Photo by GЯΛΞMΞ MOЯЯIS on Unsplash
Claire has been sitting in the interview room for an hour. She has to pee, but doesn’t want to call for help.
“Mrs. Douglas?”
How had she fallen asleep? But she had, and now, Det.WhatsHisName is sitting across the table from her. Next to him is a woman who introduces herself as Rita Nuñez, Victim’s Assistance Officer, and asks her, “Would you like some coffee or tea, Mrs. Douglas?”
“May I use the ladies’ room, please?”
Claire follows Nuñez to the women’s lavatory, and then sits down in the stall, too embarrassed to go with someone just outside the door. Nuñez makes a call on her iPhone. The conversation is in Spanish. Claire hears the words “mujer loca,” apparently referring to her, the crazy woman. She flushes once to cover the sound, and then again.
She steps out, and Nuñez ends her call. At the sink, Claire washes her hands, and then dries them with a paper towel. “I never use FaceTime on my iPhone,” she says, to Nuñez’s mirror image, guessing her age to be barely 30. “Don’t get me wrong. I would have loved it when I was your age, but now, not so much.”
Nuñez opens the door for Claire, and follows her down the hall. “You want some coffee, or a soft drink, Mrs. Douglas?”
Claire settles across from her inquisitors, and does her best to explain what she herself does not understand, “It was supposed to be a dream vacation,” she says, speaking louder than usual for the benefit of the recorder in front of her, while Det. WhatsHisName takes notes. “But it’s turned into a nightmare.”
The detective and Nuñez stare at her expecting, what? Something they won’t believe—haven’t believed all along? If this were a film, she thinks, this is that smoke-filled scene where the detectives are sitting on the edges of their seats waiting for the prime suspect, a middle-aged, attractive woman, to confess to killing her husband and making his corpse disappear into thin air.
Det.WhatsHisName leans into the mic. “Let’s reiterate for the record, Mrs. Douglas, that you are speaking truthfully about the evening of April 29, when you say your husband went missing, and that you do so on your own accord, waiving your attorney privilege?”
“Yes, I do.” Claire’s been telling the truth all along— but, so far, no one believes mujer loca, She guesses that behind the two-way mirror on the wall in front of her, there are others watching the interview: a profiler perhaps, or a psychologist, called in during the hour she was left alone, to see if she’s sane, or delusional. “Where do you want me to begin?” Where do you begin a story about a dream that came true—that resulted in the sudden disappearance of your husband of 25 years?
The detective glances at Nuñez and says, “Tell us about your husband’s recurring dream.”
Claire speaks for the benefit of the hidden audience she knows is behind the mirror, listening to her, studying her body language, taking notes to compare later.
“For months, my husband, Paul Douglas, had the same dream,” she begins. “Not every single night, but often enough to get his attention. The first time he mentioned it to me was around the holidays last year. Paul referred to it as his dream vacation. It was so real to him that he once drew a detailed map of the terrain.”
Det.WhatsHisName interrupts. “Do you still have the map?”
“I wouldn’t know where it is,” Claire says. ”I doubt very much if we kept it. His dream was only a dream back then. We had no idea it would come true.”
“How detailed was the map, can you remember?”
Claire closes her eyes. “There are a few main streets with shops, an ice cream store, and the Mendocino hotel, of course.”
There is a knock on the door. Nuñez walks out of the room. A moment later, she returns and whispers into Det.WhatsHisName’s ear. He gathers up his file, and stands. “Mrs. Douglas, something urgent’s come up. Can we resume tomorrow morning, say, 10 o’clock?”
At the Heritage that evening, William, her server, hovers. He seems to have adopted her. Claire suspects he has seen her picture in the morning paper—or, more likely, read about it online at the Mendocino Beacon’s website.
She is reminded that Paul distrusted the internet, and stubbornly continued to subscribe to the print editions of the New York Times and the Washington Post. Sunday mornings in their condo are a ritual of eggs Benedict, mimosas, and newsprint, all consumed before noon.
William takes away her dishes, returns, circles once, and then lands. “Let me say how sorry I am for your trouble,” he says at last. “I lost my father recently.”
Claire wants to say she hasn’t lost anyone, that she’s not a widow, yet—but she thanks him and orders the Olallieberry pie and an Irish coffee, and thinks, Goddamn you, Paul. Where are you?
The next morning she meets Det. Grace Connor, a tall, formidable woman in her mid-thirties, who tells Claire she is sitting in for Det.WhatsHisName. Nuñez is already in the interview room. There is a basket of croissants and a coffee carafe in the middle of the table.
“Thank you for coming,” Connor says, turning on the recorder. “We apologize for making you return another day, but it’s very important that we understand all the facts.”
Claire smiles, but she knows the code word is “facts,” and not her bizarre version of events, which they refuse to accept. Would she believe her own story if things were reversed?
Connor thumbs through some papers on the table in front of her. “According to the transcript of yesterday’s interview, you claim neither you, nor your husband, have been here before—so, what brought you to Mendocino?”
