“Oh really? How do they know that?”
Meredith snorted and rolled her eyes. “They don’t know that; it’s theoretical physics. They can’t really know anything for sure. They just think that’s what happens.”
“Oh, I see. What do they think happens in this other universe?”
Meredith tucked her legs under her and set the plate of cookies on her knee. It was after ten, but she and Claire were alone on the porch, the only ones yet awake. No one had gone to bed before four A.M. In spite of the codeine, Claire had lain awake replaying the image of Maya’s lifeless body over and over. Meredith had no trouble sleeping, though, and snored loudly most of the night.
The rain had stopped and a feeble sun was trying to push away the dull grey clouds lingering in the storm’s aftermath. The vines and bushes surrounding the porch were still dripping wet, and pools of muddy water gathered on the usually dusty surface of Camelot Road.
“See, the whole thing about quantum mechanics is that you can’t predict what will happen, so that anything might happen!” Meredith said, breaking a cookie in half.
“Anything like what?”
“Well, there’s not just one possible sequence of events for a given time line, but a number of possible events. So, for example, even though there was a murder yesterday, in another time line there would be no murder.”
“But we can only experience one reality—the one we know.”
Meredith shrugged. “So far. But that’s where black holes come in. What if it were possible to fall through a black hole and visit another universe? Maybe there’s a universe in which we’re all the same but our lives turn out different.”
“But then we wouldn’t be the same.”
Meredith popped a cookie into her mouth. “Yeah . . . I guess you’re right. Hell, I might never have been born.”
Claire wanted to say something about the swear word, but she didn’t have the energy; besides, was it really her job? Her relationship with Meredith was ambiguous, yet she knew the girl desperately needed more structure in her life. While Meredith loved her father, she was also disdainful of him for being weak and ineffectual. She utterly loathed her stepmother, and since her mother’s death, that left Claire as the only adult in Meredith’s life she respected. Sort of like a kindly aunt, except that in an odd way, though unrelated, Claire was more than an aunt.
“Well, I know one thing about the murderer, that’s for sure.”
Meredith’s voice brought Claire out of her reverie. The girl sat, cookie crumbs clinging to her lips like tiny sentinels, her blue eyes translucent in the morning sun filtering through the canopy of leaves surrounding the porch.
Claire blinked. “What do you know?”
“Well, think about it for a minute. He or she was in a hurry; this was not a carefully planned murder.”
“Why not?”
Meredith looked at Claire, her voice heavy with disdain. “Oh, come on—drowning someone in a bathtub within earshot of fifteen people. It’s hardly a well-thought-out crime! Anyone could have heard, could have come upon them and seen it happen.”
Claire shuddered. Like me, for instance.
“So this was someone who wanted her gone in a hurry—and was willing to risk discovery; so the stakes must have been pretty high.”
“Exactly.”
Meredith popped a Bordeaux cookie into her mouth. “You said the little guy was in love with her?”
“That’s what Camille told me.”
“Hmm . . . interesting. What’s his name again?”
“Terry. Terry Nordstrom.”
“But she was sleeping with the tall guy—what’s his name, the WASPy one?”
“Billy Trimble.”
Meredith stood up and went over to lean on the front railing. She shook her head. “Same old story; they always go for the tall ones. No wonder that little guy looks so angry . . . but I wonder if he was angry enough to kill?”
Meredith ate another cookie, chewing thoughtfully as she and Claire watched a pair of blue jays squabbling on the front lawn. The birds cackled and screeched at one another, beating their wings rapidly, a flurry of blue. Claire looked at Meredith: a peaceful look had come over her face. It was clear that she enjoyed this whole investigative process.
“Meredith.”
“Yes?” Her voice was dreamy, relaxed.
“You have to call your father and tell him where you are.”
Meredith sighed and kicked at a twig. It skittered across the floorboards and fell into the dark thicket of vines surrounding the porch.
“You know everyone will be worried about you. I could make the call, but I’d rather you made it.”
