by James Lasdun
“Matt, weren’t you at the Millstream bar the night of the fireworks?” Charlie said, jolting Matthew back into the present. He’d been reading on his iPad in between turns.
Matthew answered carefully.
“Yes . . .”
“Like at around seven, seven-thirty?”
“Probably.”
“That guy Grollier was there. The barman remembers seeing him.”
Matthew paused, waiting for Chloe to remind Charlie not to talk about this in front of Lily, but she seemed to have forgotten that useful restraint on Charlie’s stubborn interest in the story.
“That’s right,” Matthew answered. “It was on the news yesterday. They were talking about it at Lily’s party.”
“You must have seen him there yourself.”
“Huh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Apparently he got a call at the bar around seven-thirty and left in a hurry right after.”
“Right. That’s what they said.”
“So you might have seen him talking on his phone.”
Matthew was about to say he’d already left by seven-thirty, but decided to remain vague about the timing of his departure.
“I guess it’s possible.”
“Was the bar crowded?”
“Not especially.”
“But you don’t remember seeing him?”
“I mean, I don’t really know what he looks like.”
“Oh, he’s unmistakable. He’s a big guy, built like a tank. Kind of a loudmouth too, right, Chlo? You’d definitely know if you saw him. What I’m saying, Matt, is if you remember anything about him, it might be worth letting those people at the sheriff’s department know. They obviously need all the help they can get.”
Chloe had stood up. For a moment she remained motionless. Then, as if to explain the action, she went into the kitchen, murmuring that she’d be right back.
“You’re right,” Matthew said. His mouth had gone very dry.
“Even if it was just whether he was looking happy or upset while he talked.”
“Yes. I’m trying to remember if I saw him.”
“Your turn, Daddy,” Lily said.
Charlie looked at his letters. Chloe came back in from the kitchen with a saucer of kumquats and chocolate. She put her hand gently on Charlie’s shoulder.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be on your screen while we’re playing.”
“Right. Right. Sorry.”
They played on.
A few minutes later the game was interrupted again, this time by the ringing of the front doorbell. It was such a rare occurrence that all four looked at each other, as if unsure what the sound actually was.
Charlie stood up.
“Better not be those Watchtower people.”
“Don’t be rude to them if it is,” Chloe called after him.
They heard the door opening and muffled voices. Charlie called back from the kitchen:
“Uh . . . it’s the police, Chloe. They want to talk to us about Wade Grollier.”
Chloe was still for a moment; her slight figure seeming to brace itself.
“Go to your room and practice, sweetheart,” she said to Lily.
The girl left obediently. Chloe stood up, her face glassily expressionless, and climbed the three steps to the kitchen level. Matthew, whose first instinct was to absent himself, decided on second thought to follow after her.
In the kitchen Charlie motioned at a man in a jacket and tie.
“This is Detective—”
“Fernandez,” the man said. “And my colleague, Officer Lombardi.” He nodded toward a woman in uniform, who was wiping the rain from her face with a handkerchief.
Charlie introduced Chloe and Matthew. The detective shook their hands, wafting a scent of cologne from his jacket.
He looked about forty, with a thick black mustache and tired, dark eyes. The uniformed woman was younger, wide-shouldered and pale, her face a studious blank.
“Apparently we showed up on a list of possible social connections,” Charlie said. He looked back at the detective. “Through his Facebook contacts, I’m guessing? I notice his name comes up sometimes on those mutual friends notifications.”
The detective nodded vaguely.
“I was just telling your husband, ma’am, we’re trying to track down any possible social or business connections of Mr. Grollier here in Aurelia.”
The detective’s voice, pleasantly soft and somber, had a faint Hispanic accent. Puerto Rican, Matthew guessed.
“I don’t imagine he had many,” Charlie said. “This isn’t exactly celebrity country up here.”
The detective smiled.
“There’s actually a lot of folks who turn out to know people he knew. Four degrees of separation, isn’t that what they say?”
“Six, I think,” Charlie said. “Though in our case just one, since we did actually meet him in the flesh.”
“Oh, I thought—”
“Not up here, as I said, but a couple of years ago, at a fund-raiser in Aspen. Chloe talked to him a little. I barely said hello, but I remember him. Smart guy, kind of flamboyant.”
“But you definitely didn’t run into him here in Aurelia?”
“No, no. We didn’t even know he was up here. I wish we had! Maybe things would have turned out different. Who knows, maybe we’d have had him over for dinner that night . . .”
The detective nodded.
“Well, we’d still like to talk to you, if you don’t mind. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
“Of course.”
“Let’s go in the living room, shall we?” Chloe said, looking at the kitchen table, which was still covered in breakfast things. She turned to lead the way, but then seemed to have a change of heart. “Or actually—” she began briskly, clearing off the kitchen table.
“Chlo,” Charlie said. “Let’s just go in the living room.”
