by Joël Dicker
“Sure. But just tell me this: What would you have done with the book if you’d eloped?”
“I would have been a writer in exile. Or not a writer at all. At that point, it no longer mattered. Only Nola mattered. Nola was my world. Nothing else was important.”
I was dumbstruck. So that was the insane plan Harry had devised thirty-three years earlier: eloping to Canada with this girl he had fallen madly in love with. Leaving with Nola, and living a secret life by the edge of a lake, never suspecting that on the night they had arranged to flee, Nola would disappear and be murdered, nor that the book he had written in record time, and was prepared to give up, would go on to be one of the greatest publishing successes of the last fifty years.
*
In a second interview Nancy Hattaway gave me her version of the week on Martha’s Vineyard. She told me that in the week following Nola’s return from Charlotte’s Hill, they had gone swimming together every day at Grand Beach, and that on several occasions Nola had stayed with Nancy’s family for dinner. But the following Monday, when she rang the doorbell at 245 Terrace Avenue to meet Nola for the beach, as she had on the previous days, she was told that Nola was not feeling well.
“All week,” Nancy told me, “it was the same old tune: ‘Nola is sick. She can’t have visitors.’ Even my mother, who—intrigued—went there to find out what was going on, wasn’t allowed into the house. And that’s when anyone answered at all. It drove me crazy. I knew something was up. And it was just as I’d thought: Nola had disappeared.”
“What made you think that? She could have been bedridden.”
“It was my mom who noticed this one detail: There was no more music. For the whole week, there was no music at all.”
I played devil’s advocate: “Maybe they just didn’t want to disturb her because she was ill.”
“This was the first time in a long time that there had not been any music coming from that house. It was very unusual. I wanted to know for certain, so after I’d been told for the umpteenth time that Nola was sick and in bed, I sneaked around to the back of the house and looked through Nola’s window. Her room was empty, and the bed had not been slept in. One thing was sure: Nola wasn’t there. And then on Sunday evening, there was music again. That damn jazz music echoed from the garage once more, and the next day Nola reappeared. You think that’s a coincidence? She came to my house that evening, and we went to the central square, on the main street. There I dragged it out of her, all the more determined because of the marks I saw on her back. Behind some trees, I made her lift up her shirt, and I saw that she had been badly beaten. I demanded to know what had happened, and she ended up admitting that she had been punished because she had run away for a whole week. She’d gone with a man, an older man. Stern, I’m sure. She told me it was wonderful and that it had been worth the beating.”
I didn’t tell Nancy that Nola had spent the week with Harry, not Elijah Stern. In any case, she didn’t seem to know much more about Nola’s relationship with Stern.
“I think there was something sordid about her relationship with him,” she continued. “Especially now when I think about it again. Luther Caleb came to Somerset to get her in his car, a blue Mustang. I know he drove her to see Stern. It was all done in secret, of course, but I did see it happen once. At the time, Nola told me: ‘Don’t mention this to anyone! Swear it, on our friendship. We would both get in trouble if you did.’ And I said, ‘But, Nola, why are you seeing that old guy?’ And she replied, ‘For love.’”
“But when did that begin?” I asked.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I learned about it during the summer, but I can’t remember exactly when. So many things happened that summer. Maybe that affair had been going on for much longer. Maybe even years … who knows?”
“But you did tell someone about it in the end, didn’t you? When Nola disappeared.”
“Of course! I talked to Chief Pratt about it. I told him everything I knew—everything I’ve told you. He told me not to worry about it, and that he would get to the bottom of the whole case.”
“Are you prepared to repeat all of this in court?”
“Of course—if it’s necessary.”
*
I wanted to interview David Kellergan again, with Gahalowood present. I called the sergeant to suggest this.
“You want the two of us to interrogate Mr Kellergan? You must have something specific in mind.”
“Yes and no. I would like to discuss the new evidence with him: his daughter’s relationships and the beatings she received.”
