Blood and Sand Page 9

  The room is nice enough, but has a little of the fake feel of a TV set about it.

  “This is our escape room,” Christopher says.

  “No one ever figured it out,” Keith says. “We always had to come in and get them. There are four exits. Two behind bookshelves. One behind the fireplace. The one behind the fireplace is a set of stairs that leads up to the first, second, and third floors. The one behind the bookshelf on the left wall is a secret passageway that leads down the wall next to the hallway and opens through a secret panel in the downstairs restroom. The one behind the bookshelf on the wall in front of us next to the fireplace leads all the way back to our residence.”

  “I thought you said there were four exits,” I say. “Does that count the way we came in under the stairs?”

  “No, actually,” Keith says. “I’ve always considered that the entrance since coming back through it doesn’t constitute escaping the room. The other exit is just a panel behind the wall under the main staircase and it opens into the hallway. You have to climb up to it using something in the room—a chair is best—and you have to crawl through the panel, which is small and low where you come out.”

  “Who of the guests at the solstice party knows this is here?” I ask.

  “All of them,” Christopher says.

  “But none of them knows where the exits are or how to access them,” Keith says.

  “That you know of,” I say. “Just because none of them have ever escaped the room doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t know how.”

  “That’s true,” Christopher says.

  “When you woke up and discovered that Magdalene was missing,” I say, “you searched the entire house—including in here and all the secret passageways?”

  They both nod and say they did.

  “Did you show the investigators all of the hidden rooms and passages? Did they search them too? Did they have forensics process them?”

  “Yes, yes, and I think so,” Christopher says, then to Keith, “Do you know if forensics processed this room and the others?”

  “I’m pretty sure they did.”

  “How familiar with the secret rooms and passages was Magdalene?” I ask.

  “Very,” Christopher says. “She loved them. We used to have the most epic games of hide and seek. She—”

  He breaks down and begins to cry.

  “Sorry,” I say as Keith steps over to comfort him, wiping tears of his own.

  “Don’t be,” Christopher says. “It just brought back such happy memories for a moment. I can see her running down that narrow passageway, her little arms pumping so fast, her little rear end waddling. And her sweet little voice. I can hear her shrieks and squeals and laughter. We had so much fun together.”

  “Yes, we did,” Keith says. “We gave her the happiest life possible for the brief, perfect time we had her.”

  “God, I miss her so much,” Christopher says.

  “I know,” Keith says. “Me too.”

  “We had her for such a short time, but it seems like she was a part of us for her entire life—maybe even our entire lives.”

  “It really does.”

  “I’m gonna step back upstairs,” I say. “Give y’all some time alone. We can finish the tour of the house when y’all are ready or another time if that would be better.”

  “No,” Christopher says. “We’re good. Let’s continue. This is how we do everything these days. Through tears and momentary breakdowns.”

  “You sure?” I ask.

  “Positive.”

  They show me each of the exits, then we take the one behind the fireplace with stairs leading to all three levels.

  The stairs are narrow and claustrophobic. Like the escape room we were just in, all of the hidden elements of the house are smaller and shorter and narrower than their visible counterparts.

  We exit into an empty guest room on the third floor through a fireplace. It’s the Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings room—the one that Hal Raphael had stayed in the night of the solstice party.

  “Did Raphael know about this?” I asked.

  They shake their heads and say he didn’t.

  “Did he go into the escape room or take a tour of the hidden part of the house?”

  Again they shake their heads and indicate he didn’t.

  “Did he even hear about them?”

  “Not from us,” Keith says.

  “He was here for business and really only slept here. I’m not sure he even interacted with any other guests, ” Christopher adds.

  “We really wanted it to be him,” Keith says. “That would mean it wasn’t one of us. But the security footage shows him leaving alone.”

  “The security footage also shows that Magdalene never left the house.”

  “That’s true,” Keith says. “But the cops looked at him hard for it.”

  “Then we have to look even harder,” I say.

  “Ooooh, I like the sound of that,” Christopher says. “And I didn’t mean that as gay as it sounded.”

  “Too bad,” Keith says.

  “We find her,” Christopher says to Keith, “we’ll make up for lost time.”

  “No we won’t,” Keith says. “We’ll never let her leave our side again.”

  “True,” he says. “Well, let’s get back to showing John everything so we can get her back as soon as possible.”

  “Out here,” Keith says, and leads us out of the room and onto the third-floor landing.

  The hardwood-floor landing is roughly fifteen by fifteen. Five room doors, the staircase, and a small wall with a narrow table and a vase of flowers on it that stands beneath a huge gold-framed mirror.

  The second-floor landing where my room is looks nearly identical.

  “All three levels have this,” Keith says. “A small hidden room with a passage that leads to our residence in the back.”

  He pulls the vase forward on the table and pushes on the wall next to the mirror and it opens into a small room with a narrow passageway that leads to the back of the house.

  “It’s nice when we’re cleaning or working on the rooms not to have to go all the way to the front of the house and then up the main staircase,” Christopher says. “Having these saves us a ton of time.”

