Who Killed Dorian Gray?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “Where’s Sherry?” Claire called out to the kitchen.

  Liza appeared at the doorway with a plate of chocolate chip cookies, which she set on the coffee table. “She’s over at her studio painting.” Seeing the cat on Claire’s lap, she laughed. “That one has no shame,” she said, returning to the kitchen.

  Claire laughed too. “I can see that.” She ran her hand over the cat’s short, thick fur, and Nubs arched his back, digging his claws into her thigh.

  “Ow, Nubs,” she said softly so that Liza couldn’t hear. From the kitchen came the soothing clatter of dishes and tea things, and Claire thought how much Meredith would like it here in this cozy little cabin, with tea and cookies and cats to play with.

  That afternoon Claire was scheduled to give the first of her talks to the assembled group of writers. Liza thought that it would be good for Claire to meet everybody en masse before she began meeting with them individually; it would also give her a little more time to read manuscripts.

  “Do you have any questions about this afternoon?” Liza asked, pouring the tea from an ancient-looking blue willow teapot. “I thought it would be good for you to talk about the business of publishing. Most of these people have aspirations, even if they don’t necessarily have the talent.”

  “That’s fine; I think it’s a good idea to start with that.”

  Liza sipped her tea, and as she did her eyeglasses steamed up. For just a moment Claire was reminded of Mr. Moto; Liza’s round face framed by short hair and opaque spectacles could have belonged to the famous detective.

  “I guess I should fill you in on the various ‘situations’ within the Ravenscroft community,” Liza said, removing her glasses and wiping off the steam. “It’s not necessary, but—well, if you know what’s going on, it could help you deal with people.” She smiled. “Besides, I’m a shameless gossip.”

  Claire laughed. “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”

  Liza shrugged. “Why not? Self-deception serves no purpose.” She leaned forward. “You met some people at breakfast, you said?”

  “Yes. Camille and Terry—and Maya, a.k.a. Dorian Gray.”

  When she said Maya’s name, Claire thought she saw Liza’s face darken momentarily.

  “Okay,” Liza said. “Terry’s in love with Maya, which isn’t a secret to anyone except Terry; Camille had an affair with Billy last summer, but now rumor has it that Maya and Billy are an item.”

  “Who’s Billy?”

  “Billy Trimble, one of the painters. You haven’t met him yet. He’s a strange one—good-looking, but strange. He and Maya make a good couple, actually; they look like the product of eugenics, and they both play their cards pretty close to the chest.”

  “I see. So I suppose Camille isn’t too crazy about Maya, if she stole her man.”

  Liza ran her finger along the edge of the teacup. “It’s hard to say. I like Camille—she’s classy, you know—and if she’s hurt, she’s hiding it pretty well.”

  “What about Gary? Is he involved with anyone?”

  Liza looked at Claire curiously. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering. He seems to be such a loner.”

  “Typical painter. They’re not very verbal, whereas the writers . . . well, they talk a lot, you know. Gary’s okay—a little moody, as you saw, but he’s actually pretty thoughtful; he bought Sherry and me each some earrings that he found at a house sale. That’s another thing about Woodstock, by the way; if you have time, there’s usually house sales on weekends, and you can pick up some great stuff.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “What else . . . let me see. Oh, yes—have you met our resident Nazi yet?”

  “What?”

  “Jack Mulligan, one of the writers. Well, he may not exactly be a Nazi, but he believes the Holocaust never happened.”

  “Oh my God.” Claire set her teacup down on the table so loudly that it frightened Nubs, and he sprang from her lap. “I mean, I knew there were people like that, but I never met one of them.”

  “I know. You should have seen us all the night we found out. We were sitting around dinner, and the topic got onto the war somehow—Sherry’s Jewish, by the way—and Jack just sits there for the longest time and then he comes out with this statement about there being no actual proof about the Holocaust, and we all just stared at him. And you know Tahir, the Bosnian writer—he’s a survivor of the camps over there, and he just went pale . . . well, none of us knew how to react. We tried arguing with him; Gary and Camille really stuck with it—but it was just too depressing after a while, and so finally somebody changed the subject. It was ugly, it really was.”

