by Joël Dicker
“You just need to tell the truth, Marc. Tell the truth about Nola Kellergan.”
“What if the truth harms Harry?”
“You have to tell the truth, anyway. It’s your responsibility as a writer. No matter how difficult it is. That’s my advice as a friend.”
“What about your advice as an agent?”
“Cover your ass. Try not to end up with as many lawsuits as there are people in New Hampshire. For example, you told me the girl was beaten by her parents?”
“By her mother, yes.”
“So just write that Nola was ‘an unhappy mistreated girl.’ Everyone will understand that her parents are responsible for the mistreatment, without it being made explicit. So no-one will be able to take you to court.”
“But the mother plays an important part in this story.”
“My advice as an agent: You need concrete proof if you’re going to accuse people. Otherwise, you’re going to spend the rest of your life in court. And I think you’ve probably had enough of that kind of hassle recently. Find a reliable witness who will tell you that the mother was an evil bitch and that she beat the living daylights out of the girl—and if you can’t, then stick to ‘unhappy and mistreated girl.’ We also want to avoid an injunction on book sales due to libel problems. Where Pratt is concerned, on the other hand, now that everyone knows what he did, you can go into the sordid details. That’ll boost sales.”
Barnaski suggested we meet on Monday, July 7, in Boston, a city that had the advantage of being one hour from New York by plane and about the same from Somerset by car, and I agreed. That left me four days to work flat out on the book, so I would have a few chapters to show him.
“Call me if you need anything,” Douglas told me again before hanging up.
“I will, thanks. Oh, Doug, wait …” I hesitated. “Remember when you used to make mojitos?”
I knew he was smiling.
“Of course I remember.”
“Those were good times, weren’t they?”
“These are still good times, Marc. We have wonderful lives, even if we go through more difficult periods now and then.”
December 1, 2006, New York City
“Hey, Doug, can you make more mojitos?”
Standing behind the counter in my kitchen, Douglas—wearing an apron depicting a naked woman’s body—howled like a wolf, grabbed a bottle of rum, and emptied it into a pitcher filled with crushed ice.
It was three months after the publication of my first book; my fame was at its peak. For the fifth time in the three weeks since I had moved into my apartment in the Village, I was hosting a party. There were dozens of people crammed into my living room, and I knew barely a quarter of them. But I loved that. Douglas was in charge of keeping the mojitos coming, and I was taking care of the White Russians, the only cocktail I had ever found drinkable.
“What a party!” Douglas said. “Is that your doorman dancing in your living room?”
“Yes. I invited him.”
“And Lydia Gloor is here! Holy crap, can you believe it? Lydia Gloor is in your apartment!”
“Who’s Lydia Gloor?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. She’s the actress of the moment. She’s on that show that everyone’s watching … well, everyone except you, obviously. How did you manage to get her here?”
“I have no idea. People ring the doorbell, and I let them in. Mi casa es tu casa!”
I went back into the living room carrying a tray of canapés and cocktail shakers. I saw through the window that it was snowing outside, and I felt a sudden desire to get some fresh air. I went onto the balcony without a coat; the air was icy. I contemplated the millions of lights around me, and I yelled at the top of my voice: “I am Marcus Goldman!” Just then, I heard a voice behind me. I turned around and saw a pretty blonde my own age whom I had never seen before in my life.
“Marcus Goldman, your friend Douglas says your phone is ringing.”
Her face was familiar.
“Have I seen you somewhere before?” I asked.
“On T.V., probably.”
“You’re Lydia Gloor.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
I asked if she would wait for me on the balcony, and rushed to the kitchen to answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“Marcus? It’s Harry.”
“Harry! It’s great to hear your voice! How are you?”
“I’m O.K. I just thought I’d see how you were doing. It’s kind of noisy there. Are you having a party? Maybe this is a bad time …”
“Just a small party. In my new apartment.”
“You’ve left Montclair?”
“Yes, I bought an apartment in the Village. I live in New York now! You have to come see this place—the view is amazing.”
“I’m sure it is. Anyway, it sounds like you’re having fun. I’m happy for you, Marcus. You must have a lot of friends.”
