Tish parked in an alley behind the Kitch, where it was dark except for a soft yellow glow from inside the club windows. A diagonal rain swept the street as she climbed out of her Civic. She unfolded an umbrella, held it at an angle like a flag, and splashed through the puddles in her heels around the corner of the building toward the high door. The four-story clubhouse towered above her, regal and imposing in red brick, like a rich man’s mansion. Hollow-eyed Indian gargoyles guarded the entrance and stared at her disapprovingly. By the time she slipped inside, her white dress was speckled with rain spots. She flipped her hair, and water sprayed onto the wine red carpet.
The sprawling main corridor was lined in dark wood and sconce lights and bore the club’s logo in gold on the floor. Tish took a few tentative steps, expecting someone to stop her. Instead, the hallway was empty. She had never been here before, but she remembered people talking about the Kitch the way people on the East Coast talked about Skull and Bones. The faces of members had changed in 125 years, but admission was still by invitation only. To Tish, it felt like a secret society for the privileged. A place built stone by stone on money and tradition.
On her left was a lounge with thick beams lining the ceiling and deep paisley carpet on the floor. A wood fire burned in a brick fireplace, and two leather recliners were carefully placed on either side of the hearth. She was cold from the rain, and she approached the fireplace, putting out her hands to warm them and feeling heat on her dress. As she dripped on the carpet, she noticed an oil painting on the west wall with a familiar face. It was an old man in a three-piece suit. His head was almost bald. He looked tough and prosperous. When she approached the portrait, she saw his name inscribed on a brass plate on the frame.
Randall Stanhope. Former president of the club.
“Can I help you?”
The voice came from behind her. Tish turned and saw a tuxedo-clad attendant in his fifties with a clipped mustache.
“I’m sorry,” Tish said. She squared her shoulders and gave the man an engaging smile. “I’m supposed to be meeting Peter Stanhope here. Can you tell me where to find him?”
She had no meeting scheduled. Peter hadn’t seen her in thirty years. But everyone told her that the Kitch was where he spent most of his evenings. Like his father.
“Mr. Stanhope is in the pool room downstairs,” he told her. “Would you like me to tell him you’re here?”
“No, I’ll just join him there.”
“Do you know the way?” the man asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Let me show you.”
The attendant led her downstairs, where the ceilings were lower and the walls felt as if they were closing in. Tish heard raucous male laughter. The pool room was smaller than she expected, with lapis color on the walls and in the checkerboard carpet. Half a dozen men in white shirts and loosened ties gathered around a pool table lined with burgundy felt. They drank scotch from crystal lowball glasses.
The conversation stopped when they saw her. Tish recognized Peter Stanhope immediately. He had a custom pool cue in his hand and was bent over, taking aim on a shot down the table. He was the only man still wearing a suit coat. She was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath and see the overhead lights shining in his silver hair. As she watched, he struck the cue ball with a sharp crack and thunked the solid purple four ball into the far pocket.
“Mr. Stanhope?”
“Yes, George?” Peter asked. He looked past the attendant and sized up Tish.
“I believe you have a meeting with this woman.”
Peter straightened up and propped his cue against the table. He folded his arms and rubbed his sunburned chin with his left hand. His blue eyes twinkled with curiosity behind penny-colored glasses. “Do I?”
George’s smile evaporated. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Peter replied pleasantly. He eyed Tish. “Is there?”
“My name is Tish Verdure,” she said quickly.
Tish heard a rumble of displeasure among the other men in the room. They knew who she was. Peter didn’t react, other than to flick his tongue quickly across his upper teeth. “Ah.”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Stanhope,” George said, stepping in front of Tish. “This woman told me she had a meeting scheduled with you. I’ll see her out immediately.”
Peter waved his hand. “No, no, it’s fine, George. I’ve been anxious to speak to Ms. Verdure, as it happens. Boys, carry on without me, all right?” He approached Tish and extended his hand. His grip was strong, and his fingers were smooth, except for the dust of pool chalk.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked her.
“Some red wine, I guess.”
“George, a bottle of the Alphonse Mellot pinot that I had last night, all right? Is anyone in 306 tonight?”
“No, sir.”
