I felt terrible for Violet. I put my arm around her as she sobbed.
“I won’t say anything, I promise. But I need to ask you something…. Are you sure no one else knew about your past?”
She looked up at me and cocked her head to one side. “No! God no! I hope not.”
“What about Mary Lou Lindsay?”
“What about her?” She seemed genuinely perplexed.
“Violet, please don’t lie to me now.”
Violet extracted herself from my arm and edged away from me.
“What are you talking about, Reven? What’s Mary Lou Lindsay got to do with me at this point?”
“It’s okay…I promise that if you tell me the truth, I’ll help you in any way I can.”
“The truth about what?”
“Miss Montrose.”
“What about Miss Montrose?”
“Are you telling me that you honestly don’t know that Nancy Sawtelle—Miss Montrose—is really Mary Lou Lindsay?”
Violet furrowed her brow. “Is this a joke?”
I took the yearbook picture out of my pocket and showed it to her.
“That’s our freshman picture from the Wheelock yearbook. Gunner found it in Nancy Sawtelle’s apartment. There’s me. And there’s Mary Lou,” I said, pointing us out. “Her fingerprints weren’t in the main system because her arrest was so long ago. But Gunner tracked her down. Nancy Sawtelle is Mary Lou.”
Violet clapped her hands to her mouth. She looked like she was going to be sick. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.
“Have you had any contact with Mary Lou?”
Violet sat there shaking her head and repeating, “Oh, my God, oh, my God,” over and over.
“What? What? You’ve got to tell me. I can only help you if you tell me the truth.”
Violet bit her lip. She took several deep breaths to calm herself. She looked at me strangely. Her whole manner had changed. She was more businesslike now, more matter-of-fact. “You’ll help me? You promise?” she said.
“I promise.”
“You’re the only one I can trust.”
“I promise. Tell me the truth.”
Violet stood up. She started pacing around like a caged cheetah. She stopped suddenly, stood squarely in front of me, looked down, and said, “Okay, here goes—” She exhaled fiercely, like she was about to leap into the abyss. “Mary Lou did call me.”
I was sitting down. She was towering over me. I don’t know why, but I was a little frightened. I stumbled to my feet, and the two of us stood facing each other.
“When?”
“Over a year ago. I’ll never forget hearing that voice. I knew exactly who it was, even after all those years. She said, ‘Hey, Violet, this is a blast from your past.’ In a way, I’ve always been waiting for that call—for someone to find out I was a fake. It’s ironic that someone turned out to be Mary Lou, of all people. It was just destined, I guess…”
“How did she find out?”
“I don’t know! But she knew all this stuff about me. She’d obviously met someone who knew me back then. She knew for sure that a lot of the stuff I’d written about myself in the ‘Class Notes’ was bullshit. I think she just figured the rest of it was too. She had me. And we both knew it.”
“So what happened?”
“She wanted money. Natch. She knew how much I’d given to Wheelock, so she figured I was a bottomless pit. She said unless I gave her a million dollars, she was gonna tell Grant about me.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“Yeah, right! I don’t have that kind of money personally. You know that. You know what a skinflint Grant is. I gave that money to Wheelock through the Bolton Foundation. I told her I didn’t have it. I told her I didn’t have any money of my own—that it was all my husband’s.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me I better get it. She said she was coming to Washington to collect it in person.”
“They found a hundred thousand dollars in a safety deposit box.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about that.”
“Did you see her when she came?”
“No! That’s just it. She never showed up! This was over a year ago, like I said. I’ve been waiting for her, dreading the day. It’s been like this sword of Damocles hanging over my head.”
I thought for a moment. “So you’re telling me that the only contact you had with her was those phone calls?”
“Yes! And she always called me. I had no idea where to call her.”
“What if she had shown up? How would you have gotten the money?”
“God, I have no idea! I guess I would have had to tell Grant. But I never heard from her again, and then Grant left me and my world collapsed and I tried to put it out of my mind.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked her.
“If I’d told you about Mary Lou I would have had to tell you everything, and I was too ashamed…. But you’ve got to believe me. It never even occurred to me that Miss Montrose and Mary Lou Lindsay were the same person! I thought she’d show up eventually. I swear to you on Tee’s life I had no idea! None!”
“I believe you,” I said, more because I wanted to than because I really did.
“Do you? Do you really, Reven?”
“I do. But I don’t know if Gunner will. He thinks you had something to do with her murder.”
Violet let out a little cry. “No! He can’t think that! He can’t! Anyway, they know who killed her, don’t they? It was Wardell.”
I shook my head. “Gunner doesn’t think so. He thinks whoever did it just wanted to make it look like she was one of his victims. And Wardell denies he did it.”
“He does?”
I nodded.
Violet thought for a moment. “If I admit that Mary Lou wanted to blackmail me, it gives me a strong motive, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Will they arrest me?” she said in a quivering voice.
“Let me see if I can talk to him.”
“Yes, please! You’ve got to convince him I had no idea. I didn’t do it, Reven. I’m innocent! Yes, I lied about my past. But I swear to you I’m not lying about this!”
