All the Beautiful Lies

by Peter Swanson

  She laughed again, a deep, raspy laugh, and said, “That’s what it’s supposed to do, sweetheart. As soon as we’ve mastered kissing, I’ll give you lesson number two, okay? Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

  “Okay,” Jake said, but his voice sounded shaky and pinched.

  “Leave it up to me, Jake,” she said. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know to be a man. Would you like that?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay. There’s only one rule, though, and it’s a big rule. You can’t tell anyone about us. Anyone at all. That includes your friends at school, even if they’re bragging about girls. It’s not that I’m ashamed, or that you should be ashamed, it’s just that some people would think it’s wrong. Do you promise, Jake?”

  She was fully straddling him now, her stiff, satiny skirt bunched up around her waist, and Jake, heart tripping in his chest, promised her he would never tell another living soul.

  Jake kept his promise, all the while visiting Emma Codd two or three times a week. They would still occasionally watch television, but only after they were both exhausted by the “lessons.” Then they would watch together, each in a postsex daze, crumpled on the sofa, naked and sweaty, each drinking their own Tom Collins, and Jake smoking one of Emma’s Chesterfield Kings. She taught him everything a boy and a girl could do together, including things he had never even imagined in his dirtiest thoughts. He was particularly astounded, and baffled, by Emma’s physical reactions. Sometimes she would shake so hard that he thought she must be having some kind of medical seizure.

  A week before Christmas, Emma told Jake that he needed to stay away for the next month and a half, since her boys were coming home from college, and her husband was taking two weeks away from the office.

  “I’ll miss you,” Jake said.

  “I know what you’ll miss,” she said back. “You’ll have to find some innocent girl your own age to corrupt. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “I would never do that,” Jake said.

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because of . . .”

  “Because of what we have? Jake, sweetheart, what we have together is perfect, as you know, but you are a young man and I am an old, married woman. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Jake did as he was told, and stayed away for the remainder of December and all of January. But after a February nor’easter, Jake took a shovel and walked to the Codd house. Emma was alone again, and after Jake dug out her driveway, she greeted him at her front door with a mug of hot chocolate, then led him to the bedroom.

  Afterward, she asked him what he’d done over Christmas.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “No nice young girls?” she asked.

  “No. I thought about you.”

  “You’re very sweet, Jake, and you’re a smart boy, and I’m going to fill you in on a secret. The worst thing in the world—the absolute worst thing—is growing old. There’s not too much you can do about it, but having a lot of money does help some. Have you met Mr. Codd? I can’t remember.”

  “I saw him once, I think, at the Fourth of July parade.”

  “He’s much older than I am, as I’m sure you noticed. He’s turning sixty-five this year. He’s made more money than he’ll be able to spend in his remaining years, of course, but let me ask you: Would you trade places with him? Would you agree to be sixty-five in return for all his money?”

  “I guess not,” Jake said, thinking that was the answer she wanted to hear.

  “Exactly my point. Your youth is worth more than all his money. So cherish it, Jake. Use it. And when you’re my age I recommend that you find a way to make enough money so that you can find someone young to be with yourself. When I’m with you, I’m a young girl again. It’s not forever, I know that, but it’s much better than tennis with the girls, or going into the city to have dinner with Richard and his insurance friends.”

  “Does he know about us? Does your husband know?”

  Emma Codd leaned away from Jake to get to her pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. Jake studied her body, always a little less attractive to him after they’d done it. Her heavy breasts sagged a little, and there was puckered skin on her thighs and buttocks. After lighting two cigarettes and passing one to Jake, she said, “He doesn’t not know, I guess. He knows I’m not entirely alone out here week after week while he’s in Hartford tallying numbers, but he doesn’t know about you, specifically.

  “He’s no saint, himself, you know. He used to have a few regular girls, but I doubt he still does. He can’t perform, you know, in the bedroom, anymore.”

  “Oh,” Jake said.

  “You’re my replacement. That’s a good thing, not a bad thing, for everyone involved.” Emma Codd blew out a plume of blue smoke, then leaned over and kissed Jake on his hairless chest. “Don’t grow old, Jake. That’s my advice to you. And if it happens anyway, then find someone younger than you. I know of what I speak.”

  Two and a half years later, at the beginning of Jake’s senior year, Mrs. Codd told him that she was having some health problems, and they wouldn’t be able to see each other anymore. He objected but was secretly okay with it. He’d found a new girlfriend by then, a plump blond sophomore whose single mother worked afternoons at the town library. Jake taught her everything he’d learned from Mrs. Codd, and decided he liked being the teacher as much as he’d liked being the student. Maybe more.

  After his senior year, Jake went to the University of Massachusetts at Amherst on a partial scholarship to study economics. He came home that first Christmas, and during a silent midday meal with his mother and father, neither of whom had asked him how he liked school, he asked about Mrs. Codd, and if his mother was still doing housework there.

  “You didn’t hear?” she said.

  “Hear what?”

  “She died months ago. She had cancer.”