“My best friend’s wedding,” Claire says, happy to talk about something they can verify. “The invitation came out of the blue, leaving us only a couple of weeks to make all the travel arrangements. Those of us in the wedding party were given complimentary rooms at the Heritage, where both the wedding and reception were held. It was a big deal for Paul and me—our first trip to the West Coast.”
*
The bride was Nicky Sebring, Claire’s off and on best friend since high school. Both bride and groom were marrying for the second time, so the outdoor service, with its spectacular view of the ocean, was brief. The reception, however, ended in the early morning hours, when the inebriated newlyweds were carried off in a stretch limousine on the first stage of their round the world honeymoon cruise.
The following day, Claire and Paul drove their rental car north along the coastal highway to the Point Cabrillo Light Station. They were lighthouse junkies and had visited most of the lighthouses along the Atlantic coast. From the parking lot, it was a steep half mile walk downhill in the fog. Claire took at least 30 photos with her iPhone of that wonderful day, her last with Paul.
*
“Mrs. Douglas?” Connor’s voice expresses concern. “Are you with us?”
Nuñez is worried about her, too. “Do you want something to drink or eat? Won’t you have a croissant?”
“No, I don’t want anything to eat or drink.” Claire says. “But, I do want to know why you are treating me like I’m crazy, while my husband is God knows where.”
Conner takes a breath, calm descends, and then she explains, “We are simply trying to learn as much as we can about your husband’s disappearance. You must realize that the circumstances are very unusual. We’ve searched the Mendocino hotel and scoured the headland trails down to the beach.” The detective pauses. “In fact, Mrs. Douglas, no one’s reported seeing your husband since you both left the Heritage yesterday morning.”
“Surely, our server at the Mendocino Hotel—Maggie? Mary? She must remember us.”
“Meghan Morgan,” Connor says, referring to her notes. “We interviewed everyone who was working the night you reported your husband as missing, including Miss Morgan. We showed her a photo of you and Mr. Douglas. She recognized you but she’s quite sure you dined alone.”
There is a pause, while Claire catches up. “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “She’s obviously mistaken.”
Connor refers to the transcript again. “You mentioned Mr. Douglas had something like a panic attack when he realized that Mendocino was the place he had been dreaming about.”
“It wasn’t something like one, detective,” Claire fires back. “It was a full blown panic attack—shortness of breath, anxiety, chest pains—the same symptoms as a heart attack.” Claire speaks from her own experience.
“Is it possible your husband was unwell?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean like having issues with his health, or mental well being. Was he depressed? Suicidal?”
“There are no issues with him that I know of. Paul keeps himself in shape. He walks, bikes, plays tennis, and loves to swim. Never forgets our anniversary, or my birthday.” To the two-way mirror, she adds, “We can sit here all day while you decide if I’m certifiably crazy, but I’m not changing my story, because it’s true. Paul didn’t run away with another woman, or jump off the headlands into the Pacific. And I didn’t kill him. He walked down a hotel hallway into a black fog and disappeared.”
*
They were too tired after their lighthouse excursion to get dressed for dinner, so they ordered room service, and dined on the patio with its breathtaking view of the mist covered headlands and the Pacific crashing against the rocks far below. They had fallen in love with Mendocino.
“Let’s go into town and have a nightcap,” Paul said. “Maybe take a romantic stroll in the moonlight along the headlands?”
They parked the car on Little Lake Street near the Art Center, making a promise to visit it before they left for home, and then walked down Kasten and onto Main Street. As soon as they turned the corner, Paul was overcome with emotion. “It’s my dream,” he said, charging down the street. “Look, there’s the ice cream shop, and the hotel—exactly as I dreamed them.”
Claire felt a chill pass over her. Paul had related the dream to her so often, she felt as if, she too, dreamed what they were witnessing. She followed Paul into the hotel bar, where they were both stunned to see the hotel’s Victorian interior just as Paul had described it so many times. “I need a drink,” he said.
Their server, Meghan, was a Mendocino native. She tells them that the hotel was built in 1878 as the Temperance House, and later became a bordello. “There’s a story the place is haunted. So far, I’ve never seen her, but some guests claim they’ve seen a ghost, a well-dressed Victorian woman, wandering the halls at night.”
Paul and Claire indulged in small talk while they finished their Irish coffees and two slices of Olallieberry pie, a local treat Meghan suggested. Claire was happy to see her husband so excited. How often does a dream come true? They were like expectant children, savoring the moments before they are allowed to open a gift, which may, or may not be what they hoped for.
“I always enter through the bar,” Paul said, as they start out to explore the rest of the hotel. “And then, I go to the lobby and check in. My room is upstairs, down a narrow hallway with rooms on one side and windows on the other. Later, I go down to dinner in a Victorian dining room, where the tables are covered with white linen. Afterwards, I take a walk along the headlands, and stop for ice cream on my return.”
