Rules for Perfect Murders

by Peter Swanson

  I’m not a connoisseur of scotch but even I could tell that the Talisker was good stuff. Still, I’d bring the glass to my lips and only sip the tiniest amount. I needed to think about the significance of those bottles of Dimple Pinch I’d seen in the cabinet upstairs. Could Brian Murray be Charlie? My immediate answer was a definitive no. He was one of those men who could talk a good game, but who couldn’t actually do a whole lot of things. He didn’t drive, he couldn’t cook. I’m sure he didn’t make his own travel arrangements or file his own taxes or figure out his own bills. He could write, he could drink, and he could talk. There’d be no way for him to plan, then execute, actual murders.

  But what if he had help?

  While we drank, I could see through into the kitchen, where Tess was cleaning up, humming to herself. She seemed happy, relaxed almost. There was a break in Brian’s story and I said, “Did you ever read the blog posts that I wrote for the website?”

  “What website?” he said.

  “Our website. The Old Devils site. The blog that’s attached to it.”

  “Oh, right,” he said, remembering. I’d pestered him over the years to write something for it, just an occasional book recommendation, or a list of his favorites, but he never did. “What about it?”

  “Do you remember a list I wrote, a few years back, even before you were an owner, called ‘Eight Perfect Murders’?”

  He scratched at the inside of his eye, and I studied him. “That list, I do remember,” he finally said. “I think the first time I ever knew your name was from reading that list. And you know what I thought?”

  “No.”

  “I thought: ‘I can’t believe the prick didn’t include one of my books.’”

  I laughed. “Is that really what you thought?”

  “Sure. You get to a point in your career where every ten-best list or year-end best list is a personal affront if you’re not part of it. But the thing is … the thing was, if I remember correctly, it wasn’t that you didn’t include one of my books, it’s that you hadn’t included The Reaping Season. I mean, Jesus, Mal, come on.” He was smiling now.

  “Help me out,” I said. “The one with Carl …”

  “With Carl Boyd, right.”

  I did remember that one. It was an early book. The villain, Carl Boyd, was a psychopath out to get revenge on everyone who had ever belittled him. And that included a lot of people. If I remembered it correctly, Carl was a pharmacist. He’d kidnap his victims before killing them, give them an injection of sodium pentothal, or something similar, something to make them tell the truth. Then he’d ask them what their worst fear was, ask them to describe the death that terrified them most. Someone would admit that he was claustrophobic, for example, so Carl Boyd would bury him alive in a box.

  “How could I forget that one?” I said.

  “Apparently, you did.”

  “It wouldn’t have fit in on that list I was doing, anyway. That was specifically for perfect murders. Unsolvable murders.”

  “What are you two talking about?” It was Tess, coming in from the kitchen, wiping her damp hands down her thighs.

  “Murder,” I said, at the same time that Brian said, “Disrespect.”

  “Good times,” Tess said. “I was thinking of brewing a pot of coffee and wanted to know how much I should make. Brian, yes, I know you’re not interested.”

  “I’ll have some,” I said.

  “Regular? Decaf?”

  “I’ll have the real stuff,” I said and wondered if I’d slurred a little on the word stuff.

  She turned back to the kitchen and Brian said, “There’s no such thing, really.”

  “No such thing as what?” I said.

  “I’m talking about the list you wrote,” he said. “There’s no such thing as a perfect murder.”

  “In fiction, or in real life?”

  “In both. Too many variables, always. Let me guess what you had on that list. Strangers on a Train, right?”

  “Right,” I said. Brian was sitting up a little taller now, seemed a little less drunk.

  “Of course you did. I actually remember this list now, and not just because I wasn’t on it. Strangers on a Train, no disrespect to Pat Highsmith, is a stupid idea for a perfect murder. What makes it clever? That you get some stranger to do your killing for you? And that way you can have a rock-solid alibi? Not a chance. The minute you get some stranger to kill someone for you, you might as well turn yourself in to the police. It’s too unpredictable. If you’re going to kill someone, kill them yourself. You can’t trust someone else with a killing.”

