Perfect Lies

by Liza Bennett

  Meg could feel Abe’s comforting arms around her. The touch of his lips. She’d been moving around the house as she sorted through everything Becca had said … the trail of cause and effect… truth and lies. She put on her parka and boots. She had to keep moving, to do something, to find someone. To stop Becca’s accusation from circling around and around in her head: I saw you there, Abe.

  She found herself outside. Stumbling forward into the blizzard. The world was dizzy, whirling with white, and behind the snow, evening was closing in. She thought she was walking uphill, toward the spot where she had stood just that morning, when everything had seemed possible.

  Love … need … passion … jealousy … hate. In most lives, these were emotions that ebbed and flowed, channeling in and out of the heart, shifting and ever-changing. But what if the passion—and the jealousy—kept building and need grew and wasn’t satisfied … and hate became a constant? Meg tried to imagine loving one person enough to kill another. She remembered the fury in Abe’s voice at Lark’s dinner when he and Ethan almost came to blows. Again. They had fought with their fists before—Lark had recounted the scene to her—that night at the party when Ethan and Becca had writhed against each other on the dance floor. But, no, it couldn’t be. Not Abe. Becca was a sick and unhappy woman. She was lashing out blindly—accusing, blaming—in the hope of easing her own pain.

  Meg hadn’t even thought about being cold before she realized that her fingers and toes had gone numb. She stumbled and almost fell against a stone wall that she hadn’t remembered seeing before. An ice-coated power line drooped like a necklace between two poles and then looped off into the thicket of evergreens weighted with snow beyond the wall. She wasn’t on the mountaintop. Two warm pools of light swam before her. She was so disoriented that she didn’t realize they were car lights until the truck was almost on top of her.

  “Meg! For chrissake—” Abe was lifting her up from where she had fallen. She saw now that she was at the bottom of the hill in the middle of the driveway. Before she had a chance to react to his being there, he had her back in the car and was rubbing her hands vigorously between his own.

  “Where did you think you were going?”

  “I was looking …” her words came out in a shiver, “for you. Abe—I was so worried …”

  “It’s turning into a really bad storm,” Abe said. He put the truck in gear. “I left the reception early when I realized it had started up again. Told Lark I had to get back. It’s crazy for you to have started out in this.”

  Abe built a roaring fire as soon as they got back to the house and made Meg stand in front of it, wrapping her in a throw blanket.

  “You’re still shivering,” he said. He was standing behind her as she faced the fire, his arms circling her waist. “I’m going to run and get another blanket.” It was when Abe was upstairs changing that the phone rang again. To Meg’s ears, it shrieked through the downstairs rooms. Abe picked it up after the first ring. As quietly as possible, Meg lifted the receiver in the living room.

  “—a terrible thing. I can’t believe this is happening.” It was Lark, her voice breathy and frightened.

  “But how? When?” Meg could hear Abe simultaneously on the phone and distantly from upstairs—his voice urgent and angry.

  “At the apartment she’s renting near Montville. Whoever it was beat her up pretty badly. The police think her attacker left her for dead. She’s in the Montville ER.”

  “Oh my God. Do you have any idea why?”

  “It had to be because of what she was going to tell me. Becca was at the reception early on—before you got there. And she told me she had something important to tell me about the murder. But she’d been drinking and I didn’t pay it much mind then. But any number of people could have overheard.”

  Meg waited until Abe had hung up before she put down the receiver. She then heard him play back Becca’s message. Meg hadn’t thought to erase it. She wanted to trust him. She needed to believe in him. There was a long silence upstairs after the cheerful beep-beep indicating that the message had ended. Then Meg heard Abe coming slowly down the steps. She turned to face him. His face was ashen, his eyes dark and disturbed. For some reason—in her fear and confusion—she found her gaze fastened on the tie she had given him so many years ago: the rich dark, crisscrossing patterns in the silk. Something about Abe’s clothes, Meg found herself thinking, something about Becca and his clothes.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Becca had called?”

