The Pact (23 page)

“Good night,” I said, trying to sound firm, removing myself from his grasp.

“Good night. Sleep well.” His face was the picture of dejected confusion. But the ability to dissemble convincingly was a critical one if you hoped to get away with murder.

As quickly as I could without breaking into a sprint, I headed back to Emma’s room and shut the door behind me, quietly turning the lock from the inside.

I
sat down on the bed, pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, leaning back against the headboard. I needed to still my spinning thoughts and formulate a plan. Emma hadn’t stirred, and her breathing was deep and even. I, on the other hand, was in earnest need of a tranquilizer. I wanted to take all of the facts I’d collected and throw them up in the air, in the vain hope that they’d rearrange themselves differently when they fell back to earth. Or at least just magically disappear and leave us all in peace.

This was entirely Richard’s fault, I thought grumpily. I was glad that he was dead rather than alive and married to Emma. But the fallout from his death was truly unfortunate. The next time one of my best friends was about to marry someone as vile as Richard, I sincerely hoped that the bridegroom could arrange to meet with premature death by unequivocally accidental or natural causes. It was just like Richard to leave such a mess in his wake. I wondered if the experts had a multistep formula that mapped the grieving process for people who weren’t actually grieving. I just kept finding myself right back at anger, and it was starting to get tedious.

After much cursing of Richard and fate, of Peter and his duplicity, and of my heart-stoppingly bad judgment when it came to the character of attractive men, I managed to get a tenuous grip on my diminished faculties of reason. A plan, I reminded myself. I had to stop wallowing in self-pity and come up with a plan.

There was really only one course of action, I realized. I had to get in touch with O’Donnell and tell him what I knew so that he could come and arrest Peter. I would tell him everything—about how Peter’s company was about to default on its loan, about Hamilton Tech waiting to swoop in, and about the fax I’d seen, which proved beyond a doubt that Peter was going to use his inheritance from Richard to keep his company solvent and independent.

Did it, though? Did it prove everything beyond a doubt? I tried to shush this thought as soon as it crept into my feeble head. It had clearly been sent from some primal corner of my brain, the corner that concerned itself with trivial matters like my biological clock and fears of ending up a lonely, bitter, prune-faced spinster.

Still, there was a missing piece, something I couldn’t reconcile. Peter may have made up his story about seeing Emma and Richard together from his window, but Hilary had confirmed that Emma had been up and about the previous night as well. She must have found Richard dead when she came down, I surmised. Perhaps she’d thought he was merely deeply asleep, passed out, and unable to wake him, returned to bed. That she hadn’t mentioned this to me when she found out he was actually dead could be easily explained: she was concerned that she might implicate someone if she told anyone.

The aged house creaked around me, the usual noises a centuries-old structure makes as it settled into its foundation. But in my hyperalert state, every sound reverberated like a gunshot. I was so busy giving myself a stern lecture about not being such a nervous twit that when I first heard the quiet footsteps I convinced myself that they were merely the normal nocturnal noises the house made. But then they came closer to the door of Emma’s room, and my heart started to pound. This entire weekend was turning into an aerobic workout.

I sat up straighter as the footsteps stopped. I could almost hear the breathing of whoever stood on the opposite side of the door. The moonlight glinted off the doorknob as it slowly began to turn. I tried to let out an ear-piercing shriek, but regardless of all the good practice I’d been getting of late, nothing came out. I reminded myself that I’d locked the door securely, but that thought did little to calm me.

The doorknob continued slowly to turn. And then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. The footsteps proceeded back down the hallway, as quietly as they’d come. I said a silent prayer of relief.

A moment later, I heard muffled voices. At this point I was tempted to wedge a chair under the doorknob as extra protection and burrow under the covers until daylight came. Instead, I took a deep breath and crept out of bed. I tiptoed to the door, putting my ear against its cool surface, but the wood was too thick to let much sound come through. Steeling myself, I reached out for the doorknob, and as silently as I could manage with trembling hands, unbolted the lock and cracked the door open.

