Who Killed Dorian Gray?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “Uh—don’t tell Liza yet, will you?” Claire said suddenly.

  Evelyn stopped and looked at her. “Why not?”

  “I—I don’t want her to worry. You know what a mother hen she can be,” Claire said, wondering if Evelyn would buy this. “I’ll tell her myself.”

  “All right.” Evelyn’s gold bracelets tinkled as she opened the door. “Be careful, though; don’t sleep for at least six hours, and if you start to feel woozy or nauseous call a doctor right away.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Claire said as the screen door creaked shut behind her. She watched Evelyn pick her way carefully across the lawn, her high heels sinking into the soft grass. Claire hadn’t seen a pair of stockings since she arrived in Woodstock except on Evelyn, and she wondered how the woman could possibly be comfortable in her fancy clothes—and what drove her to dress as she did. There was something else, too: all during their conversation, Claire had the impression that Evelyn’s mind was on something else; even with her acting talents she couldn’t disguise this.

  Claire left the kitchen and walked toward the laundry area, where the pay phone was located, in the back of the mostly unused dining room. As she entered the empty dining room she heard Camille’s husky voice coming from around the corner; she was on the phone.

  Camille’s voice was low and intimate. “Mais non . . . tu sais que je t’aime. Il n’existe plus de raison pour moi, mais pour toi c’est différent . . . oui, c’est tout à fait différent.”

  To her surprise, the words were mostly simple ones Claire remembered from her college French. She translated in her head: “No, you know I love you. There’s no reason for me, but for you, it’s different . . . yes, it’s completely different.”

  Claire stood for moment deciding what to do. She could go to Liza’s and make the call from there, but that would mean the news would get out before she was ready, before she had told Detective Hansom about it.

  She heard Camille sigh. “D’accord. Oui, d’accord. Au revoir, mon cher.” Claire heard her sigh again and hang up the receiver. A moment later she emerged from the phone room, her face red. Claire couldn’t tell if she had been crying or if it was just red from emotion. When Camille saw Claire, she looked startled and, Claire thought, distinctly guilty.

  “Hello. Back already?” she said.

  Claire decided she couldn’t hide the news forever. “I had a little accident,” she said as calmly as possible.

  “Oh, no,” said Camille. “Your car—what happened? Are you all right?” Her eyes fell on the bump on Claire’s forehead. “Oh God—your poor head!”

  “I’m all right; I just have to make a call,” Claire moved toward the phone.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, really. I’ve got ice—see?” She showed Camille the impromptu ice pack Evelyn had made her. “I’ll be done in a minute,” she said, leaving Camille standing in the middle of the dining room. She had never seen Camille so flustered, she thought as she dialed the precinct’s number. She didn’t want to tell the young policemen sitting in their patrol car in front of Ravenscroft; she wanted to talk directly to Inspector Hansom. If the murderer was after her now, she wanted him to be the first to know.

  Chapter 20

  “What did she say?” Meredith was lazily poking a stick at a spider that was crossing the porch railing.

  “Don’t do that,” said Claire, taking the stick from her. They were waiting for Detective Hansom; Claire hadn’t mentioned the accident to anyone but Camille, who, after expressing her concern by making Claire some tea, disappeared into her room upstairs. Claire could hear the steady click of her typewriter coming from the open second-floor window.

  Meredith sighed and threw herself on the daybed. “What did she say?” She was angry at Claire for not waking her up to go with her into town. When she heard about the brakes malfunctioning, she was furious. To Meredith, Claire thought, missing the car accident was like missing a trip to the zoo was for other children. Now, however, Meredith was focusing on Camille’s mysterious phone conversation.

  “It was something like ‘I love you . . . there’s no reason for me but for you it’s different, completely different,’ ” said Claire.

  “Hmm . . . interesting,” Meredith remarked, perking up. “Very interesting, in fact. Camille has a boyfriend somewhere who speaks French—someone she doesn’t want anyone to know about.”

