The four women and Émile Cinq-Mars pile into his Escalade. Texts, e-mails, and voice messages exchanged on their mobile devices have convinced the girls that wherever they go they’ll be inundated with queries and dramatic reactions. They consent to accompany Sandra and Émile back to the farm, to take a quiet hour or two to permit news of the tragedy to settle, both within themselves and throughout the community.
The girls never did get around to eating a full breakfast, and the police wore them out with repetitive questioning. Even amid their current distress they’re ready for lunch. The three sound apologetic for being hungry. For the first time in their lives they’ve been staggered by a sudden and incomprehensible sorrow, and possess no road map on how to react. A simple need for food feels embarrassing, as if attending to the necessities of life betrays their lost friend. On the drive over they’re sullen, and yet, by the time they enter the farmhouse, they’ve pulled themselves together enough to pitch in. Sandra attempts to thwart their initiative and take on the lunch preparations by herself, only to discover that letting them loose in the kitchen is the best tonic for the younger women. That’s fine, except that she discovers herself stuck with time on her hands.
Sandra puts a call through to her sister, Charlotte, Caroline’s mother, who’s taking her turn at the palliative care center.
She’s informed that their aged mom is tired and uncommunicative. The most significant signs of life come from the machines plugged into her. As grim as that report may be she is obliged to trump her sister’s sad news. She tells Charlotte about the murder.
“Is she all right?” She means Caroline, although Sandra is sufficiently disoriented on the day to be confused for a few seconds. Charlotte realizes her verbal miscue first, adding, “I mean Caro. How is she? Where is she?”
“Right here. She’s upset. The girls have endured the shock of their lives.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“Of course.”
Sandra intuits the result of that conversation. After the hushed tones and an exchange of information, more tears are shed. Caroline can barely believe the news that she’s obliged to relay. Listening in from the next room, her aunt is reminded that this is how the process works, that in speaking of what cannot be fathomed, reality finds a way to take hold, to be present. The unbelievable gradually becomes apparent. She’s proud of her niece, of how she manages to carry on talking even as tears flood her eyes and she gasps for a breath now and then as the tragedy simmers inside her. She sees for herself the inherent strength of this young woman.
Turning away, Sandra notices that while she was assessing Caroline, Anastasia has been observing her. Perhaps drawing a similar conclusion, perhaps admiring her own inner strength. The two manage a faint smile of encouragement. Sandra’s guessing that whatever the girl has on her mind will emerge in due course. For the nonce the student returns to halving cherry tomatoes for the salad.
Off to find Émile, she discovers him standing by the front bay window. Hands in his pockets, staring out at the rain. Not much to see today, other than the havoc of the wind in the trees. Sandra comes up to him and presses against his side, hugging him and pinning both his arms in place.
“Don’t say it,” Émile cautions.
She’s uncertain what he means.
He adds, “I know. I know. I know. One more murder.”
“The question that begs an answer,” Sandra ponders, with a note of whimsy in her voice, despite everything, “do murders occur because you happen to be in the vicinity, or do they occur everywhere constantly. You can’t help be around when they do?”
“Hmm,” Cinq-Mars grunts. In a way, he’s forced to, she’s squeezing so hard.
“What?” Sandra pushes him.
“There’s a third possibility.”
“With you, there always is.”
“Maybe it’s not a coincidence that murders occur wherever I go.”
“Oh, so God arranges this? You’re religious, but you’ve never been a silly fatalist.”
“That’s it. I may be forced to become that sort of fatalist.”
He seems depressed by this latest death in his vicinity. “People do seem to die around you, dear. Still, I prefer the option behind Door Number Four.”
“Which is?” She releases him, and in permitting her husband to be more flexible he leans down to receive a peck on his cheek.
“What you said. Coincidence. Bad stuff happens. You make it your habit to be around when it does. Only this time … that poor girl. Addie was so bright. I feel sorry for Caroline and the others. In a way, I feel guilty. This is going to be hard on them. I don’t think they know how much yet.”
“Why guilty?” Émile asks.