  “Oh,” Jake said, taking a bite of the dried-out turkey.

  “The house was sold and everything.”

  That afternoon, mild for a Christmas day, Jake walked down to the shingled cottage. It hadn’t snowed yet, and there were damp, darkened leaves piled all across the yard. The windows were unlit. The cottage had probably been sold to people who wanted to use it only as a summer house.

  The next day Jake returned to Amherst, knowing that he would never go back to Menasset. His parents weren’t helping out with any of his college expenses, so there was no reason to ever see them again.

  Chapter 24

  Now

  After spending a good portion of the morning discussing the transportation of Grace’s body with one of the funeral directors back in Ann Arbor, but mainly trying to come up with a way, any way, to meet and talk with Harry Ackerson, Caitlin went back to the police station to see if one of the detectives could help her.

  She parked across the street from the station, about five car lengths down from a news van belonging to what Caitlin recognized as a Boston news outlet, and idly crossed the street. A woman who had to be a reporter—shiny blouse, black skirt, streaky blond hair—watched Caitlin as she approached the front doors of the station. Sensing the eyes of the reporter on her, Caitlin walked with neutral purpose. She knew she looked like Grace, the murdered girl, and if she showed any signs of grief the reporter, smelling family member, would pounce.

  But she made it into the station unmolested, and was buzzed past the front desk when she identified who she was and said she was looking for Detective Dixon. A uniformed officer met her in the main room of the station house, told her that the detective was currently busy but would be free soon, and could she wait. Caitlin said yes, and she was brought to a chair in front of what was probably Detective Dixon’s desk, which was cluttered but orderly. She wondered if there was information on her sister’s death in one of the neat stacks of manila folders. She waited, checking her phone, texting her mother the details and costs she’d gotten from the transportation company.

  When she looked up, she saw that the detective, in a li
ght grey suit, was now standing outside of the same meeting room where he’d shown Caitlin the photograph of Grace the day before. His back was to Caitlin, and he was talking with a young man wearing dark jeans and a green Oxford shirt that was untucked and wrinkled. It had to be Harry Ackerson, even though she’d never seen a picture. He was the right age, couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old, and he looked enough like that picture of Bill Ackerson that Caitlin had seen on the Internet. Dark hair, lanky, narrow faced.

  She stood and walked toward the two men across the open space of the station. When she reached them, Detective Dixon turned and spotted her, smiled. “I’ll be with you in just a moment, okay?”

  Caitlin wondered if he didn’t use her name because he didn’t want to say it in front of Harry. It didn’t matter. The young man was staring at Caitlin, his eyes wide, and his mouth slightly open. It was obviously Harry, unnerved by how similar Caitlin looked to Grace.

  “Okay,” Caitlin said to the detective, then added, “Is this Harry?” She met his stare. There was fear in his eyes, and something else. He looked distraught.

  The detective rubbed the side of his nose, then quickly said, “Harry, this is Grace’s sister, Caitlin. Caitlin, this is Harry Ackerson.”

  “Sorry I was staring,” Harry said. “You look just like—”

  “I look like Grace. I know.”

  “I’m really sorry,” he said, and his eyes now looked sad instead of scared. He had long, thick eyelashes like a girl’s, and high cheekbones.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry you had to . . .” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say find the body.

  “Caitlin, I’m going to walk Harry out, then we can talk,” the detective said. “Should we meet again in here”—he indicated by turning his head toward the conference room—“or back at my desk?”

  “Either one. We can talk here. That’s fine.”

  It was clear that, for whatever reason, the detective was hoping to shuttle Harry as quickly as he could away from the police station, so Caitlin said, “Harry. Can we meet, and maybe talk sometime today?”

  Detective Dixon answered, saying, “I’d rather that Harry not discuss details of the case.”

  “We won’t. He won’t. I just want to talk with him since he was spending time with my sister.”

  Harry was alternately looking at Detective Dixon and Caitlin, not speaking, and Caitlin thought of someone at a tennis match, watching the ball go back and forth over the net.

  “I can’t stop you,” the detective said, and Caitlin turned toward Harry.

  “Will you meet with me?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Will you wait for me, outside of the station?”

  Both Harry and the detective, speaking at the same time, said that there were too many reporters outside.

  “I could meet you somewhere else,” Caitlin said. “Just tell me where.”

  “Where are you staying?” Harry asked.

  She told him, and they agreed to meet in an hour at the Agamenticus Diner, near her motel.

  “I don’t know what you hope to get from talking with Harry,” Detective Dixon said, after returning to the conference room. “I’d rather you weren’t talking with him at all.”

  “He was spending time with my sister. I need to know what she was like during her last few days. Is he a suspect? Is that why you don’t want me to talk with him?”

  The detective hesitated fractionally. “No, not a suspect, but we believe that whoever killed Harry’s father also killed your sister.”

  “And is Harry a suspect in his father’s death?”

  “No, no. He wasn’t here. He was at his college in Connecticut. And he’s been very helpful to us.”