  “What if you knew for a fact that the person would never turn you in?”

  Brian made a face, lowering his brow and tightening his mouth. “Look,” he said, “I don’t pretend to be an expert in psychology, but I do know one thing, and it’s the one thing I remind myself over and over when I write a book. No one knows what’s going on in another person’s mind, or in their heart.” He touched his head and his chest. “They just don’t. Not even a married couple that have been together for fifty years. You think they know what each other’s thinking? They don’t. None of us know shit.”

  “So you don’t know what Tess is thinking right now?”

  “Well,” he said, and raised his eyebrows, shrugging. “I know some of what she’s thinking about tonight, but that’s only because she told me.”

  “That doesn’t count.”

  “No, it doesn’t. All right, then, what is she thinking, besides trying to remember how many scoops of coffee it takes to make a pot? I don’t really know. Well, that’s not entirely true. I know a bunch of what she’s thinking. For example, she’s probably counting my drinks and wondering at what point she’ll decide to tell me I’ve had enough. She’s probably already thinking about some pair of three-hundred-dollar jeans she wants to buy. And she’s thinking about you, buddy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ever since we ran into you at the bar the other night, she’s been talking nonstop about getting you over here for dinner.”

  “She’s got an agenda,” I said, remembering what she’d told me about wanting me to convince Brian to get some help into the house.

  “Tess always has an agenda.”

  I could smell the coffee, now, from the kitchen, a dark, bitter smell that made me feel more sober just by smelling it. The shift in conversation to Tess had unnerved me. I’d known Brian a long time, and I’d seen him drunk many, many times, but the way he was acting now, like he had a secret, was something new to me. He’d always been someone who told me what was on his mind.

  “What’s her agenda tonight?” I said.

  “I have an idea, but, like I said earlier, we never really know what’s going on inside of someone’s head.”

  I heard the clink of porcelain on porcelain and turned to see Tess coming toward the table, carrying a tray that contained two coffee cups, plus sugar and cream. She placed one of the cups, and its saucer, in front of me, then sat down, sighing as she did so.

  “Thank you, thank you,” I said, adding some cream to my coffee and taking a sip.

  “You want some Irish whiskey for that coffee?” Brian said. “I’ve got some around here somewhere. Just don’t put scotch in it.”

  “It’s perfect as is,” I said.

  “Really,” Tess said. “What have you two been talking about out here?” She was adding cream and stirring her coffee. Her lips were slightly stained from the port she’d been drinking, and her hair, which normally hung down on either side of her face, was pushed back behind her ears.

  “You tell her,” Brian said. “I have to go take a leak.” He put his good hand on the table and stood up. Tess and I both watched him, waiting to see how steady he’d be, but he seemed okay as he walked from the room.

  “Did you mention anything about him getting some real help in here?” Tess said, after we both heard the bathroom door shut.

  “I didn’t, no,” I said. “I forgot we’d talked about t
hat.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “Anything you mention to him tonight he’s not going to remember in the morning, anyway. I am curious, though, what you two were blathering on about in here. Brian sounded almost passionate.”

  “He was talking about how no one really knows anyone else, how we never know exactly what another person is thinking about.”

  “You think that’s true?” she said, blowing on her coffee. She had little lines around her lips, as though she’d once been a smoker. I had a vague image of seeing her smoke a cigarette, but not for years.

  “I do, actually. I think about it a lot, how we never know the truth of people. But I don’t always know if that’s just me, or if it’s everyone.”

  “If what’s just you?” she said.

  “I think I have a hard time getting to know people. Not superficially. I’m fine with that. But when I get close to someone, that’s when I feel they disappear. That’s when I look at them and I suddenly have no idea what they’re really like, or what they’re really thinking.”