  Claire shook her head. “How did someone like that end up here?”

  “The Guild committee doesn’t investigate people’s political beliefs before accepting them; admission was based on their work as an artist.”

  Claire nodded. “Of course. It’s just that—well . . .”

  “I know; I’m always shocked when ‘artistic’ people don’t share my political beliefs. But you know, Ezra Pound was an anti-Semite, and so was T. S. Eliot, and Hemingway was a pig—and I could go on and on.”

  Claire took a sip of tea, sharp and hot on her throat. “I know; I know talent and virtue have no direct correlation. It’s just that . . . I mean, how could anyone presumably intelligent be so wrong and not know it?”

  Liza shook her head. “It’s a mystery to me. He is intelligent, by the way; that’s what’s so shocking about it. He’s well read, and has an impressive breadth of knowledge; I’ve heard him quote the Bible, Jung, Goethe—you name it, he seems to have read it. That’s what I can’t get over.”

  “Is he just a raging anti-Semite?”

  “Well, that’s what no one seems to know. The odd thing is that his best friend back in New York is apparently Jewish, so God knows what they talk about . . .”

  Just then the door opened and a young woman came bouncing into the room. She was short and dark, with smooth, well-toned skin and flat, shiny brown hair cut the same length all around, like a medieval monk. She wore yellow shorts that showed off her well-muscled legs, and a paint-splattered blue sweatshirt.

  “Break time!” she said cheerfully. “Ah, good—tea! Hello,” she continued in the same breath, addressing Claire. “I’m Sherry Bernstein. No relation to Leonard.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m—”

  “Claire Rawlings, editor extraordinaire, cat owner, tea drinker—and, I presume, owner of an ancient diesel Mercedes, color chocolate brown, with just a splash of eau de pigeon.”

  Claire laughed. “Ancient is right. I was afraid it might not make it up some of these hills; it complained bitterly all the way.”

  Sherry poured herself some tea and plopped down on the couch, one leg tucked under her. She did everything vigorously; even pouring tea, she crackled with energy. Claire couldn’t help noticing Liza’s obvious admiration for her; she noticed, too, that Liza was at least ten years older, and hoped that Sherry wouldn’t break her heart someday.

  “Oh, hello, Nubs,” Sherry said as the cat jumped up on her lap. She stroked him with one paint-splattered hand while balancing a teacup on her knee with the other. Claire noticed that her nails were jagged and short—bitten, she thought—and the skin on her fingers was red and irritated. “Please don’t let me interrupt your conversation, unless of course you were talking about me,” she said with a lopsided smile that was as charming as it was self-conscious. She knows Liza’s crazy about her, Claire thought, and she’s playing on it.

  “I was just filling Claire in on the various residents,” Liza said.

  “Ah.” Sherry nodded, taking a chocolate-covered cookie from the plate. “Of course. Personality profiles—the low-down, and all that.” She turned to Claire. “You’ll find it’s quite a neurotic little group, though not as bad as some I’ve seen. Last year we had a woman who brayed at night, like a donkey. For the first week I thought there was a farm nearby, and then I found out i
t was Melissa.”

  “You’ve been here before?” said Claire.

  “Oh, yes—that’s how we met.” Sherry leaned over and squeezed Liza’s knee. Though her smile was warm and her gesture was relaxed, there was something not quite right about it, Claire thought it was a little too studied, done for effect. It was as if she were being too sincere, like an actress trying too hard to convince the audience of her emotion. Claire wondered who the audience was—Liza or herself?

  “We were both residents at Ravenscroft last year,” said Liza, “and then they asked me if I’d like to come run the place this year. Of course I leaped at the chance. There’s really not that much to do, apart from the occasional Guild meeting. I make sure the garbage is emptied, troubleshoot any problems with the house, things like that. I’m supposed to go down and collect the mail, but the residents usually beat me to it every morning; they’re like vultures waiting for the mailman to arrive. There’s even a handyman who comes ’round to check on the water heaters and plumbing and things like that.”

  Sherry smiled her crooked smile. “Marcel, the Resident Stud. He’s French-Canadian, and built like a moose.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wish I were hetero . . . I’d show him a thing or two about plumbing.”

