Mortal Friends

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “He asked me to marry him.”

  Violet stopped short. She grabbed my arm. “You’re kidding! Have you been having an affair without telling me?”

  “No! And that’s the point. He’s so old-fashioned, he thinks it’s better not to sleep with someone before marriage.”

  “The old stick has a point. Who would want to sleep with him voluntarily?”

  “He’s not so bad. He kind of grew on me. He wasn’t a bad kisser.”

  “Ugh! Reven! How could you?”

  “I admire him. I wish I could like him in that way.”

  We walked on. “I wish you could too. I’d love you to be a senator’s wife. Couldn’t you just close your eyes and think of England?” Violet said.

  I laughed. “I’m too much of a romantic, I’m afraid.”

  “Not me, boy. Romance is just too wearing…. I should make Grant buy that house for me now.”

  “Great idea! Talk about poetic justice.”

  Violet snickered. “Yeah, right. Look, I may not be the arch romantic of the decade, but even I don’t have the stomach to live in a place where my husband cohabited with a vampire.”

  “Remember when Rainy Bolton told you that house would always belong to Gay Harding, no matter who owned it?”

  “How could I forget?” Violet said.

  “She was right.”

  My phone rang at two o’clock the next morning, jarring me out of a sound sleep. I fumbled for the receiver and said a groggy, “Hello.”

  “Hey,” said the voice on the other end of the line. He said it like it wasn’t two in the morning, and like I’d know who he was just from that single syllable. I sat up in bed in the dark on alert.

  “Bob?”

  “Shall I hang up?”

  I hesitated. “No, I should.”

  “But you won’t, will you? I need to talk to you,” he said in a plaintive voice.

  “What do you want?”

  “To hear your voice, that’s all.”

  “Well, now you’ve heard it. Good-bye.”

  “Wait! Please!” he cried.

  There’s a French phrase, Nostalgie de la boue. It literally means, “Longing for the mud.” Most people interpret it as slumming, but you can also interpret it as having an attraction to things that are degrading or dangerous. In my case, that would be having a conversation with Bob Poll. Why I didn’t hang up on him is beyond me. I guess part of me was curious to know what he’d say. He sounded sad, not sinister.

  “I looked for you again at the Huffs’ party, but you’d gone…. Gone away…away, away.”

  “We left early.”

  “You and Senator Grimface?”

  “Bob, I need to go back to sleep.”

  “I need to wake up from a nightmare,” he said.

  “What are you talking about? Your marriage?”

  “No…I don’t know…. I mean, I do know, but…I can’t talk about it.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Nothing…. Tell me a story.”

  Then I got it. Bob was drunk. Really drunk. And he was beginning to sound sinister, not sad.

  “You tell me one,” I said.

  “Okay…. Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl who worked in a shop…. And a big bad man saw her and took her away…. I just wanna tell you again how sorry I am about that beautiful li’l girl…. Should’ve called you when I heard…. My fault.”

  That woke me up with a vengeance. I sat up, on alert. “What was your fault?”

  “Not calling after what Maxey did. He’s such a bad boy.”

  Maxey? A bad boy? What the hell? What was this cutesy term of endearment for Maxwell all of a sudden? Even if Bob was drunk, that was one helluva way to refer to a homicidal sexual psychopath.

  I was terrified. Was Bob somehow involved in these murders, like Gunner and Violet suspected? Maybe he wasn’t directly involved, but he sounded like he knew things about “Maxey” he’d never told the police. Or maybe he had told the police. Maybe he had incriminated himself in some way. God knows Gunner was always hinting around that there was a lot more going on with this case than anybody suspected.

  I let him ramble on a while longer, mainly because I was too afraid to hang up on him, but also because I thought he might inadvertently spill some important information, drunk as he was. After he lapsed into incoherence, I gently eased him off the phone.

  The second he hung up, I called Gunner. I didn’t care that it was so late. I had to talk to him. There was no answer. I left a message on his voice mail and texted him, “MUST SEE YOU. URGENT.” I received a text message the next morning telling me he’d come by and see me in the shop that afternoon.

