“Really? Did anyone else know that?”
Meredith shrugged. “Maybe. Camille knew because she and Maya talked about it once; see, a lot of people take showers in the morning but Maya said that in Sweden people liked baths at night to help them sleep because it was so cold.”
“Oh, that reminds me—you had any more trouble with the water heater?” said Marcel.
“I don’t think so,” said Claire. She turned to Meredith. “Does Detective Hansom know what Camille told you?”
“Camille says she was too upset to remember what she said that night” Meredith flicked a tiny piece of eggshell into the thicket of greenery surrounding the porch. This was followed by a flurry of wings and some agitated twittering, and then the inhabitants of the bushes settled down again. “But if Hansom would answer his phone messages, I’d tell him.”
“You’ve been calling the police station?” said Marcel. “How come?”
“Because it’s clear that they need a little help,” she replied, getting up from the table. “May I please be excused?”
“Sure,” said Claire.
“I’m going to go see if Billy’s done with the phone yet,” Meredith said, taking her plate inside.
Marcel stood up and patted his flat stomach. “Well, that was great—but I gotta get back to work.”
“I’ll tell Liza you were looking for her,” said Claire.
“Oh, thanks. It’s nothing important. I’ll call back later.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for the sandwiches.”
“Anytime.”
As she watched Marcel climb into his truck, Claire noticed there was something in the way he moved that reminded her of Robert . . . hard, muscular Robert, whose body was as beautiful as his soul was evil.
“Hello, Redbird.”
The screen door slammed behind her and Claire turned to see Two Joe standing on the porch.
“Hi.”
He sat down on the bench beside her. “I made you a medicine wheel,” he said, pulling from his pocket a woven pendant like the one hanging around his neck. Only the colors were different: his was mostly red and yellow, while this one was made up of blues and greens.
“It’s beautiful; thank you,” she said, examining it. It was very light, and twirled in the breeze on its leather string when she held it up to look at it.
“Wear it for protection,” said Two Joe, “even at night. Take it off only to bathe.”
He slipped it around her neck. As he did, his fingers grazed her neck, and she felt her flesh shiver in response. It weighed barely an ounce, and yet once it was around her neck, she felt as if she had put on another garment.
“That’s good,” he said, stepping back to look. “That will be powerful medicine for you” There was something in the way he looked at her that made the blood rise to her face. It wasn’t exactly sexual . . . or was it? Whatever it was, it had an effect . . . and she supposed he knew that.
“What’s it made of besides twine?” she said.
“Bent cactus needles. You wet them and bend them—if you know how.”
“Where do you find cactus needles around here?”
“They are from my home in Arizona. I carry them with me wherever I go. You never know when someone may need a medicine wheel.”
Meredith came out from the house, letting the screen door slam behind her. “Hiya, Two Joe.”
“Hello.”
“Cool!” she said, seeing the pendant around Claire’s neck. “Can I see it?”
She bent over to look, the sun spilling onto her thin, pale arms with their light dusting of blond freckles. “Cool. Did you make it?” she said to Two Joe.
He nodded. “I did. Redbird needs protection.”
“Redbird?”
“That’s her Indian name.”
“Oooo, can I have one—can I have an Indian name?”
Two Joe thought for a moment. “I will call you Lightning Flash.”
“Cool! I like that—Lightning Flash! That is way cool. Now, if camp had stuff like that, I wouldn’t have left. Lightning Flash,” she repeated softly. “I want people to call me that. Remind me to tell my father that my Indian name is Lightning Flash, will you, Redbird?”
“Okay,” said Claire, laughing. “And now Redbird has things to do, if Lightning Flash doesn’t mind washing the lunch dishes.”
“Tell me more stuff about being an Indian,” said Meredith to Two Joe as they went inside.
“I can see this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Claire murmured to herself as the screen door closed behind them.
Chapter 10
Liza wanted to talk to Claire about possibly resuming JL classes, so she and Meredith were invited over for tea later that day.
Claire and Meredith started across the broad lawn to Liza’s cabin, past the row of artists’ studios behind Ravenscroft. Gary Robinson was seated on the steps in front of his studio, a pile of wood shavings at his feet. As they got closer, Claire could see that in his right hand he held a small mahogany figurine. In his left hand was a hunting knife. He whittled with a sure, confident movement, the knife digging easily into the soft wood.
“What’s that?” said Meredith.
Gary answered without looking up and without pausing in his carving. “It’s a Nigerian fertility god.”
“Mmm,” said Meredith “That explain the size of its—”
“Come on, Meredith.” Claire grabbed her by the wrist. “Liza’s waiting for us.”
“Nice god you got there,” Meredith called over her shoulder. Gary didn’t reply.
As Meredith and Claire walked across the lawn they could hear angry voices coming from the cabin.
“It’s not good enough!” Claire heard Liza say.
“Oh, fine, Little Miss Perfect!” Sherry answered. “You never had a crush on anyone, I suppose?”
“I just want to know if it’s true or not!” Liza said.
