“What can we do for you, Detective?” said Meredith, trying unsuccessfully to conceal her excitement.
“What I was wondering,” Hansom said as he stirred milk into his tea, “was if any of you knew whether Mr. Nordstrom was accustomed to smoking cigarettes.”
“Why?” said Meredith, her thin body tense.
“If you would just answer the question, I’d appreciate it,” Hansom replied.
“He used to bum them from me,” said Camille, “but to my knowledge, he never bought any.”
“And what brand do you smoke?”
“Sobraine Black Russians,” Camille replied, taking the pack from her jacket pocket.
“Why?” said Meredith.
Detective Hansom laughed suddenly, a little explosion of mirth shaking his lanky frame. “You never stop, do you?”
“You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours,” said Meredith, undeterred. “I might be able to dig up some information you’d find useful.”
“All right, Meredith, that’s enough,” said Claire.
Detective Hansom leaned back in his chair, the canvas straining under the pressure. Claire looked over at Camille, who was busy looking at the detective, a little smile on her face.
“Well . . . I don’t see how it could hurt to tell you this,” he said. “An unopened box of Sobraine Black Russians was found among Mr. Nordstrom’s things.”
“So that’s what happened to my cigarettes!” said Camille, setting her teacup down so hard the china rattled.
“What do you mean?” asked Sergeant Rollins from his perch on the porch railing.
“Well, I had a new box of Sobraines disappear right before . . . actually, it was right before Maya was killed,” she said softly.
“Are you certain about that?” said Detective Hansom.
“Yes, I remember; I got you a pack while I was in town,” said Claire.
“Right.”
“And that’s the pack you have now?” said Hansom.
“No,” answered Camille. “That’s the pack that disappeared. Liza got me these.”
“Hmmm,” said Meredith, swinging her legs back and forth under her chair, “the plot thickens.”
Their little tea party was broken up by the appearance of Jack Mulligan, who drifted out onto the porch and sat down in one of the director’s chairs. He wore his green army fatigues over thick-soled boots. He held an unlit pipe in his right hand, the three remaining fingers curling around the wooden bowl of the pipe.
“Hello, Detective,” he said to Hansom. “What brings you to our humble little mountainside dwelling? Did someone else die?”
Detective Hansom ignored the question. “How did you lose your fingers, Mr. Mulligan?” he said evenly.
Jack Mulligan smiled broadly, his blue eyes almost swallowed in a thick web of crow’s-feet. “It was in ’Nam. Serving my country and all that. A shell came along and took part of me with it.”
The crow’s-feet vanished along with his smile. “’Course that’s better than what happened to my buddy.”
“What was that?” Meredith said softly, leaning forward in her chair to catch his words.
Jack Mulligan looked at her, the usual tone of bravado melted from his voice. “Caught one right in the chest. Wasn’t much of him left.”
His fingers closed around the pipe he held, and Claire sensed the strength in those hands, even with the missing fingers.
“At least he died quickly,” he said with a little catch in his voice. Claire wondered whether it was put on or real; if this was an act, though, she had to hand it to Jack: he was an impressive actor. If it was a performance, it was subtle and convincing.
“You ever fight in a war, Detective?” he said, swiveling his head toward Hansom.
“No, I never did,” Hansom replied. “Had asthma since I was a kid.”
“Well, count yourself lucky . . . I’ll never forget the things I saw over in ’Nam. Like to, but I never will. In all my years on the force, I never saw anything like it.”
“You were a cop?” said Sergeant Rollins. He teetered on his perch on the porch railing, teacup precariously balanced on his knee.
“Twenty years. Took early retirement when my pension came due. I’d had enough; feet were shot, back was bad.” He leaned back and stretched, and Claire saw the power in those broad shoulders. “’Course I was just an ordinary beat cop—nothing fancy like a detective or anything. We wear out shoe leather before brain cells.”