I looked at Violet standing there, so distraught and panic-stricken. In essence, she reminded me of the frightened and fragile young girl who walked into my room that first day of sophomore year at Wheelock and said shyly, “Hi, I’m Violet. I guess you’re stuck with me.”
I wanted to believe her, but the truth is, I honestly didn’t know if she was telling the truth or if she was still lying—like she’d been doing for the past twenty years.
The two of us walked home in silence. There wasn’t a whole lot to say at that point. When you accuse your best friend of murder, you pretty much exhaust all other topics of conversation. As we parted ways, Violet said to me, “Seems like you’re always saving my life, Reven. Thank you.” She gave me a little hug of appreciation.
I went home, sat down on the sofa in my living room, and played back the tape. Violet’s stunned reaction when I told her about Mary Lou being Miss Montrose seemed so genuine. But I still wasn’t totally sure if she was telling the truth or not. I played the recording over again and again, trying to pick up something in her voice to confirm my suspicions one way or the other.
Violet called me an hour later.
“Listen, Rev, I’ve been thinking,” she began in a much calmer voice. “I want to see Gunner myself and explain everything to him. I have to make him understand that, okay, yes, I lied about my background, but I didn’t kill Mary Lou.”
“Okay, I’ll set up a meeting, and the three of us can talk.”
“No! I want to see him by myself. I need to talk to him alone.”
“Why? Why can’t I be there? I could help you.”
“Because this is one thing I need to do by myself.”
I paused. “Okay….”
She hung up. I called Gunner and said I had to see him right away. He came over t
o my house. I played him the tape. He sat hunched over with his arms resting on his knees, staring down at the floor, listening with grave intensity. I could tell he was agitated. When the tape finished, he shifted his gaze to me and asked in an exasperated voice, “Girl, didn’t I tell you not to try and do this alone?”
“I survived, didn’t I?”
“Is that why Violet wants to see me?”
“She called you?”
“Yeah. I told her I’d meet her tomorrow morning, six thirty, at the chapel in the cemetery. We’re gonna go for a little stroll, just the two of us.”
“Okay, look, Violet admits that Mary Lou was trying to blackmail her, but she denies having anything to do with her death. Listen to the tape. She says she never even knew Mary Lou was in Washington! She’s been waiting in dread all these months for her to show up.”
Gunner gazed at me in utter disbelief.
“What’d you expect her to say, huh? ‘Oh, yeah, you’re right. I had to kill her because she was blackmailing me’? She’s lying. Read my lips, Violet is ly-ing! She’s been lying to you for twenty fuckin’ years! She’s good at it! She says she wants to see me? Fine…I’m gonna see her. She will not lie to me. I promise you that.”
Chapter 47
All night long Gunner’s words rang in my ears: Violet is lying. She’s been lying to you for twenty years…. She’s good at it! I didn’t sleep a wink, wondering why she didn’t want me at that meeting, why she needed to talk to Gunner alone. Was there something else my old friend wasn’t telling me—yet another secret she didn’t want me to know?
When you’ve been best friends with someone for that long and you suddenly discover she’s not who you thought she was, it’s not only your friend you don’t trust anymore—it’s yourself. How could I ever trust my own judgment or instincts again when I lacked the ability to see people for who they really were? Bob Poll, Maxwell, Violet, even Gunner—they’d all fooled me in their own ways. And why was that? Was I so naïve? Or was I just so self-centered that I couldn’t see past my own nose? I wondered if I’d ever seen anyone clearly, including myself.
I lay awake all night, obsessing and fretting. Finally, as dawn broke, I decided: whether Violet wanted me there or not, I was going to go to that meeting between her and Gunner. Oh, I’d wait a little, give them some time alone so Violet could have her chance to explain whatever it was she wanted to explain to him. But then I’d show up so the three of us could have a little conversation. If Violet was lying to me again, I had to know it. And it was better to find out with Gunner there.
I knew they were meeting at the cemetery at six thirty, so I got dressed and waited until then to leave the house. I figured it would take me fifteen minutes to walk up to R Street. I put on jeans and a jacket. I made sure the gun was loaded and put it in my jacket pocket. To this day, I’m not sure why I took it. I told myself it was just a precaution. But in hindsight, it feels more like a premonition.
It was a blustery fall morning. The wind churned the fallen leaves in crazy circles. There was a queer gray glow in the air. Witch weather, I called it. I walked briskly up to the cemetery. The side gate was slightly ajar, as I expected. I slipped inside and headed down the path toward Usherville. I was cautious because I didn’t want them to see me right away. I confess I was hoping to overhear some of their conversation. It wasn’t eavesdropping exactly. Well, okay, maybe it was.
As I drew near the mausoleum, the wind died down. An eerie calm fell over the place. I listened for voices but heard nothing. Only morning sounds broke the ominous silence—the rustling of trees, the occasional chirp of a bird, dying breaths of wind.