I peered into the hallway, cautiously extending my head out in the direction from which the voices came. A small lamp shed a pool of light at the top of the stairwell, faintly illuminating the profiles of Peter and Mrs. Furlong. Mrs. Furlong was in her bathrobe, her hair hanging loose down her back, and Peter was still in his pajama bottoms and T-shirt, a manila folder clasped to his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter was saying. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Aha—so I wasn’t the only person he kept sneaking up on!

“Oh, of course not, darling,” Mrs. Furlong assured him. “I just didn’t expect to see anyone else up at this hour. I couldn’t sleep, so I was thinking I’d go in and check on Emma, and then I remembered that Rachel’s in there, too, and I didn’t want to wake her. And I’m sure Rachel would have let me know if Emma wasn’t all right.” Did that mean it was Mrs. Furlong who’d been poised outside the door of our room? What a ninny I was to be scared by my best friend’s mother, innocently coming in to check on her daughter. I really did not have the appropriate temperament to get caught in the middle of a crime scene.

“And what about you, dear? You couldn’t sleep, either?” she asked.

“No, I guess not. I thought that since I was awake anyhow, I might as well try to get some work done. But I think I’ve managed to tire myself out. I was just headed back to bed.”

I heard Peter offer to make her some tea or warm some milk for her, but she politely demurred. Which was just as well, because if she’d accepted, I’d have had to go downstairs with them to protect her from Peter’s nefarious ways. It would be too much to wake up in the morning to find Mrs. Furlong floating facedown in the pool. Not that Peter had any motive to do away with her, but one couldn’t be too careful when there was a homicidal maniac on the loose. I watched as Lily made her way back down the hallway to her room, and I waited to hear her door latch behind her. Peter trudged back up the stairs to his room on the third floor.

I wondered what the papers were in his hand. More negotiations, perhaps, based on his newly acquired, ill-begotten gains? Well, I would straighten all of that out as soon as I had a chance to speak to the police.

Once again, I quietly shut the door to Emma’s room and locked it from the inside. Emma was still dead to the world. Poor choice of words, I remarked to myself.

I tried the door, just to make sure that the lock had caught. Then I retrieved my cell phone from the dresser, where I’d left it plugged in to a wall outlet to charge its batteries. I pressed the power switch, and its small screen glowed green as it awakened with a soft chirp. Its cool weight was comforting, and I gripped it like a weapon with both hands. I watched anxiously as it searched for a signal, relieved when the date and time flickered onto the screen.

With a shaking finger, I punched in 911. But a lingering doubt kept me from pressing send. If Peter was the murderer, a very important question remained unanswered. Why had Emma agreed to marry Richard? What had he held over her? And was it possible that whatever it was had no connection whatsoever to why he’d ended up dead less than twenty-four hours ago?

Stop it, I told myself. On some level, I was still pathetically searching for a solution that would absolve Peter and preserve him as the wonderful, sweet, attractive man I’d thought him to be, the one who was such a good kisser and had so recently professed his growing love for me.

But the doubt remained, no matter how vehemently I reprimanded myself. After several more minutes of convoluted thought, I made a deal with myself. I would sleep on it for a few hours. I was exhausted and unable to think straight. In the bright light of day, these nagging thoughts would recede, and Peter’s guilt would be obvious. Surely there was no imminent danger. Peter had no reason to do away with anyone else during the next few hours. I would call O’Donnell at dawn.

I put the cell phone down on the nightstand and slid beneath the covers, almost serene now that I’d arrived at a reasonable course of action. It was nearly four; I’d force myself to sleep for a while, awake clearheaded and determined, and turn Peter in to the police.

Most people would have been unable to sleep under a similar set of circumstances, but in my line of work you quickly learned to snatch a few hours of slumber wherever and whenever you can, and my body had finally passed through nervous exhaustion to arrive at just plain exhaustion. The twin bed with its fluffy duvet was far more comfortable than the upright seat of an airplane or the cramped space under my desk at the office.

