Chapter 13
No one was prepared for the swarm of newspaper and television reporters that descended upon Ravenscroft like locusts. After Maya’s death a few journalists had come and gone, covering the story with a few camera shots and some more or less random questions to the residents, who were still in a state of shock. But now the air was suddenly thick with them, scurrying about with their cameras and tape recorders, leaving gum wrappers and cigarette butts behind them everywhere. Camelot Road had turned into a parking lot for vans, which were crammed along the deep ditch that ran along side the road, satellite dishes perched on their roofs like metal nests for some giant predatory birds.
Cables twisted and coiled across the lawn like thick black snakes, tripping residents who tried to make their way through the tangle of media people camped out along Camelot Road.
“Damn media vultures,” Jack remarked, looking out the window at the flurry of TV reporters in brightly colored jackets, their perfectly sprayed prime-time hair gathering another coat of fine white dust every time a car rattled along the dirt road.
“You don’t like reporters?” Meredith said, pouncing eagerly on his words.
Jack snorted. “Didn’t like ’em when I was a cop, don’t like ’em now. All they do is distort and interfere. Look at that,” he said as a policeman picked his way through the tangle of cables and cameras. “Damn bunch of jackals, make their living off other people’s misfortunes.”
He turned and strode into the kitchen, where Camille was brewing another fresh pot of coffee. Claire thought that Camille had seized this task of coffeemaking as a way of keeping her fear at bay; it was something to do, something to focus on. The smell of freshly ground beans drifted through the house day and night now as one team of policemen replaced another.
“Maya was a journalist,” Meredith said thoughtfully, sinking down onto the window seat.
“But Jack liked her—or at least he gave that impression,” said Claire.
“Hmm,” said Meredith. “He did, did he?”
Claire rubbed her forehead. A small pinpoint of pain had begun to form over her right eye. What game was Jack Mulligan playing, she wondered, what game were any of them playing, for that matter? She was beginning to have second thoughts about whom she could trust; perhaps her instincts about human nature had utterly deserted her. She looked out over the jungle of reporters and camera people. The sun glinting off the satellite dishes suddenly seemed too bright, the reds on the reporters’ jackets too red; the blaze of light and activity made her dizzy.
Claire knew the signs by now: a migraine was on its way. “I’m going upstairs to lie down,” she said to Meredith.
Meredith looked up at her, her head cocked to one side. “You okay?”
Claire nodded. “I’ve got a headache coming on. I just need a little peace and quiet.”
She didn’t want to say the word migraine because it tended to upset people. Her migraines weren’t that bad, really, and didn’t last very long. But as the stiffness in her neck increased she was glad she was headed for her nice dark, quiet bedroom. She opened the door and stood for a moment in the gentle breeze blowing in from the open window, then lay on the bed and pulled the spread around her legs.
Claire gazed out of the window at the worn white trail of a jet high in the sky. Once just a thin line, it was now crumbling, dissipated, and resembled a long white spinal column of clouds, its ribs slowly fading in the wind as she watched. A narrow line of pain formed just over her right eye, thin and jagged as the white jet trail up in the sky.
She lay there on the bed, her eyes slit open like a cat’s, the room dissolving into half-seen images. She thought about the nature of things seen out of the corner of one’s eye, when you are almost asleep, but not quite, the world around you resembling a dream . . . the tunnel vision in a dream state is like this falling-asleep consciousness . . . like the tunnel vision in a migraine. She closed her eyes and let the room dissolve into darkness, giving herself over to sleep.
Terry’s memorial service was held that night, and was much like Maya’s, except that it was a little shorter. Not many of the residents had warmed up to Terry; his anger had held them at arm’s length, but now that he was dead, everyone seemed very sad. There was another feeling in the air, one Claire was all too familiar with: fear. Even Jack Mulligan seemed more edgy than usual, rubbing his hands together as he sat and listened to Camille talking about Terry. She had probably been closest to him, even acting at times as a confidante. Only Evelyn and Roger Gardner were not at Terry’s service.