Just then Sergeant Rollins sneezed loudly, sending Ralph scurrying for the safety of the bushes.
“Gesundheit,” Jack said amiably. “Well, back to work.” He sighed, rising from his chair, the dry wood creaking under his weight “Good luck with your investigation, Detective,” he said, and sauntered back into the house. There was a moment of silence and then Camille spoke.
“I just don’t like that man,” she said through gritted teeth. Claire thought such candor was uncharacteristic of Camille, especially in front of Detective Hansom.
Meredith chewed a cookie thoughtfully. “He isn’t everything that he seems.”
Inspector Hansom unfolded his long body from his chair. “Thank you for the tea,” he said to Camille, who smiled sweetly.
“Can I have a word with you?” Claire said as Hansom made his way down the porch steps.
“Certainly.”
They went out to the side lawn, out of hearing distance of the others.
“Is what I told you about Jack useful in your investigation?” Claire asked.
He shook his shaggy head. “Could be. It’s early to say. Thank you for telling me, though.”
He put his large, knotty hand on her shoulder. “I know this has been hard for you,” he said gently. “We’re doing everything we can, you know.”
She nodded. “I know.”
The unspoken question hung like mist in the air between them: would it be enough?
Chapter 18
That night Claire decided to turn in early. She made herself a cup of hot cocoa and passed through the living room where Two Joe sat cross-legged in front of the fire playing cards with Meredith. Two Joe had brought his own cards from Arizona, a beautiful hand-painted deck with Native American motifs. The kings were various chiefs—Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, and the like—and the jacks were buffalo, wolves, beaver, and other animals important to various tribes. Two Joe said his cousin had made it, and that there were only twelve such decks in existence.
“Wow, this is so cool,” said Meredith, turning the cards over in the firelight as she lay on her stomach. Two Joe towered over her, his enormous thighs tucked neatly underneath him, his thick torso straight as a tree trunk. His straight black braid glistened in the glow of the fire, shiny as sealskin.
The rest of the residents had already retired, except for Camille, who lay on the couch reading.
“What are you reading?” Claire said as she passed by.
Camille held up the book. “In Cold Blood.”
“Isn’t that a little gruesome—I mean, with everything that’s happened?”
Camille shrugged. “I guess. I found it in the library, and I’ve always wanted to read it. Now I can’t put it down. He sure can write, that Truman Capote, don’t you think?”
Claire nodded and took a sip of cocoa. “Oh, sure. He’s wonderful. I just don’t know if that’s the book I’d choose to read right now.”
“What shall we play?” said Meredith, handing the cards to Two Joe.
“I will teach you a Native American game,” he replied.
Claire had never seen Meredith respond to anyone the way she responded to Two Joe; she clearly respected him and looked up to him—and was even a little in awe of him, Claire thought. There was no hint of the usual breezy superiority Meredith showed around other people. She went around the house trying to get everyone to call her by the Indian name he had given her.
“Well, Lightning Flash, just don’t stay up too late,” Claire said. “Remember you have a lot to do tomorrow.”
“Detective Hansom needs your help,” Two Joe said solemnly, dealing out the cards, his thick, lined fingers red like old mahogany.
“Well, I’m turning in.” Claire started up the stairs. “Don’t let her stay up too late, will you?” she said to Two Joe.
“Don’t worry, Redbird, you can count on me.”
Claire saw no sign of Ralph when she entered her room; no doubt he was out hunting, heeding the call of ancient instincts.
It was a wind-tossed night, and as Claire crawled into bed the old shutters were rattling for all they were worth, as though the hand of heaven itself were shaking them. The wind outside moaned and pitched, whistling through the eaves, making the old clapboards shudder. Claire lay awake listening to the wind as it swept and rolled through the trees outside. She watched it fling the branches back and forth, whipping them mercilessly, with the inexhaustible force of nature.
Force of nature.
