The Last Guest

by Tess Little

  “Hello?” Yola was still standing there. “Did you hear me? I said, they found it.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please, can we do this some other time?”

  There was a smattering of applause as the jazz band finished the last song and began packing away their instruments. The room was emptying, yet Lillie’s admirers continued to grow in number, lining up to say their farewells. Few had tried to speak with me. I was not the widow.

  I looked for my ex-husband’s lover in the crowds, spotted his long legs ascending the spiral staircase.

  “Lie to yourself,” Yola said, smiling, “but you can’t lie to me. They found it. In that octopus filter, last week. When they were taking her away. I was there.”

  “Sorry, found what?” I asked.

  “I called the police. And they know. They have it now.” Yola’s husband took her arm. “One minute,” she told him. Turned back to me, smug: “I told you they would find out, and now they have. I hope you get everything you deserve.”

  They left before I could respond, made their way toward my daughter. I puzzled over Yola’s comments: Had I left something behind at the party, something that seemed, to her, incriminating? I could think of nothing—chalked it up to her paranoia and hatred. If the police had found something incriminating, I would have been called in to the station. I would not be standing at my ex-husband’s memorial, with the detectives in attendance. There were more important things to worry about.

  I watched the staircase for Honey’s return.

  Should I inform the police about my faltering memory? The silver necklace, a young man’s sprawling limbs. If there was any chance I was still a suspect, as Yola believed, I needed to come clean as soon as possible. What if the police thought I’d deliberately lied about Honey? What if they thought I had been trying to protect him?

  “Beautiful day, beautiful,” Miguel said, from a few feet away. Then moved closer: “I’ve spoken to almost everyone here, so don’t worry about people seeing us together, okay? That’s why you ignored me earlier, isn’t it?”

  He spoke a little slower than the night of the party but still did not let me answer his question, fiddled with the tail of his tie as he went on.

  “Figured most people have left anyway, so it doesn’t matter.” He was avoiding my eye. “No one will hear—well, anyway, my brothers told me to stay away from you all, but they don’t know who was at the party, so fuck that, I’ll speak to who I want.”

  I noticed his two lookalikes standing by the window, checking their phones.

  “You shouldn’t have called me,” I said. “You shouldn’t have been calling Lillie’s number.”

  “I know, I know, I’m sorry. Look, I probably had one too many, but it was coming from a place of concern, Elspeth. How are you…” He cleared his throat. “How do you…How have you been?”

  I weighed whether it was worth trying to push him away. But, no, it would make more of a scene.

  “It’s been difficult,” I said, resigning myself to the conversation. “But I’ve been looking after Lillie, so I’ve had something to focus on. Something more important.”

  His eyes were darting wildly as he waited for me to finish. He sniffed.

  “I keep seeing—I keep remembering what he looked like. And his body, I just…Fuck. Everything. I can’t believe—I mean, no one deserves that. Not even Richard. Not even Richard, god rest his soul.”

  He looked around as if Richard were somewhere in the room. I moved away from Lillie, conscious she might hear. Miguel duly crept closer.

  “And coming here again, I mean, you must feel it. You notice all the furniture’s gone? I’m glad I don’t have to see that gold fucking velvet couch again.”

  He came closer still. I could smell the smoked salmon on his breath.

  “But the thing that’s really fucking me up is knowing that he’s here. The guy that did it. Somewhere here with us, and it’s fucked up, it’s so fucked up—”

  “I don’t think we should be speaking about this, Miguel.”

  The police officers were on the other side of the empty glass tank, in heated conversation. I wondered whether I should approach them once Miguel had left. Ask for a conversation somewhere private. Apologize. Tell them I got it all wrong.

  I tapped my foot, desperate for Miguel to finish. I needed to think everything through. I needed time.

  Then why did I feel I needed to act urgently?

  “The walls have ears, the walls have ears, I get it,” he said, gripping my shoulder tight. “But this is what I needed to say earlier: You’ve got to be careful, he can be dangerous.”

