Who Killed Dorian Gray?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “I just couldn’t stand it anymore,” she said. “I had to escape! What’s going on here?” she said, looking around the room. “What’s happened?”

  “There’s been a—a death,” Claire answered, not saying what she was really thinking: Murder. There’s been a murder.

  Just then, as if in answer to her thoughts, Jack Mulligan’s voice broke through the soft murmurings of the other people in the room.

  “How do they know it’s murder and not an accident?”

  “Or even suicide,” added Billy Trimble. He stood by the fire, one arm on the mantel, a cup of coffee in his other hand. He wore a white shirt and khaki slacks, and his sandy hair was neatly combed.

  Meredith looked at them and back at Claire. “Murder?” she said, her blue eyes huge. “There’s been a murder?”

  “I don’t know,” Claire replied a little sharply. “Someone’s died, that’s all I know.”

  “You discovered the body, didn’t you?” said Jack Mulligan, taking a few steps toward her. His presence was large, intrusive, and Claire had an impulse to back away.

  “Yes,” she said brusquely, not wanting to talk about it to him of all people.

  “Well . . .?” he said, staring at her as if she had the answer to the question now consuming everyone in the room.

  Claire felt that everyone was looking at her, expecting something, but she had nothing to give them. She felt numb. She turned to Meredith, who stood dripping onto the carpet, a soggy knapsack at her feet.

  “Let’s get you into some dry clothes,” she said, and taking the girl’s hand, went upstairs.

  The clothes in Meredith’s knapsack were all damp, so Claire gave her one of her own flannel shirts, a pair of sweatpants, and some wool socks. Dressed in Claire’s clothes, Meredith looked even thinner than Claire remembered. The clothes hung on her body, and strands of damp hair clung to her neck. When wet, her hair looked dark auburn instead of its actual color—bright orange. Claire thought that with her hair color muted like this, Meredith looked less alarming. She pulled a fluffy white towel off the rack and tossed it to the girl.

  “Here, you’d better dry your hair.”

  “I could use some tea,” Meredith said, rubbing her head vigorously with the towel.

  They went down to the kitchen, where they were greeted by the smell of freshly brewing coffee. Sherry and Gary stood at the entrance to the pantry, deep in conversation.

  “I’m not going to implicate him,” Gary was saying as Claire and Meredith entered the room. He looked up and saw them, and with a curt little nod, left the kitchen.

  “Oh, Claire, you poor thing,” Sherry said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you; I’m okay,” Claire replied. “Meredith, this is Sherry Bernstein.”

  “No relation to Leonard,” said Sherry with a smile, offering her hand. Claire thought her fingernails looked even worse than before—bitten down to the quick, the cuticles red and torn.

  “Meredith Lawrence,” said Meredith, shaking Sherry’s hand solemnly.

  Sherry turned the coffeemaker onto “brew.” “Are you Claire’s niece?”

  “I’m Claire’s ward,” said Meredith, hopping up onto the kitchen counter. “Who was that guy who just left?”

  “Oh, that was Gary Robinson, one of the painters.”

  “And who was he talking about implicating just now?”

  “Meredith,” Claire warned.

  “Well . . . it’s hardly a secret,” said Sherry. “Gary was worried about saying anything to the police about Billy’s relationship with Maya.”

  Meredith looked at Claire. “Which one is Billy?”

  “The tall one with the sandy hair.”

  “Oh. He and Maya were an item, then?” said Meredith.

  “Well . . . in a way,” Sherry replied. “I mean, Gary says that they sometimes took baths together.”

  “Oh, I see . . . that would look pretty suspicious, I guess,” Meredith said thoughtfully. She sat on the counter swinging her legs back and forth while Claire put on water for tea. Just then Ralph emerged from the pantry, licking his whiskers.

  “Hello, Ralph!” Meredith cried, and the cat froze, a panicked look on his face. Before Meredith could jump off the counter and pounce, he bolted from the room, his claws sliding on the smooth linoleum.

  “Claire didn’t tell us she had a ward,” said Sherry, pouring some milk into a small blue china pitcher.

