I sat in the library that afternoon trying to work on my paper, but conflicting images of Luisa and Richard standing by the window at the Pudding and of Luisa flying out the door of Strauss in the predawn light kept running through my head. I tried to replace these images with thoughts of my own encounter with the brooding sophomore, or, at the very least, with some insights into the role played by colonial economics in the Salem Witch Trials, but I kept coming back to Luisa.
She returned midweek, cheerful and composed. I tried again to ask what had happened, but she made it clear that she had no desire to discuss the events of that evening. The only change I noticed was that she carefully avoided situations where Richard might be present—begging off Sean’s parties and studying in her room rather than the library.
Whatever happened, Richard, for his part, seemed magically to disappear afterward. I would see him every so often, across a crowded lecture hall or a smoke-filled party. I heard that he’d gone to work at a talent agency in Los Angeles after he graduated. I’d almost forgotten about him when he suddenly rematerialized at my twenty-ninth birthday party, his arm confidently slipped through Emma’s.
“I think he put something in my drink,” Luisa continued.
“Why did you never say anything?”
She shrugged in a way that only Europeans and Latinos can pull off. “What difference would it have made? It happened, it was done with. There was no erasing it. And I didn’t want everyone probing into my business. That would have been truly unbearable.”
I felt chilled to the bone, despite the summer sun that lit the room.
“Come on, Rachel, don’t look so stunned.”
“I’m not,” I blurted. “Well, I guess I am. It’s just that—given what’s happened…it wouldn’t look good. Does anybody else know? Does anybody else know what he did?”
“No. How could they? I never told anyone, and I can’t imagine that he did. Of course, when Emma and he became engaged, I thought about trying to tell her, but she seemed so set on her course. I ultimately decided that it would be a waste of time, at best.” She stubbed out one cigarette and lit another.
“Luisa,” I pressed on. She didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation. “You can’t tell anyone else. Please don’t tell anyone else. It really wouldn’t look good,” I repeated.
“Why, because it gives me a reason to hate Richard’s guts and explains why I would rather have seen him dead than married to Emma?”
“There’s that,” I said, laughing despite myself, although even I could hear the slightly hysterical edge to my laughter. I told her what I’d overheard on the phone—the detective’s belief that Richard had been poisoned in some way and then shoved in the pool in an attempt to cover up the murder.
She sipped her coffee, absorbing the information. “Well, nobody will be shocked by that. Of course he was murdered.”
“But if the police think so, too—they have no choice but to figure out who did it.” What I didn’t say but left unspoken was that I couldn’t see any benefit in handing them Luisa’s motive.
“Well, I have no desire to tell them. Whoever did kill him certainly has my blessings. That said, I don’t see any reason to point the finger at myself.” She paused and then added in a thoughtful tone, “Wouldn’t it be a sort of poetic justice, though, if they found out that somebody had put something in his drink?” She smiled and lit yet another cigarette, forgetting about the one she already had burning in the ashtray. This uncharacteristic absentmindedness was the only indication she gave that she was even the least bit disconcerted.
I didn’t reply. I was contemplating poetic justice and the many different forms it could take.
“Buck up, darling,” she said to me, narrowing her eyes through the smoke. “It looks like we’re in for quite an interesting weekend.”
CHAPTER 11
Interesting was one way to describe how the weekend was shaping up. A number of other adjectives came to mind, but I was momentarily speechless.
Luisa was silent, too. She turned in her chair and stared out the window. Then, after a few minutes she shrugged again and turned back to me, as if she’d made up her mind about something.
“Listen, Rachel,” she said. “While we’re in true confessions mode, there’s something else you should know—”
But Matthew’s shaggy brown head appeared around the door before she could tell me. “Hey, there. What are you two doing?”
“Just hanging out,” I answered, in as casual a tone as I could manage. Internally I was still reeling. “We finished all of the phone calls the Furlongs wanted us to make. What about you?”
“Well, I settled the detectives in the library, and then, after they talked to Lily and Jacob, I had my first official police interrogation ever.” He leaned against the door frame and put his hands in his pockets.
“And was it everything you could hope for?” I asked.
“Not at all. In fact, it was sort of disappointing. No bright lights shining in my eyes or threats of brutality. They didn’t even read me my rights.” He, too, was doing his best to sound lighthearted.
“How exciting for you, nonetheless,” said Luisa. “But surely this can’t be your first police interrogation? You’ve never had to face down a malpractice suit or anything?” She gave him a teasing glance. She seemed to be recovering from our conversation far more quickly than I.
“No, thank you, I haven’t. The nice thing about working with the poor is that they tend not to be litigious. But I assure you, if I ever do find myself in such a situation, I will call on the finest Harvard-trained lawyer I know. Would you be willing to do the honors? Pro bono, of course.”
“Of course,” Luisa agreed amiably.
“Speaking of doing the honors, are either of you willing to volunteer for a police interview? They asked me to bring down the next person I found.”
“Ugh,” I said.
“Good Lord,” said Luisa. “Could you pretend you haven’t seen us?”
“Don’t everyone volunteer at once,” said Matthew. Luisa and I looked at each other.
