists. “Especially when there was so much going on inside that house to look at instead.”

This is what I’ve been hungry for. It’s why ghostwriters always find people close to their subject and spend hours interviewing them. Because there are always things people will censor about themselves. “Tell me more about that,” I say. “What were the weeks leading up to the murders like for her?”

Margot grows thoughtful, thinking back nearly fifty years. “She was troubled by something,” she says. “She wasn’t herself. Distracted.Unwilling to do things she normally would enjoy doing. A couple of days before the murders, Mr. Stewart hosted his annual end-of-year party for all the kids and she didn’t want to attend, which was unlike her. I had to beg her to go with me, and then she proceeded to drink too much and caused a scene.” She pauses, as if trying to remember the specifics. “That entire last week…” Margot’s voice fades for a moment. “She wouldn’t tell me what was bothering her, which was also unlike her. We told each other everything.”

“Do you have any guesses?” I ask.

“Things between Danny and Vince were escalating. There seemed to be something new every day. She didn’t talk about it much, but I got the sense that Poppy was scared of Vince.”

Again, it seems my father has flipped the script, and my decision to speak to people who were there feels like the right one. “What specifically was scaring her?”

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