by Joël Dicker
“Well! I never would have guessed. Good old Harry … I remember our first real date. I was so excited that day. It was the Fourth of July.”
I quickly made the calculations in my head: July 4 was six days after the trip to Rockland. That was when Harry had decided to get Nola out of his head. I encouraged Jenny to continue her story: “Tell me about the Fourth of July.”
She closed her eyes, as if transported back in time. “It was a beautiful day. Harry had come to Clark’s and asked me to go see the fireworks in Concord. He said he would come and fetch me at 6 p.m. My shift normally ended at 6.30, but I told him that would be fine. And Mom let me leave early so I could get ready.”
Friday, July 4, 1975
The Quinn family house was in an uproar. It was 5.45 p.m. and Jenny was not ready. She ran up and down the stairs like a Fury in her underwear, each time holding up a different dress.
“What about this one, Mom? What do you think?” she asked, entering the living room for the seventh time.
“No, not that one,” Tamara said harshly. “It makes your butt look big. You don’t want Harry to think you’ve been stuffing yourself, do you? Try another one!”
Jenny hurried back up to her bedroom, sobbing that she was a hideous girl, that she had nothing to wear, and that she was going to remain single and ugly until the end of her life.
Tamara was nervous—her daughter had to be at her best. Harry Quebert was in a whole other league from the people of Somerset, and she couldn’t afford to make a mistake. As soon as her daughter had told her about her date, she had ordered her to leave Clark’s. It was the lunch-hour rush, and the restaurant was packed, but she didn’t want her Jenny to stay a single second longer amid the greasy smells that could soak into her hair and her skin. Tamara had sent her to a hairdresser and given her a manicure, and then she had cleaned the house from top to bottom and prepared a “sophisticated” aperitif in case Harry Quebert wanted a snack while he was there. So her Jenny had not been wrong: Harry really was wooing her. Tamara was very excited, and could not stop thinking about marriage. Her daughter would finally get hitched. She heard the front door bang. Her husband, Robert, who worked as an engineer in a Concord glove company, had been called out for an emergency at the factory and here he was, just come home. Her eyes widened in horror.
Robert noticed immediately that the first floor had been thoroughly cleaned and spruced up. There was a bouquet of irises in the entrance hall, where he had never seen flowers before.
“What’s going on here, honey bunny?” he asked as he went into the living room, where a little table had been laid with petits fours, savory snacks, a bottle of champagne, and some flutes.
“Oh, Bobby, my Bobbo,” Tamara replied, feeling irritated but forcing herself to be kind, “this is not a good time. I really don’t need you getting under my feet. I left a message for you at the factory.”
“I didn’t get it. What did it say?”
“That you should not, under any circumstances, come home before seven o’clock.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Because—would you believe it?—Harry Quebert has invited Jenny to see the fireworks in Concord this evening.”
“Who’s Harry Quebert?”
“Oh, Bobbo, you should keep up with things more! He’s the famous writer who moved here at the end of May.”
“Oh. And why shouldn’t I enter the house?”
“‘Oh’? That’s all you have to say—‘oh’? A great writer is wooing our daughter, and all you can say is ‘oh’? Well, that proves my point: I do not want you in the house because you are incapable of conducting an intelligent conversation. For your information, Harry Quebert is not just anybody—he has moved into the house at Goose Cove.”
“The house at Goose Cove? Holy cow!”
“That might seem expensive and impressive to you, but for a man like him, renting the house at Goose Cove is just a spit in the ocean. He is a star in New York!”
“A spit in the ocean? I don’t know that expression.”
“Oh, Bobbo, you really don’t know anything.”
Frowning, Robert moved closer to the buffet that his wife had prepared.
“Do not touch, Bobbo!”
“What are these things?”
“They’re not things. It is a sophisticated aperitif. It’s very chic.”
“But you told me we were going to the neighbors’ barbecue tonight! Are we still going? It’s the Fourth of July!”
“Yes, we’re going. But later. And whatever you do, don’t tell Harry Quebert that we’re going to eat hamburgers like ordinary people.”
“But we are ordinary people. I like hamburgers. You run a burger joint.”
“You don’t understand anything, Bobbo! It’s not the same. And I have big plans for us.”
“I didn’t know that. You never told me.”
“I don’t tell you everything.”
“Why don’t you tell me everything? I tell you everything. Actually, I had a stomachache all afternoon. I had terrible gas. It hurt so bad, I even had to lock myself in my office and get down on all fours to fart. You see how I tell you everything?”
“That’s enough, Bobbo! You’re ruining my concentration!”
Jenny reappeared with another dress.
“Too dressy,” Tamara barked. “You need to be elegant but relaxed.”
Robert Quinn took advantage of his wife’s momentary inattention to sit in his favorite chair and pour himself a glass of Scotch.
“No sitting!” Tamara shouted. “You’ll get everything dirty. Do you know how long I spent cleaning this room? Go get changed.”
“Changed?”
“Wear a suit. You can’t receive Harry Quebert in your slippers!”
“Why have you taken out the bottle of champagne we were keeping for a special occasion?”