  “I was going to,” Meg told him, her mind on this other question, this piece to the puzzle. “But it seemed so bizarre…”

  “It’s not true.” He stood before her, but she didn’t look up at him. She found that she couldn’t take her eyes off the dark blue and deep maroon diagonals. “What Becca said—it’s not true, Meg. I don’t know what’s possessed her. She began about a week ago—I guess after you spoke to her—leaving me these messages. I think it must be the drugs, or her state of mind. But she now claims to have seen me there—in the studio—it’s just absurd. Insane. Apparently she’s starting to tell other people the same thing. And now—I can’t believe this—that was Lark calling to tell me that Becca has been attacked. Someone apparently tried to kill her. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “I think I do,” Meg said suddenly, looking up at him. Of course, she understood it now. And she could see how Becca had made such a mistake—a nearly fatal one.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Becca wasn’t lying. She actually does believe she saw you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s going to take a little while to explain,” Meg said. “And I don’t have it all worked out. I’ll tell you what I can in the car.”

  “We’re not going out there again—not in this blizzard.”

  “Yes, we are. We have to. If Becca was attacked, then I’m afraid Lark is going to be next.”

  The three small-paned windows that faced the road glowed a warm welcome as Meg pushed against the heavy oak door of the icehouse and found herself in a small entrance hall. She followed the light. The large room, stained a rich hunter green, was lined with shelves displaying the Red River Studio glassware. A huge bouquet of dried flowers—pale blue hydrangeas, dusty pink echinacea, wands of bright red berries—sat on a wide wooden counter that also held a cash register. Two long banquet tables flanked the refurbished room. The white cotton tablecloths that covered them were slightly askew, the tops littered with the remains of the reception: dozens of Red River champagne flutes, crumpled cocktail napkins, leftovers hardening on a cheese board. Francine’s large coffee urn sat on the far corner of the table on the right, its top removed, its electrical cord dangling like a loosened necktie from its base. A new large wood-burning open hearth lit the icehouse with the special glow of fire—a soft, flattering, flickering light that made the empty room seem filled with life. Meg could almost hear the clink of glasses, the murmur of voices.

  And then she did actually hear a sharp groan. “Damn,” Clint said as he rose from behind the counter, rubbing the back of his head. He saw Meg and froze. His flushed face suddenly drained of color.

  “Clint?” Meg took a step toward him, and then stopped. She hadn’t spoken directly to him since the afternoon she visited him and Janine at his house. She’d known Clint for many years, but he’d always been on the sidelines of her visits to Red River—a kindly, quiet presence with whom she really had nothing in common except her family. But he clearly adored Meg’s nieces with an unabashed delight that made Meg feel as though she could see right into his heart. She’d watched him spend hours with Brook constructing a miniature wooden cottage for her collection of bright orange salamanders—then dutifully help her bury the same when Brook left the little home on a radiator overnight. When everyone else had wearied of one of Phoebe’s endlessly repetitive made-up games, Clint could be counted on to hop around behind her in a circle clucking like a hen or ask “Who’s there?” until even Phoeb
e’s interest flagged.

  “What’s going on?” He’d regained his composure and strode towards her with a quickness that belied his heavy weight. He’d taken off his jacket, but Meg could see that he was still dressed for the reception in a starched white shirt, too-short but neatly pressed wool slacks, and the kind of brightly patterned suspenders that were briefly a craze among Wall Streeters. “Are you okay? You look frozen. C’mon—get over here.” He guided her to the stove, his large right hand cupping her elbow.

  “Take off your coat,” he said, helping her pull off her snow-dampened parka. “Where have you come from? I didn’t think you’d—uh—come up this year….”

  “Where’s Lark?” Meg asked, letting him take her coat. “And the girls?”

  “Up at the house,” Clint said, staring down at her with his head cocked to one side. His smile seemed uncertain and he glanced around the room as if to confirm his statement. “Why?”