  Chapter 41

  Gunner dropped by the next day around three o’clock. I told Polo he could take the afternoon off. I closed up the shop. I didn’t want anybody interrupting us. Gunner and I went upstairs to my office. I offered him a drink because I was going to have one myself—several, in fact. He declined. I poured myself a stiff scotch from a beautiful cut crystal Waterford decanter, then proceeded to give him an earful about my two a.m. conversation with Bob. He listened without comment. Finally, I asked him point-blank: “Is Violet right? Is Bob involved in these murders?”

  “Let’s hear your theory,” he said.

  “Okay…. I’ve really been thinking about this. Bob married Melody very suddenly, right? I mean, he didn’t even tell me, and we were pretty hot and heavy. So I’ve always wondered why. Why then? And I was thinking, maybe she knows stuff about him that no one else knows. A wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband. Gunner, I wish I had a tape of last night’s call. Maybe Bob wasn’t directly involved, but I’m sure he either knew or suspected what Maxey, as he called him, was up to. I don’t know. You told me Maxwell’s been hinting someone else is involved. Maybe Bob’s afraid Maxwell will implicate him. Or maybe he feels guilty and wants to confess. People actually do feel guilt sometimes, I guess—although you’d never know from what goes on today. You know I’ve resisted this for a long time, but now I think you’ve been right all along. I think Bob’s definitely involved.”

  Gunner nodded as I spoke, appraising me with his sharp dark eyes. I was certain I’d hit the nail on the head or come pretty close. I have to say, I thought he was damn impressed.

  He cleared his throat. “Tell me something…. How much have you and Violet discussed your lives right after you graduated?”

  The question threw me for a loop.

  “What’s that got to do with Bob Poll?”

  “Just answer the question, if you don’t mind. I’m talking about the time after you both graduated up until the time she arrived in Washington. You ever talk about those years with her?”

  “Um, yeah. Sort of. I guess.” I was irritated he was veering off the subject.

  “So what kind of things did you two discuss?”

  “I don’t know. The usual stuff. I wished I’d been more focused. Believe me, I missed so many opportunities. But you can’t look back, right?”

  “Did you ever talk about anything but you?”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “You ever talk about Violet? Did Violet talk much about herself?”

  “Yes! Of course. Believe me, I know everything about Violet’s stellar career.”

  “Like what?”

  “Okay, smarty,” I said, rising to the challenge. “I know she had a Junior Year Abroad and that she graduated magna cum laude from DePaul. That she went to USC law school—stuff like that. Working on the Indian reservation. Being interested in environmental law. No men, of course. She didn’t have any men to tell me about. I’m pretty sure she was a virgin when she met Grant. Those two, what a pair! Can’t you just see them in bed? Two lacrosse sticks clicking away at each other!” I laughed. Gunner didn’t.

  “So, Violet came to Washington as an environmental lobbyist, is that right?”

  “Yeah. What’s your point?” I was growing impatient; I knew I was definitely onto something wit
h Bob Poll, and I thought Gunner was just avoiding that subject because he didn’t want to answer any of my questions, as usual.

  “You ever go see her up on Capitol Hill?” he asked.

  “No. Frankly, I can’t think of anything more boring—except a root canal.”

  “And you know all this stuff about Violet how exactly?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “How did you know she took her Junior Year Abroad, for example?”

  “She told me all about it.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “England. London University. They have an exchange program with DePaul. She loved London. Like I said, Violet made the most of every opportunity she ever got—unlike yours truly. What’s all this got to do with Bob Poll?” I cried.

  Gunner reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a photocopy of what looked like an old newspaper clipping. He folded the bottom half down, so that only the picture was visible, not the caption. He handed it to me. “Recognize anyone?”

  It was a picture of an old lady in a wheelchair and a young woman standing behind her. They were on the deck of a luxury liner in front of a row of wooden lounge chairs. Caught in the frame was a passing steward in a white coat, artfully balancing a tray with two glasses and a bottle of champagne on the palm of his right hand.