“My woes about Mom are put into perspective. This hardship tells me to buck up. Mom’s death is not tragic. Intellectually, I’ve known it about my mother, that it’s time. Emotionally—it’s a hard river to cross. But this, Addie’s murder. My God, it’s horrific. She’s so young. Mom, when she passes, that’s nature taking its course after a long life, fully lived, well blessed. Sad, but I’m ready for it. Mom is not being robbed of her life. Addie has been.”
Émile gives his wife a kiss on the forehead as he tucks her more firmly into his side. He knows what she’s saying. They hold each other awhile.
Like her, Émile has also been taken by the inner fortitude of the young women. He has not always been enamored with the character and the resiliency shown by the sons and daughters of the privileged: This group contradicts his customary bias. Changing the subject to strike a more positive note, he remarks, “They’re holding up well, the girls. I’m impressed.”
“I noticed.”
“Meaning?”
“You would’ve made a great dad, Émile. I’m sorry that it never happened.”
She means the comment to take them in another direction, still, Émile strikes out on a different tangent altogether. “I was wondering a moment ago if there’s not a kind of psychic exchange that goes on. A form of compensation. If I had kids, would I have spent my life getting mixed up in all this nastiness? Probably not. There’d be less time for it anyway. I know this sounds weird. Not having kids, does that put me in position to help the people who do, particularly the ones who suffer tragedies? Somehow, it seems to be what I’ve been given to do. For the sake of a family, I figure out who killed a mother or a father or a sibling or…” He hesitates, not wanting to finish the thought, but a truth confronts him. “Or a child.”
Sandra pats his back. “You’ve done good work.”
He straightens up. “Takes a toll,” he mentions.
“Not only on you,” she reminds him. The stresses on her and on their marriage have come between them.
Anastasia is in the room. She’s overheard a portion of their conversation. Noticing her, they can tell that she’s been waiting for the right moment. The coed manages a smile, and reports, “Lunch is ready if you are.”
They step through to the dining room, gathering up Caroline along the way as she concludes with her mother. She and Sandra hug, then enter.
* * *
After lunch, another girlfriend, this one with a car, arrives to return the others back to their dorm rooms and apartments. It’s hard for the young women to separate from one another, but necessary. They weep again as they depart, Caroline hugging each friend in turn. Suddenly they’re gone and that’s when the day’s tragedy hits home. For a while she needs company, then solitude, and later in the afternoon she seeks out her uncle Émile. She finds him ensconced in an upstairs room used as a home office, sitting at the desk facing a laptop, the machine asleep. He’s either deep in contemplation or half-asleep himself, while his wife naps in the next room. The young woman curls up in a wicker love seat along the wall opposite him and pulls a cushion over her knees. In response to her silent attention, Émile folds down the clamshell screen on his computer and returns her gaze.
“Dowbiggin will step up,” she tells him. “A vigil. A memorial.” Public opportunity for remembrance feels vital.
“Good. Good. That will be good.” Sympathy is evident in his tone.
She makes a gesture with her lips that’s difficult to decipher. He gathers that she doesn’t have small talk on her mind.
“You’re a detective, Uncle Émile,” she points out to him.
“A more accurate statement when delivered in the past tense.”
“Not what I heard.”
True. He has kept a hand in, even postretirement.
She wants to know, “Are you going to be involved in this case?” The question sounds like a challenge.
“That won’t be possible, Caro.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no way I can be.”
“Why not?”
He separates his hands, as though to emphasize that there’s nothing he can do. “Policemen guard their jurisdictions as avidly as a jealous lover guards a sweetheart. Imagine a guy going to another guy, the jealous type, asking if he’d mind lending out his girlfriend.”
“Gross.”
“Bad illustration maybe.”
“More than maybe. Has that stopped you before?”
“A bad illustration?”
“Police jurisdiction.”
“Not necessarily,” he admits. “I have no traction here. I won’t be able to get anywhere. Making any sort of clear headway will be impossible unless I’m invited onto the investigation. That’s not going to happen anytime soon. Not in my lifetime, anyway. If I’m not invited in and still try to investigate on my own, I’ll be cut off at the knees.”
“Not necessarily,” she counters, perhaps using his own words with deliberate intent.
“How do you figure that?”
