by Cathy Ace
He continued, ‘You were right, Joe, we didn’t have much money, and Meg held down whatever job she could, for as long as they’d keep her on. But that was the problem, you see? She went through job after job after job; got fired from them all. Something would go wrong with every place; she’d mess up the cash register once too often, too many customers would complain that she’d brought them the wrong meal, or she’d turn up at one in the afternoon for a shift that should have started at ten in the morning, and argue about it when the roster was right there on the wall. There was always something. So, yes, Joe, she did get through a lot of jobs, and she did work the worst shifts . . . because she was never anywhere long enough to develop the sort of seniority that allows you to choose better hours.’ It seemed the process of recollection was painful for Dan James.
‘I worked too,’ he added plaintively. ‘I wrote articles for PR agencies; pieces of fluff for filthy lucre . . . not under my own name, of course. I didn’t want the literati to think I’d ever prostituted my talents, but I had no choice. Then I managed to get my poems published, and everything changed. I was the toast of the town – and when “the town” is New York – well, one might as well be the toast of the world. I was overwhelmed by the response. Truly overwhelmed. My work seemed to offer just what everyone who mattered wanted, at the very moment they realized they wanted it; it changed my life. It changed our lives. But Meg just couldn’t cope. She didn’t like the people I was invited to mix with; she felt she didn’t fit in. She still worked because, although the book was well received, it was never going to make me any real money. So, often, I would be out “swanning about” as an outsider might see it, while Meg was pulling the late shift at a bar or a diner somewhere. The offer from Harvard was a lifeline; it offered a good, steady income. They wanted me so badly I was able to negotiate an excellent tenure deal, and there was accommodation thrown in. Meg loved the idea . . .’
‘Hmm,’ grunted Martha Gray. She looked as though she didn’t believe Dan, and he noticed right away.
‘I tell you, Martha, she did. She knew she wouldn’t have to do any dreadful jobs anymore, said she wanted the life we were being offered in a beautiful setting, and that she was looking forward to being a supportive housewife. When we moved there she bought recipe book after recipe book; she threw herself into the life of the campus – for about six months. Then it was as though a light went out in her. I never knew what happened, though I had my suspicions. I swear I hadn’t done anything to hurt her, or harm her in any way. She just changed. I couldn’t reach her any more. It seemed as though, overnight, she turned into a complete shrew. There’s no other word for it; nothing I did, or could do, was right – anything I said was deemed a criticism. I was either hanging around the house too much, or never home. I couldn’t win. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t have the courage to face her with my suspicions. Then, just a few weeks before Christmas, she wasn’t there anymore. Not a note, not a word; I came home from a lecture and she was gone. Some of her clothes were gone – things that made me, and our friends, believe she’d planned to go. Our friends said she’d probably come back one day – just walk right in as though nothing had happened. And I hoped she would . . . for months. Then I got served with divorce papers by a lawyer from Boston; and that was that. No goodbye – nothing. She got back in touch when she rolled into New York four years later and hooked up with you, Martha. But for all those years, when she was on her famous “road trip”, I didn’t hear a word from her – only from her lawyers.’
‘Well, that’s all very sad, Dan,’ said Martha, ‘but what about that poor boy who killed himself because of what you said about his work? What about that? That’s a bit more of a juicy secret, don’t you think? How would they take to that in your precious Ivy League?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Martha,’ replied Dan, sounding genuinely puzzled. ‘There was no one who killed himself because of my critiques. What rubbish was Meg feeding you, exactly?’
I, too, was beginning to wonder about the extent to which Meg had seen the world through a somewhat distorted lens.
‘Don’t be coy, Dan,’ mocked Martha Gray. ‘A boy – whose name I either never knew, or cannot remember – was a student of yours; he looked up to you, worshipped you, in fact. You ripped through his creative efforts, and he dropped out; he ended up living on the streets and eventually died of a drug overdose. Maybe that turned Meg against you. That’s what Meg told me. That was the secret she told me about you – that your heartless actions led to the death of a promising young man, who was cut down by depression because you undermined him completely.’ Martha had spoken with searing emotion; she, too, knew how to hold a room.