“Rock, Paper, Scissors?” I suggested.
“I don’t think so,” she replied.
“It was worth a shot.”
“Indeed.”
“Seriously, I need to send someone down there,” interjected Matthew. “They want to talk to each of us, sooner or later.”
“I think I’ll choose later,” said Luisa.
I threw up my hands. “I’ll go. I might as well get it out of the way.” Luisa didn’t protest. I pulled myself to my feet, telling myself that it would be best to get the interview over with but still daunted by the actual process. Not to mention that my mind was a hotbed of confusion, what with all the various puzzle pieces I kept unearthing, none of which seemed to fit together in a logical way.
“The library?” I asked.
“The library,” Matthew confirmed.
“Okay. If I’m not back in an hour, call my lawyer. Oh, bugs. I don’t have one.”
“Sure you do,” said Luisa. “Although, I know how ridiculously well-compensated you banker-types are, so I wouldn’t count on the pro bono treatment.”
“Good to know,” I answered. I left them in the study and walked slowly down the stairs to the ground floor, taking my time while I tried to take stock of the various things I knew and sort of wished I didn’t: Emma arguing with her father and then sneaking out to meet Richard in the middle of the night, Luisa admitting that Richard had raped her, Hilary dredging up long-ago pacts, Matthew silently harboring his love for Emma. My hands were trembling, I realized, and that had nothing to do with either my hangover or caffeine. I paused in the foyer to take a few deep breaths and to smooth my hair in the mirror that hung on the wall across from the library. Satisfied that I at least appeared composed, even if I felt like a quivering mess, I squared my shoulders and turned toward the closed door. I lingered for a moment to see if I could hear anything, but the heavy wood was far too thick to
let words escape. Finally I screwed up my courage and knocked, my knuckles sounding a dull thud on the sturdy surface.
“Come in,” a voice answered. I felt as if a strange, leaden weight had taken up residence deep in my gut as I pushed the door open. The library was paneled in dark walnut, much like Mr. Furlong’s study. Shelves along two walls held rows of books that looked as if they’d actually been read at some point, and an aged Oriental rug stretched across the polished floorboards. The handsome detective was standing by the stone fireplace, flanked by a colleague who appeared to have only recently graduated from high school. They both turned toward me as I entered.
“I’m Detective O’Donnell,” said the handsome one. Hilary had been right—he was hot. And I recognized his voice immediately from the phone conversation I’d listened in on. I pegged his age at mid to late thirties, a few years older than us, but not so much older that it would present a problem. He was a dead ringer for a young Pierce Brosnan, but with a crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once and lent him a dangerous air. He towered over me, but Hilary stood five feet and eleven inches in bare feet, so I doubted that his height would pose any obstacle for her. I shook his hand and reminded myself that it was important to concentrate on matters beyond matchmaking.
“Rachel Benjamin,” I introduced myself.
“And I’m Officer Paterson,” said the other man. Actually, boy would be a more accurate description. His voice was squeaky, and he was nearly a head shorter than O’Donnell, with wiry red hair, freckles and a prominent Adam’s apple. I shook his hand as well.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Ms. Benjamin,” said O’Donnell.
“Thank you.” I gingerly perched on the edge of a sofa. Thus far, this felt more like a tea party than a murder investigation. I half expected one of them to offer me some cucumber sandwiches or a scone with clotted cream. Unbidden, my stomach emitted an audible rumble which neither of them acknowledged.
Instead, they took two chairs facing me across a coffee table. Behind them, an old grandfather clock wheezed into action, letting us know that it was now 10:00 a.m. We looked awkwardly at one another, waiting for the peals to subside. Time was inching along slowly today.
“Ms. Benjamin, do you have any objections to this conversation being recorded?” asked Paterson. He gestured toward a small tape recorder on the coffee table.
“That’s fine. And please, call me Rachel.” I smiled at him, and a deep scarlet flush spread from his collar up to his face. I felt a stab of pity; if I was having this effect on him, he’d have a meltdown when it was time to interview Hilary. I almost felt as if I should warn him.
Paterson pressed the Record button. “Testing, testing, one two three…” he said. Once he was confident that the machine was working, he stated today’s date and our names. I had the sense that he’d read every single Hardy Boys book and had perhaps taken them a bit too seriously. O’Donnell cast a dubious look in his direction and cleared his throat. He took out a small notebook and flipped it open.
“Ms. Benjamin,” began O’Donnell. “The purpose of this interview is to get your description of the chain of events of the last twenty-four hours, in an attempt to gather further information about the death of Richard Mallory. Could you please state your name, address, age and occupation for the record?”
“Sure. I’m Rachel Benjamin. My address is 179 East Seventy-Ninth Street, New York, New York. I’m thirty years old, and I’m a vice president in Investment Banking at Winslow, Brown in Manhattan.” Paterson looked impressed. I wondered if I should explain to him that Winslow, Brown alone had several hundred vice presidents, and that there were enough on Wall Street to fill Madison Square Garden, should they ever allow themselves to be pulled away from their downtown deal making to be carted en masse up to midtown. And that didn’t even take into account the hundreds who had been laid off in the economic downturn.