  “Well, it’s not official yet,” said Meredith. “Do you have any cookies? I’m starving.”

  “If you’re hungry, you should eat something other than cookies,” said Claire, filling the teapot with Earl Grey, Meredith’s favorite.

  “But that’s what I want.”

  “Whining will get you nowhere,” Claire said firmly. “I’ll make you a sandwich, and if you eat it, you can have some cookies.”

  “Okay.” Meredith’s moods came and went as quickly as a summer thunderstorm.

  They took their tea and sandwiches into the living room and sat on the sofa, which was unoccupied. Everyone else was still huddled in little groups in the corners of the room. Tahir and Billy had made a fire, and the low hushed conversations were interspersed with the crackling of dry wood. Meredith and Claire sat on the couch in front of the fire.

  “So how did you get here?” said Claire, blowing on her tea to cool it off.

  Meredith took a huge gulp of hot tea and made a face. “I hitchhiked.”

  “Oh God, Meredith!”

  Meredith shrugged. “I needed to get here, didn’t I? I found a nice couple who were driving to Phoenicia and they dropped me off.”

  “Does your father know where you are?”

  “No. I left a note at camp saying I’d gone to visit friends. They won’t notice I’m gone until tomorrow morning,” she added through a mouthful of cheese-and-tomato sandwich.

  “You’re going to have to call your father first thing in the morning.”

  Meredith sighed and bit off a chunk of a Mint Milano. “All right. I just couldn’t stand it there anymore; you don’t know what it was like. It was awful!”

  “All right, never mind; you’re here now. We’ll have to ask your father what to do next.”

  “Okay, okay—but let’s talk about the murder.” Meredith tucked her thin knees up under her. “Tell me everything you know about the victim.”

  “I only knew her a couple of days . . . she was very pretty, a journalist, Swedish.”

  “With an accent and everything?”

  “Yes, she had an accent.”

  “Pretty, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm . . . could be a jealous lover. Who was she sleeping with?”

  “Meredith!”

  Several people were looking at them now.

  “Oh, come on, Claire; what’s the big deal? We’re talking about murder here, for God’s sake!” Meredith leaned in closer to Claire. “It was murder, wasn’t it?” she said hopefully.

  Claire sighed. “Unless she had a stroke or a heart attack or something, I think it’s unlikely that it was an accident.”

  “Well, the coroner’s report will answer that,” said Meredith. She took a gulp of tea and waved her hand in front of her mouth. “Ow, that’s hot!”

  “Don’t drink it so quickly,” said Claire, sipping her tea, which tasted like vinegar. She remembered that after Amelia’s death, it was days before food tasted like anything other than sawdust.

  Camille walked over to them and perched on the arm of the sofa. “Hello, I’m Camille.”

  Meredith looked up, her mouth full. “Meredif Rawrence,” she said, swallowing.

  “Pleased to meet you. Claire, this is so awful,” Camille said, lowering her voice. “I understand you found the body?”

  “Yes. I went down to get my toothbrush . . .” Claire paused, the image of Maya’s still, white body burned into her brain. She wondered how long it would take for the image to fade.

  “Who could have done such a thing?” Camil
le said, shaking her head. Her beautifully manicured hands fingered a box of Sobraines. “I’m dying for one of these,” she said ruefully.

  Claire noticed the pack was unopened. “Is that the pack I got you yesterday?”

  Camille looked down at the box in her hands. “Uh, no, actually, I lost that one somehow. Liza got these for me today. It’s strange; I don’t often lose things . . . I wonder where it could have gone.” She shrugged. “Maybe someone really needed a smoke and was afraid to ask for one.”

  Meredith was listening carefully, her mouth stopped in mid-chew. “Do you always smoke the same brand?” she said.

  “When I can afford it.”

  “Does anyone else here smoke?”

  “Plenty of people, but I’m the only one who buys them regularly.”

  Meredith said nothing, nodding slowly as she sipped her tea.

  Slowly, Detective Hansom and Sergeant Rollins questioned each of the residents at Ravenscroft. Detective Hansom set up in one of the unoccupied first-floor bedrooms while Sergeant Rollins continued to interview in the library.

