Henry stood there in the pantry, frozen. It made so much sense. There wasn’t a photo or a mention of the murder weapon in the paper because maybe the murder weapon was never found. Claudine had hung on to it all these years, just in case she needed to keep Henry in check, remind him she was in control of his fate. Now he was talking about quitting the company? Putting the statue in the White Elephant was her way of reminding him that she was the one who made those decisions. They were finished only when she said they were finished.
He was embarrassed he hadn’t figured it out sooner. Now that he had, though, he had the upper hand. But upper hand to do what? “We have to outplay them,” Claudine had said. He had no idea how to do that or what that even meant. He went to get another drink and think it over before heading back to the game. How was he supposed to outplay her?
Claudine
Of course it had crossed Claudine’s mind that Henry might’ve brought the statue. He was the first person she thought of. All that talk about quitting the business and leaving the state. If he had somehow managed to get his hands on it, wouldn’t that put him in a pretty little spot to ask of her anything he wanted? Dangling the old murder weapon in front of her. Reminding her he could throw away everything in a minute. Threatening to tell the world what they had done so she’d set him free. She hadn’t listened to him when he tried to talk to her about it. Maybe this was the only way he could get her attention and force her to take him seriously.
But she had immediately ruled him out based on his initial reaction. First his cluelessness, then his fear: it seemed genuine. Then his drinking. If he was in control he wouldn’t slip up like that. But he had proven to be a surprisingly good liar. Honestly, she never thought he’d be able to keep their secret all these years. She thought for sure he’d crack, wind up in the hospital with a nervous breakdown a lot sooner than he did.
When he scampered off with Jules to get the candles was when she finally took him seriously as a suspect. No, she never believed he would cheat on her. But then, she never believed she’d ever see that statue again. Tonight had proven that anything was possible. Was Jules in on it with him? Had she coached him on how to react? When he said he wanted to leave town, was it Jules he was planning on taking rather than Claudine?
As everyone sat around in uncomfortable silence waiting for them to get back with the candles, Claudine felt a longing for her husband that she had never felt before, not even that night in the forest when she first set eyes on Miller’s cabin. Then came a voice:
It’s a lonely time to live through
How do you expect anyone to have any fun
Zara was singing.
Zara
When the lights went out I got super freaked out. I mean, I had just asked if Montague House was haunted. And then, bam, I’m surrounded by pitch-black in a snow storm? No way. Nu-uh. I would’ve grabbed Dave and we would have gotten the hell out of there, but I hadn’t picked my gift yet. I was 100 percent not buying this house that was possessed by two ghosts who’d killed each other, but I figured I’d come all the way to Aspen, so I shouldn’t go home empty-handed. I deserved something for my trouble.
When I’m afraid, I grab Pip. And when I’m still afraid, I sing. So that’s what I did. I picked an old Claudine Longet holiday song called “I Don’t Intend to Spend Christmas Without You.” It was originally written and performed by this American folksinger Margo Guryan, but Claudine’s rendition is much more mournful. The piano player knew it, because after the first few lines he started playing along.
When it ended, everybody stood up and started clapping. Then Jules and Henry came in carrying lit candles—and a fresh cocktail for Henry. I’m not one to count drinks, but he seemed to be hitting it pretty hard.
Finally the game continued. At this point we were about halfway through. I don’t remember all the specifics of who picked what, especially in light of what happened next. The time immediately before is kind of foggy. Basically, my tickets and backstage passes got stolen as much as possible. Henry didn’t have to worry about Steve getting them. Eventually they wound up with Rashida. Then it was Claudine’s turn. She picked right before me.
“Well,” she said, “I know how important tonight is to everyone, and I’m not about to let one of you go home with a joke. So, Natalie, I’ll take the statue, please.”
I saw Jules look at Henry and raise her eyebrows like, See? Henry tipped his glass to her and drank all of it.
Natalie looked relieved and went and picked from the table. Then it was my turn. I couldn’t help making it a bit dramatic. That’s part of my job, after all.
“Henry, Claudine, thank you for having me. It has been a true pleasure to spend the evening with all of you, to experience Montague House so full of life. And poltergeists. As the last pick of the night, there could only be one gift for me. In the true spirit of the game, I’m going to steal… from Claudine.”
I walked over and took the statue from her. Everyone went crazy.
“Ooooooh.”
“Daaaamn.”
“No way.”
Even Dave said, “That’s cold.”