  I nod and think about all the implications. “Do your friends from the party know about these?”

  They nod.

  “Somewhat. I’m not sure how much,” Christopher says.

  “No one knows them very well,” Keith says. “Only three people do—me, Chris, and my mom, who helps us clean them and the rest of the house. But not only would she never take Magdalene from us—not under any circumstance—she wasn’t even in the state. She went to my sister’s in Washington for Christmas.”

  “But you don’t think Hal Raphael knew about them?”

  “Don’t think so,” Keith says.

  “If he did, it didn’t come from us,” Christopher says.

  Keith asks, “Do you want to take this passageway to the residence part of the house?”

  I nod and we do.

  The dim, narrow passageway takes us to the back part of the building, down a spiral staircase that reminds me of being in a Florida lighthouse, and through a door next to Magdalene’s room.

  “There’s no evidence that Magdalene’s abductor used this hidden passageway as far as we know,” Christopher says. “But if they did . . . couldn’t be much more convenient for them, could it?”

  I frown and nod.

  “I don’t want to think about that,” Keith says.

  “Even if they did,” Christopher says, “you’re not to blame.”

  “I’m the reason they’re even in the house.”

  “But, baby, that’s like saying the architect or contractor is to blame because they put doors in houses and criminals entered through the doors.”

  “Well, not exactly,” he says, “but that’s sweet of you to say.”

  We are all quiet a moment, our eyes drifting back over toward the closed
door of Magdalene’s room.

  “You’ve seen pretty much everything back here except for our bedroom and Magdalene’s,” Keith says. “Magdalene’s is right here. Do you want to look at it first?”

  I nod. “If you don’t mind.”

  He slowly opens the door, and we carefully and gingerly enter Magdalene’s room like we’re trying not to disturb the dust.

  Just a few steps inside, I stop and look around.

  It is just as it was on the night she was abducted, except for anything the investigators and forensics team did and the addition of Magdalene’s Christmas presents piled on the floor next to the wall near the door.

  Her small big-girl bed is still unmade, the pink princess comforter turned back to reveal white sheets with little pink flowers on them.

  Instead of a closet she has an antique armoire, the doors of which are open enough to reveal an extensive and extravagant wardrobe, by turns cutesy and casual, fashionable and formal.

  Toys are scattered throughout the room—mostly in a semi-orderly fashion.

  A tiny table with small chairs sits in the far corner. A huge teddy bear in one of the chairs looks lonely and about to topple onto the floor. The table is covered with paper and pens, markers and crayons, and some of Magdalene’s work—one particularly poignant creation has three stick figures, a little girl standing between two men, their long noodle arms twisting around to hold each other’s hands. Crayon scrawl reads “I love my Dads.”

  Several places throughout the room still have a dusting of black fingerprint powder on them—including the bedposts and doorjambs.

  A few of the drawers of her dresser are open and have clothes spilling out.

  “We always kept her room neat and clean,” Christopher says. “And she was pretty good about it too. Especially for her age. The open drawers and that dirty-looking black powder are from the police. I need to clean it. Just haven’t been able to. This is the longest I’ve been in here since it happened.”

  “There’s no rush,” Keith says. “We’ll get to it when we’re able.”

  The room reveals evidence of a loved and adored and cared-for and indulged little girl.

  On the wall above the headboard of the bed is a large black-and-white poster of a youngish Dolly Parton. She has large hoop earrings and a ribbon in her big blond hair and she is looking off to the side pensively, her mouth barely open as if in the moment before she says something.

  Keith says, “Chris is a closeted country music fan. Something he quickly passed on to Magdalene.”

  “Queen Dolly transcends country music,” Christopher says, “and is a great role model for anyone—especially a little girl with two dads. Her energy and vibe, her talent, her work ethic, her positivity, her graciousness and generosity and self-deprecation. I can’t believe we’re not going to get to see the woman Magdalene would have grown up to be.”

  On the bedside table is a Dolly Parton makeup set.

  “The night before . . . before we lost her,” Christopher says, “she had me paint her nails—fingers and toes—all in the same Hard Candy Apple Red Christmas. I knocked the bottle over and spilled some on the sleeve of her new Toy Story pajamas. She was so good about it. I promised I’d get her more of both—the nail polish and the pajamas. She didn’t care. Only thing she cared about was not having to take those pj’s off. She insisted on keeping them on, Hard Candy Apple Red Christmas stain and all.”

  “And I’m glad we let her,” Keith says.

  “Let her,” Christopher says. “That’s cute.”

  I glance over at the pile of unopened Christmas presents, which is huge. Next to them is a smaller pile of opened presents.

  “That’s not just from us,” Keith says. “Those are the ones from my mom and her foster mom and our friends. We all went a little overboard.”

  “It was our first Christmas with her,” Christopher says. “Everyone was so happy for us—even those who weren’t at first. It was going to be . . .”

  He breaks down again.

  “Why are some opened?” I ask.