“This is a special occasion! Don’t you want our daughter to marry well? Now stop quibbling and go get changed. He’ll be here soon.”
To make sure he obeyed her, Tamara escorted her husband as far as the staircase. At that moment, Jenny came down in tears, wearing nothing but panties and a bra, explaining between sobs that she was going to have to cancel the whole thing because it was too much for her. Robert whined in turn that he wanted to read his newspaper rather than having to partake in a serious discussion with this great writer and that, in any case, he never read books because they put him to sleep, and that he wouldn’t know what to say to him. It was 5.50, ten minutes before Harry was due. All three of them were arguing in the entrance hall when suddenly the doorbell rang. Tamara thought she was going to have a heart attack. He was here. The great writer was early.
*
The doorbell rang. Harry walked toward the door. He was wearing a linen suit and a light hat, ready to go out with Jenny. He opened the door; it was Nola.
“Nola? What are you doing here?”
“You mean ‘hello’? It’s polite to say ‘hello’ when you see someone, not ‘what are you doing here?’”
He smiled. “Hello, Nola. I’m sorry—it’s just that I wasn’t expecting you.”
“What’s going on? I haven’t heard from you since our day in Rockland. Not a word all week! Did I do something wrong? Didn’t you enjoy it? Oh, Harry, I loved our day in Rockland so much. It was magical!”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. And I really liked our day in Rockland too,” Harry said.
“So why haven’t you been in touch?”
“It’s because of my book. I’ve had a lot of work.”
“I would like to be with you every day. For the rest of my life.”
“You’re an angel.”
“We can be together every day now,” Nola said. “I don’t have school anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“School’s over, it’s summer vacation. Did you really not know?”
“No.”
“It will be wonderful, won’t it?” Nola said happily. “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided that I cou
ld look after you here. You would find it easier to work in this house than in Clark’s, with so many people and so much noise. You could write on your deck. The ocean is so beautiful, I’m sure it would inspire you! And I’d take care of you. I’ll make you a happy man! Please let me make you a happy man, Harry.”
He noticed that she had brought a basket with her.
“It’s a picnic,” she said. “For us, this evening. I even have a bottle of wine. I was thinking we could have a picnic on the beach. It would be so romantic.”
He didn’t want a romantic picnic. He didn’t want to be near her. He didn’t want her, period: He had to forget her. He regretted the Saturday they had spent in Rockland. He had taken a fifteen-year-old girl to another state, without her parents’ knowledge. Had the police stopped them, they might even have believed he had kidnapped her. This girl was going to ruin him. He had to remove her from his life.
All he said was, “I can’t, Nola.”
She looked utterly dejected. “Why not?”
He had to tell her that he had a date with someone else. It would be hard for her to hear, but she had to understand that any relationship between them was impossible. He couldn’t bring himself do it, however, so once again he lied. “I have to go to Concord. I’m seeing my publisher, who’s coming for the Fourth of July. It will be very boring. I would rather have done something with you.”
“Can I come with you?”
“No. I mean, you’d be bored.”
“You’re very handsome in that shirt, Harry.”
“Thank you.”
“Harry … I’m in love with you. Ever since that rainy day when I saw you on the beach, I’ve been madly in love with you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life!”
“Stop—don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth! I can’t bear not being with you, even for one day! Each time I see you, my life seems so much more beautiful … You hate me, don’t you, Harry?”
“What? No! Of course not!”
“Yes, you do, I know it. You think I’m ugly. And you were bored by me in Rockland. That’s why you haven’t been in touch. You think I’m a stupid, boring, ugly little girl.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“Call me ‘Darling Nola’ … Say it to me again.”
“I can’t, Nola.”
“Please!”
“I can’t. Those words are forbidden.”
“But why? Why, for God’s sake? Why can’t we love each other if we love each other?”
“Come on, I’m going to drive you home,” he repeated.
“But, Harry, what’s the point of living if we’re not allowed to love?”
He did not reply. He led her to the black Chevrolet. She was crying.
*
It was not Harry Quebert at the door, but Amy Pratt, the wife of Somerset’s police chief. She was the organizer of the summer gala, one of the town’s biggest annual events, which would take place that year on Saturday, July 19. When the doorbell rang, Tamara had sent her half-naked daughter and her husband upstairs, before discovering that it was not their famous visitor at the door. Amy Pratt was selling tickets for the raffle that would be held at the gala. That year first prize was a weeklong vacation at a luxury hotel on Martha’s Vineyard, famous as a summer residence for many noted writers, actors, and politicians. Tamara’s eyes shone when she heard about the first prize. She bought two books of tickets, and then—even though decorum dictated that she should offer a cold drink to her visitor, who was moreover a woman she liked—she showed her to the door without any qualms because it was now 5.55. Jenny, who had calmed down, appeared in a little green summer dress that suited her beautifully, followed by her father, who was wearing a three-piece suit.
“It wasn’t Harry—it was Amy Pratt,” Tamara said casually. “I knew it wasn’t him. You should have seen yourselves scurrying off like rabbits. Ha! I knew perfectly well it wasn’t him, because he’s a sophisticated man, and sophisticated people are never early. It’s even more impolite than being late. Remember that, Bobbo, the next time you’re worrying about being late for a meeting.”