Early the next morning Claire called Detective Hansom to ask permission to leave for the day so she could go into town for the weekly editorial meeting at Ardor House. He sounded weary and defeated on the phone, and she felt almost guilty for asking if she could leave, as though she were abandoning him. But she didn’t want to miss the meeting; they were scheduled to discuss Willard Hughes’s next book; there were several things she wanted to talk about with her editor in chief, Peter Schwartz. Every time she used the phone at Ravenscroft, she felt the lack of privacy. It was so public, standing there in the little alcove just off the dining room; Claire listened to the sound of her voice echoing through the big, empty room and felt everyone in the house could hear her.
Rather than go back immediately, she decided to spend the night in the city and return the next day. That way she could pick up her mail, check her apartment, and sleep in her own bed for one night.
“Oh, please let me go—please, please, please!” Meredith begged when Claire announced her plans.
“Isn’t it time you went back to Connecticut?” Claire tossed her toothbrush and dental floss into a small bag. “I can drop you off on the way.”
“But I love the city!” Meredith protested, throwing herself on the bed, kicking at the bedspread with one sneaker.
“Take off your shoes if you’re going to lie on the bed,” said Claire.
“Oh, jeez.” Meredith rolled up to a sitting position, brushing her hair out of her face. “Why can’t I come?” She kicked at the braided throw rug with her heel.
“How are you going to solve the murder if you’re in New York?” Claire said, stuffing a manuscript into her bag. She hoped to catch up on some reading, having done practically none since her arrival at Ravenscroft.
“How can I do it in Connecticut?”
“Look,” said Claire, zipping up her bag. “I’m worried that it’s not safe for you here, and I’d feel better if you were at your father’s.”
Meredith made a face. “It’s not safe for me there. My stepmother’s a coke addict.”
“I thought she was over that.”
“You never get over being an addict; you’re just in recovery. Duh.”
Claire sighed. “Okay, look; if your dad agrees, you can come to town with me, but—”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Meredith leaped up and threw her arms around Claire’s neck.
In the end they decided to take the bus rather than make the long drive both ways. Claire could get started on her reading—and as Meredith pointed out, she often fell asleep on buses.
Sure enough, the bus had not been on the highway for five minutes when Meredith fell asleep, her head lolled over to one side, breathing heavily. Claire leaned back against the plush headrest and stared out the window, watching the countryside of upstate New York sweep by. The tree leaves were the deep, lush green of late summer, poised on the cusp of ripeness before turning the corner toward decay. Claire thought of her own body, of the little signs of aging that greeted her every day. Mirror mirror on the wall. She was glad for Wally in her life, for the ability to revel in the pleasures of the flesh before they, too, fell away like tree leaves.
Pulling herself away from these thoughts, she opened the manuscript in the bag at her feet: Death by Foul Means, Willard Hughes’s latest book. She had promised Peter Schwartz that she would finish it by the end of the week. In addition to being Ardor House’s best-selling author,
Willard was also its most impatient. As soon as one of his manuscripts appeared on Claire’s desk, her phone would ring; it would be Willard asking for her opinion. To his credit, he took her suggestions for rewrites seriously; unlike some successful writers, Willard was interested in the quality of the finished product and not just the royalty checks.
When the bus arrived, Claire sent Meredith up to her apartment in a cab while she went straight from Port Authority to the office, since the meeting was already in progress. Willard’s book didn’t take up much time. Afterward, there was some venting about certain authors or their agents, always a popular activity.
“And then he didn’t even listen to what I said but demanded the rewrites by Friday!”
“It’s not like his book is going be a big moneymaker.”
“It’s as though she thinks she’s the only writer we have.”
“She doesn’t realize I have other things to do than be on the phone with her goddamn agent all day.”
Heads were nodded in agreement, coffee was sipped in righteous indignation, and bagels were chewed in sympathetic solidarity.
“They just don’t understand the kind of pressure we’re under.”