Caroline has long made her ambitions well known, and has organized her life accordingly. If invited to a party, she’s more likely to attend if she knows who’s going, and if she feels that whoever’s going might be beneficial to her future career. She’ll avoid a party if the guest list is uninspiring, no matter the promise of fun or entertainment. Even while she’s sitting with a relaxed posture on the sofa, Émile notices that she’s intent, wanting to gain something in this talk.
“What did those cops do?” she asks him.
“What do you mean, do?”
“A few were running around dusting for fingerprints or whatever those technicians busy themselves with, but the detectives, the ones who are responsible for the actual investigating, the ones asking questions, what did they do? Who did they talk to?”
He’s rarely at a loss in such a conversation. He feels that he’s missing the point with his niece.
“Tell me,” Émile suggests.
“They interviewed us. Me, Kali, and Anastasia.”
She lets that point, a good one, hang in the air.
“And what did you tell them?” he wonders.
“Ask us and find out.”
“I see what you’re getting at.”
Her intelligence has always been augmented by her drive, her interest in making her own way in the world. Sandra explained to him once, when Caro was much younger, that her niece was a talented rider, but that she would never be a great one. Her reasoning? Following the family business would never be sufficiently challenging for her. Instead, she followed a compulsion to do things differently, and do different things.
Émile can tell that she perceives that she’s beat him on this point. “You might have your own questions, no? You’re supposed to be a great detective, right? Even if you ask the same questions and we give you the same answers, you might understand them differently. Isn’t that possible? Maybe you should ask us and see what that does. I mean, if it helps find Addie’s killer, why not? If it doesn’t”—she shrugs—“no damage.”
The office chair is on wheels and Émile, remaining seated, rolls it away from the desk and places his hands behind his head. “Do you ever think about staying in law, forgetting about being a CEO?”
“Nope. I’d be bored. Why?”
“I’m trying to compliment you on being a strong proponent for your side in a discussion. All right, I’ll start with you.”
She smiles. She likes this victory.
“Did any of the questions asked by the other detectives surprise you, or did any of your answers to any question at all either surprise you or make you uncomfortable or surprise them?”
She shrugs. “No.”
“I don’t need to go over the common ground. I know what they must have asked. I can guess how you answered.”
She’s inclined to believe him.
“Do you think Addie brought this on herself?” Émile puts forward.
“What?”
“I’m asking.”
“That’s not fair. You’re blaming the victim? That’s wrong.”
“Do you want fair or do you want the perpetrator caught? I only blame the killer, by the way. He’s not here. I can’t ask him any questions. The only other person in the room is you and you knew the victim. I’ll try again. Do you think there’s any possibility that Addie brought this on herself?”
She’s fuming, a reaction that subsides, and rather than return Émile’s penetrating stare she gazes out the window at the rain on the glass.
“I can rephrase the question,” Émile offers.
“Can you? I think I’d appreciate that.”
“Imagine the four friends together, including Addie. Let’s say a year ago. A seer looks into a crystal ball and tells you that this will happen. One of your group will be murdered. Back then, whom do you guess it might be?”
“Addie,” Caroline says, without hesitating.
“Why?”
“Aren’t you the bastard?” she says.
“The truth can be a bastard, Caro. That’s what we’re interested in here.”
She concedes with a slight head bob. “Addie’s impetuous. Semireckless. I mean, come on, anybody our age is. If you’re twenty-two you should be allowed to be twenty-two, right? Her danger filter is a lot more porous—was more porous—than, say, mine, or Anastasia’s. Forget about Kali’s, she’s chickenhearted. I’ll walk down a dark alley when I’m curious or excited about the alley. If I’m genuinely apprehensive, or scared shitless, or if I happen to know better, I either don’t go down or keep a very watchful eye. Keep an escape route clear. Mentally, I wear running shoes. With Addie, it’s almost as though she likes to be scared shitless. Wild side? A dabbler, I’d say, not a commitment thing. She dabbled when it suited her, and it suited her more than the rest of us. You know, the police never asked me any of this.”
