Page 2 of Darro

“I don’t know why you keep picking fights with those old gabachos,” her friend complained. “You’re never going to change how they think. Every pendejo who works at that place looks at you and sees a maid, not a journalist.”

“So I work hard and maybe in time they’ll see me as a colleague,” Esme countered. “You know if we don’t fight, we can’t win.”

“Sure, and if you leave and work somewhere else, you also can’t write an exposé about that big ugly haunted castle place,” Rosa said.

Her friend was right, of course. Aside from trying to change things at Monterey Today, Esme did want to be the one who finally solved the biggest unexplained mystery in her hometown. It wasn’t simply because her grandmother had worked there, or all the time Esme had spent as a kid inside its stone walls. Every time she saw the castle, she had the sense that she was looking at something more than a window into the medieval world.

Something inside the castle could explain everything. She was convinced of it.

McKeran’s Castle had been torn down in the Scottish highlands and shipped over to be rebuilt in Monterey in 1912. Since then the original owner, his nephew, and countless servants, tourists and even a few intruders had disappeared inside its massive stone walls. Tragedies also frequently occurred in close proximity to the property, including a car crash that had killed an FBI agent and the recent disappearance of a supermodel, thought to be a suicide.

No one knew why, although plenty of people had theories.

She had read all the articles and online posts posing hypotheses as to why people went missing inside the castle. Multi-generational serial killer stories were the most popular, as were alien abductions and human trafficking kidnappings. She chuckled over the more fantastic possibilities, such as the structure being an inter-dimensional portal, or an ancient time-travel device. As Esme approached the front entrance where the rest of the journalists and media reps were waiting, she admired how the sunset lent a glamorous glow to the huge stone structure. It had a certain siren-song quality to it as well. Like so many who had visited the castle in the past she had returned for another chance to see it, despite knowing what a dangerous place it was.

Maybe that’s why Grace Johansen came here, if that’s what she did. To find a way into the time machine so she could revisit the past and save her grandmother.

The short piece Esme had written up on the supermodel’s disappearance had contained only what facts were known about the missing woman. Working in the top tier of the fashion industry, Grace had flown home to Monterey to deal with her mother’s sudden death from food poisoning. After the funeral she’d fired her agent, sold everything to settle her mother’s outstanding debts, and then abandoned her rental car by the sea. No one had seen her since. Ron had wanted to slant the piece to suggest the grieving model had jumped off a cliff, but Esme didn’t buy that after talking to Grace’s realtor.

“Her mother’s place was a god-awful nightmare,” the woman said over the phone. “Tonje Johansen stuffed every room so full of crap you could barely walk through them. The daughter didn’t keep a single thing, either. She sold everything in the house along with the property to the new owners, and donated her mother’s things to a thrift shop. She did ask me about McKeran’s Castle, and I told her the name of the owner. Doubt he would have let her inside, though.”

That didn’t sound like a grieving daughter on the verge of suicide to Esme. She preferred to think of the supermodel getting into trouble while researching what really happened to her grandmother, Inga Holm, who had also disappeared seventy years ago while visiting McKeran’s Castle. Esme hadn’t found any evidence that Grace had done the same; until tonight no one had been permitted inside the castle for two and a half years. Still, she knew if the same thing had happened to her she wouldn’t have quit investigating until she had some answers, and not just because she was a journalist. Her grandparents had raised her with love and devotion; if either one of them had gone missing she would have done anything to find them.

“Hey, Hot Stuff.” Jake Conor from the Valley Herald waved her over to where he was standing with a tall, skinny, red-haired photographer dressed rather theatrically in all black. When she joined them the photographer gave her a look of open dislike, which made her smile back at him.

Yes, a Chicana is here. Whether you hate women or brown people, we’re everywhere, zonzo.

“Buckshot must have sent Chilidog to cover the school shooting, eh?” Jake asked. “’Cause they’d think you were just one of the survivors.”

“My name is Esme, in case you forgot. I’m surprised to see you here, too. Everyone always predicted you’d end up writing obits for justcroaked.com.” Jake chuckled and patted his chest to acknowledge the comeback, and Esme decided that was enough ranking to keep him in line. “So when are they opening the doors?”

“Soon as Beaumont arrives,” the photographer said, glancing up from the golden badge he had been fiddling with to give her a speculative look. “Rumor is he’s harder to interview than Beyoncé. You ever meet the guy?”

Esme shook her head. “My editor doesn’t think the castle is worth the effort of tracking him down.”

“Speaking of, how is the moron doing these days?” Jake asked. “Still kissing the butts of anyone willing to rent a quarterly banner ad?”

She knew his mockery came from hatred over being fired from Monterey Today. For years Jake had fought with Ron to be next in line for the editor-in-chief’s job, but in the end Ron had won the position. He’d then promptly fired his rival for being insubordinate. Since Esme had taken his old job, Jake had been nice to her in a patronizing, sexist way, probably because he sensed how much she also disliked his old nemesis. Esme knew better than to run her mouth to another reporter, however, especially one who might use anything she told him for his own purposes no matter what the fallout did to her.

“Mr. Buckley is as busy as ever,” she told him.

“Ah.” The other reporter nodded. “You’re still kissing his butt.”

Esme saw the photographer smirk with appreciation over the remark, but decided not to get drawn into a slanging match. She had come here for a story, not to trade barbs with Jake.

“Would everyone step back please?” one of the guards at the door called out. “Mr. Beaumont would like to make some remarks before the tour begins.” As every photographer got ready to shoot, he added, “He also said that no pictures are to be taken of him or the property, and your phones and cameras will be checked entering and leaving the castle. Anyone who does take photos will have their equipment confiscated before they leave.”

“That is such bullshit,” Jake muttered as everyone groaned. “I bet Beaumont is trying to put this place on the market, and wants to stage all the photos. Selfish asshole.”

Esme ignored the griping around her; she always brought her spare phone to use for pictures and presented her other phone for inspection. If no one else had resorted to the same trick it was their own fault. She watched the doors to the castle, which swung open a few moments later. She then squeezed her way to the front of the pack so she could get a better look. Almost at once she grimaced at the handsome man in the expensive suit who came out; with him came a terrible stink like that from a restaurant dumpster in mid-summer.

She breathed through her mouth to avoid smelling the horrible stench. Was Beaumont setting out rat poison and letting the bodies rot? Or had something gotten trapped inside and starved to death?

“Thank you, everyone, for attending the tour.” Beaumont smiled broadly, making her think of sharks about to attack. His dark eyes shifted to scan the faces of everyone waiting as if he wanted to remember them all, which seemed odd. “I’m sorry about the veto on photographs, but my lawyer doesn’t want any strategic photoshopping done to add extra sensationalism. As I’m sure you know, McKeran’s Castle already has a very unfortunate reputation.”

“Do you think it eats people, Beaumont?” someone called out from the back.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a series of unhappy coincidences.” The owner sniffed and gestured to a guard behind him, who began passing out pamphlets to everyone.