  “How do you get that?”

  “Well, she hasn’t told anyone yet, has she?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Trust me, Claire; women always tell someone when they have a boyfriend.”

  Claire looked at the girl, her spiky orange hair disheveled from lying on the couch. At thirteen, she was as androgynous as a wood nymph. Claire couldn’t imagine her kissing a boy; she seemed outside sexuality, a gender unto herself.

  “Well, I’m going back to my physics.” Meredith hopped to the door on one foot.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Foot’s asleep.”

  “Oh.”

  Meredith disappeared inside the house, the door clanging loudly behind her. Claire sighed and took a sip of the tea Camille had made her. If Liza was dealing with her stress by gardening, Camille was coping by making tea and coffee for people constantly. The kettle always seemed to be boiling, its shrill whistle cutting through the air like a scream.

  Claire wandered to the other side of the porch and watched the policemen sitting in their patrol car. One was laughing at something the other one had said, head thrown back, his mouth open wide. An image of Terry’s face flashed before Claire: head thrown back, mouth open, the red gash around his neck darkening as the blood dried.

  She turned away. How long would this last, she wondered, how long would laughing policemen continue to evoke images of death for her? She walked over to the picnic table, where Willard Hughes’s latest manuscript lay open on the table: Death by Foul Means. Claire shook her head. She was beginning to wonder if there was any other kind of death. She picked up the manuscript and looked at it.

  Claire knew that the ability to write was no guarantee of virtue; Willard Hughes was proof enough of that. Irascible, insecure, and suspicious, Willard was someone you would avoid at a party. One look at his nervous tic—his right shoulder twitching uncontrollably toward his ear—and your impulse was to avoid him. Willard might be a disaster personally, but professionally he was the goose that laid the golden egg. His mysteries sold off the shelves as soon as they hit them, grossing more for Ardor House than the work of any other author.

  Claire opened the manuscript and read a few lines. Living in fear all the time, do you know what that does to you?

  Living in fear all the time . . . for some reason she thought of Tahir Hasonovic and his haunted eyes. She could only imagine what his life had been like, moving from one place to another to escape people whose sole aim was to kill him.

  The crunch of tires on gravel brought Claire out of her reverie. She looked up to see Detective Hansom’s familiar black sedan, its windows rolled up tightly, swivel into the dirt parking lot below Camelot Road. He emerged from the car with a rickety hop, as though arthritis had already stiffened his joints. He wore a battered fedora and his usual dingy raincoat. When they saw him, both of the officers in the patrol car stepped out of their car and went over to talk to him. Claire watched them, heads bowed, one of the policemen poking at a stone at his feet. Hansom glanced up to where Claire stood on the porch, his dark eyes shaded under the fedora, and raised one hand as if in greeting. It wasn’t exactly a wave; it was more like an acknowledgment of her presence.

  A moment later he clapped a large, knotty hand on one of the policemen’s back, then turned and trudged up the path to the house. The policemen followed obediently behind him single file. When they reached the porch, Detective Hansom removed his hat and nodded to Claire. She had an impulse to seize his hand and shake it, but she restrained herself.

  “Thank you for coming, Detective.�
��

  “Not at all. Can my boys use the house facilities?”

  “Of course. I think there’s some coffee in the kitchen; please help yourselves,” Claire said. The young patrolmen, looking a little uncomfortable, tipped their hats courteously and went into the house.

  “Now,” said Dectective Hansom, settling his long body into one of the director’s chairs, “what is it you needed to see me about?”

  Claire hadn’t told him anything over the phone, and now she proceeded to tell the entire story carefully from the beginning, trying not to miss any details. When she finished, he sat for a moment pulling absently at his lower lip with two fingers.

  “The car is still there?”

  “Yes, I left it just where it was.”

  “And you haven’t told anyone else about this incident?”