I was in that zone between consciousness and unconsciousness when I heard another noise. I bolted upright, in the proverbial cold sweat.

The doorknob was turning, and the sound I’d heard was the tiny click as it caught against the lock. I heard the click again as whoever it was tried once more. There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of footsteps, heavier this time, retreating back down the hallway. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. But I was awake, and terrified.

There was one person Peter most definitely had reason to harm, I realized belatedly. If he’d guessed that I read his fax and put two and two together—he could hardly rest if he discovered that I was on to him. For all I knew, he was up in his room right now, trying to figure out how to pick the lock on Emma’s door or lure me from her room so that he could silence me forever.

Then came the clincher. I was running my hands through my hair in mental anguish when my fingers touched on something long and thin and unyielding. I disentangled it and looked at it in the dim light. It was a splinter, with a bit of peeling paint on it. Like the peeling paint on the old canoe, and on the decrepit oars that were stowed alongside it.

The images came flooding back. The deer, darting into the woods. The flash of white. And the current of air as something rushed toward me, then the thwack of something making contact with my head.

Jane and Sean had been right. I hadn’t tripped or slipped. Somebody had hit me, deliberately, probably with one of the same antique oars that I’d briefly considered as a weapon, then left me unconscious, with my face down in the water.

There was only one person who could have done it, who had probably realized that I didn’t have my locket when we came in from the lake. After all, he had his hand around my neck when he kissed me. And he knew that I wouldn’t go to sleep without it.

But why? What would make Peter attack me? Did he think I knew about how he was going to use his inheritance from Richard?

Of course he did, I realized. He must have guessed—before I even put it together—that I was working on the take over of his company. I’d mentioned that I was working on the takeover of a startup. Perhaps he even saw Stan’s fax before I did, and heard me leave Emma’s room and go down to the beach, and followed me, and—

I grabbed a straight-backed chair from against the wall and wedged it under the doorknob. Then I hurriedly snatched the phone from the nightstand and ducked into the bathroom, shutting the door to muffle my voice should Peter return to lurk outside of Emma’s room.

I redialed 911 and pressed Send.

O
ne would think that it would be easy to track down the lead detective on a homicide investigation, even if it was the middle of the night and even if we were in the middle of nowhere. The emergency operator connected me with the police station in town, but nobody picked up the phone there until it had rung more than ten times and I was beginning to despair of anyone answering.

Just when I was about to give up, I heard a surprised hello at the other end. This was quickly followed by a tremendous clatter that sounded like a chair had been overturned. I winced as the receiver on the other end hit the floor with an ear-splitting boom. A grunt and a groan followed.

“Durn it,” said a crotchety voice into the receiver. “Gosh durn it, that hurt.”

“Hello,” I said. “Is anybody there?”

“I’m here, I’m here.” I heard shuffling noises, as if the overturned chair were being set straight.

“Is this the police?” I asked, confused.

“Of course it’s the police. Who’d you think it was? Don’t you even know who you’re calling? Lordy. What do you want already?” The aged-sounding man on the other end made no effort to hide his annoyance.

“I’m trying to reach Detective O’Donnell,” I said. “Is he there? May I speak to him, please?”

“Why should he be here? It’s the middle of the night, for Pete’s sake. What’s the problem, missy?” Then, under his breath he muttered, “Danged summer people.”

“I need to speak to him. About a case he’s working on?”

That got his attention. “A case? A case, you say? Is this about that murder up at the Furlongs’ place?” His voice perked up.

“It is,” I confirmed. “I have some important information I need to give him.”

“Well, then, why didn’t you say so? I’ll connect you to Charlie’s home number.”

“Charlie?” I asked. “Who’s Charlie?”

