A Dangerous Fiction (21 page)

“The one of our picnic spot? That's great, Jo. She's brilliant, isn't she?”

“She's amazing, as a painter and a person. I came up here thinking of her as your friend; now I feel she's mine as well.”

Molly beamed, and it occurred to me that she'd taken to bequeathing people as well as possessions. Suddenly a deer bounded out from the woods into the road in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, thrusting an arm out to restrain Molly. Mingus thudded hard into the back of my seat, but I held the wheel steady. The car juddered to a halt while the deer, unscathed, disappeared into the woods.

“Jesus,” Molly said, her hand at her throat.

I looked back to check on Mingus. He was clambering back onto the rear seat, looking indignant but unharmed. My heart was pounding. “Leigh said they might attack. I thought she was kidding.”

I drove on, more slowly than before. Just outside the town of Hudson, we stopped at a farm stand and bought a bushel of Macoun apples, more than we needed, but I wanted plenty for the office. We drove through Hudson and onto the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. From the top of the bridge, the land on either side looked like brilliantly hued Persian carpets.

For once I felt sorry to be returning to the city. Rowena's killer was still at large, and so was Teddy Pendragon. Just thinking about the biographer curdled my mood. He knew too much, but how much? I couldn't think of any way to find out without revealing the very thing I wanted to conceal. Was there any way to control what he wrote, any leverage I could apply?

Lost in these thoughts, I forgot to notice the foliage, forgot even about Molly until her voice brought me back.

“What's eating you, kiddo?” She was studying my face with those wise brown eyes. “I know there's something. You're barely here.”

“It's that bastard Teddy Pendragon. He found something out, and I'm afraid he's going to publish it.”

“What, those so-called affairs of Hugo's? Even if it's true, they meant nothing. Hugo was Hugo. I told you before you married him: you don't take a wolf into your home and expect it to act like a poodle.”

“It's not that.” I hesitated, torn. I never wanted her to know but now, if I didn't tell her, chances were Teddy would.

“What then?” she said.

“If I tell you, will you promise not to repeat the story ever?”

“Trust me, kiddo, I'll take it to the grave.”

“Very funny. Three years after Hugo and I married, while we were living in Paris, I got pregnant.”

She swiveled her whole body toward me. “You never told me that!”

“It wasn't planned. I knew Hugo would be upset, but he was more than upset; he was furious. As soon as I told him, he demanded that I get an abortion. I said I was damned if I would. We had a huge fight; it went on for weeks. Hugo played good cop/bad cop all by himself. One day he'd be cold and aloof; he'd accuse me of trying to trap him, scheming to undermine his career. The next day he'd be kind and forgiving; he'd pet me, comfort me, talk about all the great things we were going to do together. About one thing, though, he never wavered. He said that if I insisted on having the baby, he'd leave me.”

“That lousy bastard! Even for Hugo, that's abysmal.”

“Yes. But he was straight with me from the start. Before we married he told me he didn't want children, and I agreed. I
agreed,
Molly. The way he saw it, I'd reneged on our deal.”

“So what? There's a hell of a difference between not wanting kids and forcing your wife to have an abortion.”

I kept my eyes on the road. “He didn't force me. It was my choice.”

“Your choice my ass. You were obsessed with the man, and he knew it.”

“I was in love with him,” I said, with what I hoped was quiet dignity.

Molly shrugged impatiently. “Same difference. And he knew just how to play you. I'd like to dig him up just to slap him silly.”

“Jesus, Molly, you're talking about my husband.”

“I know who we're talking about! I loved Hugo with all my heart, but you got to admit, the man was a swine.”

“He was a genius. You know how far an artist will go to protect his gift.”

She blew a raspberry. “He'd have been the same selfish bastard if he'd been a butcher or a pipe fitter. I can't believe you're defending him.”

I couldn't believe it either. But Molly was always too hard on Hugo, and too easy on me. The pressure he put on me, the threats and accusations—I remember them vividly. The pain was like nothing else I've ever known; certainly no whipping ever came close. Not even Hugo's death hurt as much as those weeks of fighting and the choice I had to make. But it was my choice, no matter what Molly said. I loved Hugo, and I loved my life as his wife, and in the end that is what I chose. He didn't force me. I know what he did was wrong. But I also know you can't judge a man like Hugo the way you'd judge an ordinary man. Why couldn't Molly see that?

I drove on. The closer we got to the city, the more Sunday-night traffic we encountered. Molly rested her head on the door and closed her eyes, but I knew she wasn't asleep; I could hear her thinking. We didn't speak again until we reached her house. By then it was fully dark. The house next to Molly's was tricked out for Halloween with jack-o'-lanterns and a dancing skeleton on the lawn. The street was deserted save for a man walking a dachshund. Molly's face, lit by a streetlight, was hollow with exhaustion.