Claire drifted off and awoke to see Meredith asleep on her mattress. She listened to the rising and falling breath of the girl beside her, so peaceful now, her demons locked up inside her dreams. Meredith was indeed a force of nature; when she was awake she could be as fierce as the wind that tore through the tree branches. Asleep, however, she looked like any other child: serene, innocent, almost sweet, her hands folded on her stomach as if in prayer. (Meredith would hate that image: she called herself “an avowed agnostic.”)
If Meredith could pray for anything, Claire wondered, what would it be? The answer was clear and immediate: to have her mother back again. She looked out at the furiously swaying branches. Given that was impossible, she hoped Meredith would settle for the next best thing. Claire smiled. She didn’t even mind being the next best thing . . . sometimes, she knew, that’s all we have, and for the second time that day the thought came to her: At least it’s better than nothing at all. She drifted off to sleep with the sound of the gale in her ears.
Claire awoke suddenly to see Meredith’s face hovering over her in the half darkness. “What?” she said, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got it!” Meredith whispered fiercely. “I’ve finally figured it out!”
“Figured what out?”
“The key; it’s all there, in quantum mechanics!”
Claire turned on the bedside lamp, shielding her eyes from the light with her hand. She propped herself up on one elbow. “What are you talking about?”
“Quantum mechanics states that it is impossible to observe an object without changing it; in other words, the act of observation itself influences the outcome of an event!”
Claire looked at the clock next to the bed. It was 2:25 A.M. “Is that what you woke me up to tell me?”
Meredith stood up and began pacing the room. The lamplight glinted off her hair, dark rust in the pale yellow light.
“It’s been there all along; I can’t believe I didn’t see it!”
Claire sighed and sat up in the bed, propping herself up with two pillows. When Meredith was in this mood there was nothing to do but listen.
“See, the murderer is being watched now—and that alters their behavior!”
“So? I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Terry was murdered because he was observing the murderer!”
“You mean he knew who—”
“Or the murderer thought he knew—or was getting close.”
Claire was wide awake now. “So Terry was killed before he could talk.”
“Exactly. Now, the question is what led the murderer to believe that Terry was about to figure out his or her identity. I personally don’t think Terry had put it all together yet—”
“Because if he had he would have gone to the police.”
“Exactly. I do think he had some pieces of the puzzle, though.”
“I wonder what that could be.”
“So do I.”
“Okay; can we save the rest of this until morning?”
Meredith shrugged. “I guess.”
“Right. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Meredith sat back on her bed and pulled the blanket up over her bony knees. Claire switched off the light, but she could see Meredith sitting hunched over in the dark, hugging her knees to her chest, moonlight falling on her thin shoulders, her restless mind working.
Claire fell into an uneasy sleep. She dreamed she was on a big white horse, galloping through fields and woods. Exhilarated, she could feel the motion of the horse under her, pounding the ground with its big hooves, through meadows and over streams, past houses and roads, across a landscape of faded yellow grasses and falling leaves. She wrapped her legs tightly around the horse as it surged forward, leaping over fallen tree limbs and soaring over fences, faster and faster, until it felt as though they had left the earth behind and were flying through space.
Claire had always been captivated by the power and grace of horses, and now she felt a part of that power, of the unapologetic beauty of nature itself. There was terror in that beauty, but Claire felt only wonder as she sailed over a dream landscape of impossible loveliness. Caught up as she was in this breathless rush forward, time had ceased to exist.
Space and time, and reality itself . . .
Claire awoke to the sound of a catfight. She sat up in bed and listened to the hissing and yowling, which sounded as though it were coming from just outside her window. She peered into the darkness at Meredith, lying on the floor beside her. In the moonlight shining through the window, Claire could see her, mouth open, sleeping heavily. The digital clock next to the bed read 4:16 A.M.
Claire threw off her covers and crept out of bed and down the back staircase. As she did, the sounds outside became louder. There was such a commotion of spitting and angry meowing that she was afraid the cats would kill each other. She pushed open the side door and stood on the slab of stone that served as a top step, the stone cold under her bare feet. There, in the flat pale light of the moon, she could see Ralph and Velcro facing off just a few yards away, in front of Liza’s flower bed.
