Who Killed Dorian Gray?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  Who Killed Dorian Gray?

  Carole Buggé

  Contents

  You never know . . .

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Copyright

  You never know . . .

  Liza sat down on the couch and unlaced her dirt-spattered gardening shoes. “Do you agree that we should start meeting again for classes?”

  “Sure,” said Claire. “I mean, that’s what I’m here for. Especially if you think it’ll help people feel better.”

  Liza tugged at a muddy shoelace. “Why not? It couldn’t hurt. People don’t have to come if they don’t want to.”

  Meredith appeared at the door holding a tea tray. “Voilà,” she said, though it was apparent from the cookie crumbs around her mouth that she had a head start on the Lemon Crunch cookies. “Oh, I had to sample them to see if they were safe,” she said in response to Claire’s look. “You never know who might be trying to poison you . . .”

  Author's Note

  The characters in this book are fictional and are not meant to represent anyone living or dead.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks first of all to my editor at Berkley, Christine Zika, for her invaluable help in shaping this book; thanks also to Sergeant Clayton Keefe of Woodstock for his help in answering many questions about police procedure; to Katherine Burger for introducing me to the arts colony at Byrdcliffe; to my agent Susan Ginsburg at Writers House; to Chris Buggé for the nifty books on forensic science; to Anthony Moore for his research help; and to Marvin Kaye for his continued support of my literary endeavors.

  Dedication

  For Katie and Suzie, in memory of

  our childhood in the country

  Chapter 1

  Claire Rawlings heard her phone ringing as soon as she stepped off the elevator. She turned the key in the lock and entered her apartment, nearly tripping over her fat white cat, Ralph, as she fumbled for the light switch. She reached the phone just as it stopped ringing.

  “Damn,” Claire muttered, throwing her bag of manuscripts on the living room couch, along with a stack of mail. Her answering machine was in the shop. The worst part of it was that now she couldn’t screen her calls, but would have to pick up whenever the phone rang. Lately Claire had taken to screening her calls; even though it summoned up feelings of Protestant guilt, she was becoming more protective of her time.

  Ralph wound around her legs, purring seductively, his fur tickling her ankles.

  “All right, all right,” she muttered, going into the kitchen. She opened a can of Liver ’n Onions, holding her breath as she spooned half the can into Ralph’s bowl.

  “There—live it up,” she said, putting the bowl on the floor beside the stove. She went back into the living room and picked up the pile of mail from the couch. She tore open the letter addressed to her in Meredith Lawrence’s sprawling, feathery handwriting, then picked up the satchel of manuscripts and went into the bedroom. She dumped the bag in the corner by the bureau, tossed off her office pumps and lay on the bed to read Meredith’s letter.

  Dear Claire,

  It’s a wonder that the youth of America doesn’t rise up en masse and declare a mutiny against adults. Since I have been here, I have been forced to: a) sing stupid songs; “Camp Songs,” they call them, but I call them Hitler Youth Songs; b) learn a variety of utterly useless tasks, such as How to Tie a Slipknot, or How to Paddle a Canoe Without Tipping Over; and c) worst of all, eat horrible food, prepared by genetically engineered Neolithic Cafeteria Slaves.

  Good Lord! Save me from the well-meaning programming of my father, who I am beginning to suspect wants to mold me into Hilde the Magnificent Hun. Or perhaps he just wants to be rid of me for a while, to enjoy the sexual favors of the Wicked Witch of Greenwich. (She must be good in bed, because Lord knows she’s not good for anything else.)

  What am I to make of all this frenetic activity here at Camp Wallawalla? I wish someone would give these people some Ritalin! All I want is to curl up in the corner with a tome of the writings of St. Augustine, or Dostoevsky, or something. However, I am forced to hide my books under my bed for fear one of my cabin mates—all of them Nazi clones—will find them and have me sterilized.

  I must go—there is the bell summoning us to another Youth Rally. Wish me luck—or better yet, get me the hell out of here!

  Yours,

  Meredith

  Claire put down the letter and lay on her back looking at the ceiling. She stared at a water stain in the shape of Texas, which was turning brown at the edges, and thought about the strange girl who had come into her life so suddenly last fall.

  Meredith was so different from other children. With her precocious intelligence, her almost universal disdain for her peers, and her troubled home life, Claire feared that the girl was headed for difficulties. While Claire admired Meredith’s attempt to weave a protective web around herself, using her fierce intelligence and wit, she also worried that sooner or later the strain between Meredith and the rest of the world would begin to take its toll. Until then, Claire could only watch and try to be there in whatever way she could whenever Meredith needed her.

  Ralph’s head appeared at the side of the bed. He jumped up on the bed next to Claire, put an experimental paw on her stomach, and looked at her for a reaction. When she did not push him away, he tried a second paw; still getting no reaction, he crept slowly onto her stomach, purring defensively. He turned in tight little circles, finally settling on her rib cage, his head on her sternum. Eyes half-closed languorously, he kneaded her flesh with his claws, digging through her thin linen shirt.