“Come in for coffee?” she asked.

I hesitated. A cup would have fortified me for the drive home, but Molly looked like she needed to dive into bed. “I'd better push on.”

She gathered her possessions: walking stick, empty mugs, and the Trader Joe's bag, now full of Macouns, but she didn't get out.

“Finally I get it,” she said. “I understand now why you fought this bio tooth and nail. You were afraid all along this story would come out, and you couldn't allow anything to tarnish Hugo's precious memory. How could you, when you believe your entire life rests on your perfect marriage? ‘The foundation,' you called it; oh yes, I remember.”

“First of all,” I said, “I wasn't afraid the story would come out, because as far as I knew, Hugo and I were the only ones who knew. And second, my whole life
is
built on my marriage. Where would I be if Hugo hadn't married me?”

“Exactly where you are today, you ninny! Running the best damn agency in town.”

“That's very kind, but both of us know that when you brought me back as a partner, it wasn't for anything I'd done; it was for who I was.”

“Exactly: who
you
were, not whose widow you were. I saw what you did for Hugo. He was a brilliant writer when he met you, but you made him even better. That's your gift, and I'm proud to say I recognized it from the first. How do you think you got that internship with me?

“Because I begged?”

“You didn't beg,” she said, laughing. “You were eager, but they were all eager. No, it was the test. Remember the test?”

I'd never forget it. Eight openings to eight novels, and on the basis of just a few pages, I had to say which ones I'd read and which I'd reject. It made me so nervous I nearly walked out.

“Of course,” I said.

“The good ones were obscure books by great writers. The others were from the slush pile, not the dogs, but the close-but-no-cigar category. You aced it, kiddo. I'd been giving that test for years and never saw an applicant come close. You not only made the right choice every time, you knew why it was right. You heard those writers' voices, and you went for quality every time. Hiring you was the smartest move I ever made.”

I felt too much to speak. I squeezed her hand. But Molly wasn't finished.

“Remember what Leigh said about a paradigm shift in her way of seeing the world? That's what you need, kiddo. You're not who you are because Hugo married you. He married you because of who you are.” And before I could think of an answer, she kissed my cheek and was gone.

I
fell asleep with Molly's parting words still playing through my head, burrowing inward like benevolent tapeworms, and woke to full daylight and the sight of Leigh's painting propped up on my dresser. There was frost on the windows, but I was as warm in bed as a coddled egg. Nothing had changed, but something inside felt different. It was like going to bed with a cold and waking up without one. I could breathe again. The ceaseless clamoring inside my head was gone at last.

I got up and made coffee, fed the dog, and ate a couple of Macoun apples for breakfast. They were as sweet as I remembered. Before leaving for the office, I called Molly. She didn't answer; sleeping in for once, I supposed.

•   •   •

Lorna was at her desk when I got in. She ignored Mingus, who ignored her back. “You're early,” she said.

“You're earlier.”

“I always am. Gives me a chance to get organized. Coffee?”

“Thanks.” I put a bagful of apples on her desk. “For everyone. Macouns, fresh off the tree.”

She brought the coffee to my office and watched as I drank it. She wore a tweed skirt, plaid shirt, clunky shoes. Maybe Chloe could take her in hand, I thought. She knew how to dress. Granted, Lorna didn't have Chloe's figure, but she could certainly do better than what looked like Salvation Army castoffs.

“Did you and Molly go upstate?” Lorna asked.

“We did. Hit it just right, too. It was beautiful.”

“You look better.”

“It's amazing what a little country air will do.”

“
You're
amazing,” she blurted. “All the stuff that's been happening, just one thing after another. If it was me, I'd be curled up in a little ball by now. You're something special.”

I stared. Who was this woman, and what had she done with my secretary? That Lorna so rarely showed her feelings made this outburst all the more touching. I thanked her. She shrugged and hurried out.

The others arrived and poked their heads in to say hello. I was on the phone when Harriet looked in.
“Talk later?”
she mouthed, and I nodded.

I dialed Molly's number again. Still no answer. Thinking I might have missed her, I tried her cell and left a message. For the rest of the morning, I had back-to-back meetings, followed by lunch with an editor from Simon & Schuster. Lorna handed me half a dozen message slips when I got back to the office, but Molly's name wasn't on any of them.

Worried, I tried both her home and cell, without success. She could be sick, I thought. She could have had an accident. But why wasn't her aide, Maria, answering?

I found Maria's cell phone number and called it. When she picked up, I heard music and children's voices in the background.

“No, ma'am,” she said, “I am not working today. Ms. Hamish gave me the day off for my daughter's birthday.”