Their fur standing out in all directions, the cats’ bodies arched and pulsed with aggression. Their movements resembled a strange dance as they circled one another tensely, sizing each other up. Claire knew better than to touch one of the cats; her left hand still bore the scars of meddling in such an encounter at the age of five. She looked around for something to protect herself and saw Liza’s hoe leaning against the side of the house. She picked it up and advanced toward the cats, but just then she heard the door open behind her and turned to see Tahir Hasonovic standing on the steps. To her surprise, instead of pajamas he wore jeans and a windbreaker.
“Here, let me help you,” he said quietly, taking the hoe. “I’ve done this before.”
He walked calmly up to the cats, who by now had lost some of their concentration on each other and were looking at this human who stood before them brandishing a strange weapon. Tahir stood completely still for a moment, then he suddenly let the hoe fall to the ground in the space between the cats, while at the same moment he let out a terrifying screech. The cats froze, panic in their eyes, then bolted in opposite directions. Ralph took off toward the woods while Velcro headed for the porch, reaching the cover of bushes surrounding it in two leaps. Claire watched them for a moment and then turned to Tahir, who stood looking after them.
“That was good,” she said.
He shrugged, picked up the hoe, and leaned it back up against the side of the house. “Cats aren’t so hard. Separating fighting dogs is much harder.” He paused. “Humans are hardest of all,” he said softly.
“It sounds as though you’ve done a lot of that.”
He shrugged again and sighed. “Do you know,” he said slowly, “some things are just . . . difficult to talk about.”
Claire suddenly realized that the grass under her feet was wet with dew; she shivered and took a few steps back. “I’m surprised no one else woke up,” she said as they entered the deserted dining room.
&nbs
p; “Some people are heavy sleepers.”
“I guess so. And it was right under my window. The next nearest room to me is quite a ways down the hall.”
“That would be Camille’s room?”
Neither of them mentioned the rooms, now empty, that had belonged to Maya and Terry.
“That’s right. You’re over in the west wing, aren’t you?”
“I was awake working. I like to work at night when everyone else is asleep.”
They were now standing in front of the kitchen. Claire heard footsteps on the staircase and turned to see Camille coming down the steps. She wore a long blue flannel nightshirt, grey leggings, and thick wool socks.
“What was that awful sound?” she said.
“A catfight,” Tahir replied softly.
Camille shivered. “It sounded as though someone were dying.”
Tahir smiled shyly. “We prevented that from happening.”
“Good for you,” said Camille. “We really don’t need a dead cat on top of everything else.”
Tahir rubbed his forehead. “Well, I’m going to go turn in, if you don’t mind.”
“Good night,” said Claire. “Thanks for saving Ralph’s life. I’m afraid he’s not much of a fighter.”
Tahir smiled, but there was no mirth in his dark face. “Sometimes cats as well as people can surprise you.”
He turned and padded quietly up the stairs, making hardly a sound even on the creaky old floorboards. After he had gone, Camille said, “I wonder what he meant by that.”
“I was wondering the same thing,” said Claire.
The next morning all that was left from the fight was a swirl of cat hair on the lawn. The hoe still stood against the side of the house, but there was no sign of the combatants. Claire was a little worried about Ralph, and wondered if he had actually been injured; neither cat had looked hurt, but in the moonlight it was hard to tell. All morning she waited for him to appear, until finally he showed up on the porch, hungry and a little scruffy from a night spent in the woods. The only sign of the big fight was a small cut on his right ear, which Claire dressed with Neosporin. Ralph immediately tried to rub it off, shaking his head back and forth and dabbing at the spot with his paw. He then ate an entire can of Liver ’n Onions and fell fast asleep on a porch chair.
Who Killed Dorian Gray? Page 21