“And what was your relation to the deceased?” asked O’Donnell.
“Well, I didn’t have one, really. I’m a friend of Emma’s. We were roommates in college. I was supposed to be her maid of honor today.”
“And could you tell us how long you knew the deceased?” It was creepy to hear Richard referred to in such a cold, technical way.
“I first met Richard in college—about a dozen years ago. He was a senior when we were freshman. I didn’t know him well, and I believe he worked out in California after graduation. I think he moved back to New York a few years ago, but I didn’t see him again until he and Emma started dating. Which was about eighteen months ago.” My answers sounded rehearsed to my own ears, and I hoped that they didn’t sound the same way to O’Donnell and Paterson.
“And did you spend a lot of time with him during that period?”
“No, not really. I mean, I work pretty long hours, and I think he does—did—too. Mostly just the occasional party or dinner.”
“I see.” Saw what, I wondered? That I avoided Richard like the plague and went out of my way to see Emma only when Richard wasn’t around? “Could you tell us about the last twenty-four hours or so? When you arrived here, what you did, etcetera?”
“Sure. I drove up from New York yesterday afternoon with Luisa and Hilary. Luisa Caselanza and Hilary Banks. They’re also friends of Emma’s—we were roommates in college, along with Jane Hallard, who’s here as well. The four of us were all supposed to be bridesmaids today. Anyhow, we got to the house around four-thirty. We hoped to arrive earlier, but we hit some weekend traffic and then got a bit lost.” I didn’t add that nobody in the car was capable of reading a map; that’s the sort of thing people never let you forget if you happen also to have a Harvard degree.
“The roads up here can be confusing. Especially if you’ve never been here. Have you? Been here before?” The way he slipped this in made me think it was more than an idle question.
“Yes, several times, in fact, over the years. But usually I came with Emma or her parents—people who knew the way.”
O’Donnell jotted something down in his notebook while I continued my narrative. “Anyhow, right when we arrived we had to start the rehearsal for the wedding, out by the lake. After that, we all rushed to change for the rehearsal dinner, which was at a country club in the next town over. We were there until a little before midnight, and then we came back to the house. Emma was already in bed, but a few of us—Jane and Hilary and Luisa and me—went out to the dock for a nightcap. We stayed there talking for a while, and then came in to go to sleep. That was probably around two or so.”
“So, you went to sleep around two. And did you see the deceased before then? Here at the house?”
“No,” I said, glad I could answer honestly. “I guess the last time I saw him alive was at the club. He and the other guys were out talking by the pool when we came in. We could hear them, but we didn’t actually go out that way, so we didn’t see anything.”
“Did you hear them when you came back inside?”
I thought for a second. “No, I don’t think so. At least, I don’t remember hearing anything. We came in the side door, by the kitchen.” We’d put the glasses in the dishwasher and the empty champagne bottle in the recycling bin. I wondered if I should tell them what Peter had told me, about being up with Richard until three, and then I decided that that was not my responsibility. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell them about Richard’s rendezvous with Emma.
“Which room were you staying in last night?”
“Emma’s room. It has twin beds. And Emma was already asleep when I came up.” I hoped I sounded natural when I tacked on that last part.
“So, you went to sleep at two, and Ms. Furlong was asleep when you came in. Then what happened?”
“Well, I woke up early. A little after six.” I told them about going down to the kitchen and out on the porch, and then about finding Richard’s body. It felt like a decade had passed since then, not a few hours. “The rest you know, I guess.” I concluded my account, hoping I was done.
My hopes were unfounded. O’Donnell had more questions.
“What did you think of Mr. Mallory?” he asked.
“What did I think of him?” The question seemed unprofessional, at best.
“Yes. Did you like him? Were you glad that he was marrying your friend?”
I hesitated, briefly debating how best to address this, weighing the different odds. It was bad enough that I’d already let Emma down, betrayed my long-ago promise to her by letting her get into this mess with Richard. To question her judgment in front of a stranger seemed like a further betrayal. Ultimately, however, I decided to go with the honesty-being-the-best-policy approach. It couldn’t hurt to let O’Donnell know that lots of people harbored neither warm and fuzzy thoughts toward Richard nor any eagerness to see Emma married to him. Nor did I want O’Donnell to work up too much sympathy on behalf of the deceased. “Well, no. I wasn’t particularly fond of him. Not many people were, to be blunt.”
O’Donnell looked at me, his expression inscrutable. “Why not?”
“I can’t speak for everybody, of course.” I wondered how far I should go. “Let’s just say that he wasn’t the most scrupulous of men. I had some exposure to him professionally, and I found his conduct to be—” I searched for the right word “—unethical.”
“Unethical,” repeated O’Donnell. “What do you mean by that?”
I briefly explained how he’d screwed up my deal the previous year. “And I doubt that I’m the only person who had a similar experience with him,” I concluded.
“But Emma—Ms. Furlong loved him?” O’Donnell looked at me, quizzical.
“Apparently. They were getting married, after all.”
The Pact Page 10