I had another emergency number, Molly's across-the-street neighbor. No answer there, either. This is stupid, I thought. She's gone out somewhere and left her cell phone home. Or she's home, but the phone's out of order. I called the operator. There was nothing wrong with the line.

I put Mingus on his leash and went out to Lorna's desk. “Call the garage and have them get my car out, please.”

Jean-Paul looked up from his desk across the room. “Where are you going?”

“Molly's. She's not answering her phone.”

He jumped to his feet. “I'll go with you.”

“You've got a meeting at four with that Twitter girl,” Lorna said.

“Apologize for me, tell her I had an emergency, and let Chloe take the meeting,” I said, and closed the door on their protests.

•   •   •

From the outside everything looked normal. I left Mingus in the car and prepared my excuses for barging in. Before climbing the porch steps, I detoured to peek in the window of Molly's garage. Her old Volvo was in its usual spot. Wherever she'd been, she was back.

I climbed the wooden steps to the porch, rang the doorbell, and waited. There was no sound, no movement inside when I peered through the side light window. The door was locked. I took Molly's spare key from my bag, opened the door, and poked my head in.

“Molly?”

It was quiet in there, empty-house quiet. I went in, and a faint but sickening odor hit me. It reminded me of Chinatown on a hot summer day, and it was all wrong in this context. I left the front door open behind me and forced myself down the hall toward the kitchen. The smell grew stronger. I stopped just outside the door.

I've already admitted that I'm a coward, maybe not in my day-to-day conduct, but in all the ways that matter. I'd tried to filibuster the news of Hugo's death; I'd averted my eyes from his affairs; I'd cleared away the detritus of former lovers without ever asking a question. My instinct now was to run. Whatever was in Molly's kitchen, whatever the source of that smell, I wanted desperately not to see it. Only the thought that Molly could be hurt kept me from bolting.

I opened the door. The kitchen was a mess. A stool lay on its side. The Trader Joe's bag was overturned, and apples were scattered across the floor. There were dark splatters on the counters, cabinets, and walls; what looked like caked blood on the butcher-block island.

The island blocked my view. I inched forward and saw two feet sticking out. They were wearing Molly's sneakers. There was a terrible stillness to those feet, which seemed to lack even the potential for movement. There was too much blood.

I stepped around the island. Molly lay on her stomach in the center of a black stain shaped like the wings of a snow angel. Her head, with its patchy growth of silver hair, was uncovered. The orange scarf, now a deeper shade of red, lay on the floor beside her face. Her eyes were open but sightless. Her lips were drawn back, her chin bloody. I glimpsed letters written on the side of the island but made no sense of them.

I heard a scream, and time seemed to stutter. I don't remember leaving the house. When I came back to myself, I was in my car. The windows were shut, the doors locked; Mingus was in the front seat and my arms were wrapped around him.

I couldn't comprehend what I'd seen, and I couldn't stop seeing it: Molly sprawled on the floor, the smell of blood and apples. That blood would never come out. The floor was ruined. Molly would be so upset, I thought. She loved that old plank floor.

But no. Molly was dead. What should I do? Not a soul in sight in this suburban desert. Call for help, I thought, although I knew she was beyond it. I let go of the dog. My hands were shaking so badly, I couldn't get the phone out of its compartment in my bag. I closed my eyes and saw again the blood, Molly's empty eyes. My stomach heaved. I threw open the car door, bent over, and vomited into the street.

Now my teeth were chattering. I shut and locked the door, upended my bag, and shook the contents onto the seat beside Mingus. My wallet tumbled out, sunglasses, keys, checkbook, loose change, ATM receipts, and, finally, my phone. I flipped it open but drew a blank. Couldn't think of whom to call. Couldn't think at all. I scrolled through the address book. Tommy Cullen's name came up, and I hit
DIAL
.

He answered on the second ring. “Jo? What's up?”

“Molly's on the floor,” I said. “She's dead. There's blood all over. Apples, too. Macouns,” I added helpfully.

“Jo,” he said, his voice very calm, “where are you?”

Like a child, I recited Molly's address.

“Are you in the house?”

“Outside, in my car.”

“Stay there. I'm on my way. Have you called 911?”

“I called you.”

“I'm going to hang up, and you're going to dial 911 immediately, OK? And then you sit tight. I'm coming, Jo. Call 911 now.”

He hung up. I did what he said. I was OK as long as I didn't have to think. I called them, and told them about the blood and the apples and Molly, and I gave her address, and I waited.

•   •   •

They gathered like carrion crows, first two police cars, then dozens of patrol cars, unmarked cars, and ambulances, too, with sirens wailing, though surely it was too late for that. They boxed me in. Someone tapped on my window, but Mingus barked and lunged and sent him reeling backward. Two policemen ran yellow tape around the entire front yard, trampling Molly's beautiful garden. People in white booties walked in and out of her house as if they owned it. One man carried a camcorder. I wished I'd put her scarf back on her head. Molly would hate to be photographed without it. Even at the worst times, sick from chemo or burnt by radiation, she'd never gone out without her war paint on. She'd joked about it, a stupid Tom Swift pun.
“‘Vanity's the last thing to go,' she said baldly.”
I should have covered her head.