Nobody ever understands, Claire thought. Nobody ever understands anybody else fully and completely, the way they want to be understood. We all keep looking, but that kind of understanding doesn’t exist.
After the meeting Claire stuck her head in Peter’s office. Peter Schwartz was seated at his desk working, head bent, the green light from his Tiffany desk lamp falling on his thinning grey hair.
“Hi. Got a minute?”
Peter looked up from his desk. Some obscure law of physics kept the reading glasses perched on his short nose from sliding off. They always looked as if they were about to fall, but never did.
“Hello there. Have a seat,” he replied, half rising from his chair as Claire entered. Peter Schwartz affected the manners and speech of a perfectly well-bred upper-class Englishman; he was, in fact, a perfectly well-bred upper-class New York Jew, and had never quite eradicated the flattened vowels of the Upper West Side from his accent, which was a curious combination of the West End and West End Avenue.
Claire sat on the soft couch opposite his desk. Peter’s office, with its deeply cushioned sofa, thick Persian rugs, and Tiffany lamps, was a relaxing place. English hunting prints adorned the walls, and a portrait of the queen mother occupied a place of honor behind his desk.
“Tea?” said Peter, plugging in a small electric kettle. Peter’s love of all things English extended to his unwavering devotion to afternoon tea; at precisely four o’clock you could find him brewing tea in his office, no matter who was with him. Claire was certain that if the CEO of Ardor himself were to be sitting in Peter’s office, he would be offered tea at exactly four o’clock.
“How are you holding up?” he asked sympathetically, settling his round little body back into his leather armchair, an exact duplicate of a London club chair, down to the royal crest on the armrests.
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“Are you frightened?”
“Well, maybe a little, but whoever it is, I don’t think they’re after me.”
Peter shrugged, and what there was of his neck disappeared. Everything about Peter was stubby: with his plump, fleshy hands, short little legs, and round torso, he resembled a cartoon character, a Jewish Elmer Fudd. In spite of his appearance, though, he evidently exuded something, because women went for him. Claire thought it was because he made them feel safe; it wasn’t just that he was courtly, but that he was protective in some fundamental way.
“Oh, by the way, remember that neo-Nazi you told me about up there?”
“Jack Mulligan?”
“Yes.” Peter pulled a book out of his briefcase and handed it to her. “I came across this on my shelf at home, and I thought it might interest you.”
Claire looked at the book: The Holocaust: Fact or Fiction? On the cover was a blurred photograph of Dachau, over which was superimposed a swastika.
“It’s one of those ‘revisionist’ texts that these people write . . . I’ll bet your friend Mr. Mulligan has read it, if he’s one of them.”
Claire turned the book over to the back cover and gasped. There, posed before a backdrop of a rocky coastline, wearing the same khaki hunting vest Claire had seen him in, his white hair dashingly windswept, was Jack Mulligan.
“Oh my God.”
“What? What is it?” said Peter.
“It’s him—it’s Jack,” she replied, handing back the book.
“Really? But this book is by Klaus Heiligen—or so it says here.”
“Well, one of those names is an alias.”
“Hmm . . . I wonder which one,” Peter said, studying the picture on the back of the jacket.
“Hard to say. His accent is American, as far as I can tell.”
“And he’s calling himself Mulligan . . . he looks Irish enough, I guess.”
“Well, there were plenty of Celts in northern Germany, so it’s hard to tell from his face. He could be either German or Irish—”
“Or both?” Peter added.
“Can I have this?” Claire said.
“Sure, go ahead, take it.”
Just then the phone rang. “I’m expecting a call from the Big Guy,” Peter said as he picked up the receiver. Peter called the president of Ardor House the Big Guy, which was odd since he was actually a tiny, birdlike man, thin and dry as a cornhusk.
“Peter Schwartz speaking.” Peter put his hand over the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to take this,” he whispered to Claire. “Yes, I’m here. I just had someone in my office . . . no, no; this is as good a time as any,” he said, waving to Claire was she left the office. Claire admired Peter’s ability to maintain his equilibrium. Things were not good at Ardor lately—things were not good anywhere in publishing these days—but Peter seemed to float above it all, buoyed up by his cheerful self-confidence and endless cups of tea.