“I do! And not only that, but there is an incredibly hot actress waiting for me on my balcony! Ha-ha—this is just unbelievable! Life is sweet, Harry. And how about you? What are you up to tonight?”
“I … I just have friends over for steaks and beer. Who could ask for more? We’re having a good time. All that’s missing is you. But I just heard my doorbell, Marcus. Other guests arriving. I need to let you go. I don’t know if we’re all going to fit here—and God knows it’s a big house!”
“Have a great night, Harry. I’ll call you.”
I went back onto the balcony. That was the evening I began going out with Lydia Gloor—the girl my mother would refer to as “that T.V. actress.” At Goose Cove, Harry would open the door to the pizza delivery man. He would take his pizza and eat it in front of the television.
I did call Harry, as promised, after that night. But more than a year went by between those two calls. It was now February 2008.
“Hello?”
“Harry, it’s Marcus.”
“Oh, Marcus! Is it really you? Incredible. I haven’t heard a word from you since you became a star. I tried calling you a month ago and was told by your secretary that you weren’t coming to the phone for anyone.”
“I’m in trouble, Harry,” I answered bluntly. “I don’t think I’m a writer anymore.”
He immediately dropped the sarcasm. “What’re you talking about?”
“I don’t know what to write anymore. I’m finished. Totally blocked. It’s been like this for months, maybe a year.”
He laughed warmly, reassuringly. “It’s just a mental hang-up, Marcus! Writer’s block is as senseless as sexual impotence: It’s just your genius panicking, the same way your libido makes you go soft when you’re about to play hide-the-salami with one of your young admirers and all you can think about is how you’re going to give her an orgasm that can be measured on the Richter scale. Don’t worry about genius—just keep churning out the words. Genius comes naturally.”
“You think?”
“I’m sure of it. But you might have to give up a few of your celebrity parties. Writing is a serious business. I thought I’d taught you that.”
“But I am working hard! That’s all I’m doing! And yet I’m not getting anywhere.”
“Well, maybe you’re in the wrong place, then. New York is a wonderful city, but there’s too much noise. Why don’t you come here, to my place, like you did when you were my student?”
July 4–6, 2008
In the days preceding the meeting with Barnaski in Boston, the investigation moved forward in spectacular style.
First, Chief Pratt was charged with engaging in sexual acts with a minor, and released on bail the day after his arrest. He moved temporarily to a motel in Montburry, while Amy went to stay with her sister, who lived out of state. Pratt’s interview by the state police criminal division confirmed not only that Tamara Quinn had showed him the note about Nola that she had found in Harry’s house, but also that Nancy Hattaway had told him what she knew about Elijah Stern. The reason Pra
tt had deliberately ignored these two avenues of investigation was that he feared Nola had told one of them about the incident in the police car, and he didn’t want to risk compromising himself by interrogating them. He did, however, swear that he had nothing to do with the deaths of Nola and Deborah Cooper, and that the search he had carried out for Nola’s body was beyond reproach.
On the basis of these statements, Gahalowood persuaded the prosecutor’s office to issue a search warrant for Stern’s home. The search took place on the morning of Friday, July 4. The painting of Nola was found in the studio and removed. Stern was taken to the state police headquarters to be interviewed, but he was not charged. Nevertheless this latest development ratcheted up public curiosity about the case even higher. First the famous writer Harry Quebert was arrested, then the former police chief Gareth Pratt, and now the richest man in New Hampshire was apparently mixed up in the death of young Nola Kellergan.
Gahalowood described Stern’s interview to me in detail. “He’s an impressive guy. Totally calm. He even told his army of lawyers to wait out in the hallway. That presence, those steel-blue eyes—he made me feel almost ill at ease during the examination, and God knows I’ve had plenty of experience with that kind of thing. I showed him the painting, and he acknowledged that it was of Nola.”
“Why did you have this painting in your house?” Gahalowood had asked him.
Stern had replied, as if the answer were obvious, “Because it’s mine. Is there a law in this state against hanging paintings on one’s walls?”
“No. But this painting is of a young girl who was murdered.”
“If I had a painting of John Lennon, would I be suspected of his murder?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Mr Stern. Where did you get this painting?”
“One of my former employees painted it. Luther Caleb.”
“Why did he paint this picture?”
“He loved painting.”