  “My God! That’s Violet when she was young!” I exclaimed. “She looked so different then. Is that her grandmother? Where’d you get this picture?”

  “Unfold the paper and read the caption,” he said.

  I did as he instructed. “‘Mrs. Eleanor Pagett and her companion aboard the QE II.’ Her companion?” I was mystified.

  “Violet’s Junior Year Abroad.” Gunner snickered.

  I looked at him, uncomprehending. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll enlighten you. Violet was kicked out of DePaul University her sophomore year for nonattendance of classes. She got a job as a paid companion working for Mrs. Eleanor Pagett, a rich widow from Chicago.”

  “What?” I whispered.

  “She accompanied Mrs. Pagett to London in what would have been her junior year of college—if she’d stayed in college. They went first class aboard the QE II.”

  I could hardly believe my ears.

  Gunner went on: “Mrs. Pagett liked Violet a lot. Took her under her wing. Violet seems to be pretty good at playing the victim and making people feel sorry for her.”

  “I can testify to that,” I said softly, thinking back to when she first arrived at Wheelock.

  “But when the old lady died on Violet’s watch, as they say, there were questions. She left Violet a nice chunka change in her will. I spoke to Mrs. Pagett’s niece. She remembers that at the time of her aunt’s death there was some talk about pressing charges against her ‘companion’—that would be Violet. Nothing ever came of it, though. Hard to prove murder when an old woman takes a bad fall.”

  I was speechless.

  Gunner then related a history that bore absolutely no relation to the one Violet had ever told me or ever written about herself in “Class Notes.” She may have lived in Chicago, Los Angeles, and Oklahoma, but she sure wasn’t doing any of the things she claimed to be doing in any of those places.

  “The University of Southern California has no record of a Violet McCloud as a law student, a graduate student, or any other type of student, for that matter. The Osage Nation Reservation has no record of her teaching or being involved in any way in Indian affairs. And as for her being an environmental lobbyist, deeply dedicated to saving the planet? Pretty near anyone can say they’re a lobbyist. Technically, you don’t even need a college degree. You can practically fall on your knees, raise your hands up to God, and say: ‘I am a lobbyist!’ It helps to be a good bullshitter or a good actor, or both. I’m exaggerating, but you get the drift,” Gunner said.

  By the time Gunner finished, I was reeling. I couldn’t take it all in. So much for the sweet innocent roommate I’d introduced to Grant! I felt physically ill. I desperately needed to get some air. I told Gunner I had to get out of the shop. We started walking and found ourselves at the Oak Hill Cemetery. It was still visiting hours, and the big gates were open. I suggested we go in. Somehow a graveyard seemed appropriate for this occasion. There was no one around. We had death all to ourselves.

  Gunner and I strolled down the path to Usherville. Wispy clouds drifted across a vibrant blue afternoon sky. The leaves were beginning to turn. The chill of fall was in the air. We sat down on the cold stone bench just outside the Hollis tomb. The enormity of what Gunner had just told me was seeping in slowly, like rain on hard soil. I closed my eyes and tried to wrap my mind around this news.

  So Violet was a fraud. A total and complete fraud. I just couldn’t believe it. I kept asking myself if there’d been any clues, any signs I’d overlooked all these years. I knew she often lied to other people in the interests of social life. How many times had she pretended to like people she disliked and agree with things she didn’t really agree with, or complimented someone on a hideous dress, then turned to me and made a disparaging face? But we all did stuff like that. We all wore masks. Other than that, I really couldn’t think of anything that would have tipped me off to this extraordinary revelation, except maybe her fascination with serial killers—particularly ones like Ted Bundy, BTK, Gary Ridgway, and Herbert Baumeister—all of whom had led so-called normal lives and fooled everyone close to them, even their wives and girlfriends.