Meredith shook herself like a dog and flung her body onto the daybed. “He’ll make me go back to Auschwitz-on-Hudson.”
“You really shouldn’t joke about a thing like that, you know.”
Meredith lifted her head and gave Claire a withering look. “Really? What about Hogan’s Heroes?”
Claire had to admit Meredith had her there. God, she thought, how do parents do it? How do you pick your battles, and do you let things go?
“Look,” she said, “if you don’t go call your father, I will.”
“All right, all right.” Meredith dragged herself off the bed as if the blood in her veins had suddenly been replaced with lead. “Where’s the phone?”
“There’s a pay phone in a little alcove off the dining room.” Meredith lumbered off, the screen door clanging behind her.
Claire sat in the stillness of the morning, listening to the low buzz of insects all around her. It was a strange dynamic the two of them had, she thought, all the stranger for its mutual dependency. Claire knew Meredith needed her, but she realized she needed Meredith just as much. She had never particularly missed the presence of a child in her life; watching harassed and exhausted parents lugging their children around the city, she had breathed more than one sigh of relief, all the while feeling a nagging guilt that she herself had not procreated. Her life was so simple, uncomplicated by the pulls and demands of children.
However, Meredith’s abrupt entry into her life—falling like a meteor from the sky—had changed everything. Suddenly there was a sense of unexplored emotional territory. It was threatening to Claire’s carefully constructed equilibrium—and yet seemed like an invitation to adventure. Meredith reminded her of an earlier self: looking at her, Claire remembered a time in her life when, like Meredith, she was hungry with longing for life, for experience: she wondered if age had closed her in, withered her ambitions and desires, flattened her capacity for experience.
She wanted to absorb Meredith’s passion, her zest for knowledge, her impatience. Claire thought she had become too patient with age, too accepting of life’s dullness. Like Robinson Crusoe, she was beginning to view civilization as a deadening influence.
Ralph came slinking around the side of the house, belly low to the ground, though Claire couldn’t see what he was stalking. He moved through the tall grass as though each blade were made of glass and might break if he put his paw down too hard. Watching him, Claire marveled at the power of instinct: this behavior was hardwired into his genetic code, and was common to centuries of cats before him—and centuries of cats to come. Claire wondered what was hardwired into humans . . . a need to kill, perhaps? Was it possible that somewhere in our DNA structure there was a gene for murder?
“Claire, you’d better come hear this.” Meredith was at the door, her voice thick with excitement.
“Hear what?”
“I’ll show you.”
She followed Meredith through the house into the little alcove that housed the pay phone and answering machine that served all the residents at Ravenscroft. The light was blinking once, indicating there was a message on the tape. Meredith looked at Claire, paused dramatically, then hit the play button. The machine whirred and spun into sound.
“. . . this is a message for Maya Sorenson . . . it’s Jeff Miller returning your call. I spoke with
Ed and he does remember you from the London beat. So if you want to talk to me about the story you mentioned, give me a call back at the Times or use my beeper number: 917-787-5544. Thanks.”
Meredith hit “stop” and looked at Claire.
“Is that a clue or not?” Meredith cried triumphantly.
“Well . . .” Claire began.
“Is what a clue?” said a male voice.
Claire turned to see Jack Mulligan standing behind them; she had not heard him come up.
Before Claire could answer, Meredith snatched the tape from the machine. “That’s for the police to decide,” she said, and dropped the tape into the pocket of her jeans.
Jack Mulligan shrugged and walked toward the kitchen.
“Let’s call Detective Hansom!” Meredith said, grabbing the phone eagerly, but Claire put her hand on the receiver.
“All right, but first you will call your father.”
“But this is so much more important!”
“Not to your family. Call him—now!”
Meredith sighed and dialed. “He’s probably out somewhere with my evil stepmother, the Wicked Witch of Greenwich,” she muttered as she waited for someone to pick up.
