Who Killed Mona Lisa?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “Poor sods,” Robert used to call unfortunate people. Claire thought about Mona and Sally. Poor sods, she thought, poor sods.

  Chapter 17

  That night Claire went to bed feeling a heaviness in her head and an ache in the back of her neck. She awoke in the night shivering, her body filled with fever. Not wanting to disturb Wally, she slipped out of bed and put on her wool turtleneck sweater, sweatpants and socks over her pajamas, then crawled back into bed and pulled the quilt up to her chin. She lay in the dark staring at the pattern of shadows the moonlight caused the maple tree to cast on the ceiling.

  The dark outline of branches reminded Claire of long scraggly fingers, reaching across the ceiling toward where she lay in the bed. Robert’s fingers were long, she remembered, long and tapered like a painter’s. He had the hands of an artist, a pianist, a murderer—

  She suddenly was seized with a fit of shaking, so violent that she woke up Wally. He sat upright in bed, and said in a clear, completely alert voice, “What’s wrong?”

  Startled, she shook her head. “I’m all right. I’m just shivering for some reason.”

  He put a hand on her forehead. “My God, you’re burning up.”

  As he said it she realized he was right. Relieved, she sank back into the covers. It wasn’t fear that made her shake after all; it was only the fever. Somehow, that seemed so much easier to deal with—physical, concrete, a fever had biological causes. It wasn’t her inability to let go of old ghosts after all; it was just a touch of the flu.

  But Wally seemed concerned. He rose and went into the bathroom, turning on the light, which fell in a pale yellow rectangle on the polished hardwood floor. The light hurt Claire’s eyes, and she turned her head toward the window, looking out at the bare branches of the maple tree shivering in the wind. She was shaken by another wave of chills, her jaw shuddering so hard that her teeth rattled.

  Wally emerged from the bathroom holding a thermometer. “Here,” he said, shaking it, “let me take your temperature.”

  “Why? What difference will it make?” Claire had trouble focusing on him; with the light from the bathroom behind him, she couldn’t make out his face.

  “Because,” he said, “if it’s too high I’m going to take you to a hospital.”

  “No, no hospital,” she moaned, suddenly aware that her joints ached from head to toe.

  “Open up,” he said, and she obeyed, feeling the thin cold glass clank against her teeth as he slid it into her mouth.

  “Under the tongue,” he said in a commanding voice. “Keep your lips together.”

  She nodded obediently, glad he was there to take charge of things. What she wanted more than anything was to let go, to have no demands made upon her. She felt weak and woozy and fuzzy-headed. The fever seemed to block out her peripheral vision, and she felt capable of concentrating only on a limited field of sight. She looked up at Wally and saw the concern on his face. His forehead was furrowed, his lips pressed tightly together. It occurred to her that having been through such loss in his life already, any illness of hers might be especially difficult for him. He looked so tense, so worried, that she wanted to reassure him.

  He stood up and returned to the bathroom, and she heard the sound of water running. She sank back into the pillow and closed her eyes. The sound of water running . . . she thought of the mill house, and of the heavy wooden wheel turning endlessly on its axle . . . she looked over at Meredith, sound asleep on her cot, a pillow over her head. Meredith could sleep through anything. She closed her eyes again.

  “A hundred and three.”

  Claire opened her eyes, cloudy with fever. The thermometer was gone from her mouth and Wally was standing over her again.

  “Hmm?” She felt sleepy, but the ache in her limbs nagged at her.

  Wally sat on the edge of the bed. His thick grey hair stood out in unkempt clumps, silver in the moonlight. She lifted a hand to smooth it down, but she couldn’t reach him.

  “Your hair,” she murmured, trying to sit up. He intercepted her hand in midair.

  “Never mind about that,” he said, placing her hand firmly on the blanket. “You’ve got a very high fever. A hundred and three.”

  “Oh?” Claire said groggily, feeling rather pleased. “That high? That’s high, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Here, take these.” He pressed two aspirins into her palm. She placed the pills on her tongue, tasting their chalky bitterness, and drank eagerly from the glass of water Wally offered.

  “More,” she said, suddenly very thirsty. “More water, please.”

  He went back into the bathroom and once again she heard the sound of water running. Water, giver of life . . . and death. Once again she thought of the mill wheel, turning, turning, the relentless flow of water running over the rocks, tumbling downstream . . .

  “You know the human body is over seventy-five percent water?” she said when he came back. “Isn’t that amazing?”

  He shook his head. “I see Meredith’s beginning to rub off on you.”

  “Whaddyou mean?” she said, aware that she was slurring her words but not caring.

  The rest of the night and all the next day, Claire drifted in and out of consciousness, her body stiffened with joint aches, her head fuzzy, as though a swarm of insects were buzzing around it. At times the fever made her shiver uncontrollably, no matter how many blankets were piled on top of her; at times she felt like she was burning up, and, flinging all the blankets onto the floor, lay panting on top of the sheets. She was only dimly aware of the coming and going of people in the room: Wally, Meredith, Henry bringing clean towels.