  Liza threw a couch pillow at her. “Oh, stop it—you’ll embarrass Claire! I apologize for my partner here,” she said, laughing. “Sometimes she says things just to get a reaction out of me.”

  Claire wanted to say that she knew exactly what Liza meant, but instead she looked out the big picture window and saw the late-morning sun, filtered through the tree leaves, dappling the ground with its lacy patterns. She stretched and yawned.

  “Well, I’d better get ready for my talk this afternoon.”

  “Would you like to stay for lunch?” said Liza.

  “Oh, thanks, but I bought lots of food in town, and I’d better study my notes while I eat. Maybe another time. The meeting’s at two o’clock, you said?”

  “Right. We’ll meet in the library; it’s cozier than the living room, and we can close the doors and not be disturbed by any painters wandering through the house. You know where it is—that room right off the living room, the side with the fireplace.”

  Claire nodded. “Yes, I took a look in there this morning to see what kind of books you had. It’s an interesting collection, everything from Dostoevsky to Danielle Steel.”

  “Most of the books in there were left by residents over the years, or so I’m told,” said Liza. “It’s kind of like a swap library; you take a book, you leave a book.”

  “Well, nice meeting you,” Claire said to Sherry, rising from the sofa.

  “And you,” Sherry replied quickly. She sprang up from the couch and seized Claire’s hand, shaking it vigorously. Though her hand was small, the paint-stained fingers were surprisingly strong.

  “See you in a few hours,” said Liza.

  Walking back to Ravenscroft, Claire saw a cat that she figured was Velcro. It was black and white, and as soon as it saw her, it slunk into the bushes, peering out at her from behind an azalea. Claire wondered how Ralph was getting along. She had left him eating happily in the kitchen, but she had no idea how he would react to other cats, having been an apartment cat all his life.

  She entered Ravenscroft through the dining room, and as she passed the telephone alcove she felt a strong urge to check her messages. When she dialed her number the machine picked up after two rings, meaning there were messages. The first one was from Willard Hughes, her most profitable—and most annoying—author.

  “Hi.” Willard never identified himself on the phone. “I know you’re away, but I’m just wondering when we’ll be seeing that advance money . . . I know my agent called last week but, well—it’s about time, don’t you think?”

  Claire sighed. Willard . . . she had tried to palm him off on other editors, but no one could deal with him, and since his mysteries inevitably made the best-seller lists, he was important to Ardor House.

  Claire’s heart beat a little faster when she heard the next message. “Hi…San Francisco is foggy and beautiful and misty…what can I say? Uh, I miss you terribly, dreadfully; I miss your lopsided smile, your laugh, your body…and then I wonder if you miss me. It’s good to see Mom, but I can’t wait to come back to you…well, I guess that’s all. I know I left you the number here…if you do call, just remember the time change; Mom’s always in bed by nine-thirty sharp. Sleep well tonight; you’ll be in my thoughts and dreams.”

  Claire hung up slowly. She loved the sound of Wally’s voice: his dry, wary irony—and the world-weariness underneath it—pushed every button in her body. This message was unusually effusive for him, and Claire wondered if it was easier for him to say things to an answering machine. She liked his reticence, his carefulness about other people.

  Claire went into the kitchen, fixed a tuna sandwich, and took it up to her room. As she climbed the staircase she heard the tap-tap-tapping of a manual typewriter coming from one of the second-floor rooms. A wave of longing washed over her; caught up in the bygone sounds of a million offices, banks, and newsrooms, she stopped to listen. Suddenly she was transported to her college days and the clicking of typewriter keys in dorm rooms, echoing through the halls on Sunday afternoons as students struggled with Monday-morning deadlines. She stood for a moment, caught up in the sharp sweetness of nostalgia, when the sound stopped and the door to the room opened and Camille emerged.

  “Oh—hello!” she said, blinking as if the light in the hall were too bright.

  “Hello,” said Claire. “I was just listening to your typewriter.”

  “Oh, I hope it doesn’t bother you. Some of the others have complained about the sound.”