The furniture in this room is old and sits uncommonly low to the floor. Émile, reluctant still, reminds himself that this interview of a witness is no different than any other. His first task in such an inquisition is to remove the comfort level of the person being questioned. Comfortable people tell lies and are better at it than those under duress. Caroline might believe that she’ll only speak the truth, but if he strikes a raw nerve or two, she might change her mind in a twinkling. He remembers how she didn’t want to talk in front of him back at the library.
“They should have,” he points out to her. He’s not down on them. He knows they may have taken an entirely different tack to suit the circumstances and garnered results Caroline may be unaware of. “Your friend was murdered in your school. Whether you like it or not, that puts you closer to an understanding of what happened than any investigator can be at the outset. Your friend. Your personal knowledge. Your turf. You may not know that the truth is around you, it’s close to you, it may flow through you. The police would have been remiss not to question you at length. Perhaps they were being kind. They may get back to you. Caro, this may not have occurred to you yet. You or one of your friends may have been the last person to see her alive. At least while she was still safe. More than anyone else, you have knowledge of her contacts, her habits, her situation, and her whereabouts except for obvious limitations. The key to this could lie with you. If it doesn’t lie directly with you, it could well lie within your scope. Within your wider circle of friends, for instance—”
“I can’t believe that any friend would do this,” Caro interjected.
“That’s not something that anyone anywhere wants to believe or can ever accept,” Émile points out to her. “Yet friends kill friends every day, and here’s a greater statistic: family members kill within the family. Let’s hope the case is resolved and the perpetrator is put away. The harsh reality is, no matter who did this—or how or why or what happened—you aren’t going to like what you learn. Right at this moment, you probably can’t imagine what has occurred. Prepare yourself for that. Prepare your friends. You can walk away, get on with your lives. You’re free to appreciate with fondness and sadness your good memories of Addie. If you trouble yourself to get to the bottom of what happened, then, when the truth comes out, that reality will haunt you for the rest of your days. You might never get over it. Be forewarned. Never say that a friend or a lover could not have done this. Feel free to hope otherwise, just never rule out any scenario or any person until you are dissuaded by irrefutable proof.”
He lets her absorb that off-the-cuff lecture. Émile, though, is sensing a sea change here. As though he’s rising to the challenge that she’s been outlining. While he may be articulating how things might go, and they might not go well, Caroline’s initiative has ignited a willingness to proceed.
“Truth is a bastard,” she quotes him.
“Expect that,” Cinq-Mars concurs.
He’s frightened her a little, enough to make her more tentative.
“I’ll give you an example,” the retired detective says. “This morning I heard the name Vernon. Ex-boyfriend.”
“No way.” Caroline fights him on this. “It wasn’t him.”
“We don’t need to make that judgment right away, do we?” he asks. “If he’s innocent, fine, what’s the problem? But consider. Ex-boyfriend may hold a grudge. Ex-boyfriend knows intimacies that even you do not. Ex-boyfriend was around Addie a lot in recent times and what did he see that did not seem important at the time, perhaps, or what did he overhear? Did Addie ever say anything about someone else to someone else that didn’t seem to matter at the time? Now it might. Ex-boyfriend was on the scene this morning, he’s the one who told us that a body had been found at the library. He may have had motive, he may have had opportunity, and failing that, he may possess critical secondary knowledge that hasn’t even occurred to him yet. I’ll guarantee you that the police will interview him. They’ll be aggressive with him, too. That’s how it has to be.”
She gets that. “Okay,” Caroline says, and asks, “What should I do?”
“Do? Don’t do a thing.” Cinq-Mars wheels his chair completely out from behind the desk, into the room’s center. “Take no action whatsoever. I want you to be safe. To take care. To avoid any situation in the future where you’re alone or unprotected until this gets figured out. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. And yes, I do want you to be serious about that and not brush it off, Caro.”
“But I want to help,” Caroline protests. “I’m sure my friends do, too.”
He evaluates her level of seriousness. Her return gaze carries an intensity and resolve that’s unmistakable.
“One of the things you’ll be doing over the next few days is talking to Vernon. That’s only natural. Keep your senses wide open when you do. If the opportunity comes up, pick at his memory banks, search for anything that might have seemed amiss in recent days. It might be important. Approach any similar talk with anyone else with sensitivity and smarts. Assume nothing.”