  “Sorry, who?”

  “Honey,” said Miguel, perplexed at my question. “Come on, tell me you don’t see it—the way he’s been acting today?”

  I held my hands together so no one could see them tremble.

  “It’s suspicious, isn’t it? I don’t get it. Why haven’t they arrested him already? I mean, we all saw it, didn’t we? We all saw how he was looking at Richard that night. All I’m saying is, who’s getting the house? Who’s getting all this artwork? I’m sure as fuck not going to see all the money Richard lost me.”

  My palms were sweating. I scanned the room for Honey, but he was still absent, hiding in the depths of Sedgwick.

  A thought occurred: If Judy knew about Richard and Honey on the night of his fortieth, did others?

  “Do you know when they met?” I said. “Richard and Honey?”

  For the first time, Miguel carefully chose his words. “I mean,” he said slowly, “I don’t know exactly, but it was a while ago, right?”

  The answer was there in his squirming. A seventeen-year-old boy, whom I should have protected. Possibly a killer that I had created.

  “Elspeth, I’m sorry.” Miguel leaned closer still. His aftershave was acrid, and he had drunk too much of something—not champagne; vodka, maybe. “I know I shouldn’t have brought it up, because the cops haven’t, you know, but earlier I saw Lillie with him, so I had to give you my advice, and, look, this is what I was trying to tell you when I called: You need to keep your daughter far away from Honey.”

  An icy plunge of terror.

  “Because she shouldn’t— Look, Elspeth, please, Honey can’t be trusted. He cannot be trusted. That night, I saw—”

  A beep and crackle of radio cut over his next few words, and with that the two police officers, beyond the glass, sprinted up the staircase.

  * * *

  —

  Lillie was at the center of the room, unreachable, stock-still. Yola and her husband were huddled around her. Miguel had stopped fiddling with his tie, was gripping it in a red fist. Even his brothers had paused their conversation, were looking up from their phone screens—looking, with everyone else, to the mezzanine. The room, though full of waitstaff and musicians and the last of the guests, felt strangely motionless.

  It was my fault Honey had returned to Richard. If I had not lied, if I had not written my statement, if I had not turned the world against him, perhaps he would have made his escape. But he had returned. He had believed it would all be different. And it was not—he was pushed too far.

  Honey had killed my ex-husband, my daughter’s father, and it was my fault, all my fault.

  I looked to Lillie, I looked back at the mezzanine. My heart pounded.

  And I could see it in the space only a few steps away, where the couch should have stood, where we danced and talked and drank: the splayed fingers, the eyes, the sharp stench of vomit; the lips opening to a wet “O,” the pink-splattered cotton; the wounds, the bruises, a long, blunt object. And the bodies together, comatose on my marital bed. And how I had stalled the investigation with my weak memory. How I had let a murderer befriend my teenage daughter. How I should have trusted my instincts. And the tentacles, the eyes, the sharp stench of vomit
…

  The room, suspended. Footsteps echoed from the hallway above. Blurred shapes beyond the reflections of an empty tank. Lillie turned to look at me in horror.

  And there, on the mezzanine, flanked by the cops, was Tommo.

  * * *

  —

  “Please.”

  “Honey, sweetie, baby,” Richard said. “We talked about this. It’s my birthday present, remember?”

  “But it’s not—can’t you just—”

  “We discussed it. We decided together. It’s disrespectful to bring it up now, in front of my guests.”

  “It’s not a good idea,” said Honey. “I’m asking you. Please. For me.”

  Richard sighed. “Don’t play that card. Remember what you said? I’ll be safer, here, with you. I waited until now for you.”

  I was cross-legged on the floor, groggy, wishing I had already left. It took me a moment to figure out what they were discussing. When I did, I resolved to stay out of it.