  “No, no, I love it, actually; it’s so—”

  “Reminiscent? Recherche du temps perdu?”

  Claire laughed. “Yes, I guess so . . . I was thinking back to my school days.”

  Camille nodded, her prominent eyes wide. “I know what you mean. People think I’m crazy for not entering the computer age, but I think if you’re going to be a writer, you have to embrace your idiosyncrasies.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward Claire. “Actually, I do have a computer back at home, but I always do my first drafts on the old Royal. Don’t tell anyone. I’m cultivating my image as an eccentric.”

  Claire laughed. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Camille fished a pack of Sobraines out of her breast pocket. “Thanks for getting these for me.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, it’s time for a smoke break. See you later; two o’clock, isn’t it?”

  “Right; see you then.”

  Camille turned and glided down the stairs, and Claire continued on to her room.

  Claire ate her sandwich while reading Terry Nordstrom’s manuscript. His writing was angry—clumsy and overly emotional, though not without a certain sense of poetry, particularly in his descriptions of the story’s stark landscape. It was the tale a working-class boy in the Northwest who becomes infatuated with a svelte and elegant girl from a rich family. “The Great Gatsby goes Dutch,” Claire muttered as she wiped a piece of tuna fish off the manuscript. Just then she heard footsteps out in the hall, and low voices in the corridor just outside her room—a man and a woman talking softly, as lovers do. She wasn’t sure who the man was, but there was no mistaking Maya’s Swedish lilt.

  “Vhat makes yoo think I’ll do it?” Maya said, and then the man said something Claire couldn’t understand.

  “Oh, fine—that’s easy for yoo to say, but vhat about me?”

  The man said something that ended with the words “only if you want to.”

  They both laughed softly. There was a long pause, then Maya sighed.

  “I have to get back to work.”

  There was another pause, and then Claire heard the sighs and murmurs that accompany passionate kissing. She stared at the ceiling and thought of Wally, of those long afternoons at his apartment after they first met . . . Ralph chose
that moment to jump up on the desk, scattering her papers. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Claire said, pushing him away.

  The sounds in the hallway stopped abruptly and Claire realized that Maya and her companion probably thought she was talking to them. This struck her as very funny, and she had to put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. But the couple in the hall evidently took her remark seriously, because two sets of footsteps headed in opposite directions. One went down the hall and the other descended the back staircase that led to the dining room. Claire listened for a moment, then returned her attention to the manuscript in front of her.

  She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost two. Wiping the remnants of tuna fish from her mouth with a napkin, she gathered up her lecture notes and headed downstairs. Most of the writers were already gathered in the library when she arrived. Liza presided over them, seated primly in a straight-backed chair by the window.

  “Hi,” Claire said to Camille, who waved from the other side of the room, where she was seated on a stack of pillows. She smiled at Maya and Terry, who were sitting side by side on a sturdy-looking black horsehair sofa.

  Liza rose from her chair by the window. “I think most of you have met Claire Rawlings?” she said, and everyone nodded.

  “Where’s Tahir?” said Terry, his little body bursting with nervous energy.

  “Right here,” said a voice behind Claire.

  She turned and saw the darkest, most deep-set eyes she had ever seen. They were so startling and luminous that she had to turn away to keep from staring.

  “I’m not late, am I?” he said, looking around the room for a place to sit.

  “No; why don’t you sit here, Tahir?” said Liza, indicating a tattered grey armchair next to her.

  “Thank you,” he said politely, then turned to Claire and offered his hand. “I’m Tahir Hasonovic,” he said in a soft, smoky baritone. His accent was smooth, with only a gentle twist of the vowels to suggest he was a foreigner.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Claire, shaking his hand, which was as smooth as his voice. It was impossible not to notice the clean jawline and the thick black hair surrounding his head like a dark halo. Though he was clean-shaven, his beard was so dark that already a shadow was gathering around his well-formed chin. His cheekbones were sharp as knives, jutting like ridges from his thin face. His lips were full, the one sensuous feature in an otherwise ascetic face. He was, Claire decided, an extraordinarily handsome man. There was something wounded behind those burning eyes, a trait she always responded to in a man.