“Detective O’Donnell. What are you—some kind of half-wit?” The old geezer didn’t give me a chance to reply before putting me on hold. I waited impatiently on the other end as strains of Muzak poured forth over the line, a watered down version of Madonna singing “La Isla Bonita.” Just another surreal element in what was becoming a long list of surreal items.

The music broke off suddenly, replaced by a string of geezer-type epithets (“Durned new-fangled phones. Now how in heck are you supposed to transfer the blasted thing?”) and then the welcome sound of a number being dialed and the tones that let me know it was ringing.

An answering machine picked up, with O’Donnell’s distinctive voice on the tape. “I’m not in,” he intoned and began instructing me to leave a message. Hilary would be happy to know that there was no woman’s voice on the machine, nor any reference to a “we.” O’Donnell himself, however, interrupted before I could take that thought any further. “O’Donnell, here,” he said sleepily. The tape shut off.

“Detective O’Donnell. This is Rachel Benjamin. You interviewed me today—I mean, yesterday—at the Furlongs’ house.”

“Yes, Ms. Benjamin. How can I help you?” He quickly shifted from sleepy to alert.

“I know who did it,” I said. “I know who killed Richard Mallory.” It was liberating to be out with it after all of my mental hemming and hawing.

I expected some excitement on his end, maybe even a cry of “Eureka!” but O’Donnell stayed calm. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve found out that’s led you to this conclusion,” he invited. I could hear the sound of a cigarette being lit and him taking a deep drag.

In as cool and logical a manner as I could manage under the circumstances, I told him everything. I pointed out that Peter was almost definitely the last person to see Richard alive. His story about seeing Emma from his bedroom window was a red herring, designed to divert suspicion. And I explained to him all about Peter’s company and the loan it was about to default on and the takeover threat from Hamilton Tech. And then I revealed the clincher—the fax I’d read that showed that Peter was planning on using his inheritance from Richard to shore up his company.

O’Donnell was mostly silent while I poured out the details in a low voice, breaking in only a couple of times to ask a question or to clarify a point.

“Is that it?” he asked, when I concluded my narrative.

“Yes. That’s everything. So, are you going to come and arrest him?” I asked, trying not to betray my anxiety. “I think it’s sort of dangerous to have him in the house. He’s probably figured out that I’m on to him. I mean, I’ve locked myself in my room right now, but I’m getting a bit nervous.” I didn’t tell him about Peter attacking me, or about Hilary and Luisa seeing Emma in the small morning hours; I saw no reason to muddy the story with things that would likely cause him to doubt my sanity. Nor did I tell him about the turning doorknob and the quiet footsteps. I still wasn’t entirely sure that I hadn’t dreamed up that part.

“All right. It sounds like some further discussions with Mr. Forrest are in order. Paterson and I will come by and pick him up.”

“Now? You’ll come now?” My voice quavered in an embarrassingly girlish manner. I was more than the bit nervous I’d owned up to.

“We’ll come now,” he affirmed. “You just sit tight.”

I made sure he knew the gate code and then pushed the end button on the phone. Relief washed over me. Surely I’d done the right thing?

Amazingly, Emma continued to sleep. I toyed again with the idea of waking her up, but if all of my jumping around and whispering on the phone hadn’t woken her, I was reluctant to physically shake her. I would have to ask Mrs. Furlong what kind of tranquilizers she’d given Emma. I could use one on my next red-eye flight.

The minutes crawled by. Predawn light was slowly turning the sky from black to gray. I stepped to the window, which overlooked the gravel driveway and the circle in front of the house. My fear and anxiety continued to mount, and after ten minutes had passed by my watch I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed a reassuring big brother type, the sort of person who would never take advantage of a rare moment of terror to tease me for decades to come about waking him up in the middle of the night.

I removed the chair from where I’d wedged it and placed it back against the wall. I unlocked the door and looked into the hallway, checking both ways to make sure the coast was clear of cold-blooded killers. Then, as quietly as I could, I closed the door behind me and made my way, barefoot, down the back stairs to the kitchen. I let myself out the door and onto the porch and sprinted for the pool house.