Eyes turned from Martha to Dan; we all wanted an answer, and he seemed willing to supply one. It surprised most of the people in the room.
‘I think you’re talking about an upperclassman called Robert. It must be him. When I said that I didn’t know why Meg changed, but that I had my suspicions – well, I suspected Robert was the reason she changed, but not in the way you mean it, Martha. I had good cause to suspect Meg was having an affair with Robert; it wasn’t Meg who made me believe it, but Robert himself. He wasn’t a pleasant young man. In fact, he was quite wicked . . . and not in a playful way. It was a part of my responsibility, of course, to review, critique and grade work submitted by my students as part of our creative writing workshops; Robert would include something in each of his submissions hinting that I was being cuckolded, or that he was familiar with my bedroom, or with intimate parts of Meg’s anatomy. He toyed with me throughout the entire course. But he didn’t “drop out” because of me, Martha; he’d been encouraged by the resident dean to seek counselling about his drinking and drug use. He was well known to the Cambridge police, and there were a number of complaints made against him at his hall of residence. No one was surprised when he didn’t complete the course; I got the impression he’d dumped Meg before he’d left. But she tried to track him down; I found out about that because she used a private investigator and paid him with our credit card. She lied about why she’d hired him, but I guessed. I understand that Robert did, indeed, succumb to his hedonistic ways. Though it had nothing to do with me.’
There was a stillness in the room; the stillness that comes from no one knowing quite what to say next. So I thought I’d better speak up; sometimes, I think the sound of silence is highly over-rated.
‘Every one of us is explaining our “dirty little secret” so reasonably, aren’t we?’ I knew I sounded sarcastic – I meant to. ‘So who’s next to portray themselves as having been hard done by by Meg?’
From his corner vantage point, Luis Lopez stood and declaimed to the room, ‘I am a homosexual. It is nobody’s business. I am more than my sexuality. But Meg, she helped me to keep this a secret so that I can continue to work as I do. Joe knew this. He introduced us. Meg and I had a very good relationship. I did not kill her.’ Then he sat down again, as though he expected everyone to clamp their gaping mouths shut, and carry on as though nothing had happened.
‘You’re one of those gay boys?’ shouted Jean Jones across the room with obvious surprise and disgust.
‘I am a homosexual,’ was Luis’s blunt response.
‘So what was Meg up to, saying she was going to marry you?’ Jean was shouting. ‘What good is a man like you, to a woman?’
‘Meg and I were good friends. We cared for each other. We both gained from our engagement; she was more popular because she was associated with me.’
‘Meg as the beard? The Phyllis Gates of her day?’ mused Dan James.
‘This was our business, nobody else’s.’ Luis was angry; he was ready to declaim us all to death. ‘I will not stand for this,’ he screamed, standing. ‘My sexuality is only a secret because people are too small-minded to accept me in a wide range of roles in spite of it. It is their problem I have to work around. Not mine.’
‘So why not tell us the whole truth, then, Luis?’ said Joe Gray. ‘Tell us
about the guy on Sunset.’
All heads turned to watch Luis’s reaction – and it wasn’t good. He pushed over a little table beside his seat. A lamp clattered to the floor, the glass shade and bulb smashing. Luis’s naturally deep voice rose in pitch as he spat words toward Joe Gray. ‘You will not talk about my life this way. We have an agreement. You are as bad as Meg said. You are a schemer.’
‘And your temper is as bad as Meg told me it was; maybe you’re the one who lost it and killed her,’ responded Joe Gray angrily. ‘She said you were like a child – unable to cope when you couldn’t get exactly what you wanted. Did it all get too much for you, Luis? Was Meg going to “out” you, so you killed her? Or were you afraid she’d share what she knew about the guy on Sunset?’
Luis shoved the broken lamp across the floor with his foot and howled like a coyote. Then he collapsed into his chair, and buried his face in his hands.