  “Remember?” repeated Richard. “It was you that suggested it. Why don’t you wait until—”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Honey raised his voice in frustration. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  Richard shook his head, disgusted. I knew that look. “Don’t contradict me in front of my friends, baby—you know full well what you meant. Don’t lie.”

  Honey looked like he was going to be sick.

  Richard turned away from him.

  “Please,” repeated Honey, desperate. “Please, Richard.”

  “Richard, you don’t have to do it,” Kei was saying, from the other couch. “Come on, it’s not like anyone else is into it.”

  “I’ll give it a try,” said Charlie.

  “See”—Richard shot Kei an acidic look—“you don’t know what you’re talking about, darling.”

  Kei’s jaws clenched; her temple throbbed.

  “Whatever.” She took out a cigarette, lit it, and turned her head away. One hand was combing through a snoozing Sabine’s hair.

  Richard pulled his belt through the loops, then stood to lift the couch cushion, humming himself a happy birthday under his breath.

  Honey, Tommo, and Kei looked at one another, as though deciding who should speak. I averted my eyes. This was not my battle.

  It was Tommo, bloodshot-eyed, who stepped up to the plate. “Mate, perhaps it’s not such a good idea.”

  “Mate, mate, mate, perhaps you should mind your own fucking business.” Richard turned around, cushion in hand, to face him. I flinched with each syllable. “Have I not been an excellent fucking host tonight? Have you not had an excellent fucking time? What more do you want from me, mate? What more do the rest of you want? After everything? After everything I’ve done for you?”

  He threw down the cushion and picked up a glass. I inched away. Surely he would not smash it—not now, not with us watching—

  He splashed its contents over Tommo’s face with one quick jab. “Drink the champagne I provided for you and mind your own fucking business.”

  Tommo had not flinched. He did not wipe his face. He stared at Richard, droplets running down his cheeks.

  Honey and Kei looked at each other; Charlie looked at the floor.

  The silence stretched out, bloated.

  “I’m sorry.” Richard put the cushion back, ran his hand down his face, and sat. “Look, the stress has really gotten to me lately. I just want to take the edge off, is that so awful? I just want to take the edge off.”

  Nobody replied.

  He went on: “It’s just that I kept clean for decades, and my promise to myself was that I’d enjoy this on my fiftieth birthday. It’s been keeping me going these past few months, keeping me from doing it when I was alone. What—would you rather I waited till you’re all gone? Should I book myself a room in a seedy motel? Don’t you want to keep me safe?”

  I held my breath. Made myself as small as possible. This was not my battle anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” Tommo said slowly, a serrated edge to his words. Water dripped from his chin to the floor. “I shouldn’t judge.”

  “You’re right, we want to keep you safe,” said Honey.

  Charlie piped up, “Exactly. If he wants to—”

  “But letting you do this to yourself isn’t keeping you safe,” said Kei. “Guys”—she looked around the group, desperate—“come on, are you really going along with this?” Her eyes fell upon the actor, her voice hardened. “Charlie, trust me, you don’t want to get into it.”

  “Richard, mate,” Tommo spoke up again, “I just think that if you take this one step, you’re undoing years of—”

  Richard spoke quietly, wearily, but through gritted teeth. “Did you not fucking hear me? This is the only way I kept myself clean.”

  Nobody seemed convinced, but no one challenged him either.

  Richard laughed. “Hey, let’s lighten up! It is my fucking birthday, after all. Don’t end it like this. Tommo? Charlie boy?”

  But the room was silent. Charlie avoided Kei’s glare. Honey adjusted his cuff links. Tommo rubbed his jaw, jiggled his knee. The puddle beneath him was seeping into the concrete.

  Lillie flashed through my mind, and I considered intervening on her behalf. But I knew nothing could dissuade Richard, not even his daughter; protests would only strengthen his resolve. I was tired. My mouth was sealed. My body was exhausted. And this was not my battle.

  Richard stood up again, rummaged under the couch cushion. As he drew out a package, he began to mutter:

  “I look into my glass, and view my wasting skin…”

  I folded myself onto the floor, rested heavy head on elbows. It was surprisingly comfortable, this concrete.

