by Tess Little
No, I had been wrong. Everything had remained untouched since that evening. Of course, Lillie had barely moved from her bed, and I had been tiptoeing around, carefully returning each item to its designated home. But that wasn’t it—increasingly, as I haunted her house, I had the feeling it would have stayed pristine regardless. Something about the way her shoes were paired up beneath the coat rack, the way the books were arranged in a rainbow on each shelf. When Lillie was little, no matter how messy everything else, her bottles of nail polish would be lined up in height order. If I asked her to tidy her bedroom on a Saturday morning, that was how she whiled away the hours—shifting her dollhouse couch an inch to the left, straightening the nail polishes. The muddy soccer gear remained.
Lillie’s new house, I realized, was not an adaptation of her bedroom back home: It was hers, every inch, even the dish soap and the cloths. The mugs here deserved as much consideration as her nine-year-old self had given those tiny glass bottles of polish, with their sparkling lilacs and blues.
And yet this realization had done little, over the past few days, to change my expectations. The shock was still there, opening this bedroom door to find that expanse of carpet. To see my daughter in the bed in the corner, surrounded by very little at all.
“I hate leaving you like this,” I told her. “Do you want me to call a friend?”
“No,” she said. Her eyes were still shut. “Don’t.”
“Can I open the curtains?”
She didn’t answer.
On that terrible morning, I had reached Lillie before the news broke. Drove as fast as I could. She was in the kitchen, still wearing pajamas, cutting strawberries for her breakfast. I took the knife out of her hand, made her sit down.
“I don’t understand,” she kept repeating, after I had told her. “I don’t understand.”
She was shaking, unblinking. There was a smear of red juice on her cheek.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Dad?” And that was when she cried out. Not a sob but one choke—a strange, strangled sound.
It was all I could do, whisper, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” into her hair, hug her as she rocked back and forth.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I could not rinse Richard’s image from my mind: the wet “O” of his mouth, the stare of his eyes.
Perching on Lillie’s bed now, thinking of that moment, I was not sure which hurt the most: the violent wrench I had felt in my chest that morning or this drawn-out ache, watching her lying limp, only a husk of herself. I had known that first scream would end, and I had known how to hold her then. But this?
Lillie’s phone drilled violently—once, twice—somewhere on the other side of the room.
“Do you want me to get that for you?”
“No,” she said.
There was nothing I could do.
“Drink some water.” I bent down to kiss her cheek. “It’s here next to you, with some coffee. I’ll be back as fast as I can. And you can call me. Call me if you need anything. Will you call?”
She didn’t answer, so I kissed her again. Tried to not look back at her, bundled in the covers, as I gently closed the door.
This time the police needed a detailed timeline:
When had I been invited to the party?
When had I arrived?
Who was there?
Which of the other guests had I known before that night?
Did I remember how the night proceeded?
And then who did I talk to?
What did I eat, drink?
And then?
And did I remember how Richard was behaving? Did he seem anxious?
And at what point were drugs consumed?
Did I consume any drugs?
And then I just fell asleep?
On the floor?
But—they wanted to get this straight—I hadn’t consumed any drugs?
I had missed the two detectives’ names when first introduced; my mind was still with Lillie. As this dawned on me, I studied their faces, tried to find solid footing in the blinks and freckles of the male officer, in the frizz and fidgeting of his colleague.
She had been staring into her mug while he questioned, repositioning it on the table with an audible scrape every now and then. There was something coming, I knew.
When her colleague was done, she raised her head and said, quite slowly and deliberately, “Ms. Bryant Bell, you were the one who found your ex-husband’s body.”
The fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead. She did not continue.
“Sorry,” I said, “is there a question?”
She took her hands from the mug, clasped them together. “Can you recall that discovery for us?”
* * *
—
“When did Lillie say she would arrive?”
The music tinkled from the sound system in the hallway, but even there it was nothing more than an accompaniment to the voices from the party, which doubled, tripled over themselves as they ricocheted off the cavernous walls.
I moved out of the way as the blond waitress passed with an ice bucket.
Richard’s lips pursed for a few moments before he replied, “She won’t be coming tonight.”
I frowned. He took a step forward, placed a hand on my lower back, continued speaking before I could gather myself to sentences.
“Something came up, a premiere, and we both agreed it would be better for her to attend that than my birthday—she and I can celebrate another time. Now, darling…”
My skin prickled at this intimacy.
“…please, darling, do try not to—”
“I saw her today,” I was saying, measured, “and she told me when she’d get here, and what she would wear, and…” It fell together in my mind. “She lied to me?”
Lillie had told me she would attend only with me by her side, and I had leaped at the chance to support her—despite the distance, despite the fact that I would see my ex-husband again. Our first party together, as two adults. The first evening we would spend together in months.
But, no, my daughter had never wanted me. How could I have been so naïve? How could I have let Richard dupe me so easily?