“Hi, Dad? It’s me. No, I’m okay. I’m with Claire. What do you mean . . . I left a note, for Christ’s sake!” Meredith rolled her eyes. “I’m not swearing, Dad, it’s just that—I can’t go back to that place, Dad—I absolutely cannot!” There was a pause. “Yes, she’s here. I guess.” She put her hand over the receiver and looked at Claire. “Do you want to talk to my father?”
“Sure.” As she took the receiver from Meredith, Claire felt her palms sweating. Ted Lawrence always made her a little nervous. “Mr. Lawrence? It’s Claire Rawlings.”
“Ted, please. I’m sorry Meredith has imposed herself on you once again.” His voice was the same as she remembered: smooth, cultivated, impeccable, the ultimate Connecticut WASP.
“Oh, it’s—it’s no imposition, really; it’s just that . . .”
“What?”
Claire wanted to say “There’s been a murder,” but that sounded so dramatic. What she did say, however, sounded ridiculous. “Well, we’ve had an—accident here.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Someone’s been killed. But the rest of us are fine,” she added hastily.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, but . . . well, I think it’s all under control now.”
“When should I come get Meredith?”
“Oh, I—whenever’s good for you, really.”
“Is he talking about coming here?” Meredith said, lunging for the receiver.
“Yes,” Claire answered, holding it above her head.
“Tell him not to come—please, oh please!” The girl looked so miserable that Claire began to relent.
“Uh . . . Ted?”
“Yes?”
“Is it possible that Meredith could stay just a day or two?”
There was a long pause on the other end and Claire heard a woman’s voice in the background—Jean Lawrence, Meredith’s stepmother, no doubt. Claire could hear her saying something that sounded like “peace and quiet,” and then Ted Lawrence came back on the phone.
“Uh, Claire?”
“Yes?”
“That would be all right with us if it’s all right with you, as long as she’s not in the way.”
“It’s fine; she’s not in the way at all.”
“All right, then, if you promise. We’ll call you in a couple of days and arrange to come get her.”
“That’s fine.”
“May I speak to her?”
“Sure.” She turned to Meredith, who was jumping up and down singing “Hallelujah” softly under her breath. “Your father wants to talk to you.”
Meredith took the receiver. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, and I promise, promise, promise I’ll be good and I won’t get in anyone’s way and it’s really beautiful here—much prettier than summer camp—oh, wait’ll you see it; you’ll just love it here and I’m going to help solve the—” She stopped abruptly. “No, she said she didn’t mind. Why would she lie? Not every one feels the same way about me as the Wicked Witch does, you know; incredible as it may seem to you, some people actually like me . . . well, she is a witch, at least to me. Oh, come on, Dad, she hates me and you know it! Yeah, she’s still here. Okay.” Meredith turned and handed the receiver to Claire. “He wants to talk to you.”
Claire took the receiver. “Yes, Mr. Lawrence?”
“Are you sure Meredith won’t be in the way?”
Claire wanted to voice her concerns about Meredith’s safety in the aftermath of the murder, but it wasn’t even clear yet whether it was murder, so she said nothing. “It will be a pleasure to have her here,” she said firmly, a little angry at the way Meredith’s father treated the child. She knew he loved his daughter, but he was puzzled by her, didn’t understand her, and had a pathological fear of imposing himself on other people.
“All right,” he said dubiously. “Thank you. If you’ll give me the number up there, I’ll talk to you in a couple of days.”
Claire gave him the number on the pay phone. After she hung up, Meredith began doing cartwheels across the dining-room floor.
“I’m free—free at last!” she bellowed, doing a bad imitation of Martin Luther King. “Thank you, Claire; thank you so much for delivering me from purgatory! Oh!” she said suddenly. “We still haven’t called Detective Hansom!”
By the time Detective Hansom arrived at Ravenscroft, most of the other residents were up. Some of them did not look pleased to see him, no doubt expecting further questioning, but Camille approached him with a cup of steaming coffee.