  When Claire was summoned by the detective, Meredith jumped up from the couch.

  “Oh, can I watch? Please, can I?” She hopped up and down, looking up at Claire, hands clasped in front of her thin chest. Detective Hansom looked at her, his face heavy with fatigue.

  “Who are you?”

  “Meredith Lawrence, at your service,” she said, thrusting out a thin hand. Detective Hansom shook it thoughtfully, then looked at Claire and raised an eyebrow. Claire was about to explain, but Meredith beat her to it.

  “I arrived after the murder, so I can’t be a suspect,” she said cheerfully. “Besides, you might be able to use my help.”

  “Oh? Are you a detective?” said Detective Hansom without a hint of a smile.

  “Oh, yes; I’ve already solved several burglaries, as well as one murder,” Meredith replied breezily.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes—just ask Claire.” Meredith was rocking back and forth on her heels. Detective Hansom turned to Claire.

  “It’s—it’s really a long story,” she began, but Meredith stopped rocking and touched the detective on the sleeve of his jacket.

  “It’s kind of painful for her to talk about,” she said in a low voice. “See, what happened was—”

  “I’m sure it’s a very interesting story, but we have a crime of our own to solve right now,” the detective interrupted.

  “You mean you’ve already ruled out suicide?” said Gary Robinson, walking over to them.

  “I’d have to say it’s very unlikely,” Hansom replied. “Most often in a case like this someone would cut their wrists and bleed to death if they really wanted to kill themselves.”

  “Besides, why would Maya want to kill herself?” said Camille softly. “She was beautiful, talented—”

  “Any signs of sexual assault?” said Meredith.

  “Meredith!” Claire said.

  “That’s for the coroner to decide,” answered Detective Hansom, turning to Claire. “Ms. Rawlings . . .? Would you come with me please?”

  “Wait here,” she said to Meredith. “If you need anything, just ask Camille or Sherry.”

  Claire followed the detective into the spare bedroom. He sat at the desk in the corner and she sank into an armchair next to the bed. She felt comforted by his gentle voice and shy manner, which, oddly, reminded her of Wally. Neither of them was anything like detectives she had seen on television or in movies—intimidating men with brash, assertive manners, or sneaky and crafty like Columbo. Detective Hansom seemed genuinely concerned as he gently probed Claire’s memory of her discovery.

  “Did you hear or see anything unusual before you found Ms.—er, Sorenson, anything remarkable at all?”

  Claire tried to remember. As she sat there, shaky from fatigue and emotion, it all seemed to have taken place in another time period. She felt that her body was not her own, and the room, so solid and real just yesterday, now seemed as artificial as a movie set, made of plywood and canvas.

  “Think about right before you discovered the body,” Detective Hansom said softly. “Was there anything unusual or out of the ordinary that you noticed?”

  “I did see that Maya’s bedroom door appeared to be ajar as I passed it in the hallway . . . I remember thinking that was odd at the time.”

  “Yes . . . her door was open when we found it. Is it unusual for residents to leave their doors unlocked, do you think?”

  “Well . . . I guess it would depend on the person.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of—anything at all—out of the ordinary?”

  Claire strained to think of those moments right before she entered the bathroom . . . they seemed so distant now, so remote. She had the feeling that there was something, but she couldn’t remember what . . . it hadn’t seemed unusual at the time, but now the feeling of a memory gnawed at her, irritating because she had lost the memory itself.

  Finally she said, “I’m sorry, I can’t think of anything.”

  “That’s all right,” Detective Hansom said gently. He leaned forward, interlocking the fingers of his big hands, the knuckles like knots on a tree trunk. “Do you know of any reason Ms. Sorenson might have wanted to kill herself?”

  Claire shook her head. “I just arrived here two days ago. I barely knew her.”

  He nodded. “I see. Is there any reason at all you can think of why someone would want to murder Ms. Sorenson?”