Claire cleared her throat loudly as they approached the cabin. The voices ceased abruptly. Claire waited a moment, then knocked on the front door. There was a pause, then Liza came to the door.
“Hi,” Claire said, wondering why she hadn’t just turned around and gone back when she heard them arguing.
“Hi,” Liza replied, opening the door. A moment later Sherry emerged from the bedroom, a backpack slung across her shoulder.
“I’m going out,” she said brusquely, with a nod to Meredith and Claire. Claire winced as the screen door whacked against the doorframe behind her as Sherry left.
Awkwardness hung in the air like smoke. Liza stood in the middle of the living room, her big hands hanging at her sides, looking miserable and lost. She wore her gardening overalls and a red kerchief was wound around her forehead. Claire had an impulse to hug her.
“We could come back later—” she began, but Liza shook her head again.
“No, I’m sorry if you heard any of that, but—well, girls will be girls,” she said with a forced little laugh.
“We can talk later—really,” Claire said, but Liza shook her head.
“No, we really shouldn’t put this off anymore. I think it would take everyone’s mind off things a little if we started the seminars again, don’t you?”
Meredith, busily engaged in looking for the cat under the couch, straightened up and wiped the dust off her hands. “Absolutely,” she said. “Nothing like a little learning to take the mind off other things. That’s why they keep kids in school so much of the time, you know; it’s so they won’t think about sex.”
“Oh, is that it?” said Liza. “I always wondered.”
“Oh, sure,” Meredith replied breezily. “Otherwise they’d be f—”
“Meredith!” said Claire.
“Fornicating like pagans,” Meredith finished. This time it was Claire who rolled her eyes. Liza just laughed. “Well, they would,” Meredith said. “God knows they’re not teaching us anything worthwhile—at least not in East Haddom, Connecticut.”
“That’s too bad,” said Liza. “Meredith, would you mind making us some tea while we talk? I think there’s a bag of Lemon Crunch cookies in the kitchen.”
“Sure!” Meredith sprang off toward the kitchen.
“Well done,” said Claire. “You have a way with her.”
Liza smiled. “I’m glad I have a way with someone . . .” She sighed and shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “Self-pity is so unbecoming, isn’t it?” She sat down on the couch and unlaced her dirt-spattered gardening shoes. “So 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.”
* * * * *
That night Liza made lasagna for everyone. Usually the residents fended for themselves at meals, but Liza was taking her job as “house mother” seriously. “This will be good for morale, I think,” she said to Claire that afternoon. “Everyone likes to be cooked for.”
The smell of baking cheese simmering in tomato sauce permeated the house, drifting up through the hallways, making Claire salivate, taking her mind off her work. She was trying to read a manuscript, but the prose was not exactly gripping, and her mind kept wandering. Finally, dinnertime arrived, and she gladly put aside her work and went downstairs to help Liza. Two Joe and Meredith were already in the kitchen helping her when she arrived.
“This one is vegetarian,” Liza said as she pulled the steaming casserole dish out of the oven, “and this one has meat.”
“I’ll have some of the one with meat,” said Meredith, spooning a huge helping onto her plate.
Two Joe shook his head. “I think your eyes are greedier than your stomach.”
“Lightning Flash can eat anything,” Meredith said, helping herself to salad. “Did you know my Indian name is Lightning Flash?” she said to Sherry, who had just walked in.
Sherry smiled. “Oh, really? What’s mine, I wonder . . . Stump of Tree? Chipmunk Cheeks?” Sherry was barely five feet tall, and though she joked about her size, Claire could sense that she was sensitive about it.
“How about Half-a-Glass?” said Camille, putting some wineglasses on a tray. “If he’s Two Joe, and you’re Sherry, then you can be—”
“Half-a-Glass. I like it,” said Sherry. “What do you think, Two Joe?”
Two Joe shrugged. “If you like, it’s good.”
“But is the glass half-empty or half-full?” said Liza, touching Sherry lightly on the shoulder.
“Oh, the NEA would love this; it’s so politically correct. I can just hear the grant papers being shuffled now.” Jack Mulligan stood in the hall, hands in his pockets, wearing his usual uniform: khaki pants, green army shirt, and hunting vest. He always looked as though he were about to go on a military maneuver.
“Okay, everybody, come and get it!” Liza yelled, ignoring him. One by one the rest of the residents appeared, a few of them paint-splattered, some looking as though they had just awakened from naps. Everyone still looked exhausted from the events of the last couple of days. Some people were returning to work, but the stress and lack of sleep showed on their faces.
The sun was setting as they gathered on the porch, sitting on the wooden benches on either side of the picnic table. It was a tight squeeze with all of them there, and Meredith jumped up from the table.
“I’ll sit over here,” she said, pulling one of the canvas directors’ chairs up to the coffee table on the other side of the porch.
“I’ll join you,” Camille offered, taking her plate over and sitting on the daybed. She pulled her legs up under her, neat as a cat.
“Where’s Billy?” Sherry looked at Gary, who shrugged.
“I don’t know; I haven’t seen him.”
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” muttered Jack.
“What?” said Terry.
“Nothing,” said Jack. “Would you please pass the salt?”
