The Edith Wharton Murders

by Lev Raphael

I’d wanted to escape all weekend—so why not do it? I felt chilled by the odd good-byes at the Campus Center: each conferee said they’d never been to such an exciting academic conference before.

  Exciting? It was like a Reverend Moon mass wedding during a hurricane.

  While Stefan did mysterious things in the kitchen, I threw clothes and toiletries into the leather Gladstone bag he had bought me for my last birthday because I’d always wanted one. I closed shades, put some lamps on timers, and was ready to go in under half an hour.

  Stefan lugged out two large coolers and some grocery bags, and wouldn’t tell me what was in them. We sped north. It’s a dull drive straight up Route 27 through St. John’s and Mt. Pleasant because every thing’s so flat. But further north, the ride becomes more scenic and you move through farmland and rolling hills.

  We blasted Annie Lennox’s “Diva” and Bronski Beat, feeling like teenagers running from their parents.

  Heading northwest to Lake Michigan at Grayling, you’re in a hillier part of the state, like another world, with dense woods and picturesque lakes. The conference dropped from us like sweat off a whirling dervish.

  We were free, and I felt incredibly relaxed by the time we drove down the three-mile dirt road near Norwood just south of Charlevoix. Well screened by poplars, white pines, and hemlocks, our gem of a cabin was right on the lake, with two hundred feet of beach on a deep half-acre site. The setting was even more private because we never invited anybody—there simply wasn’t enough room for guests. Two-thirds of the space was the open kitchen and living room; the rest was a cozy bedroom and bath with a sunken whirlpool tub.

  We turned up the heat and settled in very quickly because I wanted to make the most of our half day here.

  I love being by Lake Michigan. I don’t care that it’s not the ocean—it looks plenty big to me, since I can’t see the other side, and it has waves. Even better: there aren’t any jellyfish or sharks.

  “So what’s for dinner?” I finally asked. “You have to tell me now.”

  Stefan grinned and laid out the menu: sweet potato and foie gras ravioli; butterflied leg of lamb stuffed with spinach, mint, and orange zest; roasted garlic potatoes; a bottle of 1990 Vieux Télégraph. Followed by Grand Marnier ice cream in white chocolate shells and a 1988 Dom Perignon. He whipped out an ice bucket and started filling it for the champagne.

  “No wonder you had to pack so much stuff. You really love me, don’t you?”

  Stefan nodded gravely. “It kills me that you’re still thinking about last year, and Perry Cross.”

  I looked away. “Well, it still hurts.”

  “As much as before?”

  I met his eager, melting glance. He was on the point of tears.

  “No,” I said confidently. “Much less all the time.”

  He sighed, looking relieved and grateful.

  The phone rang, and we both glared at it, letting the machine take the call. It was Serena. “Nick! Nick! If you’re up there, you have to turn on the TV! It’s Joanne Gillian! She’s having a press conference at her church. It’s priceless!”

  We didn’t take the call, but it got us both curious, and we switched on the TV—luckily we had cable here—and tuned in a Lansing station.

  I was amazed to see a room full of cameras and reporters. Facing a tangle of black microphones, Joanne sat at a small table in front of a gory silk-screened Crucifixion scene. She wore a modest white blouse and black suit.

  “That’s so tacky,” I said, taking Stefan’s hand. We were sitting very close.

  “The banner or the clothes?”

  “Both.”

  We hooted as the woebegone, pale Reverend Gillian began her statement. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press and people of Michigan, I come before you as a victim. I have been lied to, duped, cheated, and viciously maligned by my soon-to-be ex-husband, a dope fiend, a transvestite, and an evil, evil man who stole my heart and my trust, and kept me a prisoner for years. I couldn’t escape because I loved him. I trusted him. I was sadly wrong.”

  The phone rang and I absent-mindedly picked it up, riveted to the screen.

  “Professor Hoffman?” It was a reedy teenage voice I thought might belong to one of my students. But why would a student call me up here?

  “I’m with the Detroit Free Press and I’d like to interview you about the murders at your conference. Could you give me some background?”

  “Who is it?” Stefan whispered.

  “Some reporter.” I was so busy watching Joanne Gillian’s twisted, anxious face, I didn’t think of hanging up.

  “Professor Hoffman, let’s start with you telling me a little about Edith Wharton.”

  “Edith who?”