  Keith says, “My mom went to my sister’s in Washington for Christmas, so we had Christmas with her early. It was . . . I guess it had to be two days before the party because her flight was the day before the party. Magdalene got to open her presents from her grandma then.”

  “And one from us,” Christopher says between sobs, “the Toy Story pajamas she was sleeping in the night she—” He turns and rushes out of the room.

  Keith follows him.

  I linger for a moment longer.

  God, please help me find this sweet little girl alive and return her to her parents. Please.

  “I’m so sorry we live in a world where you can be put up for adoption and be abducted,” I say to Magdalene. “But I’m going to do everything I can to find you and . . .”

  I’m not sure what else to say. I was going to say bring to justice whoever took you, but there is no justice for something like that, so I just let the unfinished sentence hang there in the air, suspended like Magdalene’s unfinished life.

  Day 75

  Day 75

  I have nothing to say. Literally, nothing.

  I committed to write in this journal every day, so here it is.

  What I have to say today is NOTHING.

  18

  On Tuesday morning I give a brief lecture and participate in a talkback on the American criminal justice system and the need for reform, with an emphasis on the prison system.

  Both the talk and the Q&A seem well received. The questions are thoughtful and the discussion good. The most surprising thing about any of it is Anna’s decision not to attend. She informed me last night that she and Taylor would sleep in, then go to the beach, grab some lunch, and see me back at the room later in the day. But when I was getting ready this morning Taylor let her mama know she wanted to go with me.

  So I get the pleasure of Taylor’s company and Anna gets a day to herself.

  Following the talkback I am introduced to several people—including Keith’s mom Derinda Dacosta and Scott Haskew, executive director of the Sandcastle Foundation, the not-for-profit group that supports educational and charitable events in Sandcastle and Walton County. He’s one of two people that I haven’t met yet who were at the solstice party the night Magdalene was taken. The other, Jodi North, is also present and I am introduced to her too. An overly dramatic aging actress, North is the creative director of the Sandcastle Repertory Theater.

  I also meet Magdalene’s former foster parents Brent and Charis Tremblay, and the adoption agent who was so helpful to Christopher and Keith, Demi Gonzalez.

  The crowd for my second talk is far larger than my first because every Tuesday for the past several months, Keith and Christopher’s family, friends, and a group of so-called citizen sleuths descend on Sandcastle to join locals in a methodical search for Magdalene.

  Many of the shopkeepers close early on Tuesday afternoons to also join the search. The well-organized and motivated group has created a grid that extends out from the Florida House and each week are combing through another quadrant, looking not only for Magdalene but also for clues to her disappearance.

  “Do you two participate in the searches for Magdalene on Tuesdays?” I ask Scott Haskew and Jodi North, who happen to be standing near me as people mill about in the chapel after the talkback.

  “I wish I could,” Haskew says, “but . . . these days I’m largely a staff of one, and I can never seem to get caught up.”

  “Same here, darling,” Jodi says. “Nobody seems to understand what it takes to operate such a fine regional repertory theater as ours.”

  As I talk to people about the lecture I’ve just given and look for opportunities to interview the suspects in Magdalene’s disappearance, Derinda Dacosta sits next to Taylor on the front row, interacting animatedly and assisting her in the activities book she brought for entertainment.

  “But you were there at the party the night Magdalene was taken?” I say.
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  Haskew nods.

  “Disappeared,” Jodi North corrects. “The night the poor dear disappeared. We don’t know for certain she was taken.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Only that as I understand it there’s no evidence she was abducted,” she says. “That’s all. All we know for sure is that she’s gone.”

  “Well, if she wasn’t taken, how did she disappear?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” she says. “But I do know there are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  “Meaning something inexplicable?” I ask. “Spiritual perhaps?”

  She shrugs, and she does it like she does everything—dramatically. “Perhaps. Sandcastle is built on top of an ancient temple mound. There’s much that goes on here that we can’t explain. But I wasn’t referring to that as much as the possibility that she wasn’t taken so much as hidden.”

  Haskew gives her a slight shake of the head and roll of his eyes.

  “Hidden?” I ask.

  “That house is so big and has so many rooms—many of them hidden. So many passageways—some of them secret. Isn’t it at least possible that the poor dear never left the house?”

  Haskew says, “Sandcastle is not built on an ancient temple mound. That’s been proven to be much farther inland. And that house has been searched more than a Muslim air traveler since 9-11. Y’all excuse me, please. I need to have a word with the Samuelsons about our foundation luncheon.”

  As he moves away, Wren Melody, the British bookstore owner, and Brooke Wakefield, the thin, platinum-blond boutique owner, drift over.

  “Oh, Jodi, did you get my message?” Wren says. “I left it on your mobile when I didn’t get you.”

  Jodi shakes her head.

  “The book of Harold Pinter plays you ordered arrived today,” Wren says. “I should’ve brought it with me this morning, but I came straight ’round here instead of popping into the bookstore first, didn’t I?”

  “Marvelous,” Jodi says. “I’ll stop by this afternoon and pick it up.”