  “Evelyn Gardner knows—but I lied and told her it was the steering.”

  Detective Hansom nodded slowly. “I see. We’ll have it towed down to the station and I’ll have it looked over.”

  Claire took a deep breath. “Am I crazy or do you think I’m right to be concerned?”

  Detective Hansom cocked his big head to one side. “Under the circumstances, I think anything is possible. Meanwhile, your instinct to not tell anyone about this was good. If I were you, I would invent a story for the absence of your car. Say it’s down in the shop being worked on or something—at least until we’ve had a chance to go over it. If you notice anyone behaving strangely or asking a lot of questions about it, you might make note of it.”

  Claire nodded. “All right.”

  Detective Hansom rubbed his forehead wearily, a gesture that reminded Claire of Wally. “This Gardner woman; do you think she can be trusted not to say anything?”

  Claire shook her head. “I have no idea. She strikes me as the gossipy type. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good. Delay revealing anything for as long as you can. Oh, and you might keep a watch for anyone who seems surprised to see you alive.”

  Before Claire had time to react to this, the detective had risen from his chair and replaced the battered fedora on his oversized head. She wondered if he had trouble finding hats large enough for that enormous head of his, and whether he had to order them specially.

  “I’ll tell Sergeant Rollins what happened, and we’ll assign someone to keep an eye on you around the clock.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  He nodded. “To me it is. We can move you into town if you like.”

  Claire could hear voices coming from the kitchen—probably the policemen—and she was pretty sure she heard Camille’s throaty, musical laughter. Then someone sneezed. “No, thanks,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said, his hand on the screen door. “There’s one more thing I should probably tell you.”

  Claire’s stomach tightened. “What is it?”

  “The forensics came back on the knife.”

  “Yes?”

  “Based on a match of fibers and skin from Mr. Nordstrom’s body, we have concluded that it is the murder weapon.”

  Claire nodded. “Oh. I see. Any prints on it?”

  The detective shook his head. “If there were, they were wiped off.” He cleared his throat. “I understand Mr. Robinson owns a similar knife, which he claims has been missing. Is that true?”

  Which he claims . . .

  “Is that true?” he repeated.

  “What? Oh, yes, Gary does—did—own a hunting knife. I—I was in the store when he bought it.” Claire swallowed raggedly.

  “I see. Would you have any idea where Mr. Robinson is right now?”

  Claire shook her head. “I haven’t seen him all day. He might be in his studio—out behind the house.”

  Detective Hansom nodded. “Thank you; I know where the studios are.” He opened the door and went into the house, his soft leather-soled shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor.

  Claire stood for a moment watching an afternoon haze descend on the dusty driveway. The brittle sound of cicadas rose from the woods, deafening and mournful, the swan song of late summer. Detective Hansom’s words swam in her ears: Keep a watch for anyone who seems surprised to see you alive. Another thought, even more disturbing, entered her head: if the knife was used to kill Terry, the chances were greater than ever that a resident was the murderer. Who else would bury the knife in the woods surrounding Ravenscroft?

  “Hello, Redbird.”

  Claire looked up to see Two Joe standing on the porch steps. She hadn’t heard him approach. She was always impressed by how quietly he walked; in spite of his size, Two Joe barely made a sound as he padded across the porch. Today he wore soft leather moccasins, but even in his thick cowboy boots he was amazingly silent when he walked.

  “What is it?” he said softly. “What’s happened?”

  She looked at him, at the desert lines etched in his face. His medicine wheel hung as always on a leather string around his neck, bright against the sunburned skin of his chest. Her hand felt for the medicine wheel around her own throat, but it was gone.

  “My—my medicine wheel,” she stammered. “I seem to have lost it.” She wondered if it had come off when her car collided with the tree.

  Two Joe folded his arms, the muscles in his shoulders swelling as he did. Today he wore his flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows, and his forearms were strong and thick as tree limbs. “I can make you another one,” he said. “Still, it is not a good thing to have lost it.” He pointed to the bump on her forehead, which Claire had forgotten about. “That was no accident, am I right?”