“You want me to ask the minister if his daughter was, by any chance, a slut?”
“Come on, Sergeant, you know perfectly well that the evidence we’re uncovering is important. In the past week, all the things you were so certain about have been swept away. Could you tell me, right now, who Nola Kellergan really was?”
“Alright, writer, you’ve convinced me. I’ll come to Somerset tomorrow. You know Clark’s?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Let’s meet there at ten. I’ll explain why.”
The next morning I went to Clark’s a bit early so I could talk to Jenny a little about the past. I mentioned the 1975 summer gala, and she told me about one of her worst memories of the ball—when Harry won first prize in the raffle. She had secretly hoped she would be the chosen one, that Harry would come and pick her up one morning and take her for a week of love in the sun.
“I had hopes,” she told me, “that he would choose me. I waited for him every day. Then, at the end of July, he disappeared for a week, and I realized he’d probably gone to Martha’s Vineyard without me. I don’t know who he went with …”
I lied in order to protect her. “Nobody,” I said. “He went alone.”
She smiled, as if relieved. Then she said: “Ever since I’ve known about Harry and Nola, since I found out he wrote that book for her … why did he choose her?”
“You don’t choose that kind of thing. Didn’t you ever have any suspicions about Harry and Nola?”
“Well, who could have imagined something like that?”
“Your mother? She says she was always aware of it. Didn’t she ever talk to you about it?”
“She never mentioned a relationship between them. But it’s true that when Nola disappeared, she said she suspected Harry. I remember that Travis, who was courting me at the time, would come to our house for lunch on Sundays, and that Mom would constantly repeat: ‘I’m sure Harry is involved in Nola’s disappearance!’ And Travis would reply: ‘We need evidence, Mrs Quinn, or else we’ll never make it stick.’ And my mother would say again: ‘I had evidence. Irrefutable evidence. But I lost it.’ I never believed it, though. The main reason Mom wanted him dead was because of her garden party.”
Gahalowood arrived at Clark’s at exactly 10 a.m. By then, Jenny was back in the kitchen, supervising the cook.
“You’ve struck gold, writer,” he said, sitting down next to me at the counter.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve been doing some research on Luther Caleb. It hasn’t been easy, but this is what I’ve found: He was born in 1945, in Portland, Maine. I don’t know what brought him to this area, but between 1970 and 1975 he was monitored by the police in Concord, Montburry, and Somerset for inappropriate behavior toward women. He hung around in the streets, approaching women. There was even a complaint filed against him by a certain Jenny Quinn, now Jenny Dawn. She runs this restaurant. It was a complaint for harassment, filed in August 1975. That’s why I wanted to meet you here.”
“Jenny filed a complaint against Luther Caleb?”
“You know her?”
“Of course.”
“Find her, will you?”
I asked one of the waitresses to get Jenny from the kitchen. Gahalowood introduced himself and asked her to tell him about Luther.
She shrugged. “Not much to say, really. He was a nice boy. Very sweet, in spite of the way he looked. He came
to Clark’s occasionally. I served him coffee and a sandwich. I never charged him, the poor guy. I felt bad for him.”
“And yet you filed a complaint against him,” Gahalowood said.
She looked surprised. “I see you’re well informed, Sergeant. That was a long time ago. It was Travis who urged me to file a complaint. He said that Luther was dangerous and that he needed to be kept at a distance.”
“Why dangerous?”
“He hung around Somerset a lot that summer. Sometimes he acted aggressively toward me.”
“Why did Luther Caleb become violent?”
“Violent is a strong word. Let’s just say aggressive. He insisted that I … Look, this is going to seem ridiculous.”
“Please tell us, ma’am. This could be an important detail.”
“He insisted that I sit for him. So he could paint me.”
“Paint you?”
“Yes. He said that I was a beautiful woman, and that all he wanted was to be able to paint me.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“One day we just never saw him anymore,” Jenny replied. “Apparently, he was killed in a car accident. You should ask Travis—I’m sure he would know.”
