“Can we have just a few ballads?” Ben asked, succumbing to the festive spirit. “Coleman Hawkins, Ellington . . . you know what I mean—a little ‘Nearness of You’ music.” And he turned to place a playful hand on Mathew’s head, saying, “You know how the pale moon excites you.”
I remained by the window with my friend Lulu, apart, taking it all in. It took me a minute to realize that someone was addressing me.
“I’m sorry, Darcy. What did you say?”
“I said, do you need something to wear? I brought tons of clothes.”
“Well, thank you. But I doubt they’d fit.”
And suddenly the room was empty.
Except for me and Lulu and the little brown mouse who went flying by.
Beth and Darcy had made a quick run into town, to extend invitations to a few of the hip shopkeepers they knew and to pick up cassettes at the music store. They came back followed by the caterers, who would soon scandalize Mrs. Wallace with their unimaginative fare and skimpy portions. But at least now she had someone to order around. I had nothing to do, so I made myself scarce and goofed off with Lulu.
The house continued to be a hive of activity: furniture shuffled, vacuum cleaners going, the pinging of wine glasses and plates and silverware, manically cheerful phone calls, delivery boys at the back door, florists at the front. The energy seemed almost pathological.
And then, at five fifteen, the first guests arrived: twins. Two young women musicians from the music department at Smith. After them, the old poet who lived in the town of Covington, a benign-looking white-haired gentleman. Then a South American pianist, and a professor of English literature whose controversial book on Emily Dickinson had recently been published. After that, a renowned geneticist in Rastafarian braids. Two candlemakers—a married couple—and three gaunt modern dancers. And so it went.
They had all come on short notice. Was it the prestige of being hosted by the Riverside Quartet that had brought them out? Or the notoriety of the murder, which had been in all the local papers? Or just escape from the routine of rural life? I couldn’t tell, but they were all there, and others kept coming, and soon the stately house was alive with people eating and drinking and arguing good-naturedly between dances.
From time to time as the party progressed, one or another of the women in the quartet would come over and playfully condemn me as a wallflower. I would always smile and claim fatigue, but the label fit all too well that night. Once or twice I crossed Mathew Hazan’s path, but he didn’t speak to me at all. I felt alone and unnecessary, and unsociable. Even so, at one point I found myself being swept onto the dance floor by a persistent sculptor who lived up the road. He stationed us next to Beth and the young man she’d been dancing with for some time, a performance artist who moonlighted as the projectionist at the movie house in Northampton. By the time the song had ended I was a little overheated, and I asked Beth if the two of us might repair to our drinks over on the window seat, where Lulu waited.
Beth took a healthy swig of her screwdriver. “What do you think, Alice? He’s sort of hot, isn’t he?”
“Excuse me?”
“Him, Alice. The one I was dancing with. Great forearms, don’t you think?”
Rather than answer her, I decided to jump in with some questions of my own. “Listen, Beth, speaking of . . . forearms, were you having an affair with Will Gryder?”
My words seemed to stun her. She stiffened visibly. But then she recovered and turned on a blinding smile. “Oh, Alice, you should know better than to listen to rumors. Who told you that—Roz?”
When I made no reply, she smiled even more brightly. “Listen, dear, never believe what the first violinist says about the second violinist.”
“It wasn’t Roz.”
“Well, then, I suppose it’s Miranda who’s been spouting off. Hell, cellists are even crazier than violinists. They live for drama—especially that one.” Beth nodded toward Miranda, who stood across the room in a beaded black jersey catsuit and knife-point high heels, laughing loudly as an intense Danish philosopher held forth.
“Did you know, for instance,” Beth raced on, “that Miranda never recovered from the revelation that she wasn’t Piatigorski?” Beth laughed uproariously at her own line. “Did you ever see him perform, by the way?”
“No.”