Claudine looked startled, then glared at everyone. They immediately went quiet.
“Zara, why on earth would you want that statue?”
“Why wouldn’t I want it? Look at it. It’s so kitschy. I love stuff like this.”
And I did. But there was another reason. I kept looking at it. It had a mesmerizing quality, this strange gravitational pull on me. I wasn’t sure where the statue came from but it just looked like it had an interesting story. And also I loved the fact that, unlike the rest of the gifts, it hadn’t been brought to please Claudine. In fact, it was the opposite. Someone really wanted to piss her off. I appreciated how anarchic and rock-and-roll that was.
“Zara, please,” Claudine said. “Look around. There’s a room full of treasures.”
There was a weird desperation in her voice. She was sounding a little manic. “Go on, everyone, hold them up. Show Zara what her options are.” Everyone awkwardly held up their gifts. “How about the Portuguese tapestry? I was thinking it would look nice hanging upstairs in the master bathroom. The wall across from the claw-foot tub is made for it. The room is beautiful, but it could stand for a splash of art. Imagine it, the southern light bringing out the blues and the blue-greens? Louisa, please take Zara the tapestry.”
“No, Louisa,” I said. “Stay where you are. Claudine, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be buying this house. It’s gorgeous.” I turned to Henry. “A true work of art. But there’s no connection. I know when I know. The statue and I have a connection. And I’d like to take it home with me.”
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry, but no. That’s just not possible. You can either choose another gift or take the last one on the table.”
“But there are two gifts on the table,” Captain Tiggleman said.
This has been a lot. I know. But I had to make sure you understood that you come from an unusual, brief love that ended in tragedy before it ever even had a chance to understand what it fully was. Never doubt it was love. Never doubt that whatever really happened on the mountain that night, Tommy would never hurt Mr. Miller. Every single part of me, every instinct, knows that the Calhouns had something—maybe everything—to do with it all.
I made my choice not to let the injustice consume me. Somehow I found the strength to not only continue but to live a life. I hope you find your own strength in that.
Grow up knowledgeable, but choose the path that is uniquely yours. Uncertainty is normal. Keep going. Eventually, it will start to take shape. It will feel right. You will know. And every time you need me, remember: I’m always here. In the air and the river, in all of nature. But mainly in you. We are the same. All three of us. Don’t worry, I’m here. Cheering you on. Your father is here too.
Love,
Mom
Claudine
Claudine thought it might just be Captain Tiggleman’s poor vision in the dim
candlelight, but he was right. There was an extra gift on the table.
“Jules!” she seethed.
“No way,” Jules said. “That’s not possible. We had fifteen. Then Steve made it sixteen. I counted like five times.”
“Miscount!” Jerry yelled. “I guess we have to start again. I’ll have to part with my Bootsy Bellows gift certificate.”
“We’ll have to start again,” Kevin said.
Claudine felt twitchy. She, too, had counted the gifts. She didn’t trust Jules to be the final say on anything. To get the count correct. There had been sixteen. Then she read the poem and they started. Everyone was there. No one else had arrived.
Confused whispers swirled around the room. Laughter, shouts of “Let’s draw straws to see who gets the last gift!” Everyone was drunk. What was she missing? It was as she made her third scan around the room that it hit her.
Why hadn’t she seriously considered this earlier?
Yes. Of course.
She found him instantly and they locked eyes across the room. The rest of them oblivious, the unofficial post-gift swap already starting. The look on his face was all the confirmation she needed. He had his jacket on. His hood was up. He had been waiting for her to understand, it had only been a matter of time.
Paces behind, she followed him out of the living room, down the hall, and into the kitchen. Getting her own jacket from the closet along the way. She entered the kitchen just as the handsome young man slid open the door to the deck and slipped through, leaving it ajar.
The chef had his back turned, plating the last of the desserts, and she took a small, sharp paring knife off a cutting board. The contours of the hilt fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, like the hand of an old dance partner. She slipped the serrated blade snuggly up the long sleeve of her Alexander McQueen blouse. Pressed against her flesh, the cold metal stung lightly, raising the tiny hairs on her arm. It had been years since she’d felt this sort of charge.
Then she was gone into the night after the bartender.