  “Ow,” said Claire, lifting his claws from her skin. Ralph dealt with this interruption of his routine by licking himself, finally dozing off with one paw on Claire’s neck. The soft weight of the cat was soothing, and Claire felt herself slipping into sleep as light from the setting sun crept across the slats of her venetian blinds. She dreamed that she and Meredith were running through a ravine, pursued by Jean Lawrence, Meredith’s stepmother, and a host of Connecticut matrons dressed in golf clothes.

  The sound of the phone ringing jolted her into consciousness. She sat up abruptly and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Claire, it’s Liza Hatcher.”

  “Oh, hi, Liza.”

  Liza Hatcher was a former colleague from Claire’s early days as an editor for Waverly Press. Unlike Claire, Liza had aspirations to write, and was working on a novel at the time, which she eventually had published. She left Waverly at about the same time as Claire, and Claire ran into her a few times after that at parties, but then lost track of her. Claire had heard from someone recently that Liza had become a lesbian.

  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Liza spoke with a cultivated Southern accent, thick and smooth as hot syrup.

  “Yes . . . what have you been up to?” Claire said, regretting once again the absence of her answering machine. She liked Liza, but had grown increasingly impatient with chitchat. It occurred to
her that this was perhaps Meredith’s influence.

  “Well, I’m still writing, of course, though it’s harder these days to get anything published, you know.”

  Claire glanced at the pile of unread manuscripts in the corner of her bedroom. She hoped Liza wasn’t calling to ask her to look at a book.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I have a proposition for you which may or may not interest you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, for the last couple of summers I’ve been holding writing seminars at an arts colony called Ravenscroft. It’s up in Woodstock.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “Yes, it is. It was built as a residence for painters, but lately they’ve been admitting writers, too, so there’s an equal mix of painters and writers each year.”

  “How nice.” Claire’s stomach began to rumble. Get to the point, Liza.

  “What I was wondering is whether you would be interested in coming up next month in a professional capacity to talk to the writers about their work. It would mean a bit of reading, but we’ll pay you an honorarium and take care of all transportation, lodging, and food. It’s very pretty up here.”

  “So I’ve heard. I did something like that a few summers ago on Shelter Island.” Claire wound the phone cord around her little finger as she talked. Ralph watched the cord through one opened eye, contemplating an attack, but was evidently too lazy to launch one. “How much reading would be involved?”

  “Well, we’ve asked everyone to submit the first three chapters of a novel, or a couple of short stories. There will be a literary agent up here, too, so the two of you can kind of take turns talking to people individually . . . and then we thought we might hold a group class as well one evening.”

  Claire looked at the crumpled bag of unread manuscripts on the floor. “How long would this be for?”

  “Well, you could come just for the weekend—or for the whole week, if you want.”

  Claire took a deep breath and held it for a moment. “All right, I’ll do it. Thanks for thinking of me.”

  “My pleasure. It’ll be good to see you again. I’ll mail you the details and the manuscripts within the next couple of days.”

  Claire hung up and looked out the window at the brown-stones across the street. The thought of reading yet more manuscripts was depressing. Even the work submitted to her by agents was often not very good—and the writers in Woodstock would more likely than not be unrepresented, unpublished, unpolished . . . and very needy. On the other hand, there was country life to look forward to . . . trees, crickets, the smell of honeysuckle at night. She had grown up in the country, and still longed for its rhythms, so seductive and peaceful.

  “Well, old boy, looks like you’re going to be left alone for a few days,” she said to Ralph, who was circling the bed, waiting for her to lie down again. “Maybe I’ll ask Liza if I can bring you; what do you think about that?”

  In response, the cat jumped up on the windowsill and looked out. Claire sat on the bed and stared at the phone. Her fingers ached to dial her boyfriend Wally Jackson’s home number, but he had just left that afternoon for San Francisco to visit his mother for her birthday. She decided to wait until he arrived in California and call him there.

  Claire wandered into the kitchen and defrosted a container of clams she and Wally had brought back from Cutchogue, Long Island. She made herself linguini in clam sauce and settled in front of a Seinfeld repeat to eat. It was the episode where Kramer is dating the Low Talker and Jerry gets conned into wearing the Pirate Shirt on the Jay Leno show.

  “Well,” Claire murmured, scratching Ralph’s ears as he sniffed at her bowl of linguini, “at least there’s always Seinfeld.”

  * * * * *

  A few days later Claire was barreling up the Palisades Parkway around sunset in her old brown Mercedes. Driving into the coming night, the road stretching out in front of her like a black river, she had an urge to go faster and faster, to put the road under her, as she watched the white lines sliding by, slipping under the wheels of her speeding car. As her heavy old car hurtled through the thick summer air, she felt the city falling away behind her, saw the looming grey hulks of the Hudson Highlands in front of her, and the tension drained from her shoulders like water through a sieve.