“Good morning, Inspector,” she said with a broad smile. Claire noticed that even at this hour she wore lipstick.
“Detective,” Hansom corrected her quietly. “Thank you,” he said, taking the coffee. He looked a little disheveled this morning—and with a sudden stab of longing Claire thought of Wally and his rumpled appearance.
“Here’s the tape, Detective,” Meredith said, pressing it into his hand. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”
“I’m sure I will,” he replied. “Was there anything else?”
“I have some theories, if you’d like to hear them. For example, I feel fairly certain—”
“Not right now, Meredith,” Claire said quickly. “I’m sure Detective Hansom is a very busy man.”
“Perhaps another time?” the detective said kindly.
Meredith shrugged. “All right; but by then it may be too late.”
“How are you all holding up?” he asked Claire, lowering his voice.
“Pretty well, I guess . . . I mean, everyone’s pretty shaken by this.”
He nodded, his big head tottering on its ridiculously thin neck. “Of course. We have forensics going over everything, and I hope to have a lead soon.”
“So it was murder?” said Meredith.
The detective nodded slowly. “I’m afraid so. The actual cause of death was drowning, but there was evidence of ligature marks on her neck; so although she inhaled water, she was definitely strangled.”
“Any fingerprints?” Meredith asked.
Detective Hansom shook his head. “The murderer may have worn gloves—or the prints may have been washed away in the bathtub. That reminds me,” he said, locking his long gnarled fingers together as if in prayer. “We’re going to ask the residents to participate in a voluntary fingerprinting; we lifted quite a few sets of prints from the porcelain in the bathroom. The presence of your prints in the room is, of course, no evidence of guilt; we assume you all may have used the bathroom at one time or another. It’s really for the purpose of what we call ‘elimination prints’; we’re looking for any fingerprints not belonging to one of the residents.”
“Did they find any signs of sexual assault?” said Meredith.
The detective put his coffee cup on the fireplace mantel. �
�Not so far. We’re still awaiting analysis of—”
“Of her vaginal fluid?” said Meredith.
Claire reached over and pinched Meredith’s arm.
“Ow! What?” she said, rubbing her arm.
“Meredith, I think you should let the detective do his job and stop bothering him.”
Meredith glared at Claire. “May I remind you that you wouldn’t be alive right now if it weren’t for me?”
Detective Hansom looked at Claire, surprise sitting on his big craggy face like sap on a gnarled tree trunk. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” Claire said softly. “Yes, it is.”
“I told you I have experience in solving crimes!” Meredith trumpeted as Camille came back into the living room with a cup of coffee.
“Well, I can believe it,” said Camille, perching on the edge of the couch. She took a sip of coffee, leaving a thin red layer of lipstick on the rim of the mug. “I’d love to hear the story sometime.”
“So would I,” said Detective Hansom, and Claire had the feeling he really meant it.
“You’re probably getting some good clues from Maya’s journal,” said Camille.
Inspector Hansom looked at her, his face blank as glass. “What journal?”
“Maya kept a journal; wasn’t it with her things?” said Camille.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. She used to talk about it—remember, Claire?”
Claire nodded. “Yes; she mentioned it once when we were sitting on the porch.”
“The murderer stole her journal!” Meredith’s voice trembled with excitement. “Probably while she was in the bath; her bedroom door was left open, after all. Then he—or she—went downstairs and murdered her.”
Detective Hansom stood up. “Well, I’m going to check with Officer Connors to see if he knows anything about it. Then I’m going back to the station and go through her things carefully.”
“Would you like some more coffee before you go?” Camille said in a silky voice.
“Uh, no thanks; that was very good,” he said, handing her the empty cup.
“Glad you liked it.” Camille held his eyes just a little longer than necessary. She’s flirting with him, thought Claire. Maybe she genuinely liked him; his awkwardness was appealing in its own way . . . but Claire couldn’t help thinking there might be another motive. God, I’m starting to think like Meredith.
Who Killed Dorian Gray? Page 10