  She lay wrapped in the blanket of Wally’s concern for her, warm and snug as a cocoon. His hand on her forehead reminded Claire of her mother’s hand, so cool and comforting to her when she had fevers as a child. She had never known a man who could be so nurturing, and yet so essentially masculine. All her doubts of the previous evening vanished, and it struck her as something of a miracle, a blessing even, that she had met him. Neither of them mentioned their fight of the day before, and she thought they were both relieved to put it behind them.

  She drifted in and out of fever dreams, swaddled in the sheets like a chrysalis in a cocoon. Swathed in her own sweat, Claire felt at times like she was underwater, caught in her subconscious; cradled in its thick dark imagery, at times she hardly knew whether she was waking or dreaming . . .

  Images of early spring, the smell of onion grass on a dandelion-spotted lawn, green with yellow polka dots. She dozed off dreaming of her tawny collie Laddie, grinning and wagging his feathery tail, waiting for a game of tag on the beach. She dug her heels into the coarse, sun-warmed sand, grinding the tiny grains between her toes as she ran, until finally, glistening with perspiration, she dove into the waiting waves, Laddie beside her, to swim deeply down into the dark blue water, surrounded by it on all sides, pressing in on her, cutting off her air—

  “Claire, wake up!”

  She opened her eyes to see Wally leaning over her. In the dusky half-light, for a brief moment she could not make out the features of his face and saw another face bending over her, a face she had tried for many months to forget. Her hands shot up in self-defense as a scream gathered in her throat, but the sound of Wally’s voice broke through her panic.

  “Claire, it’s me.”

  She fell back on the pillow, exhausted. Wally sat on the edge of the bed. “You were having a bad dream.”

  She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that it wasn’t a bad dream at all—at least not until the end—but she didn’t have the energy. She looked at the window, where frost etched the corners of the glass in delicate crystalline patterns.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly six. You’ve been sleeping all afternoon,” Wally answered, laying a hand on her forehead. His palm was soft and cool and soothing, and Claire closed her eyes.

  “Your fever seems to have gone down a little,” he said. The two vertical lines in the middle o
f his forehead were showing; Claire called them his “worry lines.”

  “It’s just the flu, you know,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  He nodded, but the lines didn’t go away. “I know. It’s just . . .”

  He looked out the window, and Claire knew what he didn’t want to say: he’d been through it all before, and it frightened him. She knew he didn’t want to talk about her, about his dead wife, with Claire, but she thought sometimes he needed to do this more than he knew. Still, she was reluctant to invade his privacy; he would talk when he was ready.

  Claire closed her eyes. The notes of a Bach cantata drifted up through the floorboards, serene and orderly, lucid musical symmetry.

  Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

  In the forests of the night . . .

  She opened her eyes. The room looked foggy and surreal, as though she were viewing the world through a thin layer of gauze.

  Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

  The candle on the dresser flickered, the flame dancing unevenly as little currents of air struck it—gusts too faint for Claire to feel, but which caught the candle flame and pushed it about. She stared at it, dazed, mesmerized by its tiny erratic movements. Burning bright . . . flame . . . passion . . .

  There was passion in this murder, and in the murderer, she thought. There was something else, something at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t pull it forward into the light.

  She could hear the clatter of plates and silverware in the dining room below, the click of heels on ancient rustic floorboards. The murmur of voices mixed with the silky sound of strings . . . was it one of the Brandenburgs? She recognized the piece as Bach, but wasn’t sure . . . she thought she heard Meredith’s cackling laugh over the forest of sounds in the dining room.

  In what distant deeps or skies

  Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

  Her head felt light, and her limbs were heavy. She could smell wine sauce and roasted garlic . . . she sighed and snuggled deeper into the blankets. Good old Max . . . Claire wished she had the appetite to enjoy the delicacies he continued to produce in his kitchen, but the thought of food left her totally indifferent. She felt curiously detached from her body, and from the world. She wondered if death was like this—a gradual dimming of desire until nothing was left but the memory of it. There was something peaceful and comforting about this semidream state, with its lack of striving, the experience of surrendering, finally letting go. Blake’s poem continued to rattle around in her head.

  On what wings dare he aspire?

  What the hand dare seize the fire?

  There was something else about the poem, though, a thought lurking around in the back of her mind . . . she remembered something about Otis Knox telling Frank Wilson that the basement light was burned out, but there was something else.

  Did he that made the Lamb make thee?

  Was it something to do with Max? No, that wasn’t it. Claire struggled to think. Her head ached, swollen with fever. Her mind wandered to Henry Wilson. The son of unlikely people, there was something mysterious about him . . . What the hand dare seize the fire? Henry’s obsession with fire was the sign of a troubled mind, certainly, but had he set the fire two years ago, or was he—the phrase jumped into her mind—a sort of sacrificial lamb? Did he that made the Lamb make thee? Poor Henry; who had assigned him the role he now played? Was he literally taking the heat for someone else, and if so, who was it? Claire thought about Frank Wilson, his big friendly face filling her mind; she tried to picture that face contorted by rage, tried to imagine him as a murderer.

  She heard the sound of voices in the hall outside her room.

  “Look, it’s none of your business. It’s between me and Mona!”

