Page 66 of The Ghostwriter

Then I created a tentative timeline, which I’ve taped to the wall with some old note cards I found in one of the boxes, faded and yellowing around the edges. In February, I have the estimated date my parents started dating, and the bonfire in March. In April, I have the Pink Floyd concert. I have the abortion sometime in early May, since Poppy was writing about it on May 6. Counting backward, my mother couldn’t have gotten pregnant before she started dating my father. It’s obvious she cheated on him—but with whom isn’t clear.

In the middle of May, I have the vandalism at the school, which my father still insists wasn’t done by him. And on May 30, I have the fight between my father and Danny, the one that revealed the abortion. Then in June, Margot’s story about my father threatening Danny with the murder weapon, which makes sense considering what Danny had told my father just days before.

Then I’ve got the day of the murders, the timeline mapped out as best I can, based on what my father has been able to remember.

3:00—Finish school

5:00—Go to carnival

6:45–8:30—Lydia and Vincent meet with Mr. Stewart in the oak grove

7:00–7:45—Time of death

9:15—Bodies are found

I’ve met with Mark, Margot, and one of the district attorneys on the case. I’ve heard their version of events, and aside from my mother, Mr. Stewart is the only one I haven’t yet talked to. After my conversation with Margot, I did a Google search for him, which didn’t turn up much. No social media presence, nothing offering me his address or phone number if I paid a fee, making me wonder if he was even still alive. I pick up my phone to call Jack.

“Mr. Stewart?” Jack asks when I tell him what I want to know. “I neverhad him, but he had a reputation as kind of an old-school lech. Harmless, but out of touch really.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say.

“It was subtle. Just a vibe he gave off. A gaze that would linger on a chest or an ass just a little too long.”

“Is he still alive?” I ask.

“He bops around the downtown area every weekend in his short shorts and tank tops. For an old guy, he’s still in pretty good shape. Goes to the gym out on Highway 150 where all the bodybuilders go.”

“Do you happen to know how I could reach him?” I ask.

“Let me put you on hold and call my dad. See if he knows.”

I hear a click and the hold music from the winery fills my ear, a soothing classical symphony. After about five minutes, Jack’s back on again. “You’re not going to believe this,” he says. “But Mr. Stewart still lives in his old house.”

“You’re going to have to tell me more, because that doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“He lived next door at the time of the murders. Apparently, he still lives there.”

The neighbor. The older man who’d tried to chase me off. “I think I’ve already met him. He doesn’t seem much older than our parents.”

“He’s not. Maybe fifteen years? Less? I think he was about fifty when we were in high school.”

I think about what Mark told me. The parties. The beer. The pot. Imagining what it must have been like to live next door to a double murder. To wake up every day knowing what had happened there and deciding to stay.

***

Mr. Stewart answers when I knock, his expression morphing into suspicion when he sees me. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Olivia Taylor,” I tell him. I wait to see if the name holds any meaning for him, but he just stares at me, waiting. “I’m Vincent Taylor’s daughter.” I gesture toward the house next door. “Poppy and Danny Taylor were my aunt and uncle. I was hoping you’d have some time to talk with me about my father’s family. Or maybe my mother, Lydia. I hear you were her coach?”

He nods and says, “What is it you want to know?”

I gesture toward the living room behind him and say, “Maybe we could sit down?”

He hesitates, then steps aside to let me enter. The furniture is dated but well cared for, and I settle on a brown corduroy couch. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall, and two wicker chairs flank the ends of the coffee table. On the wall leading to the kitchen is an assortment of photographs.

He gestures toward the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? Some water?”

“Water would be great. Thanks.”

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