  “Was that how you felt about your wife?” she said.

  “Claire?” I said, automatically.

  Tess laughed. “Unless you’ve been married more than I know about.”

  I thought for a moment, trying to remember if I’d ever discussed Claire with Tess in the past. Or even if I’d ever discussed Claire with Brian. “What was the question?” I finally said.

  “Ugh, I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. I’m just a little drunk.”

  “Drink your coffee. It’ll help.”

  I took another sip. Then, without really thinking about it, I let the coffee slide back out of my mouth into the cup. I was being paranoid, I knew, but if Tess or Brian, or both of them, had intentions to harm me, putting drugs in my food or drink would make a lot of sense.

  “I felt closer to Claire than I’ve ever felt to anyone before or since,” I said. “But sometimes I didn’t know her.”

  Tess was nodding. “I feel the same way about Brian, close, I mean, then every once in a while, he’ll say something, or else I’ll read something he wrote, and I wonder if I know anything about him at all. It’s universal, that feeling. What got you two talking about that?”

  I thought back, worried that my brain was working too slowly. “We were talking about a list I wrote once. About perfect murders. And Brian was saying how you could never trust anyone to commit a murder for you, that you never really knew what they were thinking.”

  Tess was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I guess if you were going to get someone to commit a murder for you, the best person would be your spouse.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Would you do that for Brian?”

  “I suppose it would depend on who he wanted me to murder. But I’d think about it. It’s just the kind of wife I am. People think that Brian broke up with Mary and married me because I was younger, but that wasn’t it at all. Even though we spend a lot of time apart, Brian and I, we’re very close, you know. Closer than he ever was with anyone. We’re loyal. I’d do anything for him, and he’d do anything for me.”

  She leaned in toward me as she was talking, and I could smell the coffee on her breath, mixed with the wine.

  “Speaking of Brian …” I said, and she leaned back, cocked her head to listen.

  “He’s fine, I think,” she said. “He’s probably just giving you and me some time alone together.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe we should check on him?” I was suddenly nervous. Maybe it was all the alcohol, but I felt like I was in a stage play, and that the evening had been planned in such a way as to culminate with me alone with Tess over coffee.

  She touched my knee with her fingers, then stood. “You’re right. I’ll go get him and tell him it’s time to go to bed. But you should stay, Mal. I mean it. The night is young. Let’s move over there and have another drink.” She tilted her head to indicate two small couches facing each other by a tall bookcase, forming a cozy nook between the dining room and the open kitchen.

  “Okay,” I said, and she got up and walked out of the room. I sat for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. There was music playing, from the kitchen, Ella Fitzgerald singing “Moonlight in Vermont.” I sniffed at my undrunk coffee, then took another small sip. Then I picked up Tess’s coffee and tried that. Like mine, she’d only put cream in it, no sugar, but it tasted noticeably different. I went back and forth between the two, wondering if I was going insane. If she’d wanted to poison me she could have put something in my wine, or even in the food. Still, maybe she’d wanted to wait until the end of the meal. I stood up, walking past the couches, and into the kitchen. I could now hear Tess’s voice, speaking to Brian down the hall, but couldn’t make out the words. The kitchen was immaculate. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, just something that would further prove what I was already suspecting. That I’d been brought here for a reason.

  I went and looked at the deep, stainless steel sink. It was empty. In the dish rack were a few pots and pans, and I could hear the steady thrum of a dishwasher, although I couldn’t see where one was. Beside the coffeepot, its red light on, was a cutting board, and on top of the cutting board was a cylindrical piece of wood, very heavy. I picked it up and it felt like a weapon in my hand. It was probably a rolling pin, although different from any rolling pin I’d ever seen.

  “What’cha looking for, Mal?”

  Tess stood at the entrance to the kitchen. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just admiring your kitchen. How’s Brian?”