Claire called Meredith to check on her; she caught her in the middle of a movie on AMC.
“Okay,” said Claire. “I’ll be back soon, go back to your movie.”
When he heard they were staying the night in town, Peter suggested they meet for dinner after work.
“I have a meeting which shouldn’t go late, if you want to meet me down there around seven,” he said.
“That’s fine,” said Claire. “Can I bring Meredith?”
“Of course—she’s always stimulating.”
As she was leaving the building around six-thirty, a sudden summer shower shook loose from the sky, catching people unaware, drenching them as they scurried down the steps to the subway. Soon Claire was standing in a crowded subway car on the Broadway line, pressed in among the other waterlogged passengers.
The air on the train was close and damp and smelled thickly of wet clothes and hair. Claire was reminded of the smell of the puppies in the toolshed when she was a child—the warm, musty aroma of wet fur, little mouths still damp with their mother’s milk. That was a good smell, and yet, standing among her fellow passengers, their bodies so close to her, she was uncomfortable, holding back the claustrophobia that always threatened to close in. The other passengers stood there passively, mute and lumpy as sheep in their wet clothes.
Claire was reminded of a scene in War and Peace in which Prince Andrei sees a group of soldiers bathing in a pond. Watching the press of naked bodies tumbling over each other in the muddy water, he is overcome by revulsion, by a kind of existential despair. Oppressed by the sight of this mass of humanity, Andrei turns away, unsettled. This passage had always stuck in Claire’s mind because she understood it so perfectly: there was something oppressive in the crush of bodies, whether in a muddy pond in nineteenth-century Russia or a Manhattan subway train. And so she stood there stolidly with her fellow travelers, silent amid the clattering of wheels as the train hurtled onward through its underground tunnels.
Peter’s current fav
orite restaurant was a little Vietnamese place on the Bowery. Peter was an aficionado of ethnic cuisine, especially Asian food, and methodically visited as many restaurants as he could before choosing favorites; finding a good restaurant was one of his passions. Avant-garde theatre was another, and the weirder the production, the more Peter liked it. He had seen everything Richard Foreman ever produced; to Peter, understanding a piece of theatre was not necessary in order to enjoy it. (In fact, Claire thought intelligibility actually interfered with his pleasure.)
Claire had accompanied him in the past on some of these excursions. She had seen people jumping around in leotards to sound effects of whale noises, a production in which the only word spoken was “fish”; she had sat watching a man crawl out of a garbage bag for a solid half hour, and she had seen an avant-garde opera in which the main character was a robot named Sam. Finally, Claire decided that her tastes were more plebeian, and though she admired Peter’s sense of adventure, she eventually stopped accompanying him on his theatrical forays.
Peter’s taste in restaurants, however, was a different matter. Claire had to admit that he knew a good restaurant, and she always looked forward to his latest find. Ever restless, he never settled on one place for very long; after a few months he would move on, always searching for the perfect meal. People would come into the office and say things like, “Oh, I tried that restaurant you told me about; it was great!” Peter would roll his eyes and then Claire knew what was coming:
“Oh, I never go there anymore. I’ve found a much better place.”
For Peter, there was always a better place somewhere, just waiting to be discovered, just around the next corner, through the next alley, some unassuming little hideaway that only he would find and appreciate—and then as soon as too many people knew about it, he would be gone, slipping away into the night, off again on his never-ending quest for culinary perfection. Peter’s love of a restaurant was connected to it being his place, his discovery. As soon as it was everybody’s place, he lost interest; the thrill of conquest was gone. Peter pursued restaurants with the same passion and restless possessiveness of a Don Juan pursuing women. The appearance of a favorable review in the press sounded the death knell of a restaurant as far as he was concerned.
Who Killed Dorian Gray? Page 16