  “Clint…” Meg began, searching his face. His wide forehead had crumpled into a frown.

  “What is it Meg?” he asked.

  “I know who killed Ethan.”

  “Oh, Meg,” Clint said, stepping away from her. She saw that he held his parka in his arms as if it were a child. “Let’s not do this … Please let’s not.”

  “But it wasn’t Lucinda, Clint!” The fire was suddenly too hot, too close. She noticed that he seemed to be cowering, as if her words could physically hurt him.

  “Please, no, Meg. I just can’t stand it anymore.”

  “I know this has been horrible. For everyone. But it wasn’t Lucinda.”

  “Please—” he swayed a little in front of her, his few strands of hair falling across his forehead. “Don’t tell—”

  “It was Abe.”

  “Abe?”

  “He invited me to his place this weekend,” Meg began, taking a step toward Clint. “When he came here for the reception this afternoon, Becca called the house. She left a message saying she’d seen him kill Ethan. She was there, in the studio, when Ethan was murdered.”

  “Yes, but Becca—”

  “And I tried to get away. To get help. But Abe came back. That’s when I found out where he’d really been. Not at the reception.”

  “But he was here,” Clint interjected, rubbing his beard as he tried to take in what Meg was saying.

  “For a time, maybe. But then he left and he attacked Becca. Lark called the house about an hour ago and I picked up downstairs. He pretended to be surprised. But I knew. He had to shut her up. She was demanding that he confess—that she’d tell everyone if he didn’t. So, I don’t know, I guess he’d just had enough from her. And now I’m so afraid—for everyone.”

  Clint was staring at her, his hand over his mouth, his head tilted as if he were trying to get a better look at her.

  “Is Becca … still alive?”

  “Yes, thank God. When did Lark go back to the house? We’ve got to make sure they’re safe.”

  “Everyone’s fine,” Clint said soothingly.

  “You don’t understand,” Meg said. “We’ve got to get to them—and to the police. We’ve got to stop Abe.”

  Something caught Clint’s attention—a quick flash across the windows, a swirl of light along the glass display, a flickering gleam on the coffee urn. Clint swung around, dropping the parka on the floor, just as Abe, stepping into the room, said, “Stop me from what, Meg?”

  37

  “You killed Ethan,” Meg found that her voice was surprisingly even, though he had startled her. She hadn’t considered the possibility that he would follow her there. “And you tried to kill Becca because she was the only one who saw you do it.”

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Meg,” Abe said, as though he hadn’t heard her. He looked at Clint, standing directly behind her.

  “But Becca’s been telling people she witnessed the murder,” Meg went on. “She was going to tell Lark who it was. But we all know, Abe. Now what are you going to do?”

  “Becca has been calling me night and day.” Abe explained conversationally, taking a step toward them. “Ever since you spoke to her in the city, Meg. She’s been calling me at the office. At my apartment. Up here. Haranguing me with these accusations. I thought she was going crazy. With grief, I thought. And she’d begun drinking too much again.”

  “She saw you, Abe,” Meg retorted, her voice rising. She felt Clint’s arm slide around her waist as if trying to protect her. She could smell his sweat and feel the dampness of his shirt against her back. She knew she had better not try to move away. “She saw you with the pontil, standing over Ethan.”

  “I know,” Abe said. “She was drinking this afternoon at the reception before I got here, wasn’t she, Clint? Drinking and whispering behind my back.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Clint replied, squeezing Meg’s waist reassuringly.

  “I think you would, though. Lark told me that any number of people could have overheard her—she was not exactly being discreet. I think you were one of those people, Clint.”

  “Is that why you attacked her?” Meg asked Abe. “Because she’d started to tell everyone—what you wouldn’t admit yourself?”