Finally looking up at us all, he spoke quietly, ‘I had broken off a relationship with a certain person. It could not develop in the way he wanted. He was hurt by me, I know this. But I did not mean for him to take his own life. I did not believe he would do it. But he did. And it made me very sad. But this was not of my making. I did not kill Meg – because of this, or anything else.’ Luis sounded quietly certain about that. We all let it sink in, with me reminding myself the man made his living as an actor.
There was a catch in his voice when he added, ‘People can die around you when you are famous, and it can make life very difficult. This is true for you as well, Adrian. Meg told me about a young girl who died in your dressing room – did she kill herself because she wanted you, but could not have you?’
Now all heads swiveled back toward Adrian.
He shook his head. ‘Oh man – so Meg told you about that? Wow – I thought that was long gone. Man, we had some wild times backstage in those days; I usually didn’t know what day it was, what city I was in . . . or even the lyrics to songs I’d written myself, sometimes. I told Meg about one of our security guys finding a girl in our dressing room one night when we were playing in . . . somewhere – Ohio I think; none of us even saw her. They found her when we were on stage – no one knew who she was, or how she’d got in there. She was dead; OD’d by the look of it. Man that was bad . . .’
As I was listening to Adrian I thought how glad I was that it only seemed to be now, as he recollected his time on the road, that he used the word ‘man’ as he spoke; it was incredibly annoying, and quite sad really – a person in their sixties should have developed a sufficiently broad vocabulary to allow for a range of exclamatory remarks.
‘So this girl’s death, it was nothing to do with you?’ asked Luis, his voice dripping with sarcastic disbelief.
‘No, it wasn’t. Honest,’ said Adrian, bluntly. ‘I never even saw her. Just heard about it.’
Everyone in the room seemed to be completely emotionally drained, myself included.
‘If you’re still getting that drink, Adrian, I think I might have a fizzy water, please,’ said Sally.
Good grief, the woman was unbelievable.
It was as though we’d all been slapped in the face. I took stock; there we were, a strange group of people, huddling around a shrinking fire on a day that was growing dim beyond the windows. And the snow? Still falling.
Though the fire was burning down, I felt hot, and claustrophobic. But my mind had been piecing together everything that had been said, and I needed to do something . . . and to do it with Peter Webber; I needed time alone with him.
‘Let’s all take five minutes,’ I suggested. ‘But listen, before anyone leaves this room, there’s something I must say.’
Once again I was the center of attention. Whoop-de-doo!
‘You know I’ve been “snooping”, and I believe it’s a good thing we’ve all decided to come clean about our secrets. We all know one of us here killed Meg. And I believe we all want to know who that was—’
‘Well, I certainly do,’ interrupted Martha Gray, ‘because I’m not going anywhere on my own until it’s sorted out. Joe – you do not leave my side, you hear?’
‘Surely the only one who doesn’t want the killer to be found out is the actual killer?’ said Sally Webber; I suspected it was the most cogent thing I’d heard her say all day.
‘That’s exactly my point,’ I added, keen to get on. ‘If you all agree, I’d like to look around everyone’s room. I want you all to feel secure in the knowledge I’m not planting evidence, or whatever, which is why I’m going to suggest that someone accompanies me. Peter – would you do the honors? If everyone agrees, that is. But I’m sure everyone will, because only the murderer wouldn’t want me poking about, right?’
I thought I’d made my point quite well. Everyone nodded; some cautiously, some with maybe a little too much enthusiasm. ‘Thanks,’ I said, quickly, and Peter and I collected room keys. ‘We’ll be as quick as we can – please all wait here until we’ve finished.’ I didn’t want anyone removing what might be incriminating evidence.
‘Drinks anyone?’ I could hear Adrian asking as I walked up the stairs. There was a G & T somewhere in my future, but not for the next little while, it seemed. My tummy rumbled, and I made a mental promise to myself that I wouldn’t miss what was going to be a very late lunch indeed.
