Who Killed Mona Lisa?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  Claire had an impulse to hug her, but something told her Meredith wasn’t quite ready for that. Instead, she laid a hand lightly on her shoulder as Wally and Detective Hornblower brought Paula Wilson over to them. Frank Wilson took a few steps toward his wife, but she gave him a look of such hatred and anger that he took a step back and let them pass. Max put a hand on his arm and the innkeeper looked at him gratefully.

  The little group broke into two columns to let Detective Hornblower and his prisoner pass. Everyone looked sober and chastened; even Jeffrey’s face was devoid of its usual smirk. Paula Wilson walked with her eyes focused straight ahead, a detective on either side of her, a calm expression on her face. Claire thought she actually looked relieved. It was as if now, with everything behind her, her guilt at last discovered, she could finally relax and surrender herself to her fate.

  The fire chief chose that moment to come strolling across the snow. He was a big, ruddy-faced man with a day’s growth of beard. “Got the fire under control. Need some help here?”

  “No, we’re fine,” Hornblower replied.

  As Paula marched by them, flanked by her captors, Claire heard Detective Hornblower’s dutiful recitation of those words that were as familiar to her as the Pledge of Allegiance: “. . . under arrest for the murders of Mona Callahan and Sally Richmond. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  The right to remain silent. Well, her victims had been silenced forever, but Claire wondered whether Paula Wilson would take advantage of her right. Somehow, she didn’t think so. She was a woman who for too long had sat in stony silence, bearing her grief stoically, watching her husband’s infidelities through clenched teeth even as she bore his child. After years of such silence, Claire had a feeling that Paula Wilson was ready to talk, to explain what dark, buried passions had led her to kill, first in the heat of the moment, and then later on in cold blood. It occurred to her that on some level Paula Wilson’s dark deeds were her subconscious making a cry for help—a twisted, terrible way out of her situation, but it was an escape.

  Everyone stood there for a few moments after Paula Wilson passed. Then, leaving a respectful distance between themselves and the accused, they filed silently after, their boots crunching the crust of frozen snow as the moon rose higher in the frosty sky.

  Back at the hotel, the police cruisers were lined up in a crooked row, their bumpers pointing in all directions, their lights flashing. Claire counted four of them, plus Detective Hornblower’s plain sedan. Evidently more than just the local Sudbury police had responded to his call for backup; everyone seemed to want in on the action. They looked like they were having a grand time, scurrying around, radios blaring. One of the fire trucks had already left, and a few of the remaining firemen had come over to talk to the policemen. Claire had a glimpse into a society she had seen mostly only on television—these big, athletic men with their heavy rubber boots and strong hands, their bodies expressing the easy confidence of men who spend their days facing down danger.

  Claire watched as Hornblower put Paula Wilson into the back of one of the cruisers, placing his hand on her head just as she slid into the seat.

  “Wow,” said Meredith as she watched him close the car door. “It’s just like on TV.”

  “Yeah,” said Claire, “it is.” But then it occurred to her how odd it was that we perceive life as imitating television, when in reality it was the other way around.

  The patrol cars began to pull away one by one as Wally came over to stand next to Claire and Meredith. Max and Frank Wilson stood a few yards away, forming a loose group with Richard and Jeffrey, who was talking to Chris Callahan. Jack gazed vacantly around, not really focusing on anything in particular, muttering to himself. There was still no sign of Lyle.

  When the last of the patrol cars had pulled away, Detective Hornblower came over to where Claire and Meredith stood with Wally.

  “Thanks,” he said hoarsely, tugging at his little beard. This was evidently hard for him, and Claire saw he was doing his best to be gracious.

  “Anytime,” Meredith answered breezily, her breath a little puff of white steam.

  Just then another patrol car pulled up and James Pewter got out of the backseat.

  “Well, well,” he said, sauntering over to Detective Hornblower, “I see you finally got your man—or woman, as the case may be.”

  Hornblower coughed once and looked down at his boots. “My apologies, Mr. Pewter; I know this was difficult for you.” He cleared his throat. “There was considerable pressure to make an arrest, and while I disagreed—”

  “I know, I know,” Pewter broke in. “The policy wonks in Boston needed someone’s head on a platter. So it was all political. But then, what isn’t?” he added, smiling. Claire thought he was enjoying Hornblower’s discomfort.

  Hornblower frowned. “Again, you have my sincerest apologies—”

  “Duly noted, I’m sure,” Pewter remarked, then turned and went into the inn. Hornblower watched him go, then shook his head and sighed.

  “In some ways it’s the hardest part of the job, isn’t it?” Wally commented.

  In response, Hornblower just sighed again.

  “You mean dealing with people you’ve screwed?” said Meredith.

  “Meredith!” Claire snapped.

  “What?” Meredith said innocently.

  “The problem with a crime like murder is that it touches so many more people than just the victim,” Wally observed.

  “Yes,” Claire agreed. “It’s like ripples on a pond that just keep spreading.”

  Hornblower cleared his throat again and stamped his boots on the sidewalk, stirring up little flurries of snow. “Well,” he said, “I have a report to write up. I may as well get started.” He shook Wally’s hand, then Claire’s.

