The Grip Lit Collection

by Claire Douglas

  Sitting at the kitchen table, I try to discipline my thoughts, plot my next move. It would be best, I decide, to take the systematic approach, go down the suspect list one by one. But where to start? With my dad, the suspect I regard as the most suspicious, edging out Mr. and Mrs. Amory? Or with Jamie, only on the list to shut Damon up? Jamie, I suppose, since Dad’s at work and won’t be available for grilling until one at the earliest. Besides, I’ve been putting off the conversation with Jamie for long enough. It doesn’t matter that I don’t believe him capable of killing Nica. He had the motive to do so, if not the opportunity. (Sure, Damon’s scenario is physically possible—Jamie zipping back and forth from Hartford to Westerly, Westerly to Hartford, Hartford to Westerly, as deadly with a Prince Airstick 140 as with a .22 Smith & Wesson—but it’s also highly improbable. This isn’t, after all, some murder mystery movie, an updated version of a Hitchcock thriller.)

  Unless, I think to myself.

  Something Jamie said at the Outdoor Club meeting, a remark he made. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time but somehow it snagged itself in my brain: the Stamford tournament was the second in the last six months in which he’d lost first round.

  I get the laptop from my bedroom, look up that tournament in Westerly. Another Bronze level event. Too minor to be reported in the local paper. I call the club.

  A chipper-voiced young woman answers. “Ocean House Relais and Chateaux. How may I help you?”

  After I tell her, there’s a long pause. Finally she says, sounding considerably less chipper, “You want to the know the results of a junior tournament we hosted in April?”

  “That’s right. Boys Under-19 division. I’m writing an article for my school paper. One of our seniors just won a big squash scholarship.” When she says nothing back, I add, “And I don’t mind waiting.”

  The young woman sighs and drops the receiver with a thunk. Five minutes later she’s back on the line, eating what sounds like an apple. “Okay,” she says, through a noisy mouthful, “I found the draw sheet. That tournament was won by a J. Amory of Avon, Connecticut.”

  Surprised at the strength of my relief, I say, “Jamie won?”

  “That your classmate?”

  “Yeah. Okay, great. Thank you so much for your—”

  “Oh wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. I was reading it wrong. This thing is confusing. You have to go backward. Your guy was seeded one. But he was out early, looks like.”

  My heartbeat rattling in my ears, “How early?”

  “Didn’t make it to the second round.”

  “Is that because he withdrew? Or defaulted maybe?” Either scenario would make sense, I realize. More sense than him losing, actually. He’d have won his match on Friday, then got the call about Nica Saturday morning. I feel a spark of hope.

  A second later, the spark goes out. “Nope,” says the young woman. “He was defeated in the first round by a B. Wong of Old Lyme, Connecticut. I can read you the scores if you—”

  I hang up, my mind racing. That Jamie lost on Friday doesn’t mean anything or change anything. He still checked into the hotel. The police said he did. But maybe he checked in before the match, drove home after. Didn’t see the point in spending the night in Rhode Island if he wasn’t playing the next day. Maybe he returned to his parents’ house, only fifteen minutes from Chandler by car. Then maybe he—

  Stop, I tell myself. No more thinking. Enough is enough. Thinking isn’t going to get me where I need to go. This isn’t something I can work out in my head, only face-to-face. I have to talk to Jamie.

  After a fast shower, I’m about to walk out the door and over to Chandler when I remember that it’s the start of the weekend. Not just any weekend either, a weekend in September, mere months away from the biggest squash tournament of the year: the U.S. Junior Open. Jamie’s far more likely to be at his house, close to the club in Canton that Oscar coaches out of, than at school. Even better. I can check out his parents, too, while I’m there.

  I grab my cell phone and keys. Then, on impulse, I run back upstairs and pull Nica’s denim jacket from the top shelf of my closet, where I’ve been stashing it since Damon wrapped it around me the night of Luis Ramos’s capture. After putting it on, I reach for a pen, start writing Dad a note in case he stops by to make a sandwich for himself in between tutoring and bartending. Midway through, though, I scrap it. Since when does Dad stop by to make a sandwich? Since when does Dad eat solid foods?