“Don’t blame Lilliput, please, Ellie.” I felt his hand pressing harder. “I put her in the most awful position, I know, and she was loath to lie to you, but I asked her not to mention her cancellation because—”
“No.” I threw down his hand, stepped away. Let pleasantries die. “There is absolutely no excuse for asking my daughter to lie to me. How dare she—and you. You. How dare you both.”
The waitress dashed past us again, ice bucket full. Richard did not pause. “Elspeth, Ellie, darling. I so terribly wanted you to attend and I knew you wouldn’t without her, but—”
“No excuses, Richard,” I said. My words were clipped; I was trying to stop my voice from breaking. I would not cry or shout. “No excuses for either of you. Of course I wouldn’t have come. After everything, Richard. How dare you ask Lillie to lie to me.”
I flinched as he reached for me again.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I hissed.
A waiter—the one who had been staring at Sabine—walked past us with a tray of fresh glasses. I held my tongue until he had rounded the corner.
Was Richard smirking? Was this funny? The bastard. I felt sick. The air was thick with kitchen smells: deep-frying fat and meats.
“Why do you even want me here, Richard? I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing. This feast, your toasts, and you were…” I fell to a whisper as the waiter came back the other way. “…you were lying the entire time? I’m going to get my bag and then I’m leaving. I don’t care what your friends think—tell them what you like.”
Before I could escape, Tommo appeared behind me, holding up his hands as if
he was hiding.
“Looking for the loo, sorry, don’t mind me…”
“It’s fine.” I tried to smile, cheeks still hot. “We were just finishing our conversation.”
“Oh great, excellent—let me catch you when I come back?” He brushed my arm. “We haven’t had a chance to catch up properly yet and it’s been so long.”
“Actually, Tom, I’m thinking of leaving.” I put a hand to my forehead. “I’m really exhausted from the flight, and I was waiting for Lillie to get here, but Richard just told me she won’t make it, so I think I should get back and—”
“Come on, no, don’t be ridiculous, Elspeth,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave me with these L.A. types.”
“I can’t, Tom, I’m so sorry.”
“Take some ibuprofen—”
“Tom, I really—”
“Drink some coffee, do some coke, I don’t give a fuck. Just stay, please. Elspeth.”
I looked from Richard—the dashes of gray in his hair, the slight slump of his shoulders—to his school friend. Tommo had always been my favorite. He was softer around the mouth and far better dressed than he had been at our first meeting. But that earnestness in his eyes was untainted; it was an earnestness that broke my heart.
I realized, with surprise, that I had missed him. We could have one conversation and then I would leave.
“She’ll stay,” said Richard.
And I did.
* * *
—
“I don’t remember waking up,” I told them. “Only that he was the first thing I saw.”
(The sleeping lover.)
“And you were the first guest to wake?” asked the female officer.
“I couldn’t say. I hadn’t looked around the room yet.”
(The exposed neck.)
“Could you please describe the scene for us?”
“It was bright. But it wasn’t the light that woke me up, it was…My arm was in a puddle of cold water, and I rolled over to dry it off. That’s when I opened my eyes and I saw how Richard was lying.”
(And his elbow was bent. And his fingers were splayed.)
I added: “It seemed unnatural…”
(And my heart was clenched and my breath was catching and so—)
“…so I sat up. The others were asleep. I went over to feel his pulse….”
(The wet of the mouth, the staring eyes, the stench of—)
“But there was nothing there?” The female officer clicked her fingernails against her mug.
I shook my head.
“And then?” she asked.
“And then I saw that Honey was awake and he saw in my face that…there wasn’t a pulse.” I inhaled shakily. “He understood me. I don’t think…We didn’t say a word to each other, but he understood. He went out to make the call. Then the others were waking up and I had to tell them what had happened—that Richard had overdosed in the night.”
The light flickered with a clink.
“But I wouldn’t want you to rely on my impressions too much. It was all…” I rubbed an eyelid. “I was confused when I woke up, and maybe I’m not remembering right.”
“You believe you were still under the influence?” asked the male officer.
“I couldn’t say. I was confused. My head was throbbing.”
“And your immediate conclusion was that he had died from an overdose.” The female cop had stopped moving her mug.
“Yes, the others—we all thought so, yes,” I said. “He shot up the night before. He was covered in vomit.”
Her nails tapped on the china again. Something about the rhythm took me back to Lillie’s room—that insect against the glass.
“Ms. Bryant Bell.” The detective’s voice was measured. Her nails clacked, one after the other. “Following the initial forensic examination results, we have significant reason to believe your ex-husband’s death was not caused by a drug overdose.”
(The sleeping lover.)
I frowned.
“The autopsy revealed wounds running along the inside of Mr. Bryant’s throat. Bruises”—her fingers froze—“which seem to have been caused by a long blunt object.”
(The exposed neck.)
She took a gulp of her coffee, not breaking eye contact. Her colleague said, “The official cause of death is suffocation.”