  “Until we meet again,” Meredith said, thrusting her hand out. For the first time Claire saw amusement on the detective’s long face. It was the closest thing to a smile she had seen on a face not made for smiling.

  “Yes,” he replied, “until we meet again.”

  As they watched the taillights of his plain black sedan disappear around a bend in the road, Claire turned to Wally. “Well,” she said, “shall we go inside?”

  The others had long since drifted into the building, and only the three of them were left in front of the inn. Wally looked up at the cold, bright moon, which hung just over the mill house.

  “Yes,” he said, “let’s go inside.”

  Chapter 23

  As Claire expected, Paula Wilson made a full confession to the police: she killed Mona Callahan in a sudden fit of jealousy. Having found out that the girl was pregnant, she assumed—rightly, it turned out—that the child was her husband’s, and this insult was too much to bear. She lured the girl into the wine cellar and then stabbed her with a knife she took from the kitchen. Paula had been wearing her long white nightgown on the night of the murder, and Sally’s blathering about the “Woman in White” sounded to her as though Sally had seen her kill Mona, so she set her sights on eliminating poor Sally.

  Apparently young Henry had seen his mother dispose of the knife, which was one of the reasons why the boy had been acting of late even more disturbed than usual. Claire took very little satisfaction in the fact that she had correctly put together the elements and guessed the motives in Paula’s disturbed mind; now two people were dead and a little boy had lost his mother.

  The next night, though, in spite of everything, Claire felt relief in the air, thick as the aroma of roast lamb with rosemary that poured out of the kitchen. It was their last dinner at the inn, and in addition to the lamb, there was duck liver pâté, butternut-squash soup with caramelized onions, and cherries jubilee. If anyone thought it a little odd that Max was making such a feast, nobody said anything.

  Max went around from table to table, checking on each customer. Meredith was off using the bathroom; she was in a particularly restless mood and had twice wandered away from the table. Claire still had an urge to keep
an eye on her, but she stifled the impulse to tell the girl to keep her seat. After all, there was no more danger now, and she wanted to give Meredith as much freedom as possible.

  “You are enjoying?” said Max, patting his stomach.

  “Oh, yes,” Wally answered. “We are enjoying very much.”

  Claire looked around the room and saw Richard and Jeffrey, alone at their corner table. Even Jeffrey looked less sullen than usual, as though the capture of the real murderer had relieved him of the burden of playing the villain. Richard, too, looked more relaxed, and the red wool sweater he wore made him look ten years younger. It was an early Christmas present from Jeffrey, who had shown it to Claire the day before after buying it in town.

  Chris Callahan had gone down to the police station for the release of his sister’s body, and had still not returned. His table sat empty in the corner.

  At that moment Lyle entered the dining room. Claire had not seen him since the day before, when he read her his poem. For once his curly blond hair looked combed, and he wore a clean white shirt over black pants. There was a stiffness in his movements, as though he were still in some kind of shock, and he walked with a slow, almost hypnotized stride, like someone recently back from the land of the dead. He nodded almost imperceptibly to Claire as he passed her and took a table in the far corner of the room. Max watched him and shook his head.

  “You know,” he said, “maybe I should have known when Mrs. Wilson asked me to make the crêpes with the wild mushrooms . . . I keep thinking what I could have done different so that the poor young girl would not have to die.” His expression changed from cheerful to mournful. There was an innocence about Max, with his ability to switch rapidly from one emotional extreme to another. Looking up at him, a worry line on his usually smooth forehead, his blue eyes misty with tears, Claire couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.

  “Can I give you some advice?” she said.

  Max tilted his head and crossed his muscular forearms. “What?”

  “Don’t think that way. It won’t do you any good.”

  “But—”

  “She’s right,” said Wally. “It won’t, you know. What’s happened is over, and blaming yourself doesn’t do anyone any good.”

  Max sighed. “Perhaps not, but that young man looks so sad that I feel very sorry for him.”

  Wally glanced at Lyle, who was studying the menu. “Yes,” he admitted, “but, as they say, time is the great healer. It may sound like a callous thing to say, but, you know, we all get over it.”

  Claire looked at him, a little surprised by his words. If that was true for him, and the suffering he had endured after losing his wife, then maybe, she thought . . . maybe what? She wasn’t sure; the thought remained half-formed in her mind.

  “This may be the best lamb I’ve ever had,” she declared suddenly, eager to change the subject.

  Max’s placid face spread out in a broad smile. “Really? You really think so?”

  “No question about it,” Wally agreed as Meredith came bouncing over to the table.

  “No question about what?” she said, sliding into her seat.

  “That Max is a culinary genius,” said Claire.

  “Oh, absolutely!” Meredith agreed loudly. “A gen-i-us. Best muffins I ever had,” she added, reaching for one.

  “Meredith, how about eating some of your lamb?” said Claire.

  “Americans eat too much meat,” Meredith answered through a mouthful of muffin, stuffing it in before Claire could stop her.

  “That may be, but you eat too much sugar,” said Claire, “and it’s going to have to stop.”