  Violet was just like me. We were both basically nice girls from the same privileged sphere of life, with mutual interests and a good sense of humor. Or so I’d always imagined. I knew she lied to others, but I never dreamed she would lie to me, her best friend. I just couldn’t get my head around the fact that she wasn’t the person she had always claimed to be.

  “So what was she doing all that time she said she was involved in those other things?” I said at last.

  Gunner shrugged. “That’s what I couldn’t find out. It’d be very interesting to know.”

  “You can say that again.”

  We lapsed into silence once more. I thought back to the day I’d gone over to Violet’s house when Peggy was there, and Violet had refused to speak to me or even acknowledge my presence because I hadn’t told her about Grant. She was up on her high horse then, looking down at me like I was some peasant in the mud when she said, “If there’s one thing I hate above all other things in this world, it’s a liar!” Those were her exact words. I remembered them like you’d remember the sentence of a judge.

  I’ve always said: tell me what you criticize, and I’ll tell you who you are. Violet dared to accuse me of being a liar when her whole life was a lie! If that ain’t the definition of chutzpah, I don’t know what is.

  Gunner faced me, “So aren’t you kind of curious how I know all this?”

  And of course, the minute he said it, I thought, Yes, of course! How the hell did he find all this out? And why? Why investigate Violet, of all people?

  “Yes, of course! What ever gave you the idea to even go there?”

  “Nancy Sawtelle. Miss Montrose, as you call her.”

  “What about her?” I said warily.

  “I gotta tell you I never believed Miss Montrose was done by the same guy who did those other girls. I always thought it was a copycat.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, Nancy Sawtelle was older than the others. She had at least four blows to her head. It looked a lot more personal to me. Her panties were down, but she wasn’t violated. The theory was that the killer had been interrupted. But I figured it was something else—like whoever did her staged the crime to make it look like attempted rape. The killer could have learned a lot about the MO of the Beltway Basher just by reading the papers.”

  “You were the only one who picked up on this?”

  “Here’s the thing. Treating Sawtelle as a victim of the Beltway Basher ups the manpower devoted to her case. It was a close enough MO for the time being. T
hey figured, lump her in with the serial killer and see what shakes out. There just aren’t the resources to devote a lot of hours to one case that looks so similar to the others. And you don’t wanna get sued for not giving it your all. I didn’t agree with that approach. But they weren’t gonna listen to me, so I did some work on my own…. You remember her calendar, right?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry I told Violet. I still feel bad about that.”

  “Yeah, well, they found other things in her apartment too—fake drivers’ licenses, a couple of fake socials, a bunch of personal papers, clippings—stuff that nobody really focused on at the time. Not to mention the hundred thou they found in her safety deposit box. They were all focused on that calendar and the fact that she’d worked at King Arthur’s.”

  I couldn’t quite figure out where he was going, but I knew I wasn’t going to like it when he got there.

  “No one appreciates the value of good old-fashioned police work anymore. Everyone wants blood and trace, blood and trace, like the lab can tell you about the life of the victim,” he said derisively. “Labs just tell you how a person died, not why…. Me? I go back to the victim’s life, because nine outta ten times it’s the life that causes the death…. So, on my own, I start to review the evidence on Miss Montrose. I’m going through all the stuff we found in her apartment, and lo and behold, what do I come across?”

  “I don’t know. What?”

  “A stack of little books. Little white-and-purple pamphlet-type books called Passages.”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding! Wait—Nancy Sawtelle had Wheelock alumnae bulletins in her apartment?” Gunner nodded. “Wow! That is too freaking weird!”

  “There was stuff underlined in them too. Black, scrawly, angry underlines. Stuff about someone named Violet McCloud Bolton who lived in Washington, D.C.”

  “Oh, my God! Violet!”

  “So I find out that Violet turns out to be Mrs. Grant Bolton Jr., wife of the president of the Potomac Bank. And I’m thinking to myself, What’s this Sawtelle gal, a drifter and a con woman, doing with these fancy little books? And how come she’s so interested in a society lady like Mrs. Bolton?”