  I get in my car. Light out for Avon.

  The Amorys’ house is dark, and, apart from a lone sprinkler, whirring on the front lawn, silent. I’d have figured they were out of town for the weekend, except that Mrs. Amory’s silver Volvo is parked by the toolshed next to Jamie’s Land Rover, also silver. As I walk past the beds of lush, expensive flowers, the tall, carefully pruned bushes, I think about the last time I was here. My fingers unconsciously brush the scar above my eyebrow.

  I lift the lion’s-head knocker, let it fall. Thirty seconds pass. Then a minute. Then two. I’m about to head back to my car when I hear the sound of shuffled steps. Locks are fumbled with, bolts turned. Finally, the door opens. Behind it is Mrs. Amory. She’s not looking so hot, her skin puffy-pale, violet-tinged around the eyes, her hair flat on one side, like she’s been lying on it.

  “You,” she says, her voice thick with sleep.

  “Hi, Mrs. Amory. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  She neither confirms nor denies. Just looks at me, mouth half open, the expression on her face somewhere between bewildered and accusatory.

  “I didn’t interrupt your nap, did I?”

  More of the same.

  Starting to feel uncomfortable, I say, “Is Jamie around?”

  Hearing her son’s name seems to bring Mrs. Amory back to herself. Closing her mouth, recovering some of her poise, she says, “Ah, no, dear. He’s at school.”

  “But his car’s here.”

  “He left it yesterday. The engine light’s flashing. He asked me to drop it off at the dealer for him.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  Mrs. Amory has one of those lipless drawstring mouths that are always tightening in disapproval or irritation. It’s tightening right now. “Is that all? Because I’d—”

  “What about Mr. Amory?”

  A long sigh. “He’s not here either.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “At a business meeting.”

  What kind of business meeting could a guy without a job have on a Friday at six P.M.?

  Mrs. Amory must guess what I’m thinking because her drawstring mouth cinches even tighter. “It’s with our financial planner in New York. The meeting was at four this afternoon, so my husband thought it made sense to just spend the night in the city, take the train home in the morning.”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “As I said, he’s taking the train home in the morning.” She starts to shut the door.

  “Don’t you want to know what I want to talk to him about?”

  “If you do decide to come back tomorrow, call first, please.” She goes to shut the door the rest of the way.

  I jam my foot in it. “About my sister. You know—his daughter?” Mrs. Amory’s body slumps a little, but otherwise she doesn’t react, just stares at a patch of air a few inches above my head. Still, it’s enough. “Unless,” I say, “you’ll talk to me about her instead.”

  Mrs. Amory continues to stare off into space. At last, though, her face gives a twitch and her eyes come back to mine. She shrugs, turns around, starts walking down the dim, high-ceilinged entrance hall, padding along on her bare feet, robe flapping behind her. She trips on the edge of a Persian rug, steadies herself by leaning against the wall, then disappears into the kitchen.

  I close the door and follow her.

  The Amorys’ kitchen is old-fashioned looking: glass-fronted cabinets, a sink with a faucet that comes right out of the wall, black-and-white tiled floor. Mrs. Amory sits at the antique farm table
at the center. It appears as if she’s set up camp there. Before her is a mug of coffee, a pack of cigarettes, Gauloises—I recognize the logo from an exhibition of Motherwell collages Mom took me and Nica to a few years ago—an ashtray choked with butts.

  I take a seat across from Mrs. Amory as she lights a cigarette. The cigarette’s smelly. Not smelly enough, though, to cover the raw whiskey fumes floating up from the coffee mug. Guess it isn’t sleep her voice is thick with.

  “I really shouldn’t be doing this,” she says, waving out the match, dropping it in the ashtray.

  What, I want to say back. Chain-smoking? Spiking your coffee? Spending the entire day in your jamjams?

  She clarifies: “Using this ashtray. My mother gave it to me. It’s been in the family since the 1830s.”

  It looks like a regular old ashtray to me but I say, “It’s pretty,” to be polite.