Gary handed him the saltshaker. Claire looked over at Tahir, who sat quietly at the far end of the table. She thought he looked particularly tired, with deep circles under his eyes. She couldn’t help thinking again what beautiful eyes they were, with their long dark lashes. As usual Tahir was quiet and retiring, a little island of stillness in the midst of the more talkative types like Jack and Terry. Terry was subdued, too, though; ever since Maya’s death he had been walking around like a lost soul, forlorn and lonely.
“That’s bad for your arteries,” said Meredith as Jack poured salt onto his food.
He shrugged. “If one thing doesn’t get you, something else will. It’s all the same to me.”
“That’s kind of nihilistic,” said Gary.
“No, it’s just realistic. We’re all going to die, but at least I will have lived.”
Just then Billy appeared at the screen door with a plate in his hand. “Sorry I’m late. I was in the middle of a painting and I had trouble finding a place to stop.”
Claire thought that it was unusual for Billy to be apologetic, but everyone else just nodded. Gary moved over and made a space for Billy to sit between him and Sherry. Billy’s usually immaculately groomed hair was mussed, and he looked distracted.
“This is great lasagna,” said Camille from the other side of the porch.
“Yes, it is excellent,” Two Joe added solemnly.
Just then there was the sound of the phone ringing inside the house.
“I’ll get it!” cried Meredith, leaping up from her chair and almost stepping on Ralph, who had chosen that moment to saunter across the porch. He crouched, ears flattened, as she charged past him, the screen door slamming loudly behind her.
“Take it easy,” Claire called after her.
Jack Mulligan shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re to be congratulated for your patience with her.”
“Oh, she’s fine,” said Sherry, helping herself to more wine. “I’ve seen much worse kids than her. She’s just a little hyperactive.”
“I understand she’s an orphan,” Tahir said quietly from his end of the table.
“Well, her mother died quite tragically not long ago,” said Claire, “but she has a father and a stepmother.”
“I know what this is like, to lose your mother,” said Tahir softly.
“The Grim Reaper comes to all sooner or later,” Jack said.
“Yes, but there’s a big difference between sooner and later,” said Gary, “especially when it’s your mother.”
“Or anyone you love,” added Terry. His face still looked swollen from crying.
Meredith appeared at the door. “It’s for you,” she said to Camille. “It’s a man with a French accent” Claire saw the color creep up Camille’s neck as Meredith said this. But whatever Camille’s feelings were, she did not betray them in her voice—which immediately made Claire wonder what she was hiding.
“Thanks,” she said simply, and went into the house.
Meredith sat back down and picked at her salad, but Claire could tell she was more interested in Ralph, who sat invitingly just a few feet away. He had his eye on her, though, ready to spring to freedom at any moment.
“Fine people, the French,” said Jack, and when no one responded, he added, “unless any of you have reason to disagree with that.”
Tahir looked as if he were about to reply, but just then there was the sound of tires crunching on stones and Evelyn Gardner’s natty little red sports car pulled up in front of the house. The sun was sending its last feeble rays of light through the trees as she climbed out of the
car, shielding her face from the glare.
“Hello, everyone!” she called out cheerfully. “I’m sorry if I picked a bad time to come. I just wanted to see how you all were doing after—well . . . you know.” She closed the car door and took a few steps up the porch. “Mmm—that smells delicious,” she said, eyeing the lasagna greedily.
“Have some,” said Sherry. “There’s plenty more.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Evelyn replied unconvincingly.
“Go ahead,” said Liza, “there’s lots.”
“Well, if you insist, I don’t see how I can resist. It looks so good!” she said, disappearing inside.
Sherry rolled her eyes “Her timing is impeccable—as usual.”
“Oh, she’s a freeloader, is she?” said Jack.
“Shh,” Liza whispered. “Let’s not talk about it now.”
Gary smiled. “She’s a woman of existential hungers. I understand that,” he added, with a glance at Billy.
Evelyn reappeared at the door with a plate piled high with food. “I’ll sit over here,” she said, pulling one of the director’s chairs up to the coffee table, next to Meredith. “So, how is everyone doing?”
“We’re okay,” said Sherry.
“Considering that someone in this house is a murderer,” Meredith said calmly.
“Meredith!” Claire said sharply.
“Well, nobody really has an alibi,” Meredith added sulkily.
“That doesn’t mean—” Claire began, but Jack interrupted her.
“Oh, she’s probably right, you know,” he said, looking around the table to judge the impact of his remark. Terry was staring fiercely at his plate, Tahir was biting his lower lip, and several of the others looked distinctly uncomfortable.
But Billy Trimble laughed softly. “The only real question, then, is who is more prone to violence—painters or writers?”
The screen door opened and Camille came back onto the porch. “Definitely writers,” she said, pouring herself some wine. “They’re much more violent than painters. Painters only mutilate themselves, like Van Gogh.” Claire thought that Camille’s cheeks were redder, and her eyes brighter than before, though it was hard to tell in the dim evening twilight.
Who Killed Dorian Gray? Page 13