  “By the time I get to Woodstock,” Claire hummed softly.

  Woodstock. She was leaving the city for a whole week. Ralph roamed the backseat restlessly, meowing anxiously from time to time. But by the time they were approaching Route 6, he had calmed down and lay quietly on the front passenger-seat floor. The sky was almost entirely dark now, sinking from deep midnight blue to black. Claire put in a tape, opened the sunroof, and let the mysterious opening bars of the Mozart Requiem float up and out into the dusky summer air.

  She remembered the trips her family took when she was a child, driving at night through these same hills, her mother at the wheel. Claire would sit next to her brother in the backseat, looking out the window at the road spinning by beneath the car. Wrapped safely in the cocoon of her family’s love, pressing her nose to the glass of the window, she would watch the pavement whiz by in strips of grey and black. Her father and her brother invariably fell asleep, and Claire would lean forward to talk to her mother. She loved these times, having her mother all to herself, just the two of them awake on a dark highway of dreamers.

  The surrounding hills of the Hudson Highlands loomed over her as she turned west onto Route 6. The car’s ancient diesel engine chugged slowly up the steep inclines of the narrow mountain road. A few cars passed her, and then she was alone, with just the hills for company. Claire let herself sink deeply into the sensation of solitude, savoring it; her pulse quickened with each breath of the humid air. Enveloped by the hills and by Mozart’s magnificent music, she found herself wishing that she would never reach her destination. She wanted to drive all through the night, suspended in time, somewhere between leaving and arriving, wrapped in a cocoon of her own reality, like a space traveler moving at the speed of light. This was freedom, utter and complete: cut off from her past, hurtling toward an uncertain future, Claire experienced a release that was as close to pure joy as anything she had ever felt. She opened the car window and let the music swell out into the night.

  Claire thought of Meredith, and of Wally, and of all the people in her life who meant something to her, but she did not want any of them to be there with her: this moment was about the deliciousness of solitude. Claire thought it must be this feeling that propelled explorers across hostile continents and frozen seas; this pushing forward into space, gloriously alone.

  The Kingston exit finally came, though, and soon she was turning left onto Route 212, toward downtown Woodstock. Claire knew she was in Woodstock when she saw a pet store advertising Environment/Pet-Friendly Flea Collars and Organic Dog Food. She rounded the corner on 212 where it became Tinker Street—an appropriate name for Woodstock’s main street, she thought.

  She found the turn onto the Glasco Turnpike, then headed up the mountain toward Ravenscroft. A soft rain had begun to fall, and the old car climbed slowly, its headlights reflected off the shiny black surface of the road. By the time she pulled into the driveway, it was raining harder, and she had to tuck Ralph under her windbreaker and make a run for the house, sloshing through puddles.

  Ravenscroft was a sprawling woodframe house perched on the side of Guardian Mountain. A flagstone path led from the dirt parking lot up to the front porch, a rambling vine-covered affair with rustic wooden railings. Liza was sitting on the porch, a candle burning on the table beside her. When she saw Claire she rose and came down the steps to greet her.

  “You made it. Welcome to Ravenscroft! Is that Ralph? Poor kitty—he looks so miserable. How old is he now?”

  “Too old to enjoy getting his feet wet,” Claire said, putting him down once she was under the porch roof. Released, Ralph twitched his tail irritably, shook his feet one by one, then jumped up onto the musty daybed that serve
d as a porch couch.

  “Stupid of me not to bring an umbrella,” Claire remarked.

  “We’ve got plenty here,” said Liza. “I’m glad you’ve got a car, though; we do have a shortage of those. Only two other residents own cars—Jack Mulligan and Billy Trimble.” Liza was big and comfortable and wore her honey-colored hair short, lopped off around the ears. She was dressed in blue overalls and sandals over bulky socks. She looked utterly Woodstock. “Here, let me help you with your luggage.”

  “Oh, that can wait,” Claire said. “Let me just look around for a minute first. This is wonderful!”

  “Come on inside and I’ll give you the tour.” Liza opened the creaky screen door to the porch.

  “What year was this built?” Claire asked as she followed Liza through the spacious living room with its stone fireplace.

  “Turn of the century—1901, to be exact.”

  Claire breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar damp wood smell of her childhood on Lake Erie. A baby grand piano stood in the far corner of the room, and next to it was a bronze statue of Diana, bow and arrow in her hand.

  “That’s Sherry’s addition to the house,” Liza remarked with a laugh. “She found it at a garage sale. Her favorite Greek goddess; just between you and me, I think she identifies with Diana.”

  Something in Liza’s tone made Claire assume that Sherry was her lover. She didn’t say anything, though, and they continued through the living room into the dining room, a cavernous wood-paneled room with half a dozen well-worn wooden tables scattered around it.