“I see.” I didn’t see how he could if none of Emma’s closest friends could understand their engagement. He said nothing after this, perhaps thinking that his silence would encourage me to say more. I, however, had said all I was going to say voluntarily on this topic. I shifted in my seat, uncrossing and recrossing my legs.
After a few, long moments, O’Donnell stood. “Well, that will be all for now. Thank you for your time.”
“That’s it?” I asked. I don’t know what else I expected, but this seemed like an abrupt ending. I was oddly disappointed but relieved at the same time.
“That’s it. Unless, of course, there’s anything else you’d like to tell us?” Something in his querying tone made me feel absurdly guilty.
I shook my head and rose to my feet. “No. Nothing that I can think of.”
“Then we’re done,” he said. “Although, we’ve asked that all of the guests stay until we give them further notice. I assume that won’t be a problem?”
“No. That’s fine. I was planning on spending the weekend here for the wedding.”
I was tempted to ask them what they believed had happened, but then I thought better of it. The last thing I wanted to do was to give them the impression that I had reason to think that what had happened wasn’t an accident or that I’d listened in on O’Donnell’s phone call. But then I worried that if I didn’t ask they would wonder why I wasn’t curious. So I asked.
“Do you have any sense at all of what happened to him? To Richard, I mean?” I tried to make it sound like a casual question, tossing it out as I headed for the door.
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“How he died. Do you know how he died?”
“How he died?” replied O’Donnell. Somebody needed to tell him that answering one perfectly clear question with another was an exasperating habit.
“Yes, how he died.”
“I’m afraid it’s difficult to say, exactly, at this point. Nothing will be clear until the medical examiner has finished his work.” I shuddered. Medical examiner meant autopsy, at least according to all the mystery novels I’d purchased in airports, and I had a sudden vision of Richard being cut open. I’d never had much of a tolerance for blood and guts, and the mental image before me was horrifying.
“Ms. Benjamin? Are you all right?” Paterson was at my side.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I just got distracted for a second. I’m fine.” I tried to sweep the image of Richard’s innards out of my head.
“However,” continued O’Donnell, “it does appear that Mr. Mallory did not die from drowning, which complicates the matter considerably. Particularly given the tight security system here.”
“Oh,” I said lamely.
“Would you mind bringing in someone else for us to talk to?”
“Sure. Anyone particular you had in mind?”
“No. Whomever you find first will do. The only people besides you we’ve already spoken to are Mr. and Mrs. Furlong and Dr. Weir.” O’Donnell’s tone was dismissive, and he was flipping through his notebook.
I promised them I’d send in someone else and left the room, closing the door securely behind me. My heart was beating fast, and my palms were sweating. I was surprised at my reaction. After all, I’d faced down far worse before.
CHAPTER 12
I slowly made my way back up the stairs, replaying the interview in my head. As far as I could tell, my answers to O’Donnell’s questions had seemed perfectly innocuous; still, I wondered what they could read between the lines, and if they had any sense of all of the things I’d left unspoken. Perhaps I should have let them believe that we were all thrilled that Richard was going to marry Emma. It seemed entirely unfair that now that I didn’t have to worry about the damage he could do as her husband, I did have to worry about the potential consequences should the police decide that somebody here was capable of murder.
At the top of the stairs I followed the sound of low voices and muffled laughter coming from Mr. Furlong’s study. Matthew was gone, but Luisa was still there and Jane and Hilary had joined her. They were sitting closely together on the sofa, their three heads bent together as they talked. Luisa’s sleek ebony hair and Jane’s rich chestnut framed Hilary’s platinum blond. The overall effect was that of a Clairol commercial, lacking only Emma’s dark gold and my own deep red to make it complete. They stopped talking and looked up expectantly when I appeared in the room.
“Hey—where is everyone?” I asked. “I’m supposed to send in the next victim.” I blushed as soon as the words left my mouth. Hilary let out a cackle of laughter.