  “Asleep in the downstairs guest room. Or, as I like to call it, Brian’s bedroom. He’s in there more nights than he’s upstairs.”

  I put the rolling pin down on the cutting board. “I’m going to get going,” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m a little drunk, myself, I think, and I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I’m just going to head home.”

  “I understand,” Tess said. “I don’t like it, but I understand. Let me get your coat.”

  I stood in the foyer and waited for what seemed like a long time, then Tess brought me my winter coat, tucked under an arm. She came up close to me, and said, “What if I told you you weren’t allowed to leave.” Her voice was different. Flatter, quieter.

  I grabbed my coat with my left hand and shoved out with my right, hoping to put her off balance long enough for me to get out the door. She stumbled backward, then fell, landing in a sitting position on the hardwood floor. “Oww, what the fuck, Mal?” she said.

  “Stay right there.” I shook the coat, now in my possession, wondering if she’d hidden a weapon in it. The rolling pin, maybe.

  Tess rolled a little onto her side in order to get her legs under her. “What is up with you?” she said.

  Doubt flooded me, but I said, “I know what you did to Nick Pruitt,” just hoping that saying a name out loud would help confirm it.

  She looked up at me, her hair now hanging on either side of her face, and said, “I have no idea who you’re talking about. Who’s Nick Pruitt?”

  “You killed him two nights ago. You saw his book in my store, and you realized that I was investigating him because of his relationship with Norman Chaney. So you got to him first. You got him to drink with you, Dimple Pinch whiskey. Maybe you goaded him into drinking too much.”

  Tess was staring at me, her eyes confused, and her mouth in a half smile, as though at any moment I was going to reveal the punch line to a joke. “Don’t you want me to know about it, to know about you? Isn’t that why I’m here?”

  Tess now looked concerned. She said, “Mal, I’m going to get up. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is this something between you and Brian? Is this a joke?”

  “You know that list I mentioned,” I said.

  “The list of murders?”

  “Someone is using that list to actually kill people. I know I sound crazy. I’m not. The FBI have been talking with me. I thought it might have s
omething to do with you. Or with Brian.”

  “Why?” she said.

  “Why were our coffees different? Why did you just tell me I couldn’t leave?”

  She lowered her head and laughed a little. “Please, help me up. I promise I won’t kill you.”

  I leaned down, and she took my hand and I helped her to her feet. “Our coffees tasted different because mine is decaf and yours was regular. And the reason I said you couldn’t leave was because I was trying to seduce you.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Brian knew, or Brian knows, I mean, that I was going to try. He’s fine with it. That part of our life is over, and now that I’m here in Boston for a while … He likes you.” She shrugged. “So did I.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s just ridiculous, is all. I’m trying to get you to spend the night, and you think I’m trying to kill you.”

  “I haven’t been getting much sleep,” I said, suddenly embarrassed.

  “Is it true? About the list?”

  “It is,” I said. “Someone’s using it to kill people. And I’m pretty sure it’s someone who knows me.”

  “Jesus. Are you willing to tell me about it? It really isn’t that late.”

  “Not right now, okay?” I said. “I really do think I should get going. I’m sorry I pushed you. I’m sorry I …”

  “It’s fine,” she said and hugged me, squeezing tight. I thought she’d try and kiss me, as well, but I guess that moment had passed. She pulled away and said, “Have a safe walk home. You want me to call you a cab, or anything?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “And next time we see each other, I’ll tell you more about what’s been going on.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  After the door shut behind me, I stood outside on their front stoop for a moment. The street was quiet, the snow sticking to everything. I heard the distant sound of music and saw that people were exiting a bar down on the corner. I took the three steps down to the sidewalk and turned left, aware that I was stepping on pristine snow, leaving behind fresh marks. I hadn’t gone even half a block when I heard the steps behind me, rushing, and I turned to see Tess moving fast, coatless, something in her hand. I must have flinched because she stopped, three feet away from me, and reached out with a book in her hand.