She opened her mouth as if to argue, but didn’t.
“Okay.”
There was a peculiar, stricken look in her eyes as she said this.
“Shall I make some coffee?” Matthew asked. It seemed to him he needed an excuse to remain present in the conversation.
“You know what? I wouldn’t say no to some coffee,” the detective said. The uniformed officer shook her head.
Matthew made the coffee. When he brought it into the living room, Charlie was telling Fernandez about the Millstream’s reputation as a singles scene, which appeared to be news to the detective.
“I’ll have to remember to stay away,” he joked, tapping his wedding ring.
Matthew handed him his coffee and sat on an ottoman. Chloe was perched next to him on the edge of one of the sofas. It was clear to Matthew that she was agitated, and he wondered what could be bothering her, beyond the obvious.
“Matt,” Charlie said, “I was just telling these guys you were there the same time as Grollier.”
“Right.”
“Did you see him?” the detective asked.
“You know, I’m thinking maybe I did. He’s . . . he was big, right?”
“Two hundred and twenty pounds, give or take. Beard. Good head of hair.”
“Right. There was a rather hefty guy there, though I don’t remember seeing him talk on the phone. I’m pretty sure he had a beard. And he was kind of extrovert.”
“Meaning?”
Charlie said: “Outgoing, uninhibited.”
“No,” the detective said, “I mean, what form did his extrovert behavior take?”
“Well, he talked a lot.”
“To anyone in particular?”
“Hmm.” Matthew frowned as if trying to remember. He needed a moment to calculate how much he could safely tell the detective. His instinct had been to say as little as possible, but it occurred to him the barman would have already described the scene, so there was probably little to be gained from holding back, and he certainly didn’t want to risk seeming evasive.
“Well, he was asking a
bout the fireworks, and people were telling him how great they always were.”
“Did you hear him invite anyone to go along with him?”
The barman must have said something about the “posse.”
“Yes, I think he was trying to get people to go with him. I don’t know how seriously . . .”
“Did he ask you?”
“Me? No, but I was on my way out by then.”
“Why was that?”
“No reason. I mean, there was no one there that particularly interested me.”
“So to speak,” Charlie said with a chuckle.
“So you left?”
“Yes.”
“How long had you been there?”
“Maybe forty-five minutes?” It had been more like twenty, but he thought that would seem oddly short. “But you know, I think when I left he was actually talking to one person in particular, a woman.”
Fernandez waited for him to continue.
“She had a book, I think. He was asking her about it.”
“Could you describe her?”
“Youngish—maybe late twenties. Kind of straight mousy hair, down to about her shoulders.”
“Do you remember anything about the book?”
He debated whether to remember.
“I don’t, actually. Sorry.”
“But you heard them talk about it?”
“Yes. I think maybe . . . maybe he was saying something about a film adaptation? I’m not sure . . .”
“Did he say any names—directors, actresses?”
Matthew frowned.
“Gosh, I wish I could remember.”
The detective gave an accomodating shrug.
“Would you say he was trying to pick her up?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
He could sense Chloe flinching beside him. It had been a cruel thing to say, but it was in her interest, as well as his own, to push the story as far away from any connection to her as possible.
Charlie spoke:
“I mean, you guys don’t need me to tell you how to do your job, but it might be worth asking the barman if he remembers the book this woman was reading, if you’re trying to track her down. Barmen notice that kind of thing.”
The detective gazed at him mildly for a moment.
“That’s a good idea.”
“Maybe she could shed some light on this call Grollier got at the bar,” Charlied continued, “because that’s the real question you want answered here, isn’t it? And why he left in such a hurry right after?”
“We’d certainly be interested in knowing that.”
“The obvious inference, to me,” Charlie said, “assuming you haven’t traced the call—”
The detective kept his face impassive.
“—is that he was using a cash-only phone, which suggests either he was involved in something criminal, which I highly doubt, or else he was having some kind of clandestine relationship, in which case presumably there’d be traces in the house.”
“Wasn’t he living with that actress?” Matthew put in.
“Rachel Turpin, yeah,” Charlie said. “But people do have affairs, you know. Maybe he was seeing someone up here.” He laughed, pleased at his powers of deduction, and turned to the detective. “Did you guys think about that? Maybe that’s why he was in Aurelia in the first place!”
Chloe, who’d been silent until now, said in a calm voice:
“Then why would he be picking up random women at the Millstream?”
That seemed to flummox Charlie.
“Good point, Chlo. Unless he was just some kind of compulsive philanderer . . .” He turned back to the detective. “Anyway, all I’m saying, for what it’s worth, is I personally don’t think this mysterious phone call could have had anything to do with him getting killed. Because what would the scenario be? Someone luring him back to the house in order to murder him, which they did by stabbing him in the throat? That just sounds ridiculous.”