  Claire blushed. She wanted so much to tell him what had happened, but remembered her promise to Detective Hansom. She tried to think of what to say, but Two Joe smiled and shook his head.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I can see that you don’t want to tell me. But I can tell you this: Evil spirits gather around you when you are unprotected.”

  Evil spirits. Claire shivered; it did feel as though evil spirits lurked about Ravenscroft; evil certainly, but more earthly than spiritual, unfortunately.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I feel terrible about losing it. I was wearing it all the time, just like you said.”

  Two Joe shrugged. “I doubt that it is your fault. Someone—or something—is trying to separate you from your protection. You must be careful. I will make another one right away.”

  He sat down on the battered lawn chair, which creaked under his weight. “I had another vision last night.”

  Claire sat across from him on the daybed, so close that their knees were almost touching. “A vision? What was it?”

  Two Joe shook his enormous head slowly. “I am still trying to figure out what it means. I saw an eagle swooping down on a rabbit from high atop a mountain.” He rubbed one thick thigh thoughtfully, rocking back and forth slightly. “In my vision, the eagle captured the rabbit—but the rabbit turned around and devoured the eagle.”

  “That’s odd.”

  Two Joe nodded. “Yes, it is. I know there is a meaning there, but I cannot find it. I must go down to the water and meditate, ask my spirit guides for help.” He sighed. “There are bad forces at work here.” He indicated the house and grounds with a sweep of his arm. “I can feel them in the air, in the trees themselves. Evil is very tangible, once you get used to sensing its presence,” he said, leaning in toward Claire, his black eyes shining with intensity. Slowly he reached up and touched the bump on her head.

  Claire closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his fingers upon her forehead. He let his hand linger a moment longer than necessary, but she didn’t mind. She opened her eyes and sighed. “What’s it all for, do you think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The murders . . . wars . . . everything.”

  Two Joe smiled. “Ah. That’s a big question.”

  Claire shook her head. “I just can’t see how we’re any improvement over animals, you know . . . to hunt and kill for food, to defend territor
y or mates is what animals do, but to hunt for bigger or better or more insidious ways to annihilate one another . . . I guess I’m feeling disgusted with our whole species right now.”

  As she spoke, Two Joe surprised her by closing his eyes. He remained like that without responding for some time, half a minute or more.

  “You know, Redbird,” he said slowly, “I have had to learn many bad things about men in my time walking this earth. I know all the stories of your ancestors and my ancestors—how we bled each other, how we took violence to bed with us every night and wept as we slept yet got up the next day to commit more crimes upon each other.

  “I know that your ancestors won not because they were more virtuous or smarter, or even because they loved the land more than my people, but because in the end they were better at killing. They had harnessed the power of fire to help them with their killing; we had not. We pounded our crude warheads from the earth herself; they were sharp as our hands could make them, but your people had weapons quick as flame, and our poor earthbound weapons were no match for them.”

  He paused and inhaled deeply, letting the air out slowly before he spoke. “Our leaders knew this and still they kept fighting. They knew it would end in defeat, but they had no choice but to keep the faith strong in the hearts of their followers—because once you have lost hope, you have lost everything.”

  He sighed and picked up a twig from the ground and rolled it around in his thick brown fingers. “You see, Redbird, we have to keep hoping or we will die. So whatever you do, don’t lose hope—hope that someday people will change, that the qualities which make us different from animals can perhaps someday make us better.”

  In the woods somewhere, a mourning dove called to its mate. The sound, low and hollow, clung to Claire’s heart whenever she heard it. Two Joe took a step toward her and wrapped his strong arms around her shoulders, pulling her gently to him. He smelled of cedar and sandalwood. Gratefully, Claire let go of the knot in her chest and gave in to the sobs welling up from within her.