  Claire thought she recognized Philippe’s voice, but she wasn’t sure.

  “Yeah, well, she’s dead now, isn’t she?”

  The second person was definitely Otis; there was a slight lisp to his s’s, probably because of his harelip.

  “Look,” Philippe said. “All I’m saying is that I didn’t get her pregnant! We used protection. We were very careful!”

  “Well, if it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Claire heard them make a quick exit down the back stairs. The door opened and Meredith appeared at the doorway. She wore a red flannel shirt several sizes too big for her. In her hand was what looked like a chocolate chip cookie.

  “You look better,” she said.

  “Did you get a look at who was in the hallway just now?”

  “Naw—I heard ’em scurrying down the back stairs, though, in a big hurry.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Want a cookie? Max made them, and I helped.”

  “Not right now, thanks.”

  Meredith stood in the doorway, her head cocked to one side. Backlit by the light from the hall, her hair surrounded her head like a frizzy orange halo. She frowned. “You really should eat more, you know. It’ll help you get well.”

  Claire shook her head. “What’s the saying? Stuff a cold and starve a fever.”

  Meredith sighed. “Whatever. You’re always telling me to eat, and now the shoe’s on the other foot.”

  Claire smiled. “I don’t remember ever encouraging you to eat more chocolate chip cookies.”

  Meredith rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe you should. Reverse psychology and all that.”

  “That’s overrated—and besides, would it work if you knew it was being used?”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe.”

  “Hey, listen, speaking of psychology, what do you think of Henry Wilson?”

  “Now that’s one screwed-up kid. I know I’m weird, but that kid is on another plane. I mean, what’s with him?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I’ve got a feeling he’s the key to this whole thing.”

  “Yeah? Well, let me know if you come up with anything, Sherlock. Meanwhile I’m pursuing my own line of investigation.”

  “Really? What?”

  Meredith smiled and took a bite of cookie. “All in good time, my dear, all in good time,” she said through a spray of crumbs.

  “Let me guess,” said Claire. “Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz?”

  Meredith rolled her eyes. “Duh. It’s only like the most famous movie ever made!”

  After Meredith had gone back downstairs, Claire stared out the window. What would it take to murder someone? she wondered; how desperate or angry would someone have to be to commit the ultimate sin against his or her fellowman? She tried to imagine the moment: the adrenaline building up, the heart racing, muscles tensed for action, until the final moment when knife met flesh, and then it was all over in a matter of seconds and there was no going back.

  It was so irrevocable, so final, she thought . . . a life had once existed and did no longer; suddenly the world was a little thinner. What a terrible burden to place upon your soul; how unbearable it must be to live with. She tried to imagine the feeling but her mind fell short, unable to wrap itself around a horror of such magnitude.

  In what distant deeps or skies

  Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

  Chapter 18

  Her fever broke during the night, and Claire woke up feeling much better. She could smell the coffee brewing in the dining room, and to her surprise, it smelled good. The voices downstairs sounded louder than usual, the clatter of footsteps seemed to be made by more than the usual number of feet, and Claire had an impression of a general hubbub. She sat up in bed, and just as she was reaching for her robe, the door opened and Wally appeared with a tray.

  “I thought you might like some breakfast.”

  “Yes, actually, I would,” Claire replied, suddenly ravenous. The aroma of eggs and toast, which yesterday left her indifferent, now smelled good.

  Wally set the tray on the bedside table. “I just talked to Detective Hornblower, and I thought you mig
ht like to know they’re going to screen for amanita toxins.”

  Meredith appeared at the door holding a manila folder. “Yeah—they have to look at the stomach contents. Gross!”

  “Right.” Wally handed Claire a glass of orange juice. “Apparently that’s the only place it would show up.”

  “Cool, huh?” Meredith said, plopping down on the armchair in the corner of the room. She wore one of Claire’s sweaters, a grey mohair, over black leggings. Claire thought she looked unusually stylish.

  “They’ve put a rush order on the test,” Wally remarked, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the stainless-steel coffeepot.

  “So they found my argument convincing?” Claire said, taking a big gulp of orange juice. It tasted great, and she realized she was very thirsty.

  “Well, to be honest, it’s more like they were at loose ends; their questioning hadn’t led anywhere, and . . . well, Rufus confessed that there weren’t any promising leads.”

  “They were desperate.” Meredith kicked off her shoes. “Poor buggers,” she added with a glance at Claire. Meredith had recently taken to using vulgar British expressions. It was a subtle way of testing Claire’s authority, Claire figured; she would have to protest if they were American swear words, but these English vulgarities fell into a grey area. The best way to eliminate this kind of behavior, she reasoned, was to ignore it. She wondered if Meredith used these words at home, and if so, how her stepmother reacted.

  “Well,” said Wally, “hopefully, they should know something by tomorrow.”

  Claire looked down at the plate of fried eggs, which reminded her of two large yellow eyes, staring up at her. She broke off a piece of toast and jabbed it at the thick lemony yolk, which broke and bled over the egg white. She stuffed the toast into her mouth, savoring the creamy taste of egg yolk. “And what if it isn’t the mushrooms?”