  Murder. Claire’s stomach tightened at the sound of the word. “No . . . not that I would know of. I mean, Terry Nordstrom had a crush on her, but that’s hardly a motive for murder, is it?”

  She looked at him for reassurance, but his big face was blunt, unreadable. He shook his massive head. “In my experience, almost anything can be a motive for murder.”

  Claire nodded slowly, her stomach sinking. Had she just made Terry the main suspect?

  “Do you know if it was Ms. Sorenson’s habit to take a bath every night?” Detective Hansom said, scratching his elbow. The library was cool—the house had no central heating—and he still wore his battered trench coat, the belt hanging loosely at his side.

  “As a matter of fact, I saw her returning from the bathroom at about the same time the night before,” Claire said. “But I don’t know if she took one every night.”

  The detective nodded and made a little note in his notebook. “Just one more thing.” He rubbed his eyes wearily in a gesture that reminded her of Wally. “Did you touch the crime scene at all?”

  “No—why?”

  “Not even to mop up any water from the floor?”

  “No, of course not. I know better than to do something like that,” Claire said sharply, suddenly irritated at this big gawky man with his weary, patient voice.

  Detective Hansom sighed, and Claire realized at that moment that he probably dealt with a lot of uncooperative witnesses in his job. She felt bad about snapping at him.

  “I believe you,” he said quietly. “You may have noticed, then, that there was no water spilled on the floor.”

  Claire looked out the library window at the rain falling steadily in soft sheets from the porch roof. It hadn’t struck her at the time, but now that he mentioned it, there had been no water on the floor.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “you’re right; the floor was dry. I wonder what that—” she said, but Detective Hansom unfolded his long body from the chair and handed her a business card. “Well, thank you, Ms. Rawlings. If anything comes to you, just give me a call.”

  Two more hours passed, and then at last the questioning was over. Some people went back to their rooms after they were finished, but many of them stayed in the living room, unwilling to be alone, craving the nearness of others. After Detective Hansom left, some of them stayed staring at the dying fire, empty coffee cups still clutched in their hands, too tired or numb to move, all the conversation wrung out of them.

  Liza offered to give Mere
dith a room of her own, but Meredith begged to be allowed to sleep on a mattress on the floor of Claire’s room. Even though the rooms all had locks with dead bolts, Claire, too, wanted Meredith in with her; she would be safer. Claire was exhausted, and thought of the small bottle of codeine pills she had upstairs, left over from tooth surgery. She had been saving them for a time such as this, when sleep would not easily come on its own, but was desperately needed.

  Meredith fell asleep almost immediately, and with the girl’s raspy adenoidal breathing in the dark beside her, Claire felt somehow comforted.

  Meanwhile, the storm continued to pound the house furiously, as though nature’s rage paralleled that of man. As the wind rattled and shook the windows, Claire thought about coming to terms with loss. Ultimately the journey of life is one in which everything is lost, she thought—sometimes suddenly, like tonight. More often, though, it is a gradual ebbing away, like the steady drip of water upon rock, a slow casing at the surface until nothing remains. Claire’s love of the people in her life was tempered by this knowledge, so that even in the joy there was always a sadness, for everything had a last time, an end; infinity might exist for physicists and theologians, she thought, but it was not a reality that could be touched or experienced.

  “Since by man came death.” The words appeared in her mind like a dark script . . . death as a bookend to life, a coming as well as a going. Suddenly Claire remembered what it was she was trying so hard to recall when she was talking to Detective Hansom, and realized why it had been so hard to remember. She hadn’t seen anything or even heard anything, but as she stood out on the catwalk leading to the bathroom, she had caught a faint but unmistakable aroma of expensive tobacco. In fact—she was certain of it now—it was the scent of a Sobraine Black Russian.

  Chapter 8

  Meredith entered the porch balancing a cup of tea on a plate packed with cookies. “Do you know what happens when you fall into a black hole?” she said, a spray of cookie crumbs drifting onto the floorboards.

  “No, what?”

  Meredith sat carefully on the musty daybed, setting the plate down beside her. She leaned toward Claire, her freckled nose wrinkled, blue eyes intense. “You fall into another universe.”