“Take it up there, will you?”
“Of course.”
Peter refilled his own tumbler from a half-empty bottle of Lagavulin and then took Tish’s arm by the elbow. “Shall we?”
He guided her to a turn-of-the-century elevator that was uncomfortably small. They were shoulder to shoulder. Peter didn’t say anything as they rode upward. He just smiled, showing beautifully white teeth, and smoothed down his hair. She noticed his eyes straying over her body. When the doors opened, he led her to a room painted in cream, with an off-white sofa, an armchair, and a square glass coffee table. Through a doorway, Tish saw a queen-sized bed with an elaborately flowered comforter. She backed up.
“This is a bedroom,” she said.
“A guest room,” Peter said. “Members outside the city stay here sometimes. Or men whose wives have kicked them out for the night. That’s why I prefer the single life.” He added, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to assault you, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I just thought we would both like some privacy.”
“Leave the door open.”
“Whatever you want.”
Peter took the armchair and worked on his drink. Tish sat uneasily on the sofa, her knees squeezed together. A few minutes later, George entered the room with a balloon-shaped wineglass and an open bottle. He set them on the table in front of her and poured, then gave her an imperious look and retreated from the room, closing the door behind him.
“Do you want me to open it again?” Peter asked, nodding at the door.
Tish shrugged.
“Well, here we are,” he continued. “It’s been a long time. You’re looking good, Tish. Do you mind if I call you that?”
Tish shrugged again.
“You were sexy then, and you haven’t lost your appeal,” he told her, his eyes roving. “Real beauty matures with age, don’t you think?”
“If you say so.”
“It wouldn’t kill you to repay the compliment,” he said.
“You know you look good, so why do you need to hear it from me?”
Peter laughed. “Try the wine, Tish. It’s excellent.”
Tish did, and it was.
“Are you trying to tell me you’ve changed?” she asked.
“We all change. You’re different, I’m different.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t care who you are now or how much money you have. It’s what you did thirty years ago that concerns me.”
Peter nodded. “You think I murdered Laura. You think I took a baseball bat and beat her head in.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I didn’t do that. How can I convince you I’m telling the truth?”
Tish took another drink of wine. It was fruity and light as helium. “You can’t. I already know you lied back then.”
“Oh?”
“Finn Mathisen saw you,” Tish snapped. “He saw you attack Laura in the field. The black man, Dada, he saved her. When Laura ran off, the bat was still in the field. It was still with you.”
“Finn Mathisen,” Peter murmured, shaking his head. “I haven’t thought about him in years. Him and his sister, Rikke. She was one of those tasty young teachers we all lusted after. Please, Tish. We both know what kind of witness Finn is. Pat Burns is never going to put someone on the stand who probably can’t remember most of the 1980s.”
“I don’t care what kind of witness he would make,” Tish said. “I’m writing a book, not doing a dance for a jury. What matters is that he’s telling the truth.”
“Say he is. That doesn’t mean I killed Laura.”
“Are you admitting you assaulted her?”
“I’m not admitting anything. However, even if I was stupid enough to think that no from a girl really meant yes just because my name was Peter Stanhope, do you think I would kill her over something like that?”
“Over not getting what you want? Yes, I do.”
“Well, you’re right, I don’t take rejection well,” Peter admitted. “You said no to me, and I called you a queer. As I recall, I kissed you and grabbed your tits. I was a pig.”
“Yes, you were.”
“But I didn’t kill you, did I? Because here you are.”
“Maybe you wanted Laura more than me.”
Peter’s smile faltered. His full lips twitched.
“Maybe you were obsessed with her,” Tish continued. “Maybe you were enraged that she didn’t want you.” She met his eyes and whispered, “Are you going to be alone tonight, you whore?”
His fingers clutched the tumbler so tightly that she thought the crystal might shatter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
But he did.
Tish knew that she was right. She swallowed down her loathing and drank more wine.
Peter stood up, stretching his legs. He caught his reflection in a brass mirror and dusted the broad lapels of his suit coat. His grin returned, more brightly than before. “I always wondered if you were upset that Laura found me attractive.”
“She didn’t.”
“You’re wrong about that. All the girls back then were interested in me. You were the exception. Or were you just playing hard to get?”