“God! You should have. He was an immense man who used to stride on stage carrying his cello over his head like a warrior—like an attacking Indian. Miranda’s wanted to do that all her life, but she’s never had the gumption. She just talks a mighty good game.” Then Beth seemed to become lost in her thoughts.
“Sorry to press you, Beth, but I have a good reason for wanting to know: did you and Will Gryder make love in one of the sheds by the creek?”
She looked at me over the rim of her glass before answering, slowly, “Yes. And in a few other places over the years. Satisfied?”
“Not entirely. I’d like to ask about a couple of other things.”
She laughed in astonishment. “You are something else, Alice. Okay, go ahead.”
“Did you quarrel with him after you made love . . . a few days before he was killed?”
“We had a beauty of a fight that day, yes. But it was soon forgotten. Will and I were very, very close. We loved each other, but we also sometimes hated each other. And we fought like cats and dogs over the damnedest things—or over nothing. We were just that way. The anger never lasted because . . . well, because we were so much a part of each other. Oh, I don’t mean the sex. It was all right, but the truth is, Willy was nothing to write home about as a lover. In fact, I always thought he might have been secretly gay. I think he looked at sex with women as another way to be mothered. He was a man who needed a lot of mothering. He was so vulnerable and—”
Beth stopped suddenly. “Oh, wow! Wait a minute. Oh, Alice! Sweet, surprising little Alice! You think I killed him, don’t you?”
I continued to look at her.
“I didn’t kill him, Alice!” She had spoken quite loudly, and we both glanced around to see if anyone was noticing us. “I didn’t!” she said more softly. “How could I? Will was my friend. He loved me. He even gave me Lulu—when she was just a kitten.”
Again this profile of Will Gryder as a gentle soul. To counter it, I described to her his attack on Benjamin Polikoff, exactly as Mrs. Wallace had reported it to me. The glass in Beth’s hand began to tip over. I took it from her and set it on the windowsill. The story had unnerved her, apparently She went pale. Or was it the alcohol that explained that?
“Look here,” she said a moment later. “I don’t know why you’re so interested in us, but if you’re going to pry you should at least get your stories straight. Mrs. Wallace must be a nut job to say a thing like that. Those things she said about Will are simply not true. And she should realize what an awful, irresponsible thing it is to spread rumors like that after someone has been . . . Will has been . . . murdered.
“If you must know, there is an old secret involving Will and Ben. Only I guess it isn’t much of a secret. Will and Roz had an affair a few years ago. A pretty heavy one. She even left Ben briefly. But that’s all in the past. She went back to her husband and Will went on to somebody else—or lots of somebodies. And all of us became friends again. That’s the way it’s always been with us, Alice. With all of us. We keep our priorities straight. We’re . . . grown-ups.”
Beth was the second member of the group to remind me of the prerogatives of adulthood. I didn’t know whose lecture I found more silly—hers or Mat Hazan’s.
“You do believe me, don’t you, Alice?” Beth said fervently. “About Willy . . . and about me. I swear none of us would ever hurt him.” Beth pressed my hand tightly, and when I merely pressed hers back, saying nothing, she picked up her glass and moved off.
So it was Roz and Will now. In addition to Ben
and Will. In addition to Beth and Will. In addition to . . . what? It was hard to think with all the noise. I saw the young sculptor wave at me. I immediately ran for cover.
Chapter 11
The party should have been over, or at least on its last legs. It was past ten in the evening. But new blood had arrived in the form of three people—two men and a woman—whom everyone seemed to be making a terrible fuss over. I was too weary to inquire who they were.
Lulu was nowhere to be seen. I hoped she was finally tracking down field mice as Nature intended.
I couldn’t bear that seat in the window another minute. When the crowd rushed forward in adoration of the newly arrived trio, I saw my chance to leave the party and call Tony. If I wasn’t mistaken, this was one of the nights he’d be staying with my cats in the apartment.