Matthew was snoring lightly in his guestroom, but he woke quickly when I pounded on the door. I threw it open while he was still saying “Come in.”

“Rachel?” he asked groggily. Then he sat up with alarm. “What’s wrong? Is Emma okay?”

“She’s fine,” I told him. “It’s me. I called the police and told them that Peter’s the murderer, and now they’re coming to get him. But I’m scared,” I admitted. “And everyone else is sleeping, and I didn’t want to be all alone.” I felt like a child, seeking solace during a particularly violent thunderstorm. Only I doubted that a rousing rendition of “My Favorite Things” was going to do much to soothe my emotional state. And Matthew was hardly a substitute for Fräulein Maria.

“Peter?” he asked. He ran his hands through his shaggy hair, disheveling it yet further. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m not.” I blurted out everything I told O’Donnell, far less coolly and logically than I had the first time around. This time I added in the part about being hit over the head with an oar on the beach.

Matthew seemed to follow me. “That’s incredible,” he said in disbelief. “Absolutely incredible.”

“I know,” I said. “But it’s all true. And I think Peter knows that I know, and I think he may try to come after me again, and I didn’t want to stay in the house until the police arrive.” My voice shook. “Will you come with me and wait for them?”

“Rachel, you’re making a mistake. Trust me. I know.”

“I’m not, Matthew. I swear. Please.” I was on the verge of tears.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on a T-shirt and pants. He followed me out of the pool house and around to the front of the main house. I sank down onto the stone steps while he made me repeat the story again, more slowly this time.

I’d just finished recounting the details when O’Donnell and Paterson pulled up in an old Buick sedan. It seemed anticlimactic. I expected at least a police car, even if there weren’t any sirens.

We all exchanged subdued greetings, and then Matthew and I led the detectives into the house. I stopped on the second floor, unwilling to go with them up to Peter’s room. Matthew escorted them up the remaining flight to the third floor.

I was leaning against the wall of the second-floor corridor, trying to compose myself and wondering what was taking so long for them to come back downstairs with their prisoner in tow, when Sean and Jane emerged from their room.

“Rach? What is it?” Sean asked.

“For chrissakes—it’s impossible to get a decent night’s sleep in this house. What’s going on?” This was from Hilary, who made her way down the hallway with Luisa trailing behind.

Mrs. Furlong joined us, too. “Now what’s happening?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

“It’s Peter,” I said. “The police and Matthew are upstairs. They’re arresting him, I think. Peter. He did it.”

“Good Lord,” said Jane, a horrified look on her face.

Hilary, at an unprecedented loss for words, simply gaped at me.

Luisa’s brow furrowed. “But—but that can’t be,” she said, her accent thicker than normal, the way it usually was when she’d just woken up. “That doesn’t make sense,” she said.

Mrs. Furlong was silent, her face white and drawn.

We all turned as footsteps started descending the stairs from the third floor. O’Donnell and Paterson came first, followed by Peter and then Matthew. They’d given Peter time to get dressed, and I noted with consternation that they hadn’t bothered to handcuff him, which seemed grossly negligent, at best. I flattened myself against the wall, glad to have Sean’s comforting bulk so nearby.

“We just want to ask you a few more questions,” O’Donnell was saying. “There are a couple of things we’d like to clear up.”

Peter was nodding. “Whatever I can do to help,” he said. But his voice sounded confused, and he hadn’t taken the time to brush his hair. He looked sweet and innocent, and for a moment I was besieged by a fresh wave of doubt. His eyes met mine for an instant, their rich chocolate color dark in the murky light. The four men proceeded down the stairs to the first floor.

Jane came over and put her arm around my shoulders. “It will be okay,” she said soothingly. “Everything will be okay.”

“Of course it will,” I said, with far more confidence than I felt. I realized then that I was crying.