“Oh, please.”
“Is that why you didn’t like me dating your best friend?”
“Laura broke it off with you. She told me she did.”
“Ah, but are you sure she wasn’t lying? Maybe Laura didn’t want you to know what was really going on between us.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Tish snapped.
“I wonder what you would have done if you’d found out the truth,” he said. “I imagine you would have been very upset.”
“Are you finished?”
“I haven’t even begun. Don’t tangle with a lawyer, Tish.”
“I’m going to get you,” she insisted.
He laughed. “You know that’s not going to happen.”
She cringed, feeling on display as he watched her. His eyes glittered with lust that he didn’t bother hiding.
“The sad thing is, I’m telling you that I think you’re a murderer, and you still want to sleep with me.”
Peter sat down next to her on the sofa and took an oversized swallow of his scotch. Their legs touched. “True.”
“Are you that desperate?”
“I’m not desperate at all.”
“I picture you with a harem of twenty-something models,” Tish said.
“Sometimes.”
“So why come on to a woman in her late forties who thinks you’re the devil?”
“I’m not the devil. I thought you were finally beginning to find me charming.”
“Believe it or not, I like women who are mature. Strong. Independent. I don’t find many women who stand up to me.”
“So you’re saying that having a woman accuse you of murder turns you on.”
“I’ve heard worse accusations than that.” He grinned. “I think you’re lying, Tish. You do find me attractive. You always have.”
“You find yourself attractive enough for both of us.”
“There aren’t many women who get to reject me twice.”
Tish felt a shiver of fear. “What does that mean?”
“Not what you think. I just mean you’ve managed to deflate my ego, not to mention my manhood, in two separate decades.”
“You’ll live.”
“I already told you that I don’t take rejection well. It just makes me more determined.”
“Do I need to scream?”
“Not at all. I wouldn’t dream of ravishing a woman who doesn’t want me to ravish her.”
“Good.”
“I am going to kiss you, though,” Peter said. “I think you owe me that.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“So slap my face if you want.”
He leaned across the sofa. Tish stared into his eyes and didn’t turn away. His lips were rough as they moved against hers. She felt nothing but responded as if she did. She put her hands around his neck and held him to her. He smelled like a man. She felt his fingers stroke her breast with a feathery touch, testing the waters. It was now or never.
Tish bit down on Peter’s fat lower lip. Hard. Warm blood sprayed onto their faces, and she mashed her cheek against him and held on tight. Peter bellowed in pain and fought to disentangle himself. He shoved her away and leaped to his feet. His chin was a messy cherry river dripping onto his shirt.
“You crazy bitch!” he shouted.
“Get the hell away from me, Peter,” Tish told him calmly.
He ripped open the guest room door. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
Tish watched him go as she dabbed smears of blood from her face onto the sleeve of her white dress.
She was thinking: I’ve got you.
Two hours later, a noise woke Tish out of a dead sleep in her condominium.
She bolted up in bed, the blanket bunching at her waist. She listened to sounds from the open window, where surf slapped at the base of the bluff. The air horn of a truck blared on the freeway. That was all.
She climbed out of bed and grabbed her robe from the closet. Her white dress was wrapped in plastic on the shelf.
She stopped. Waited.
A few seconds later, she heard it again. Sharp and musical. From somewhere outside came the sound of glass breaking.
Tish ran into the main room of the condo and hunted for her phone. The room was black with shadows. She was alone, no one lying in wait for her, no one charging her out of the corners. She didn’t hear the noise again.
A car peeled away on the street, its loud engine growing faint as it roared toward the curve leading back to the city. Tish crept to the front door and peered through the spyhole. Outside, the sidewalk and street were quiet. She opened the door carefully and watched tendrils of fog drift through the glow of the streetlight. When she stepped outside, sweat began to grow on her skin like a fungus.
Nothing moved.
The pavement scratched her bare feet. She took tentative steps toward the curb. When she saw her rental car, parked near the trees, she ran.
Half of the windshield was caved in, the other half frosted with starbursts of white glass. Scissor-sharp popcorn littered the seats. Jammed between the spokes of the steering wheel was a wooden baseball bat.