Gahalowood confirmed that Luther Caleb died in an automobile accident. On September 26, 1975—four weeks after Nola’s disappearance—his car was discovered at the bottom of a cliff, near Sagamore, Massachusetts, about 120 miles from Somerset. Furthermore, Luther had attended a fine arts college in Portland, and Gahalowood said it was looking more and more likely that he was responsible for painting the portrait of Nola.
“That Luther seems like a strange guy,” he said. “Could he have tried to attack Nola? Could he have been hanging around in the Side Creek forest? He kills her in a fit of violence, then gets rid of her body before escaping to Massachusetts. Plagued by guilt, knowing he’s being hunted, he drives his car off the edge of a cliff. He has a sister in Portland. I tried to get hold of her but didn’t get anywhere. I’ll try again.”
“Why didn’t the police make the connection with him back then?”
“To make the connection, you would have to consider Caleb a suspect. But none of the evidence in the original case file pointed to him.”
“Can we go back to interrogate Stern? Officially? Maybe even search his house?”
Gahalowood frowned. “He’s very powerful. Right now, until we find something more solid, the D.A. won’t get involved. We need more tangible proof. Evidence, writer—we need evidence.”
“What about the painting?”
“We can’t use that. How many times do I have to tell you? Anyway, why don’t you tell me what you’re planning to do at Kellergan’s house?”
“I need clarification on a few points. The more I learn about him and his wife, the more questions I have.”
I mentioned Harry and Nola’s trip to Martha’s Vineyard, her mother’s repeated beatings, the father hiding in the garage. It seemed there was a deep layer of mystery surrounding Nola, a girl who was both luminous and melancholy, whom everyone found radiant but who had attempted suicide. We ate breakfast and then we went off to find David Kellergan.
*
The front door of the house on Terrace Avenue was open, but Kellergan was not there; no music came from the garage. We waited for him on the porch. About a half-hour later he arrived on a sputtering motorcycle: the Harley-Davidson he had spent thirty-three years restoring. He rode it without a helmet, with earphones in his ears connected to a portable C.D. player. He bellowed his hello at us, because of the volume of the music, which he finally turned off after he had put on the record player in the garage, filling the whole house with sound.
“The police had to come here several times because of the volume of the music,” he told us. “All the neighbors complained. Chief Travis Dawn came in person to try to persuade me to give up my music. ‘How can I do that?’ I said to him. ‘The music is my punishment.’ So he bought me a portable player and a C.D. of the record I play all the time. He said that, this way, I could make my own eardrums explode without making the police switchboard explode due to all the calls from neighbors.”
“How’s the motorcycle?” I asked.
“I finally finished it. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Now that he knew what had happened to his daughter, he had finally been able to complete his work on it.
David Kellergan showed us into his kitchen and served us iced tea.
“When will I get my daughter’s body back, Sergeant?” he asked Gahalowood. “I have to give her a proper burial.”
“Soon, sir. I know it’s difficult.”
Mr Kellergan fiddled with his glass.
“She liked iced tea,” he told us. “Often, on summer evenings, we would take a big bottle of it down to the beach and watch the sun set and the seagulls dance in the sky. She loved seagulls. Did you know that?”
I nodded. Then I said, “Mr Kellergan, there are some gray areas in the case file. That’s why Sergeant Gahalowood and I are here.”
“Gray areas? I’m sure there are. My daughter was murdered and buried in a yard. Do you have any news?”
“Mr Kellergan, do you know a certain Elijah Stern?” Gahalowood asked.
“Not personally. I met him a few times in Somerset, but that was a long time ago. He’s a very rich guy.”
“And his chauffeur? Luther Caleb?”
“Luther Caleb … the name doesn’t ring a bell, though I might have forgotten. So much time has passed, and my memory is starting to go. Why these questions?”
“Everything leads us to believe that Nola was linked to these two people.”
“Linked?” repeated David Kellergan, who was not stupid. “What does linked mean in your diplomatic police language?”