The detective turned to Chloe.
“You say you talked to Mr. Grollier at this fund-raising event, when was it, two years ago?”
“About that.”
“How would you describe him?”
“Well . . . we didn’t talk for long. I actually didn’t even remember I’d met him at all till my husband reminded me.”
“Do you remember what you talked about?”
“No. I’m sure it was just, you know, party conversation.”
“And he didn’t make any particular impression on you?”
Chloe frowned.
“I seem to remember he was funny.”
“He made you laugh?”
“I guess he must have.”
“Had you seen any of his movies?”
Chloe hesitated fractionally.
“No.”
“But you’ve seen them since?”
She looked at the detective, seeming to wonder how she’d prompted that question.
Lie, Matthew told her silently.
“Not that I recall,” she said. “We haven’t, have we, Charlie?”
“Definitely not.”
She turned back to the detective:
“I didn’t think so.”
“And he never contacted you again after that meeting?”
She looked at Fernandez with an expression of placid indifference, as if she had no idea what he was driving at, and no interest in trying to guess.
“No,” she said.
Attagirl! Matthew wanted to tell her. She’d been nervous, but when it came to it, her performance had been flawless.
The detective finished his coffee and set his mug down on the table next to the Scrabble board. He looked back through the pages of his notebook.
“You know what?” He smiled at each of them. “I think we’re done.”
He put his notepad away.
“You’ve been extremely helpful. Thank you all.”
He leaned forward to get out of his seat. As he was rising, though, something seemed to stall him. The uniformed officer, who’d been sitting silently in the window seat, had just taken out her handkerchief again and blown her nose. Whether or not that had anything to do with it wasn’t clear to Matthew, but some new thought appeared to register on the detective’s face as he came to a halt, his unfolding body suspended midway between sitting and standing, his balding head angling back down toward the coffee table, staring at it. Slowly, carefully, as though an abrupt move might cause whatever it was he’d thought or seen to vanish, he lowered himself back down into the sofa.
“Although now, since we’re here, maybe I should ask you just a couple more questions. Save us having to come back further down the road. Would that be okay with you?”
“Of course,” Charlie said. “We’re all extremely eager to get this cleared up. It isn’t too relaxing knowing there’s a killer wandering around out there. I was actually wondering at what point do you call in the big guns—you know, the state police, the FBI, whatever . . .”
Matthew let his eyes drift casually toward the coffee table, wondering what had caught the detective’s attention. Could it have been something on the Scrabble board? He scanned the crisscrossing words, but on reflection the idea of a detective picking up some cryptic clue from a Scrabble game seemed unlikely.
“What I’m thinking”—Fernandez was tapping his pen against his notepad—“is that it would be helpful to have a record of what you were doing yourselves the night Mr. Grollier was killed.”
Charlie gave an incredulous snort. “You mean our alibis?”
“Like I say, it’s just so we have it on record,” Fernandez said affably. “Dotting our i’s and crossing our t’s, so to speak.”
“Of course,” Chloe said politely. She had turned ashen since the detective had sat back down. “Charlie was in New York having dinner. Matthew and I were here all afternoon. Matthew went out to the Millstream bar—I think around six-thirty, right, Matt?” Matthew nodded. “And I left about ten minutes later to spend the evening
with my cousin Jana in Lake Classon. Our daughter was still away at camp—that’s her upstairs practicing. I can give you my cousin’s number if you like.”
“Thank you. We’ll get all your details before we go.”
Might it have been something about the books, then? Matthew looked at the lavish monographs and catalogues raisonnés of Chloe’s favorite photographers as closely as he dared: Nan Goldin, Robert Frank, the Helmut Newton book . . . Was it possible that one of these had some unsuspected suggestion of Grollier about it? But that too seemed unlikely. He thought perhaps he’d been imagining things after all, and Fernandez really was just trying to make sure he didn’t have to come back unnecessarily.
The detective had turned back to Charlie:
“And just so I have it straight, you came home after your dinner in New York, or you spent the night somewhere in the city?”
“Well, we have a home in the city too, but I came back here.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Around ten. Happy to give you contact details of the people I was with.”
“Thanks. So you got back here, what, around midnight?”
“Yeah, twelve, twelve-thirty,” Charlie said airily.
“Twelve, twelve-thirty,” the detective said, writing in his notepad. “And went straight to bed?”
“Yes,” Charlie answered.
“Actually, Charlie,” Matthew heard himself say, “wasn’t that the night you had to stop for a nap on the Thruway?”
Charlie looked at him. He’d obviously thought the nap wasn’t worth mentioning.
“Oh, yeah, you’re right. I’d forgotten that. So it was probably a bit later.”
“So . . . what time, then, approximately?” the detective asked.
“Yeah, probably closer to one-thirty, two.”
The detective looked down at his notepad, stroking his mustache for a moment.