When I reached the Hollis tomb, there was no sign of Gunner or of Violet. I glanced at my watch. It was six forty-five. Either they were late, or I’d missed them. But that couldn’t be; I couldn’t have missed them, I thought. I would have seen them leaving. And besides, this was too important a conversation for that kind of brevity. They must be somewhere around, somewhere close by. They were probably taking a walk, I thought.
“Violet! Gunner!” I called out several times, but got no answer. Then I noticed that the chain on the grille gate of the mausoleum was lying on the ground, and for the first time, I sensed danger.
I opened the little gate just wide enough to peer inside. At the far end of the crypt, I saw a dark shape lying on the ground. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, so I ducked my head down and went inside the tomb, where I was assaulted by that dank smell of earth and decay. I edged cautiously toward the far end, but what I saw turned out to be just an old blanket and some leaves. Someone had obviously camped out there—maybe a homeless person, or some kids.
As I turned to leave, I suddenly knew I wasn’t alone. Standing in the shadow of the entrance to the tomb was a figure I couldn’t really make out at first, because the gray morning light was behind it.
“Violet?” I called out. The figure quickly retreated.
I came out of the crypt and looked around. I saw a familiar figure running off—although it was not the person I expected to see.
“Grant!” I cried.
He stopped in his tracks. He was dressed in his basic weekend uniform: khakis, blue button-down shirt, driving shoes with no socks, and a navy blue nylon windbreaker. He was the picture of an aging preppy. His hands in the jacket pockets, he walked back toward me slowly.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him.
He stopped and stared at me with an almost sad, rather puzzled expression. Then he hung his head, as if he didn’t quite know the answer to my question. An apologetic smile passed across his face, and he said simply: “I fucked up, Rev.”
In all the years I’d known Grant, I’d never once heard him use the F-word. It didn’t fit him any more than a zoot suit.
“Where’s Violet?” I asked him.
“You were the one I should have married,” he said.
As if, I thought to myself. But the severe, almost tortured look on his face told me now was not the time to rehash who left whom.
“Where’s Violet?” I asked him again.
“Home.”
“Why? What happened?”
“What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Neither are you.”
He hesitated. “Violet told me everything last night.”
“Oh? What exactly did she tell you?”
He glanced up at the sky and sighed, as if waiting for some sort of divine intervention. Then his mood switched, and he said rather chattily, “You know, my mother used to tell me this story about a husband who sold his watch to buy a comb for his wife’s beautiful long hair. But without him knowing it, his wife sold her hair to buy him a watch fob. Isn’t that funny?”
“‘The Gift of the Magi.’ O. Henry. It’s a very famous story, Grant.”
Grant nodded as if he was willing to take my word for it. “I think my mother told me that story to scare me.”
“Scare you? How?”
“So I’d always tell her what I was up to. It felt like a threat, the way she told it. It was like her saying, ‘Don’t ever do anything I don’t know about, because if you do it’ll cause damage and be useless anyway.’”
I didn’t quite understand how that ironic little story could be seen as a threat. Then again, I wouldn’t put anything past old Rainy Bolton. I nodded as if I understood perfectly. Grant went on.
“But I didn’t listen to her. I did a lot of things she didn’t know about. I did stuff no one knew about. Remember when we were going out, Reven, and you asked me so many questions? It used to drive me crazy, the way you asked me questions. Violet never asked me any questions. She left me alone. She was the first woman who was completely content with me the way I was. Or maybe she just didn’t care to know the truth.”
“Grant, please tell me what happened. What did Violet tell you?”
He shifted from one leg to another. “Can I explain something to you?”
There was something about h
is mood, something unsettling that was starting to make me nervous, so as much as I wanted him to answer my question, I said, “Yes, sure. Go ahead.”
“Okay, see, about a year ago, this woman called my office. She wouldn’t tell my secretary who she was or what it was about. She said she had to speak to me personally, and that it was important. Maddy buzzed me and asked if I wanted to talk to her. I was curious. I said to put the caller through. This woman said she had some information she thought I’d be interested in. I told her to come to my office at the bank. She said no, she wanted to meet me somewhere neutral. I didn’t like the sound of her or of the whole thing, so I hung up. That afternoon, I got a hand-delivered envelope marked ‘Personal.’ It was—” He paused, as if stung by the memory. “It was a snapshot of Violet holding hands with a man.”
I didn’t say a word.
“You’re not surprised?”
“Go on.”
“He wasn’t the sort of person I ever expected Violet to be with. He was sort of a hippie type. A very unkempt and unsavory looking fellow. Something told me I better meet with this woman. I had a feeling she could do damage. So we met up in Rockville at a mall. I hate malls—although the bank invested very successfully in one.” That was Grant, always needing to prove his worth.
“We had a cup of coffee at a Starbucks, this person and I,” he went on. “She told me her name was Nancy Sawtelle. I didn’t like her eyes. They were weird, almost like gray holes in her head. Her eyes are the only thing I really remember about her now,” he said pensively. “Anyway, she showed me another picture. This one was of the same man in the picture with Violet…. Only it was a mug shot. She told me that my wife had once been married to this guy.”
“Married?” I felt another shock, a deeper one.
Mortal Friends Page 35