“When was this painting done?”
“Summer 1975. July or August, if my memory serves me.”
“Just before the girl disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“How did it come to be painted?”
“With a paintbrush, I imagine.”
“Cut the wisecracks, please, Mr Stern. How did he know Nola?”
“Everyone in Somerset knew Nola. The painting was inspired by her.”
“Didn’t it bother you to own a painting of a girl who’d disappeared?”
“No. It’s a beautiful picture. We call this art. And true art is disturbing. Anything else is merely the result of the degeneration of a world corrupted by political correctness.”
“Are you aware that the possession of a picture showing a naked fifteen-year-old girl could cause problems for you, Mr Stern?”
“Naked? Neither her breasts nor her genitalia are shown.”
“But it’s obvious that she’s naked.”
“Are you ready to defend your point of view in court, Sergeant? Because you would lose, and you know that as well as I do.”
“I would just like to know why Luther Caleb painted Nola Kellergan.”
“I told you: He loved painting.”
“Did you know Nola Kellergan?”
“Slightly. Like everyone in Somerset did.”
“Only slightly?”
“Only slightly.”
“You’re lying, Mr Stern. I have witnesses who will state that you were in a relationship with her. That you had her brought to your house.”
Stern laughed. “Do you have any proof for what you’re claiming? I doubt it, because it’s not true. I never touched that young girl. Clearly, Sergeant, your investigation is going nowhere and you’re struggling to find the right questions. So I’m going to help you: Nola Kellergan came to find me. She came to my house one day and told me she needed money. She agreed to pose for a painting.”
“You paid her to pose?”
“Yes. Luther had great talent as a painter. Unbelievable talent. He had already painted some wonderful pictures for me—views of the New Hampshire coast, scenes of daily life—and I was thrilled by them. Luther had the potential to be one of the century’s greatest painters, and I believed he might produce something magnificent if he painted that beautiful girl. And I was right: Were I to sell this picture today, with all the hype surrounding this case, I would undoubtedly make at least a million dollars, maybe two. Do you know many contemporary painters whose work sells for that much?”
Stern then stated that he had wasted enough time already and that the interview was over, and he left, followed by his army of lawyers, leaving Gahalowood speechless and adding yet another mystery to the investigation.
*
“Did you fully grasp that, writer?” Gahalowood asked me after he had finished his report on Stern’s interrogation. “One day the girl goes to Stern’s house and offers to pose for a painting in exchange for money. Can you believe it?”
“It’s crazy. Why would she need money? To elope with Harry?”
“Maybe. And yet she didn’t even take her savings with her. There’s a tin box in her bedroom containing a hundred and twenty dollars.”
“Where’s the painting?” I asked.
“We’re holding on to it for the moment. It’s evidence.”
“Evidence for what? I thought Stern hadn’t been charged.”
“Evidence against Caleb.”
“Is he really a suspect?”
“I don’t know. Stern wanted a painting of Nola, and Pratt wanted her to suck his cock, but what motive did they have for killing her?”
“Fear that she would talk?” I suggested. “She might have threatened to tell all, and in a moment of panic one of them might have hit her so hard that she died.”
“But then why leave that note on the manuscript? Goodbye, darling Nola. This is someone who loved her. And the only one who loved her is Quebert. Everything brings us back to Quebert. What if Quebert, having learned about Pratt and Stern, lost his head and killed Nola? This might very well be a crime of passion. That was your theory at one point, if you remember.”
“Harry, and a crime of passion? That makes no sense. When will we ever get the results from that damn handwriting analysis?”
“Soon. It’s only a matter of days now, I think. Marcus, I have to tell you something: The D.A. is going to offer Quebert a deal. They’ll drop the kidnap charge if he pleads guilty to a crime of passion. Twenty years in jail. He’d be out in fifteen if he behaved well. No death penalty.”
“Why would Harry want a deal? He didn’t do anything wrong.”