A man in a suit approached the car. Mingus barked again, but this man wasn't deterred. He beckoned me out of the car. I held on to Mingus and looked away. I didn't know him. He could be anyone. A reporter. Sam Spade.

He took out a detective shield and held it up. “Open the window,” he said. I pushed the window button, but nothing happened. My keys were on the floor of the car. It took three attempts to insert the key in the lock, but I finally succeeded.

I rolled the window down three inches. Mingus snarled.

“Ma'am, can you control that dog?”

That, at least, I could do. I ordered Mingus into the backseat and told him to stay. He was more obedient than my own body. The detective asked me to unlock the door and step out of the car. The unlocking part went OK. But when I tried to step out, my knees buckled and I would have fallen if he hadn't leapt forward to catch me. “Oh no,” I said, for he'd stepped in the puddle of vomit. He lowered me into the driver's seat and hunkered down outside the car. I felt humiliated.

The detective was a man of about Molly's age, with sleek silver hair and a gray mustache. He asked my name. I said it. My voice sounded strange, as if I had water in my ears.

“Was it you who found her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live here?”

“I live in the city. Molly lives alone.”

“How did you come to find her?”

“I kept calling. She didn't answer. I was worried, but not worried enough. I should have come hours ago. She shouldn't have had to wait so long, lying on the hard floor. And the apples are ruined. Even if you washed the blood off, who would eat them now?” I could tell by his face that I sounded like a lunatic. But I had no more control over my mouth than my body.

“Was the door open when you got here?” he asked.

“Locked.”

“How did you get in?”

“I have her keys, she has mine.”

“What's your relationship to Molly?”

Molly indeed, I thought. Never met her in his life and he's first-naming her. The dead get no respect. It was starting to sink in: Molly was gone, irretrievably gone. I was alone again.

“We used to be business partners. She's my best friend.”
Was
my best friend, I thought. Something was wrong with my breathing. The air wasn't reaching my lungs.

“Are you OK?” the detective asked, reaching toward my shoulder.

I shrank away. “Fine.”

“You're doing great, ma'am. Just a few more questions and we'll get the medics over here. When did you last see Molly?”

“Last night. We drove upstate for the foliage and then I dropped her off. I should have gone in. She asked me to. But she looked so tired.”

“What time was that?”

I tried to focus, but it was like wading through cotton. “It was dark. Nine, nine thirty. I watched her go in and then I drove away.”

“Did you see anyone hanging around?”

I would have laughed if I could have. “In this neighborhood?”

“Any unfamiliar cars? People walking by?”

“No,” I said, then remembered. “A man with a dog.”

“Detective!” The call came from somewhere behind him. I looked past the silver-haired man and saw Tommy Cullen approaching, holding out an NYPD gold shield.

I caught a flash of anger as the detective stood and turned to face Tommy. They walked away together, Tommy talking fast and gesticulating. He didn't look at me. He only looked at the detective.

I shut the car door and rolled the windows up. I felt safer that way. I watched Tommy and the other detective. Gradually the other man's posture relaxed. They talked for a while more, then entered Molly's house without knocking. Time passed. Tommy came out alone and walked straight over to my car.

He tapped on the passenger-side door. I let him in. Mingus jumped up, but Tommy spoke to him and he sat back down.

“I'm so sorry,” Tommy said.

“Did you see her?”

“I did.”

“What happened to her?” It was the first time I'd thought to ask. The fog was getting patchy.

“We'll talk about that later,” he said softly, in a rush. “I only have a moment, and you need to listen carefully. You need a criminal lawyer before you say another word to these detectives. Do you hear me, Jo?”

I heard him fine. I just didn't understand him. “Why would I need a lawyer?”

“Because Molly was murdered. She was shot, just like Rowena. Didn't you see the writing on the side of the island?”

“I saw something. There was so much blood, and all those apples, and Molly's face. Her scarf fell off. I wish I'd fixed it.”

He gripped me by both arms, then quickly let me go. “You're not tracking. Listen to me. You're tied to two murders. Molly was shot sometime last night. You may have been the last person to see her alive. For all I know, as close as you two were, you could be her heir.” I started to speak, but he raised a finger. “I'm not asking. That detective will be back in a moment with more questions. You tell him you can't talk; you're sick and in shock and you need to go home now. Tell him you'll see him tomorrow. But don't talk to him again until you've got a lawyer.” He peered into my face. “Are you following, Jo?”