The living room clock chimed six times, and the Quinn family stood in line behind the front door.
“Please, just be natural!” Jenny begged.
“We are very natural,” her mother said. “Aren’t we, Bobbo?”
“Yes, honey bunny. But I think I’ve got gas again. I feel like a bomb that’s about to explode.”
A few minutes later, Harry rang the doorbell at the Quinns’ house. He had just dropped Nola at a street near her house so they would not be seen together. He had left her in tears.
*
Jenny told me how wonderful that Fourth of July date had been for her. In a reverie, she described the carnival, their dinner, the fireworks over Concord.
From the way she spoke about Harry, it was clear that she had never stopped loving him, and that the aversion she felt toward him now was, above all, the expression of the pain she felt at having been passed over for Nola. Before I left, I asked her, “Jenny, who do you think can tell me the most about Nola?”
“About Nola? Her father, obviously.”
Her father. Obviously.
23
Those Who Knew Her Well
“And the characters? Where do you get inspiration for your characters?”
“From everyone. A friend, the cleaning lady, the bank clerk. But be careful: It’s not the people themselves who provide your inspiration, but what they do. The way they act makes you think of what one of the characters in your novel might do. Writers who say they are not inspired by anyone are lying, but they are right to do so; they spare themselves a great deal of trouble that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is a writer’s privilege, Marcus, to be able to settle his scores with his friends and enemies through the intermediary of his book. The only rule is that he must not mention them by name, because that means opening the door to lawsuits and headaches. What number have we reached on the list?”
“Twenty-three.”
“So this is the twenty-third rule, Marcus: Only write fiction. Anything else will just bring you trouble.”
On Sunday, June 22, 2008, I met the Reverend David Kellergan for the first time. It was one of those grayish summer days that you find in New England, when the ocean mist is so thick that it remains stuck to the treetops and the roofs. The Kellergan house was in the center of an attractive residential area. It appeared not to have changed since their arrival in Somerset. The walls were the same color and the same bushes were planted all around. The roses that had been planted then had grown to fill the flower beds, but the cherry tree that now stood in front of the house, I learned, had ten years ago replaced an earlier one after it died.
Deafeningly loud music was reverberating from the house when I arrived. I rang the doorbell several times, but there was no reply. Finally a neighbor shouted to me, “If you’re looking for Mr Kellergan, there’s no point in ringing the doorbell. He’s in the garage.” I went to knock on the door of the garage, which was, indeed, where the music was coming from. I had to keep knocking for a long time, but eventually the door opened and I found myself standing before a fragile little old man with gray hair and gray skin, wearing overalls and goggles. It was David Kellergan, age eighty-five.
“What is it?” he shouted politely enough above the music, which was so loud as to be almost unbearable.
I had to cup my hands around my mouth to make myself heard.
“My name is Marcus Goldman. You don’t know me, but I’m investigating Nola’s death.”
“Are you from the police?”
“No, I’m a writer. Could you turn the music off or lower the volume a little?”
“Sorry. I never turn off the music. But we can go into the living room if you like.”
He led me through the garage. It had been entirely transformed into a workshop, with pride of place give
n to a Harley-Davidson. In one corner, an old record player connected to a stereo system blasted out jazz standards.
I had been prepared for a cold reception. I had imagined that, after being harassed by journalists, Mr Kellergan would be desperate for some peace, but in fact he was very friendly. Despite all the time I had spent in Somerset, I had never seen him before. He clearly had no idea about my friendship with Harry, and I decided not to mention it. He made us two glasses of iced tea and we sat down together in the living room. He still had the goggles strapped to his forehead, as if he had to be ready to return to his motorcycle at any moment, and that deafening music was still audible in the background. I tried to imagine this man thirty-three years earlier, when he was the dynamic pastor at St James’s Church.
He stared at me curiously, and then asked, “What brings you here, Mr Goldman? A book?”
“I’m not entirely sure, Reverend. I really just want to know what happened to Nola.”
“Don’t call me Reverend. I’m not a pastor anymore.”
“I’m sorry about your daughter, sir.”
He gave me a surprisingly warm smile.
“Thank you. You’re the first person to offer condolences, Mr Goldman. The whole town has been talking about my daughter for two weeks. They all rush to read the latest developments in the newspapers, but not one of them has come here to find out how I’m doing. The only people who knock at my door, apart from journalists, are neighbors complaining about the noise. But grieving fathers are allowed to listen to music, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“So you’re writing a book?”
“I don’t know if I’m capable of writing anymore. It’s so difficult to write well. My publisher wants me to write a book about Nola. He says it will relaunch my career. Would you be opposed to the idea of a book about your daughter?”
He shrugged. “No. it might help other parents. You know, my daughter was in her bedroom the day she disappeared. I was working in the garage, with my music on. I didn’t hear a thing. When I went to see her, she was no longer in the house. Her bedroom window was open. It was as if she had vanished into thin air. I didn’t watch over my daughter properly. Write a book for parents, Mr Goldman. Parents should take better care of their children.”