While Peter stood at the door, I ducked into Meg’s room first. I didn’t look at her body – I needed her cellphone from beside her bed. I picked it up and left the room, then checked the battery reading – it was in good shape; I’d only need to use it for one call, but it was a call I needed to make when I was alone, so it could wait.
I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but I diligently worked my way through the two large double rooms being used by the Webbers and the Grays, then Dan’s room, then Luis’s – both of which were very much the same as my own. No one had brought much with them; we’d only been due to stay for two nights, and even Martha Gray had only packed a large overnight bag.
Peter and I chatted as I riffled drawers and closets, and pored over toiletry collections. Before too long he told me when he and Meg had reconnected, upon her buying a home in LA, they’d never actually met up. Rather, as with me, she’d kept in touch by email. Peter also made it clear that he and Meg hadn’t kept in touch after their split, and that, therefore, everyone downstairs was a complete stranger to him, and Sally, of course.
Next, we went to Jean’s room; it was at the back of the lodge, its windows facing north, as Peter had noted earlier. The room was almost totally dark, and I kicked myself that I hadn’t suggested a search of rooms earlier in the day – the last of the light outside had all but gone. We clicked on the two flashlights we’d brought with us. How on earth did they find anything in those TV shows when all they have is a flashlight, I’ll never know; believe me, if I could have turned on the lights, I would have done. However, without power, all I could do was stumble about in the gloom, variously illuminating disconnected pools of flooring, or pieces of furniture that seemed to leap out at me from dark corners. The room’s layout was similar to my own, but different enough to cause a few stubbed toes and a little swearing.
In between my un-deleted expletives, I managed, ‘But that’s not quite true, is it, Peter? You do know some people downstairs.’
Peter leaped to his defense. ‘No, you’re wrong,’ he said from the darkness that was the door to the landing. ‘We really don’t.’
‘You know Jean,’ I reminded him.
‘Oh, Jean,’ he replied, dismissively. ‘I couldn’t say that I know her. Or even knew her. She was Meg’s mum, and that was it. I never spent any time at Meg’s house when we were young, and, when we got together, got married, and then left the country . . . well, that was it; Meg never kept in touch with her mother at all. I haven’t seen her since back then.’
‘But I bet Meg talked about her a lot?’ I pressed, as I poked around in the bathroom.
‘Well, you’re right there, I guess,’ replied Peter, sou
nding thoughtful. ‘Meg didn’t have a good word to say about her, though. She just wanted to get away from her. We got married about a month after her father died. Do you remember Meg’s dad?’
As I stood in Jean Jones’s bathroom, peering into a hamper full of wet towels, I saw her dead husband as clearly as if he’d been standing in front of me; he’d been a short, round man, with heavy eyebrows and a broad, toothy smile. Whenever I’d seen him at Meg’s house he’d always been wearing the same outfit; a long-sleeved undershirt and wide brown braces, which held his trousers so high they were almost under his armpits. He’d been a happy man; always a quip or a funny story, and – as often as not – some silly little trick that involved a ha’penny. All that had been when I was quite young, of course. As I’d become a teenager he’d become more distant, had become thinner – his waistline, and his hair – until finally, I recalled, he’d been a pretty bad-tempered man with a local reputation for rolling home from the pub at all hours.
‘Yes, I remember him,’ I replied.
‘I think it was his death that made Meg want to leave Wales. She blamed Jean for it.’ Even in the dim room, I could tell Peter was uncomfortable with the topic – his voice gave him away. ‘What she told me was that her parents had a row one night . . . which seemed to be the norm for them, but this was a really bad one . . . and the next morning Meg found her father dead at the bottom of the stairs. Apparently Jean had insisted he had to sleep on the sofa, and he’d fallen while making his way down from their bedroom. His neck was broken. Meg was devastated. In fact, thinking back, it changed her in many ways; when we were together we were happy . . . but she always used to make me promise that if she ever said or did anything that reminded me of her mother I was to tell her, because she didn’t want to become anything like her. I think Meg really was afraid she’d grow up to be like Jean.’