  “…and say, ‘Would God it came to pass, my heart had shrunk as thin!’ Remember, Tommo? Recite with me. Schoolboy memory never fades, does it, Tommo?”

  His friend was silent, wet.

  “No? For then, I, undistrest…”

  He rolled his “r”s and sang his vowels. I could not see what he was doing with his hands, only his melodramatic face, mouth twisting out each line. The package rustled. A clatter, a smack.

  “…by hearts grown cold to me, could lonely wait my endless rest with equanimity.”

  His voice rose, thespian.

  “But Time, to make me grieve, part steals, lets part abide; and shakes this fragile frame at eve…”

  I let my eyes fall shut as Richard spoke the last line. The floor was chilling my arms. The aquarium filter murmured.

  “…with throbbings of noontide.”

  A colossal whale floated overhead—fiberglass suspended above the shrieking, laughing crowds, but somehow still stately, still dignified. Silent and unmoving, a world apart. Lillie and I strung lanyards around our necks. It had been her idea—to visit the aquarium on the day the jury’s decision would be read. Better to hide from the press; better to miss our carefully worded statement, read aloud by Scott on the steps of the courthouse. Better to escape to Long Beach and visit an old friend.

  “Do you think she’ll recognize us?” I asked, as we entered the blue. Lillie shrugged.

  The shock of Tommo’s arrest, our uncertainty, the questions—it was all too much. I had whisked a stunned, shaking Lillie away from the memorial—away from the frantic guests, cellphone cameras flashing. Journalists or opportunists, I didn’t care: Either way, we needed to escape. I watched Sedgwick in my rearview mirror. Waited until it was submerged in trees, until it could have been any patch of forest, and only then tore my eyes away to look at the road.

  I didn’t speak until we returned home, when I asked Lillie what she wanted to eat. To my surprise, she had answered, “Pizza.” We turned on the television halfway through Bringing Up Baby. Ate in front of it silently. And that was how we had existed during the months of the cour
t case: in numbness, purposeless.

  It was as if we had decided to act as normally as possible. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and sleep, up in the mornings like clockwork. I kept myself busy. I ran. I even got in touch with Jerry, took him to a few of his chemotherapy appointments. Maybe we could forge our own friendship, I thought, without Richard. Maybe with his death we could all become ourselves, fully.

  And it felt right to spend time with someone who had been there that night, even if we didn’t discuss it in depth. As we sat on those vinyl waiting-room chairs, Jerry would say something like, “Heard they’ve got Charlie Pace on the stand today.”

  He never asked me the question I’d been asking myself: Did I really think Tommo had done it? Did I think he was capable? Jerry kept his own thoughts close as well.

  “Heard the DNA expert is in next week,” he’d say, and that would be that from both of us.

  But it was closer to a conversation than Lillie and I ever got.

  Once, a few days after the trial began, I thought we might talk.

  “What do I do now?” she had asked me.

  I was about to say, There’s nothing to do. We just wait and we listen and we wait. That’s all.

  But then she added, “I mean, what do I do while I’m waiting?”

  “Could you start thinking about work again?” I asked. “It might be hard at first. A reminder of…But maybe a distraction would help. Some scripts to read? Or you could come with me to see Jerry if you want to get out of the house?”

  And then I remembered the piece of paper he had given me that night, months ago. It was there, in my purse, slipped into the lining pocket. There was no reason it wouldn’t be, but it nonetheless seemed out of place. A relic, anachronistic.

  “Thanks,” Lillie said when I gave it to her, although she didn’t seem particularly pleased.

  The contact details of Jerry’s friend didn’t prompt any change in her behavior. She didn’t throw herself into phone calls and meetings and scripts as I’d hoped. She carried on as before: pale and lost. Only leaving the house every few days, to go see Honey. I wondered if she had even sent the email. Not that I could really blame her.