“Lovely choice of words, Rachel,” commented Luisa. At the same time, she gave Hilary a sharp jab in the ribs with her elbow.
“Ouch,” said Hilary, not in the least bit cowed.
“Last I heard,” said Jane, “Mrs. Furlong was making all of the guys try to take down the tent. She said she wanted any reminder of the wedding out of sight before Emma wakes up.”
That seemed like a futile gesture, at best, but Lily had her own way of looking at things. This wouldn’t be the first time Emma’s mother had been struck by a sudden whim that needed immediate fulfillment. “How fun for them,” I said.
“I’m sure that’s exactly what Sean’s thinking,” Jane answered, her voice laced with dry humor. “I’m probably going to have to spend every holiday for the rest of my life with his family just to make up for his suffering this weekend.” While Sean was indisputably a prince among men, he was the youngest of five. Combined, his siblings and their respective spouses had produced a total of eleven grandchildren to date. This in itself made holidays at the Hallard house an adventure akin to being trapped in a nursery school. Still worse, Sean’s parents were itching for yet more descendants, and Jane spent most of their visits with her in-laws fending off questions about when they could expect additions to their brood.
“Yet another reason not to get married,” said Hilary. “In-laws and their small children. Not to mention compromise. And sharing. I hate sharing.” We ignored her.
“So, how were the police?” asked Jane, getting right to the point.
“You weren’t down there for very long,” added Luisa.
“It was pretty low-key,” I responded. “They just asked me about what we did yesterday. I told them about the rehearsal dinner and then going out to the dock last night and how we came in to go to bed around two. Then they asked me a few questions about Richard—what I thought of him, stuff like that.”
“What did you say?” asked Hilary.
“What could I say?” I shrugged. “I was hardly about to pretend that he was a paragon of virtue. I thought the best thing to do was to tell the truth—that I didn’t know him well nor did I like him much. And that I didn’t know many people who did. They did confirm that they think Richard met with foul play.”
“Really?” asked Jane. She was the only one who seemed even mildly surprised. “What did they say?”
“Just that they don’t think Richard drowned.” I could have sworn that Hilary and Luisa exchanged a furtive look, but Hilary quickly changed the subject.
“So, what’s the guy’s name? And what’s he like?” She had more important matters on her mind than what I’d learned from the police. Somehow she seemed to have completely missed out on the relative gravity of the situation.
“What guy?” I feigned ignorance. She put her hands on her knees and gave me a beseeching look.
“Come on, Rach. Have a heart, here. Don’t hold out on me.”
Under normal circumstances I would have done precisely that, but I lacked the energy on this particular morning. “His name is O’Donnell. I get the feeling that he thinks we’re all snotty rich folks. But he’s really, really tall.”
“Yum. Maybe I should go next. How do I look?”
“Shameless,” said Jane.
“Like a brazen hussy,” supplied Luisa.
“Perfect,” said Hilary. “That’s just the effect I was going for. Is my hair
okay? Who took my lipstick? Do you think he’ll be able to tell that I’m wearing thong underwear?”
“I’m surprised you’re even wearing underwear,” said Luisa.
I left them to Hilary’s preinterrogation primping and went down the hall to check in on Emma.
I cracked open the door of her parents’ room as quietly as I could. The sheer curtains were drawn, but in the dim light that seeped through I could see Emma sprawled on her stomach on the king-size bed. I gently shut the door behind me and studied her still form. She had tangled herself in the blankets while she slept, and her bare feet poked out from between the smooth sheets, their nails neatly painted a shell-colored pink. Her skin was pale, even against the flawless white of the Pratesi linens, but a bit of color stained her cheeks. In profile, her sleeping face looked more relaxed than I could remember having seen it in months. Was it the sedative or the relief of not having to go through a wedding ceremony today? After what I’d overheard the previous night, I wasn’t sure.