There was only one telephone on the second floor and it was on a low table in the hallway, just outside the Polikoffs’ room. I sat down cross-legged on the worn carpet, took the phone into my lap, and dialed my own number in New York. Tony answered on the third ring.
“Well, stranger, it’s about time,” he said.
“I’ve been bad about keeping in touch, Tony. I’m sorry. Is everything okay there?”
“Everybody’s fine. Except you’re interrupting a rehearsal of my new play. Bushy is appearing in the Stanley Kowalski-type role. I’m the aging female lead. And Pancho is directing—when I can find him.”
“Are they eating?”
“At every conceivable opportunity.”
“Do they miss me?”
“What are you, kidding? They lapsed into horrendous feline depression the day after you left. I’ve had to put the pair of them on antidepressants. Matter of fact, we’re all on them.”
“Any messages?”
“Yeah. Your agent called. Said not to worry about the Beast review, that everybody knows that critic is demented.”
“He happens to be an excellent reviewer, Tony.”
“Okay, Swede. Be a martyr. Let’s not call him demented. Let’s just say he’s a man who plays badminton every Tuesday and Thursday.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing, really. Just making conversation. It’s good to hear from you, Swede. I miss you, no kidding. What’s going on up there?”
“Well, it’s cold.”
“Invite me up. I’ll get you warm.”
I didn’t answer.
“So what’s the story up there—really? You sound strange.”
“Do I? In what way?”
“You know—you’ve got that abstracted kind of sound. Which usually means the hunt is on . . . Hey, Swede, are you okay?”
“I’m quite all right. But there has been some trouble up here.”
“Oh, shit. What?”
“Let me call you tomorrow, Tony. I don’t have time to explain it all now.”
I hung up after convincing Basillio that I really was all right. I sat listening to the sounds of merriment downstairs. The party was still flying. And I was still alone upstairs.
All alone. That fact suddenly intrigued me. At the end of the hall, up a few steps, was the bedroom Will Gryder had stayed in. It was possible, I realized, for me to go in and have a look around, and no one would ever know. And what would I be looking for? I had no idea. It was just something that ought to be done. No doubt about that. It wasn’t even illegal—just a bit illicit.
I climbed the two stairs quietly and entered the room, which had one of those dramatically slanted ceilings. For a tall person like me, the exposed beams posed a danger of major concussion. As I stooped a bit to avoid that danger, it occurred to me that the more removed you were from the center of the Riverside Quartet the further down the hall you slept. Will had been an occasional guest artist and accompanist, so it figured that he’d had this quiet little room. I suppose they’d have assigned it to me if he hadn’t been in residence when I arrived.
I closed the creaky door to hide my trespassing and felt my way in the dark till I found the old wall lamp I’d sighted a moment before. When I flicked the light on it sent an eerie glow through the room—which was a mess.
The mess was understandable: according to Ford Donaldson, someone had rifled the room and then the police had searched it again. There was one outsized dresser in the corner. Each of its six drawers were open, the edges of clothing sticking out. Other clothes were scattered on the bed and the floor, but a jarringly modern clothes stand held a suit jacket neatly waiting for its owner, who of course would never again wear it. There were other things obviously preserved exactly as Will had left them the evening he’d walked out of this room for the last time: an uncapped fountain pen on the headboard, three books stacked on the small, rough-hewn bed table, and several booklets of sheet music on the pillow.
I looked through the books. One of them was in fact not a book but a copy of The Massachusetts Review, a literary journal. The issue was a couple of years old, and, oddly enough, the list of contributors on the back cover included the name Will Gryder. I turned to his piece and took ten minutes to skim my way through it. It turned out to be a decently enough crafted short story, one of those adolescent betrayal tales focusing on the father. Here was yet another aspect of the victim I hadn’t known about: he’d had literary aspirations.
I glanced at the sheet music long enough to see that all three were by Chopin—two sonatas and a mazurka. I didn’t examine it further, for I can’t read a note of music.