  “You’re looking at his stepmother?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, Caitlin, sorry. What can I do for you? Did you think of something we didn’t talk about yesterday?”

  Suddenly, Caitlin couldn’t remember why she had come back to the station, then recalled that it was to find out if she could get contact info on Harry. She said, “I just wanted to find out if you had any new information.”

  “Just that your sister’s body will be released later today, and we’re hoping to get autopsy results anytime now.”

  “But you know how she died?”

  “She most likely died from trauma to her head. It was very fast, like I told you.”

  “Okay.”

  They were each quiet for a while. Caitlin’s eyes went again to the whiteboard, erased now of all words, although there was a faint trace of two drawn boxes, arrows going back and forth between them.

  “Can I ask you to do me a favor?” the detective asked.

  “Sure.”

  “If you do wind up talking with Harry—and I’d rather you not talk about the details of the case—but if you do, will you consider giving me a call and letting me know what you talked about? I’m sure he won’t say anything he hasn’t already told me, but he might.”

  “Okay,” Caitlin said.

  “And one more thing. Please don’t talk to reporters, and if you do—”

  “I won’t. I have no intention of talking to reporters.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I’m going to show you to the side door. They’re forming a blockade at the front as we speak.”

  When she got to the diner early, she found Harry already seated in a booth, a cup of coffee in front of him. She slid in across from him, and said, “Thank you for meeting me here.”

  “You look so much like her. I’m sorry if I stared earlier.”

  “I know we did look alike. I didn’t see it myself, and people who knew us both said we were very different.”

  “But you’re twins.”

  “We’re fraternal twins.” Caitlin caught herself using the present tense and almost corrected herself, but didn’t. Instead, she said, “Grace was more outgoing, talked a lot, always did whatever she wanted to. She was fearless.”

  “And you’re not like that.”

  “No, not particularly. Not like Grace was, anyway.” Caitlin felt the ache in her throat that meant she was about to cry again, tried to stifle it, but couldn’t. She let out one smothered sob then pressed both palms against her eyes. Her chest hurt.

  “I’m so sorry,” Harry said. “We don’t . . .” He trailed off.

  Caitlin looked up at him, took a deep breath, and said, “No, it’s fine. I get these waves, almost like I realize all over again that she’s really gone, and they just, they just . . .”

  “I know. I get the same thing with my father. Like how is it possible that I’ll never speak to him again? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she said, her voice back to normal.

  “I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. At least with my father . . . he was older. I didn’t expect him to die, but we always assume our parents will die before us.”

  The waitress appeared, refilling Harry’s coffee and asking Caitlin if she wanted anything. She didn’t, really, but asked for a cup of tea.

  “Thanks again for meeting me here,” Caitlin said, wanting to get the conversation back on track.

  “It’s fine. I know you’re probably going to want to hear if I know how Grace died, and I really don’t.”

  “You found her, I heard.”

  “I did. I’d seen her the night before, and the next morning I went back to the house she was staying at to check on her, and . . . I was the one who called the police.”

  Caitlin wondered, not for the first time, why Harry, who had seen her last, and who had found her body, was not being held as a suspect. Although seated across from him now, seeing the gutted look in his eyes, she didn’t think he had had anything to do with Grace’s death.

  Her tea arrived. Caitlin added sugar and took a sip. She said: “The detective seemed to think that whoever killed your father also killed my sister.”

  “Is that what he said to you?”

  “He did. What do
you think?”

  “I guess that’s what I think, too. But I don’t really know, and, honestly, I feel like I’ve been in shock since coming back up here to Maine. I believed Grace, though. She was convinced that my stepmother had something to do with my father’s death. That’s why she was here.”

  “I know. You think she was right?”

  “Well, no. When I said I believed her, I guess what I meant was that I believed that she really believed my stepmother had killed my father. She was sure of it. I don’t know what to think myself.”

  “How’s your stepmother now?”

  Harry scratched his jaw. “She’s upset. I’m still staying with her. She says that there’s a woman my father was involved with—another woman besides your sister—and that she was the one who killed my father, and now she thinks she killed your sister because she was with my father as well.”

  “Who’s this woman?”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you her name. Only because I think that she’s still being investigated.”

  “That’s okay. I understand. Look, I didn’t really want to meet with you to pump you for information. I really just wanted to know about my sister, and her last few days. She liked you. She sent me an e-mail that said so.”

  “I liked her, too. I felt bad for her. I think she really loved my father.”

  “Is that what you two talked about?”

  Harry told her about seeing Grace at his father’s funeral, and then how she came into the bookstore and asked about a job. He said they’d gone out for a drink together, and the last time that Harry saw Grace alive he’d told her about the other woman, a local woman that Bill Ackerson had also been involved with, and she’d been upset.

  “She believed it?” Caitlin asked.

  “No, she didn’t believe it at all. She was upset because she thought Alice—that’s my stepmother—was trying to mislead the police. And also, she just seemed jumpy that night, agitated. She seemed different.”