  “Brain food,” Meredith replied.

  “No,” Max corrected her. “Fish is brain food.”

  “I know,” she said. “I was just kidding.”

  Max looked confused.

  “Can I ask you something?” said Claire.

  “Sure.”

  “Well, this is a little embarrassing, but during the investigation I happened to overhear you and Frank Wilson talking in German—something about being evil. Do you remember what you were talking about at the time?”

  Max’s face reddened. “Ach . . . es ist ganz—how do you say?—unimportant. Etwas mit die Gesellschaft.”

  “It was about business,” Claire translated.

  “Yes, taxes. Frank has a—well, a creative way to do his taxes.”

  Wally nodded. “I see. I don’t think you should tell us any more.”

  “No,” Claire agreed. “I think we’ve heard enough.”

  Max excused himself with a little bow and went on to chat with other customers. As he moved away, Lyle came over to their table. “Excuse me,” he said to Claire, “but I wrote another poem. I don’t want to bring you down or anything, but I thought you might like to see it.”

  Claire put down her fork. “Thank you, Lyle. I’d love to see it.”

  He fished a crumpled piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. “I mean, seeing as how you’re a professional and everything.” He handed Claire the paper.

  “Lyle,” said Wally, “do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What exactly was Sally on?”

  Lyle studied his hands, head low, his blond hair almost covering his face. “Mostly it was horse,” he said in a low voice. “That’s heroin,” he added with a sigh.

  “I know what that is,” Meredith snorted. “After all, I live with a—”

  “That’s enough, Meredith,” Claire interrupted.

  “Could she have been having delusions from withdrawal?” said Wally.

  Lyle shrugged. “I don’t know. Yeah, I guess so. It happens. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  Lyle rubbed his hands together and pushed some hair out of his face. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your dinner. Thanks for looking at that,” he said to Claire.

  “Thank you for showing it to me.”

  As Lyle wandered back to his table, Claire looked at the poem. Meredith studied it over her shoulder.

  The folding of the day, the sinking of the sun,

  Reminding me of what’s behind and things already done

  A secret darkness in my soul slips in between the sheets

  I lie in sinking silence as I try in vain to sleep

  It could have been with you I waked and with you gone to bed

  Your arm casually tossed over a blanket

  On the pillow a tousled head

  But I awake to secret grief

  And silence, only silence, instead.

  “Not bad,” said Meredith. “Not great, but not bad.”

  “And now I want to ask you something,” Wally said to Claire. “How did you know that it was Paula Wilson?”

  “At first I didn’t. I just knew that Henry was the key. His setting of the fires, the beating of the dog—he was expressing his terrible unhappiness, and I knew he was a soul in torment.”

  “Fair enough,” said Wally, “but I still don’t understand.”

  “Well, it’s kind of hard to explain, actually. I was reading this koan in Meredith’s book about firewood tumbling down, and I suddenly had this moment of enlightenment.”

  “Satori,” said Meredith.

  “Whatever. I saw Henry as just a conduit, a vessel—like a sponge, if you will—for some kind of evil his parents had done. His passion for fires, his need to punish the dog; it all added up to something, only I wasn’t sure what. But then it occurred to me that if the man in Mona’s letter was Frank Wilson, then it all fell into place. Paula killed Mona out of jealousy, and her son somehow knew she was involved. Except that he was caught; he couldn’t betray his mother—he loved her but was also afraid of her—so he took his anger and frustration out on the dog.”

  “Poor Shatzy,” said Meredith. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “I heard James Pewter’s going to take him,” said Wally.

  “What I’d like to know is whether Sally actually saw Paula Wilson the night Pau
la killed Mona Callahan,” Claire remarked.

  Wally shook his head. “I guess we’ll never know. She may have been having delusions caused by her heroin withdrawal.”

  “Or she may have actually seen a ghost!” Meredith declared, squirming in her seat. “The Woman in White,” she said reverently.

  Claire shivered. Once again Blake’s poem ran through her head.

  Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

  In the forests of the night

  She looked out across the field at the trees at the edge of the woods, their branches silver and grey in the moonlight. The landscape was as frozen as ever, but not all the ice and snow in the world, she thought, was enough to quench the fire of human passion. She looked across the table at Wally, at the reflection of candlelight on his hair, soft grey curls with their blond highlights. Her passion for him simmered within her, a quiet cauldron, deep and steady. She thought about the woman whose passion for her husband was so intense that she had murdered not once but twice. Claire wondered if she was capable of such violence. A few years ago she wouldn’t have thought so, but she was beginning to think that anyone was capable of anything, given the right circumstances.

  She turned to Wally and raised her glass. “I’d like to drink to something, but I can’t think of anything appropriate.”

  He smiled, and she remembered how much she liked the creases around his eyes when he did. “Why not drink to our future?”

  Meredith grabbed her glass of cranberry juice and raised it high. “To the future!”

  Claire clinked glasses and smiled. “To our future.”

  “Right,” said Meredith. “That’s what I meant.”

  For some reason, this struck Wally and Claire as funny. They were still laughing when Max came over to refill their wine glasses.