“The external security-camera footage shows that, after the catering staff left at approximately 10 p.m.,” she interjected, “nobody else either entered or exited the property. Not until 9:05 the following morning, when police arrived at the scene to find your ex-husband’s body. What that means, Ms. Bryant Bell, is that there were eight people present when somebody forced something down your unconscious ex-husband’s throat until he choked to death.”
My hand reached for my necklace.
“Ms. Bryant Bell, your ex-husband was murdered, and the only people currently under investigation are the eight attendees of the party: Anton Carlisle, Thomas Coates, Jerry Debrowski, Miguel Montana, Keiko Nakamura, Charles Pace, Sabine Selmi—and you.”
I asked for my lawyer.
* * *
—
“Lime, lime, he must have lime somewhere,” Tommo muttered from the depths of the fridge. “Why are other people’s kitchens always so enigmatic?”
“Can’t we just have it without?”
He emerged, pink, brandishing his citrus trophy. “Absolutely not, you perverse Yank.” And then to a waiter carrying a tray of dirty glasses: “Oh, sorry, yes, of course. You first.”
Tommo carried the fruit to a quiet corner. He had insisted, against the forceful protests of the sunshine waitress, that he wanted to make the drinks himself. And so we were there in the kitchen, amid the dishwashing, the uncorking of more bottles, the wrapping of the leftovers.
I made myself as small as possible; watched as he counted four cubes of ice, squeezed one wedge of lime, rubbed it along the rim, dropped it in, then measured an inch of gin to three of tonic—into one glass and then the other—all with a painstaking precision.
We smiled over our first sips, licked the sour from our lips.
Tommo sighed. “I hadn’t realized how much I needed a good slug of gin.”
“Difficult week at work?”
“I wouldn’t say difficult, but challenging. Full on. And it has been for the last five years. Not easy being your own boss.”
He dodged as two waiters passed him with a long platter: the stringed and sinewed turkey carcass.
“So you finally struck out on your own? Good for you,” I said, rubbing his shoulder. “It was just a sparkle in your eye when I saw you last.”
“And who knew giving birth engendered so much stress?”
“Ha, well, it’s the following years that are the hardest.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Tommo said, knocking his glass against mine. “But it’s true, it is. The first stage was nowhere near as difficult as this—we just opened a New York office.”
“Oh, you did? Oh, congratulations. Why didn’t you tell me? We’ll have to get dinner next time you’re in town.”
“God, if only I could.” Tommo smiled, shook his head. “I can’t remember the last time I socialized outside of work. Speaking of which, I hear you’re seeing Julian Schwarz—now, that is a coup. You’ll have to pass on my details; it would be great to connect.”
“Unfortunately, you’ll have to forge your connection through someone else, Tom. We broke things off.”
I watched a group of chefs goofing around outside: a cigarette break. One of them was dancing; the others clapped their hands. I wanted to laugh with them, but the sight only filled me with dread: Dancing chefs were not part of Richard’s vision. They had been hired to set the scene—his laden table, his gift for each guest—and as extras, trotted out to be thanked on cue. Not to improv
ise, not for comic relief. What would Richard do if he spied them through the window?
“Ah well,” said Tommo. “Poor chap. Biggest bank balance in the world couldn’t compensate for such a colossal loss. I never did forgive Dicky for letting you walk away.” He took my hand in his. “Look, darling, I meant what I said earlier. Please do stay with me. I know you have every right to leave, but I’ve got a thirty-seven-year-old duty. I’m stuck here.”
I smiled sympathetically but gave no answer.
“What’s he doing, Tom? Inviting us—only us. Are we really the most important people in his life? This eight? This hodgepodge? Some of the other guests are half our age. And that feast? What was that?”
“Perhaps he wants to bring his worlds together.”
The sunshine-blond waitress approached. “Excuse me, can I get to the shelf behind you for a second?”
I shifted aside, apologized.
“Of course,” she replied, reaching up for another champagne bucket. She took it to the freezer, filled it with crushed ice.
“Please,” I whispered to Tommo, when I was sure she was out of earshot. “Don’t tell me you fell for his little performance out there. Forgoing an enormous party? No, he’s up to something.”
Tommo considered this, crushing an ice cube between his molars.
“And the name of the house? Sedgwick?” I added, frowning. “I didn’t want to say anything about it, but I find it quite alarming, given—”
“Oh, it’s just a joke of his,” he said. “I’m sure it goes over most people’s heads; they’ll think it’s Edie or Edward, won’t they? Does anyone even pay attention to house names? I never do, they’re always so boring. The Old Rectory, Post Office Mews. As a matter of fact, I hardly even notice the name of this house nowadays. Background noise.”
“I don’t think Richard intended it as background noise,” I said, remembering that pause, that stare, as my ex-husband had welcomed me to Sedgwick. “Didn’t you notice it when you first visited? Didn’t you ask him why he—”
“Of course not, that’s just what he wants.” Tommo waved this suggestion away. Then said, “You know, I learned to stop guessing Dicky’s motives the day of the river incident.”