I’d never been in this room before, and I glanced around, absorbing the details. The walls were painted a soothing sage green, offset by glossy white trim on the moldings, and a well-worn Aubusson rug covered the floor. The bedstead was carved of heavy mahogany and flanked by twin nightstands. A stack of books sat on one, accompanied by a water glass, a box of tissues and some magazines. The other nightstand was completely bare of anything except an orphaned-looking reading lamp. It appeared that Mr. Furlong had long since made sleeping in his studio more the norm than the exception. My heart went out to Lily; it increasingly appeared that the photos on the piano downstairs were misleading and life with the Furlongs was not as golden as they let on.
There were no paintings on the walls by either Emma or her father; instead, a single seascape hung over the fireplace. I crossed the room to examine it more closely, gratified to learn that the art history course I’d taken to fill a requirement of some sort in college hadn’t been a complete waste and that I’d identified it correctly as an original work by Winslow Homer. I briefly wondered if Stan Winslow was any relation to the artist then quickly discarded the idea as improbable. I tried next to calculate how many years worth of investment banking bonuses it would take to purchase an equivalent piece of art.
I sank onto the chaise longue by the window, pushing aside a threadbare flock of tapestry pillows and stretching out my legs. I was glad for a moment of peace. If it weren’t for Richard and this whole fiasco, I would be safely where I belonged right now, at home in the city. I would have woken up early, gone for a long run in Central Park, and perhaps met some friends for brunch. My stomach rumbled again, as if in protest at this willful self-delusion. More likely, it reminded me, I would have woken up early, gone for a short run in Central Park, and then headed down to the office to work on the latest assortment of deals Stan had netted on the golf course or squash court.
Sighing, I pulled myself to a sitting position and turned toward the window, pulling aside one of the sheer panels to peer out. The view from this side of the house was of the lawns stretching out toward the lake and, off to the side, in the distance, the old stable that had been converted into Mr. Furlong’s studio. I couldn’t see Matthew, Sean or Peter, but their handiwork was readily apparent; where the tent had stood was now a neat stack of planks and stakes and a massive roll of white canvas. An expanse of matted grass marked where the dance floor had been.
Beyond the matted grass, I spied Mr. and Mrs. Furlong together under the shading branches of an ancient maple tree. Even from where I sat it was clear that they were arguing. At least, Mrs. Furlong seemed to be delivering an earful to Mr. Furlong, accompanying her words with short, sharp gestures while he stood silently, looking stoic and grim. Each attempt he made to interject seemed only to intensify her flow of words.
Finally, he grasped his wife by the elbows, trying to contain her. She shook him off and took a step back, suddenly still. Then she lifted her hand and slapped him, hard and deliberately. I flinched, feeling the blow as if it were me that she had hit. He stood, stunned, hand to his cheek. Abruptly, she turned her back to him and strode toward the house, her head down and her flowered summer dress rippling behind her. He stared after her for several moments, then turned and headed back to his studio.
“He’s leaving her, you know.”
I started. Emma was behind me, watching the scene below. A small, odd smile played across her features.
“Emma? What are you doing up?”
“He’s leaving her. This time it’s for real.”
I struggled for the appropriate thing to say but came up empty. Instead, I tried to change the subject. “Emma, shouldn’t you go back to bed? Do you want me to get you another pill?”
She scowled. “No. I don’t want to be numb. Everything hurts. But I want it to hurt. Otherwise how will it ever go away?”
“Em—what do you mean?” I looked at her closely. She stood next to me in the same oversize T-shirt she’d been wearing when she saw Richard’s body. The tips of her pelvic bones jutted sharply through the material. When had she gotten so thin?
“Come on, Rachel. He’s been cheating on her for years. Just like Richard was cheating on me. Well, not exactly just like it. My mother really cares. I, on the other hand, didn’t.” Her voice was curiously flat.