“We think Nola was in a relationship with Mr Stern. I’m sorry to tell you this in such a blunt way.”
Mr Kellergan’s face turned red.
“Nola? What are you trying to insinuate? That my daughter was a whore? My daughter was the victim of that bastard Harry Quebert, a notorious pedophile who will soon be on death row! Go take care of him and stop speaking ill of the dead, Sergeant! This conversation is over. Goodbye, gentlemen.”
Gahalowood stood up obediently, but there were still a few points I wanted to clear up.
“Your wife beat her, didn’t she?” I said.
“I beg your pardon?” Kellergan choked.
“Your wife liked to give Nola a good hiding. Correct or not?”
“You’re completely insane!”
I went on, regardless: “Nola ran away from home in late July 1975. She ran away, and you didn’t tell anyone. Am I wrong? Why didn’t you say anything? Were you ashamed? Why didn’t you call the police when she ran away?”
He began to explain. “She was going to come back … And one week later she did!”
“A week! You waited a week! And yet the night of August 30, when she disappeared, you called the police only one hour after you noticed she wasn’t there. Why?”
Mr Kellergan’s voice rose. “Because, that evening, when I went to search the area, I heard about a girl who’d been seen covered in blood on Side Creek Lane, and I instantly made the connection! What do you want from me, Mr Goldman? I have no family left, I have nothing! Why do you come here and open up these old wounds? Get the hell out of here! Get out right now!”
I refused to let him intimidate me.
“What happened in Alabama, Mr Kellergan? Why did you come to Somerset? And what happened here in 1975? Answer me, for God’s sake! You owe that to your daughter!”
Kellergan got up and, as if possessed, threw himself at me, grabbing my throat with a strength I would never have guessed he had. “Get the hell out of my house!” he screamed, shoving me backward. I would probably have fallen over had not Gahalowood taken hold of me and dragged me outside.
“Are you insane, writer?” he said when we got back to the car. “Or are you just unusually stupid? Do you want to antagonize all
our witnesses?”
“You have to admit there’s something fishy about it.”
“Something fishy? We just implied that his daughter was a slut, and he got mad. Seems pretty normal to me. On the other hand, he almost gave you a good beating. Pretty impressive for an old man. I’d never have thought he had it in him.”
“I’m sorry—I don’t know what got into me.”
“And what’s this stuff about Alabama?” he asked.
“I told you about it: The Kellergans left Alabama to come here. And I’m still pretty sure there was a good reason for their departure.”
“I’ll find out. If you promise to behave from now on.”
“We’ll get there, won’t we, Sergeant? We’re going to prove Harry’s innocence, aren’t we?”
Gahalowood stared at me.
“What worries me, writer, is you. I’m doing my job: I’m investigating two murders. But you seem obsessed by the need to prove Quebert innocent, as if you wanted to tell the rest of the country: See, he didn’t do it, what do you have against this good man, this great writer? But what we have against him, Goldman, is that he was in love with a fifteen-year-old girl!”
“I know that! I think about it all the time, believe it or not. I came here as soon as the news broke, without thinking twice. My only concern was for my friend, my blood brother, Harry. If things had gone normally, I would have stayed only two or three days—long enough to ease my conscience—and I would have gone back to New York as quickly as possible.”
“So why are you still here to piss me off?”
“Because Harry Quebert is the only friend I have. I’m twenty-eight years old, and he’s my only friend. He taught me everything. He’s been my only human connection for the last ten years. Apart from him, I have no-one.”
I think Gahalowood must have felt sorry for me then, because he invited me to eat dinner at his house. “Come tonight, writer. We’ll take stock of the investigation, have a bite to eat. You can meet my wife too.” And as if it were killing him to be nice to me, he then added in his most disagreeable voice: “Well, my wife will be happy, anyway. She’s been pestering me to invite you over ever since I mentioned you. She dreams of meeting you. Some dream!”