They climbed the stairs and discovered the Victorian dining room, complete with white linens. “There’s no doubt in my mind,” Paul said. “This is my dream vacation.”
Hand in hand, they took the stairs to the top floor, where the narrow hallway stretched before them—the rooms on the left facing a line of windows that barely provided enough light to see. The scene reminded Claire of a cave she once explored when she was a girl. The farther she went, the darker it got, until there was no light.
“I want to find my room,” Paul said, leaving her behind.
At first, it was fun, amazing even, as Paul’s dream became real, but as he disappeared into the gloom, she became alarmed. “Come back,” she called. “I’m serious, Paul. Come back, right now.”
There was no answer. The black fog was gone, and Paul with it.
*
Claire’s outburst has an effect. Connor shakes her head and sighs, as if she has given up reasoning with a crazy woman. The door opens and Det.WhatsHisName enters. Connor speaks into the recorder’s mic, “Detective Sergei Walkowsky joins the interview at 11:15.”
Walkowsky takes a seat and comes right to the point. “Something came up yesterday that might be relevant in your husband’s disappearance,” he tells Claire. “After you and Mr. Douglas visited the lighthouse, yesterday, did you stop at Russian State Park on the way back? Maybe take a short hike to take advantage of the beautiful weather?”
“We were at Point Cabrillo most of the day. I was exhausted, and a little sunburned, so we went straight back to our room at the Heritage. Why?”
“Yesterday, a man’s body was discovered in the park near the Devil’s Punch Bowl. An apparent suicide. We haven’t been able to identify the victim for…a number of reasons. It would be helpful to know what your husband was wearing the day he disappeared.”
Claire reaches into her handbag for her iPhone, opens the photo app to the Point Cabrillo photos, and hands the phone to Walkowsky.
The detective flicks through several photos of the lighthouse with Paul Douglas wearing a wide brim canvas hat, a blue polo shirt and jeans. “Our John Doe was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, hiking shorts, and sandals,” Walkowsky says, returning Claire’s phone. “And, it appears your husband was just under six feet. The victim was a much shorter man. I’m sorry.”
Before Claire puts her phone away, she notices there is a text from Nicky. “I just heard the news about Paul! Call me!”
The interview is over. Walkowsky turns off the recorder. Connor closes her notebook. Nuñez offers Claire her card. “My personal cell’s on the back,” she says. “If you need anything at all before you leave, give me a call.”
“We appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Douglas,” Walkowsky says. “You have my word that we’re going to stay on this till we find your husband.”
Clair remains seated. She has no intention of leaving. “That’s it? I’m supposed to fly home tomorrow without knowing what happened to Paul?”
“Without more to go on, Mrs. Douglas, we’re as much in the dark as you are,” Connor says. “People don’t just disappear in a puff of smoke every day. There has to be a reasonable explanation.”
Claire gets to her feet. “My husband didn’t go up in a puff of smoke, detective. Something evil took Paul from me, and I don’t believe I’m ever going to see him again.”
Walkowsky holds the door open for Claire. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we know more,” he says. “Believe me, we want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do.”
Nuñez follows Claire down the hall. “You’ve got my number,” she says. “Call me anytime.”
That evening, ahead of schedule, Claire checks out of the Heritage. The desk clerk is a young woman who looks like a college age Nicky, which reminds her that she hasn’t returned her friend’s text. While the bellhop loads her luggage into the trunk of the rental, she tries calling, but the call goes to voicemail. “Talk at the beep,” says Nicky’s greeting.
Claire explains what happened, and adds, “The police have been no help. They think I’m the prime suspect. Don’t worry, I’m going to find Paul myself. ”
She parks on Mendocino’s Main Street, locks the rental, and enters a shop called “Out of This World,” where she buys a small tripod, and an iPhone holder for it.
At 9:30, about the time she and Paul were seated last night, Claire enters the Mendocino Hotel, sits at the same table and orders an Irish coffee. When she asks, her server informs her that Meghan has the night off.
Fortified by the buzz from the whisky and the three glasses of wine she drank earlier at the Heritage, she pays her bill, and climbs the stairs to the narrow hallway where she last saw the only man she has ever loved.
Claire sets up the tripod and attaches her iPhone. She turns on the iPhone’s video camera to record. The long hallway springs into focus on the screen. With Paul’s cell phone, an outdated clamshell style, she dials the number written on the back of Nuñez’s card. The call goes to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Rita. You know the drill. Catch you later.”
“This is Claire Douglas. Meet me at the Mendocino Hotel—upstairs, where my husband disappeared.”
Claire sets her handbag on the floor next to the tripod and walks down the hall into the darkness. The video continues recording long after she vanishes.
Stephen Newton is a writer and independent filmmaker based in Southern Appalachia. Newton’s most recent fiction appears in, or is forthcoming in, The Monsters We Forgot, Part 2, Vol 2,Two Sisters, Drunk Monkeys, Cagibi, and The Ice Colony’s Lo Fed Chronicle.