“Emma. You’re upset. Are you sure you don’t want another pill?” I was easily flummoxed by visible emotion, even in my closest friends. And I wasn’t particularly eager to learn more about the undercurrents that dwelled beneath the smooth surface of what I’d assumed had been the elder Furlongs’ perfect marriage. It was hard to let go of long-cherished myths.
“I probably do.” She gave a giggle that was tinged with hysteria. “Let’s see—do you want the good news or the bad news first? The good news is that my fiancé’s dead. The bad news is that my parents are splitting up and my mother’s totally losing it—again. Do you think a pill would make me feel any better?”
“Em…”
“Do you?” she asked again.
I tried to find the right words. We’d known each other for our entire adult lives, but I’d never seen her like this—distraught and bitter, her voice dripping sarcasm.
“Emma, I’m sure you’ve misunderstood something. Your parents—why, they’re one of the happiest couples I’ve ever…” I didn’t have it in me to complete the sentence. After all, what I’d just witnessed gave lie to my words. I changed tack. “What makes you think that—”
“That he’s cheating on her?”
“How do you know? I mean, every relationship has its ups and downs, but that doesn’t mean it’s falling apart. And they’ve been married more than thirty years. You just don’t throw something like that away, that sort of shared history. A shared life.”
“I wish that were the case. But they’ve been fighting nonstop. Actually, that’s not true. They alternate between fighting and not speaking to each other. From the way my mother’s acting, you’d think this was his first affair.”
“How do you know it’s not?”
“I know. But this time is even worse than the first time she found out he was cheating on her. As if that time wasn’t bad enough. She practically had a breakdown.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you remember that little trip I took to the British Isles with my mother a couple of years ago?”
“Of course. You brought me back that gorgeous sweater from Ireland.”
“I told you that my mother had sprung it on me as a surprise, a belated birthday gift, but it wasn’t that way at all. It was all my idea. I had to get her away from New York for a while. She was so devastated—she was convinced that everyone in the city knew about the way he was carrying on. She felt completely betrayed. So did I.”
“Emma—why didn’t you ever say anything?” She’d been so good to me over the years, arriving on my doorstep after every breakup or work disappointment with a supply of white wine and chocolate, helping to nurse my woes
with comforting words and always eager to whisk me off for a bout of retail therapy. She knew just about everything that had ever happened to me in excruciating detail, and she’d been invaluable in getting me through it all. While I had always recognized how intensely private she was, I hated to think that she wouldn’t come to me when she needed to talk.
“I just couldn’t, Rach. I wanted to, but my mother was so embarrassed about the entire thing. I felt like it would have been like another betrayal of her…of her privacy.”
“Oh, Em. I wish I could have done something.”
She gave a sad shrug. “There was nothing you could have done.”
“Still. I’m so sorry.”
“But what I can’t believe, after all that, is that he would go and do it again. But this time really takes the cake. Guess who it is?” The bitter tone was back in her voice.
“Emma, I don’t want to guess. I’m just worried about you.” I would have gone on, but I was silenced by the look on her face.
“Have you noticed anyone missing this weekend? Perhaps a close family friend?”
“You can’t mean—”
“Oh, yes, I can. It doesn’t matter to him that Nina’s mother was my mother’s best friend.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, shocked. I had noted that Nina was not around this weekend, but I hadn’t given it much thought. Matthew had made a vague comment about his sister having a schedule conflict of some sort, an exciting overseas assignment. Nina worked at one of the fashion magazines in New York, which meant that she frequently was away on boondoggles to Paris and Milan. I’d simply assumed that she was at a Fashion Week or design convention or some such event.
“Positive. I’ve even seen them together, in the city. And I assure you, there was no mistaking the fact that they’re an item. God. It’s sickening.” She giggled as a thought occurred to her. “Why, if he’s old enough to be my father, he’s also old enough to be her father.” She turned away from the window and sat on the bed.
“Does Matthew know?” I asked.
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