Selling Murder House

Chapter 8 (Continued)

I started the following day feeling hungover; less from the two beers I'd had with Paul, and more from the conversation we had. Even after a long night's rest, his story left me feeling heavy and unsettled.

This whole game that Maggie Madsen had played with her family, it was like something out of an old black and white film. The evil matriarch, holding her fortune over the heads of her spoiled grandchildren, pitting them against one another for a chance at the fortune. I imagined her as a puppet master, holding her marionettes from high, high above, pulling the strings, making her grandchildren jump and dance and clash at her every whim.

It disgusted me, but it fascinated me too. Suddenly, the house, its decor and flamboyance, suddenly it all made sense. This wasn't just a woman with eccentric taste. This was a woman who exhibited her power and control over every facet of her life. Even beyond the grave, I thought, Maggie Madsen was still pulling the string of Paul's life.

Not if I could help it, I thought.

The streets were empty, back to normal in Saddlebrook as I walked to the Madsen House. There were small reminders of the festivities of the night before, a candy wrapper here and a pair of plastic vampire fangs there. I braced myself for more vandalism at the house. I'd stayed fairly late helping Paul paint, but I suspected there'd be a surprise or two leftover from the particularly stealthy teens.

The old graffiti greeted me when I approached the house, MURDER HOUSE looking brighter and bolder than ever. The only new development was smaller, more subtle, yet somehow more disturbing than the large lettering. In bright red paint was a crude depiction of a girl (I could make out from the long curly car and the triangle dress), with large capital X's for eyes. Splatters of red paint surrounded her. I grimaced. MURDER HOUSE was bad, but at least it was somewhat impersonal. This felt hateful, vicious, and incredibly juvenile. The painting looked like something an eight-year-old might draw.

I'd need to call a cleaner immediately, preferably before Stassi arrived. I wanted to show her I could handle at least this. I knocked on the door, then let myself in when I heard Paul's voice.

"Hey," he said. He was dressed up again, in another preppy outfit that made him look like a mannequin at Ralph Lauren. I did a double-take when I saw he'd cut his hair.

"Hey, nice haircut," I said, because I felt like I needed to acknowledge the change.

He ran a hair through the close-cropped and gelled back hair, as if he'd forgotten.

"Thanks," he said. "It was time to get rid of all that bulk."

I filled him in on the new artwork that had appeared on his house overnight. He'd already seen it, but a tinge of fury colored his face for a moment at the reminder. He agreed to hire cleaners to have it removed. I got the impression, from the grave look on his face, that he didn't want to look at it again, and he'd pay what little he had to ensure he wouldn't have to.

I didn't blame him. It was a disturbing image, one that brought unwanted, more graphic images to mind. I couldn't help but think of the little girl who had died there, to wonder what she was like, how she died, how she must've felt that night. It was heart-wrenching. I remembered from the family portrait, she'd had long hair that curled at the ends, just like the stick-figure in red. It was either an unfortunate coincidence, or someone's idea of a sick joke. I was happy to see it go.

Later, a shiny black convertible pulled up to the house, and a short man in a tailored suit stepped out. I watched from the window as he strode around to the passenger door and chivalrously opened it for Stassi. Side-by-side they were a strange couple -- Stassi had said they were friends, but I'd never known Stassi to do any favors for mere friends -- she was a good nine inches taller than him, and probably about as many years younger, if not more.

I was surprised to see another car pull up behind them. It was a black SUV, and as a bearded man emerged and started hauling equipment from the trunk, I knew exactly what was about to happen.

"They're doing the podcast today?" I asked Paul.

Paul smiled, but it didn't meet his eyes.

"How else am I gonna pay the cleaners?" he said.

I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. It felt too soon, too soon in a lot of ways. Too soon for Stassi (and me, by association) to be asking Paul to sell his story, too soon for us to be asking him for a favor like this, and too soon for Paul to be talking publicly about any of it. Hell, it was too soon to have anyone inside the house, what with the paint not even dry. But it wasn't my decision, and it was going to happen whether I felt sick about it or not.

Paul got the door for his guests, and I hung back in the sitting room, watching through the archway. Stassi and the producer came in first and seemed to take their time stepping through the threshold, leaving the bearded man red in the face as he struggled with a heavy-looking trunk behind them.

"Paul, this is Tom," Stassi beamed. "He's the producer of Crime Beat and a very good friend of mine."

They shook hands.

"Pleasure to meet you, Paul," Tom said, in a voice that sounded too big for him. "Thank you for choosing to share your story with us. And my sincerest condolences for your tragic loss."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. If that was him truly giving his sincerest condolences, I didn't want to hear the less-sincere version. The way he said it, like it was a line he was so used to giving, it made my skin crawl. The sensation reminded me of the day I'd decided to approach the Madsen House, and that made me feel even worse. He's not the only one capitalizing on a tragedy, a pesky voice in my head whispered.

Stassi was looking around, and I realized she was looking for me.

"My colleague . . ." she started.

I entered the foyer.

"Hi," I said, waving like a preschooler. "I'm Mary."

Tom and I shook hands.

The bearded man was setting up the equipment in the office as we made our introductions. It seemed Tom didn't feel the need to introduce his colleague.

Paul led the way into the office, where it seemed the recording would take place. I didn't know where I should be. Stassi seemed to be following Tom and Paul, but I felt like an outsider in the ordeal. Would Paul want privacy, as he spoke about the family tragedy? Or did it not matter, because it was going to be posted online anyway? Then I remembered my laptop was in the office, so that settled it. I would go retrieve my laptop, then leave.

"Pleasure," Tom said. "Stassi's partner-in-crime. I've heard so much about you."

I smiled, but my face burned at the prospect of what he might've heard.

The office was still untouched, and the pink walls and busy decor were a shock to the senses coming from the entryway. The bearded man had set up recording devices impressively fast atop the antique desk. He crouched on the floor rather than using the chair, and his shirt was riding up enough to see a tuft of stomach hair, but he didn't seem to mind or notice. He was focused on his sleek Macbook, fiddling with audio controls and listening through large, noise-cancelling headphones. He reached for the microphone and spoke into it, then adjusted something on its side. He stood and turned to Tom.

"All set," he said.

Tom gave him a salute, and the bearded man left the room. Tom pulled up a chair and sat at the computer, and Paul sat across from him, closest to the microphone. As Tom explained how the discussion would go, and how the technology worked, I scanned the room for my laptop. I'd left it on the desk, but it must've been moved in the setup.

Stassi was seated on a little pink loveseat, working on her laptop. Her long fingernails clicked distractingly as she typed. Beside her, on a small end-table, I spotted my laptop.

"Ladies," Tom said, "We need total silence in the recording area, this thing will pick up any shuffling or keyboard noises."

Stassi looked a little taken aback, but she nodded and left the room. I retrieved my laptop, then followed Stassi.