  “You know, Clint,” Abe went on, ignoring Meg’s question, “I couldn’t figure out why she was so sure it was me at first. Becca isn’t dumb. She has a great eye. And I’ve never thought of her as particularly hysterical. Why would she be so convinced that it was me she saw with the pontil? Nothing I said could change her thinking when she finally decided to tell people what she thought she saw. This obsession she had that I’d killed him. Then, today, it all came together, Clint. Those ridiculous suspenders you’re wearing. You know they used to be mine. Becca gave them to me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—” Clint’s arm tightened around Meg as he began to speak, but Abe interrupted him.

  “You were wearing a shirt of mine the afternoon you killed Ethan. I remember now that I saw you in the general store that morning with it on. It’s very distinctive: orange and yellow checks with ridiculous little green pineapples. Becca thought it looked sporty. I hated the thing. Never wore it. Gave it to Francine’s rummage sale when Becca and I split up. But, of course, Becca wouldn’t have known that. Becca thought that you were me.”

  “Don’t be stup—”

  “No, no, you’re the stupid one,” Abe cut him off again, edging toward them. “You probably had a good reason for killing Ethan. And, you know what? We all might have understood it, Clint. We might have helped you through it. If you’d had the guts to admit it. Instead you hung it on Lucinda. And then when Becca began to talk, oh—you bastard!” Abe picked up a glass, threw it against the wood-burning stove in an attempt to distract Clint, and lunged at them.

  But Clint was stronger and just as fast.

  “Don’t,” Clint said, pulling Meg against his side. Groping behind him with his other hand, he smashed a large glass pitcher against the tabletop and waved it in front of him—the jagged edges glinting dangerously. “Don’t get any closer.”

  “Okay,” Abe held both hands up. “Listen, okay. There’s no need for anyone else to get hurt.”

  “I … tried to reason with Becca.” Clint’s voice cracked. “I drove over to her place when things were winding down here. Tried to get her to tell me what she knew. But she was so … snotty. Too good for the likes of me. Got it into her head that I was coming on to her. I just got so mad. Everything had been going so right, you know? Just as I’d hoped. Then she starts in saying she saw you kill Ethan? I worked it out, too, Abe. Of course—it was your shirt. And it was just a matter of time before the police figured it out, as well. I really didn’t mean to hurt her so bad …” Clint’s voice trailed off.

  “But Ethan was a different story?” Abe said.

  “You’re damn right he was.” Clint’s tone hardened. “I had a reason to kill Ethan. I had years and years of reasons, piling up around me like garbage. You’ve got no idea. You people—you never bothered to notice me. Or Ja
nine. All we did for him—and Lark and the girls. He dismissed every goddamned decent idea I ever had! He … he scoffed at my proposals for putting in the showroom, teaching classes. Oh sure, they pretended to care, like we were all friends. But underneath it all—who were they kidding? When you got right down to it, we were just the hired help. Even after I started doing all the real work around here. Kept the place running for him. So that he could do his art.” Clint spat out the word as if it were a curse.

  “Why did you stay?” Abe asked, from where he stood, six feet away. He made eye contact with Meg—one hard glance—and the briefest of nods.

  “Because of her. Janine,” Clint answered. His breath shortened with emotion as he went on: “She lived and breathed for him, you know. Lived and breathed. It was Ethan this, Ethan that. For years. She idolized him. Ethan, who could do no wrong. Maybe I should have been pissed off at her—caring for him so. But I’m not like that. I knew who we were, what we had. Ethan? He was just Janine’s pipe dream. I knew nothing would ever come of it. He made her happy in a harmless kind of way. That’s what I decided.

  “But then I—we—gave up so much for that bastard and he never even knew. His ego was so huge—he didn’t really acknowledge that we existed. We didn’t matter. We were just the little people, not particularly bright or good-looking. I’ll tell you the truth, I didn’t mind her having this thing for him, so long as it was her secret, our secret. But when it all came out… and he just stepped all over it. Like it was nothing. Like she was—”

  “What happened?” Abe asked gently. “What happened that morning in the studio?”

  Clint didn’t answer at first. He looked down at the broken pitcher in his hand as if he was suddenly unsure what it was doing there.