I sensed there was something we were failing to see, a detail that would explain everything. I went back over Nola’s final days, but nothing noteworthy seemed to have happened until that fateful evening of August 30. In fact after my conversations with Jenny Dawn, Tamara Quinn, and a few others from Somerset, it seemed to me that Nola Kellergan’s last three weeks of life had been happy. On the other hand, Harry had depicted those torture scenes, Pratt had described how he had forced Nola to perform fellatio on him, and Nancy had told me about sordid meetings with Luther Caleb. Yet Jenny’s and Tamara’s testimonies were very different. According to them, there was nothing to suggest that Nola was unhappy or mistreated. Tamara even told me that Nola had asked to start waitressing again at Clark’s once school started, which she had agreed to. I was so surprised by this that I twice asked her to confirm it. Why would Nola have taken steps to ensure she still had a job if she was planning to run away? Robert Quinn told me that he had seen her occasionally carry a typewriter, but that she sang and looked cheerful as she carted it along with her. From the sounds of it, Somerset in August 1975 was a kind of heaven on earth. I began to wonder if Nola had indeed intended to leave town. Then I was seized by a horrifying thought: How could I be sure that Harry was telling me the truth? How could I know whether Nola had really asked him to elope with her? What if it was just a ploy to get himself off the hook for her murder? What if Gahalow
ood had been right all along?
*
I saw Harry again on the afternoon of July 5, in prison. His expression was dreadful, his skin gray-hued. Lines I had never seen before had appeared on his forehead.
“The D.A. wants to offer you a deal,” I said.
“I know. Roth already talked to me about it. A crime of passion. I could be out in fifteen years.”
I understood from his tone that he was considering this option.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to accept that!” I said angrily.
“I don’t know. It’s a way of avoiding the death penalty.”
“Avoiding the death penalty? What’s that supposed to mean? That you’re guilty?”
“No! But everything seems to condemn me. And I have no desire to play a hand of poker with jurors who’ve already decided I’m guilty. Fifteen years in prison: It’s better than a life sentence, or death row.”
“Harry, I’m going to ask you this one last time: Did you kill Nola?”
“Of course not! For Christ’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you?”
“Then let’s prove it.”
I took out my minidisc recorder and placed it on the table.
“No, please! Not that thing again.”
“I have to understand what happened.”
“I don’t want you to record me anymore. Please.”
“Alright. I’ll take notes instead.”
I took out a notebook and a pen.
“I would like us to go back to our previous discussion about your elopement on August 30. Correct me if I’m wrong, but at the time the two of you decided to leave, your book was practically finished.”
“I finished it a few days before we were supposed to leave. I wrote it very fast. I felt I was in a trance. Everything was so wonderful: Nola being there all the time, rereading my words, correcting them, typing them up. This may seem mawkish to you, but it was magical. The book was finished on August 27. I remember it well because that was the last time I saw Nola. We had agreed that I should leave town two or three days before her, so that people didn’t become suspicious. So August 27 was our last day together. I had finished the novel in a month. It was wild. I was so proud of myself. I remember those two manuscripts stacked up impressively on the deck table: the handwritten original and the version that Nola had worked so hard to type up. We went down to the beach, to where we had first met three months earlier. We walked for a long time. Nola held my hand and said, ‘Meeting you changed my life, Harry. See how happy we are together.’ We walked on. Our plan was in place: I was to leave the next morning, August 28, stopping by at Clark’s so people would see me and so I could tell them that I would be away for a week or two due to urgent business in Boston. I would take a hotel room in Boston, keeping my receipts so that it would all fit together if the police questioned me. And then, on August 30, I would come back and take a room at the Sea Side Motel. Nola told me to reserve Room 8, because she liked that number. I asked her how she would manage to reach that motel, which was some miles from Somerset, and she told me not to worry, that she was a fast walker and knew a shortcut via the beach. She would meet me at the motel that night at 7 p.m. Then we would have to leave right away, cross the border into Canada, and find a place to hole up—an apartment we could rent. I would go back to Somerset a few days later, as if nothing had happened. The police would be bound to search for Nola and I had to stay calm. If they questioned me, I would say I had been in Boston and show them the hotel receipts. I would then spend the next week in Somerset in order to quell suspicions, while Nola stayed in our apartment and waited for me. After that, I would give back the keys to Goose Cove and leave Somerset for good, explaining that my novel was finished and that I now had to take care of getting it published. Then I would return to Nola and send the manuscript to publishing houses in New York, and from then on I would travel between New York and our hideaway in Canada until the book was published.”