They nod to each other, as if making a pact.
“As mentioned,” Émile goes on, “it’s your milieu. In the coming days, you can do two things. Think through every moment you’ve spent with Addie recently, and try to see what or who was lurking in the shadows, even when, perhaps, you weren’t paying attention. She had girlfriends. You know what I mean. You told the police that this morning. They told me. She had boyfriends—”
“You don’t think a girl did this!” Caroline objects.
“Actually, I don’t. Not by the way she was dressed, or dressed up. Also because that’s rare. But do you see what I’m driving at? I can’t rule it out. For a woman to be responsible might not be the norm, and it might not be politically correct in your mind, and it might be highly unlikely, but I can’t rule anything out without evidence. Do you see? Does Addie have a roommate?” Caro affirms that with a nod. “Not one of your friends who were over today?” A shake of her head. “The police will talk to her, too. You should, too.”
“She and Addie didn’t like each other much.”
“Even better.”
“Why better?” Caro asks.
“Not being close friends, the roommate will be less inclined to protect her. That makes her more inclined to speak freely. She’ll spill secrets. Such as, does she keep garter belts and nylon stockings in her bureau? She was wearing a pair when she was found. Are they hers? Or did someone dress her up? Ask Vernon. Did she ever dress up for him in garters and stockings? It’s an intimate question. He might tell you the truth then fib to the police. Or vice versa. Or the police might not ask. You see?”
She did see.
“When you ask him anything, think about what he says and how he says it. Is he embarrassed? Shocked? Mortified? Upset, because that provokes another thought or jealousy? You see?”
The phone rings. Before Émile can wheel back to the desk to pick it up, they hear Sandra in the next room answering. He figures it’s probably for her anyway, as nobody knows he’s in New Hampshire. Or it might be for his mother-in-law, if an old friend hasn’t learned of her illness.
“The point being, you’ll be talking to a number of people over the next few days. People who knew Addie. Many of them will be in pain, and that will be genuine, and a few will show you that they’re in pain where it’s not necessarily genuine. Some won’t know how to behave in this situation. They’re not faking, they just don’t know how to deal with this. Others won’t be in pain, and you’ll think that they’re aloof. Really, they’re mature enough not to fake it. Don’t hold it against them. Grief is not a club. If you think of different levels of grief as clothes on a line—emotional disarray at one end, cool and collected at the other—who, if anyone, is suspicious because their behavior strikes you as odd? Bear in mind, there’s a difference between odd and merely self-conscious. Among young people, you’ll get a lot of the latter. If someone who is emoting strikes you as odd, or someone who is placid also strikes you as odd, then take note. What’s that person’s connection, if any, to Addie? If you want to help the police, be alert to things like that. If you want me to help, tell me what you hear and I’ll vet it as best I can.”
They check with each other, and through fleeting eye contact reach an agreement. Their commitment goes unspoken: They are willing to do this.
“Uncle Émile,” Caroline asks, with a sly grin, “have you ruled us out, or are we on your list of suspects?”
He maintains a serious look. “You were with each other last night. Addie was already missing by then, you said, because she didn’t show up to join you. I don’t have a time of death as yet. I’m guessing that it wasn’t last night, but early this morning. You’re off the hook for murder, Caroline, but not entirely.”
“Seriously?”
“The truth is a bastard. You know your involvement. I don’t. I can believe you, but belief is not irrefutable proof. Not even a close cousin.”
Sandra is slouching in the doorway. She yawns, having been awakened from sleep by the telephone, and leans against the jamb. “Sorry to interrupt your confab. You look like you’re having a deep talk.”
Émile gazes at her, and wonders if she’s had news about her mother. “Who was on the phone? The hospital?”
She shakes her head. “A Chief Till? Do you know him? I guess you do, because he’s coming over.”
“Oh? Maybe he wants to share some news.”
“I don’t think so. Or that’s not the only reason.”
The statement is curious. Émile awaits her explanation.
“I agreed to this on your behalf, Émile. Get ready to go back out in the rain. Chief Till is coming over to pick you up.”
“Why?”
“He wants you to visit a crime scene. A new one.”