Then I went through all the drawers. Will had brought along more underwear for his vacation up here than most men owned. Next I moved on to the old armoire, a knotty pine thing with splinters galore, just waiting to jab the uninitiated. Inside was an expensive London-tailored suit, a sports jacket, three shirts, and a wind-breaker. I searched every pocket. Nothing there.
At the bottom of the armoire were three pairs of shoes. I tried to recall what kind of shoes he had been wearing when we found his body, but I couldn’t. One of the pairs were old sneakers; then there were suede chukka boots; and finally a pair of black dress shoes. The moment my fingers went inside the black shoes I felt a surge of excitement. There was paper inside. A hiding place for something important? Something the unknown searcher and the state police had missed? I pulled out the rolled-up newspaper, feeling utterly stupid. Will Gryder had simply stuffed his shoes with newspapers to help them keep their shape—as many well-brought-up children are taught to do. Disgusted, I pushed the shoes back and closed the armoire door. At least I had avoided the splinters.
There was a little bathroom at the rear of the room, without a door. An old-fashioned wash basin was visible from where I stood, and a leather toiletry case lay unzipped on top of it. I went in and picked through the completely anonymous items in the case: toothbrush, disposable razors, nail clip, condom.
I walked slowly back to the small bed then, sat down, and stared around me. As I looked down at the sheet music on Will Gryder’s pillow, I began to feel, for the first time, the full weight of his death, a man I had never met. I felt the sheer, inexplicable sadness of it all. And for some reason I thought of something one of my acting coaches had once told me. He had been an excellent teacher, weaning me away from the Method, but he was prone to making murky philosophical pronouncements and he suffered from recurrent bouts of crippling depression. He’d told me once that he was obsessed with a comment of Camus. To paraphrase it: No matter how perfect a society human beings construct, there will always be trolley car accidents in which young children are killed.
That’s what I thought about as I sat in that dead, attic-like room, a steady cold rain pattering against the little blacked-out window near the ceiling. I had found nothing in the room. I had trespassed and found nothing. That was a very bad sign.
Chapter 12
Breakfast at eleven! That sounds pretty decadent for a
weekday. But this was the morning after the impromptu party, and no one, other than Mrs. Wallace, had stirred before ten.
Mat Hazan had gone out for a morning jog, and the bruised Benjamin Polikoff was still soaking his weary limbs in the tub. It was girls only at the table, and we must have looked like a group photo from a day camp for retired chorines.
Breakfast was plentiful and soothing: hot cereal with heavy sweet cream, raspberries, fresh-baked biscuits, newly squeezed orange juice with plenty of pulp, eggs baked with cheese and tomatoes, savory country sausage.
The ladies were all hung-over and tired from the party, but the group seemed for the first time to have broken free from the shock that the violent death of their friend had induced. They had grieved, and would grieve. But the party had somehow pointed them in another direction—toward the future.
Of course, they didn’t know that another murder had almost occurred, in the Mercedes. Perhaps knowing that might have kept their grief alive a bit longer. On the other hand, one of them had to know about the rigged car accident, because he or she had been responsible for it.
I watched them closely as they ate breakfast. I listened to them carefully as they bantered at the table, remarking on incidents from the party and teasing each other in the way sober adults tend to do after a night of uncommon drinking. It was hard to believe that one of these people had driven the chisel into Will Gryder’s chest. Harder still to believe he or she would gladly have exterminated three of us at one blow, even if only one of the occupants of the car was a danger to that person.
Motive? It seemed that many of these people had some petty reason for disliking or resenting the late pianist. But a negligible motive doesn’t usually result in a stake through the heart. I grimaced, thinking about “motives.” My friend Detective Rothwax used to tell me that motives are meaningless; that motives are ridiculous; that good homicide detectives ignore the concept of “motive” completely. They want to know how the murder was committed, when, and by whom. They want every bit of crime-scene evidence they can suck up, but motive means nothing to them. It’s a luxury they can’t afford.
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