  “It’s made out of Bohemian crystal,” she says, sounding aggressive about it. “It’s one of a kind. Really just for decoration.”

  I look down at my crossed legs, at my ballet flats, the sole of the left coming off, which I know I’ll Super-Glue before buying another pair. I uncross my legs, press both feet to the floor.

  “Oh, what the hell, right?” Mrs. Amory says, tapping her cigarette on the side of the ashtray, trying to lighten up. “An ashtray’s an ashtray. So, dear, how’s your father doing?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “I heard the funniest rumor about him the other day.”

  “Oh yeah? What?”

  “You’ll laugh when I tell you.”

  “I like laughing,” I say, though I have a feeling I won’t be.

  “A friend of mine told me that a friend of hers saw him slinging cocktails at the downtown Marriott. Can you imagine? I told my friend that her friend should get her eyes examined.”

  Keeping my gaze steady, on hers, I say, “Yeah, she really should. Marriotts and Holiday Inns aren’t at all alike.”

  A little inhalation of shock. “But I thought he was on sabbatical?”

  “He is.”

  “But don’t the teachers at Chandler usually travel or take graduate school courses during their time away?”

  “It’s an unpaid sabbatical, so …” I trail off.

  “Oh, I see,” she says, her voice going small and soft with sympathy. “You know, it’s a crime how poorly paid teachers are in this country. James and I were talking about it just the other night. Such an important profession yet so little appreciated. Horrible.”

  I can picture her and Mr. Amory, never having had to work a day in their lives, sitting in their dining room, dinner over, sharing a nice bottle of wine, glorying in pity for those less fortunate. I let my eyes drop from hers, but from behind my lashes I’m watching. Resentment blooms as I take in the washed-out, aristocratic features: the long nose, the fragile neck, the skin so white it’s nearly blue. “So,” I say, shifting in my chair, “Mr. Amory must really hate to travel at night. I mean, if he’d rather stay in a hotel than just take the train back. The trip’s only two hours.”

  Mrs. Amory nods unhappily, stubs out her cigarette.

  “Does he spend a lot of nights in the city?”

  “A few.”

  “A few a year? A month? A week?”

  She answers in a voice so low I can’t quite make it out.

  “What was that?” I say, leaning in, cupping my ear.

  Slightly louder, “It varies.”

  After that she seems to turn inward. The silence between us grows.

  “When did you know?” I finally say.

  “Know?”

  “That Nica was Mr. Amory’s daughter.”

  She half laughs. “You want a date? Okay. It was the day Jamie brought his new girlfriend home from school to meet his parents. That was the middle of his sophomore year—winter vacation, I think—so almost three years ago.”

  “How? What made it so obvious to you? Nica didn’t look like Mr. Amory.”

  Mrs. Amory drains her coffee mug, then stands. She walks out of the kitchen, weaving a little. When she comes back, it’s with a photograph of Mr. Amory. I study it. He looks older than Jamie, naturally, his blond hair shot through with gray, and his body a little thicker. But the features are identical. There’s no resemblance to Nica that I can pick up on, though. I shake my head at Mrs. Amory, try to hand her the photo.

  “Look,” she says, pushing it back at me.

  “I just did.”

  “No. Look again. Look carefully.”

  I look again and I look carefully. But whatever it is I’m supposed to be seeing, I don’t. I’m about to say so when, suddenly, I do. “The tiny gold rectangle,” I say. “He has it in his eye, too. I never noticed before because he wears glasses.”

  “Except in pictures. Too vain for that.” She takes the photo from me. “The rectangle is a flaw in the iris. Very rare. So, of course, as soon as I saw it I knew Nica was his. I didn’t say anything, though. I was waiting for him to. I suspected he’d had an affair with someone at the school during our engagement. Early on in our marriage, too. Your mother, I assumed, since she was so awfully good-looking.”

  “Why didn’t you break off the engagement if you thought he was running around?”

  She gives me a look, like I’ve asked a dumb question. Which, I suppose, I have. Because she was in love with him, obviously.

  “I wanted him to admit that he’d been unfaithful,” she says. “But he held out. Gritted his teeth and held out for more than two years.”

  “He must have been afraid of hurting you.”

  “More like afraid of hurting himself. We have a prenuptial agreement. If he gives me cause, he gets nothing in the divorce.”

  “But ultimately he was willing to, right? Hurt himself?”

  She snorts. “That’s how he tried to pass it off. Came to me after he walked in on your sister and Jamie, told me he”—changing her tone, making it masculine and blowhardy—“had to say something. Acted like he was being honorable and self-sacrificing when, in reality, he was just being prissy. Incest was fine with him as long as he didn’t have to see it.”

  I think how alike she and Mom sound on this subject. I can’t imagine, though, that she’ll appreciate the comparison, so instead of making it, I say, “I know he only told Nica the truth at the time. Did he tell Jamie later?”

  “Please. He didn’t have the guts for that. Said he was afraid of Jamie thinking less of him. Didn’t care what I thought, I guess.” Her voice, which has been hard until now, cracks. “I don’t know,” she says. “I just don’t know.” She takes a deep breath as her eyes start to fill.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m … yes. I will be.” Mrs. Amory feeds herself a cigarette, picks up the pack of matches. She tries to tear one off the cardboard strip but her fingers are trembling too badly.

  I take the matches from her. By the time I strike one, though, she’s already dropped her head in her arms. “Do you want me to pour you another cup of coffee?” I ask.

  She rounds her back. Sobs rack her body.

  “Forget the coffee,” I say, standing. “What you need is a drink. Do you have anything? Whiskey?”

  She lifts her blotchy face to me, lips parted like she’s baffled, like the existence of whiskey and its possible presence in her house is a fact she can’t quite wrap her head around. “I … I’m not positive but I think we might. Check the cabinet above the stove. I think I remember James putting a bottle there a while ago. I think.”

  I open the cabinet. Sure enough, there’s a half-full bottle of Redbreast sitting there. It’s wet on the outside where she must have run it under the tap earlier. A sticky ring has formed underneath it. There are no clean glasses, so I take her coffee mug, pour a healthy slug into it, then carry it back to her.

  She sips it, squeezing her eyes shut, forgetting to shudder from the burn as it goes down her throat. Smiling weakly at me, she says, “Why don’t you have one, too? My husband and I always let Jami
e have a glass of wine at dinner.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Amory, I can’t.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Why can’t you?”

  “It would make my mom too happy. She thinks I’m a Goody Two-shoes, no fun at all. Would love it if I were wilder. Basically would love it if I were more like her. No way am I giving her the satisfaction.”

  Mrs. Amory giggles. A naughty little girl. She likes me better now, I can tell, because of the whiskey and the disloyalty to my mother. She raises her mug. “To your health, Grace.”

  I raise an imaginary mug back. “And to yours.”

  For a while we’re quiet. She smokes, mutters to herself occasionally. I gaze out the window, watch the last of the color bleed from the day, turn over what I’ve just heard in my mind. So, Mr. Amory would rather admit to Mrs. Amory that he’d not only cheated on her but fathered a child with another woman, risk her leaving and taking her money with her, than admit to his son personal frailty. As motives for murder go, it’s not half bad. Technically Mrs. Amory is still under suspicion, too, but only technically. Nothing she’s said so far tells me she’s definitively not involved. I just don’t believe she is. She’s too unguarded, too openly bitter, too fixated on smaller offenses, to be bearing that compromised a conscience.

  I decide my next move should be to start hammering away at Mr. Amory’s alibi, see if it cracks. But before I can open my mouth, Mrs. Amory speaks, addressing the mug in her hand rather than me. “Who told you about your sister?”

  “My mom.”

  “When she did, were you”—pausing, looking up—“were you glad?”

  “Yeah, I was,” I say truthfully. “I mean, I was sad, too. For my dad, mostly. And for Nica. And, of course, I was angry—still am angry—with my mom. But I appreciated her finally being honest with me. It’s my family, so I deserve to know.”

  “That why I wanted to tell Jamie. I felt he deserved to know. That’s even the word I used when I was talking to James about it.”

  Trying to hide my excitement, “Did Mr. Amory agree?”