Henry
Jules was right. It had to be Claudine who brought the statue. But she was wrong about why. The motive wasn’t shielding her guests from a bad present. It was to send him a message. Keep him in line. She had concocted an impressive, elaborate scheme to intimidate him. She had thought of everything. Except Zara wanting the statue. That’s when she slipped up. Trying so hard to keep it from Zara. She never imagined that. Now their murder weapon was in the hands of a stranger. And not just any stranger. One of the most famous people on the planet. Henry could just see the tabloid photos of Zara returning home to L.A. with the statue under her arm and how wild social media would go with rumors about what it was. Look at how those true-crime junkies and amateur detectives online managed to solve the Golden State Killer case. It wouldn’t take long for people to figure it out. Him and Claudine put away by a pop star’s super-groupies. He had to admit, it was pretty funny.
At least, it would be if that was how it happened. There wasn’t a chance Zara would be leaving with the statue. Claudine wasn’t one to accept her fate, most likely she already had a plan. Not until she had it. Henry was worried about Zara, but he was also worried about Claudine. He couldn’t help it. The bodyguard would need distracting, the dog, the guests—if she was going to pull something off there were a lot of details to contend with. She would need his help.
Henry looked around for her. They needed to talk. To figure this out. Together. Like she said, nobody could beat them when they worked as a team.
He caught a glimpse of her as she followed someone out of the living room. He couldn’t tell who it was. Someone in a coat with an upturned hood. A new recruit? Drink in hand, he started for the door.
Claudine
She edged along the deck wall, keeping under the overhang where the footing was more sure. Although even there it was slippery. It was snowing from every direction. The Adirondack chairs, the firepits, the grill—all of it was covered in a thick blanket of white. Near the far edge of the deck, down on the lower level, the hot tub was bubbling uncovered, eating as much snow as it could. She tried to figure out where he was, but the wind gusts kept blowing snow in her face every time she turned to look in a new direction.
She spotted him. Near the far edge he was leaning back against the railing, waiting for her. The wind howled and whined as she made her way over. He didn’t say anything, only stared with hatred.
“How much do you want?” Claudine asked.
“How much what?”
“Money.”
The bartender laughed.
“That’s the only thing you people think about, isn’t it?” he said. “I don’t want your money.”
“What do you want?”
“Confirmation. The truth, and I’d say I got it.”
Claudine moved her hand slightly so she could feel the tip of the dagger pressed against the soft inside skin of her arm. The pinch from the blade sending another shock through her body.
“Coming into tonight, I still had some doubt,” he said. “She told me your names. In the letter. It had to be you. I questioned if tonight would work. Doubted I could stand there in front of you both and pretend like I was just some regular bartender. Follow your directions for twenty dollars an hour. Pour your drinks and smile. I didn’t know how long I’d last. Thought you’d find something suspicious even before the gift was opened. There were too many variables.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” Claudine shouted at him through the snow.
“It could have unfolded so many ways. If it was picked much later in the game. Or not at all. There was even a chance it could have been the extra gift on the table. Maybe it wouldn’t have been opened. This has been in the works. I heard about your office party game; hell, the whole town has. But it took me a couple years to figure out properly how to pull this off.”
He boldly took a step toward her.
“You should have seen your face when that girl opened it. There were times when I thought about confronting you straight up. Coming to your office or stopping you on the street. But it definitely wouldn’t have been as sweet as that look. As your face. No, this was the only way. What was it like? Have you ever felt a paranoia that deep? That’s what my mother felt every day of her short life after what you did. Knowing that you walked the same streets.”
“Your mother? Who was your mother?”
“That’s not the right question,” the bartender said.
“Your father?” Then she smiled, having put it together. “Your father was the hired hand.”
“Thomas James Cooke,” he said.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” Claudine said. “Very interesting. You must be clever. Or someone was clever. I have to know: How did you get the statue?”
The bartender told her.
“Aspen cops,” she said. “Too nice for their own good. That’s how Bundy escaped. They didn’t cuff him and he jumped right out the window of the Pitkin County Courthouse.”
“You can see if it’s still open. You’ll be there soon enough.”
A gust of wind tore between them, both having to momentarily turn and shield their faces.
“That’s how you think this ends?” she said. “Sorry to disappoint. The police had the statue back then and it didn’t make any difference. So unless you’ve got a confession—”
The bartender took his hand out of his jacket pocket. He was holding a small digital voice recorder. Hardly surprising. She counted on it. And yet she hadn’t spoken carefully or avoided saying anything that could be held against her in court. What did she care? She would get that device from him just as surely as she would get that statue from Zara.
Claudine took a step toward him, inching the knife out of her sleeve. “Why so much drama?” she asked. “You should have swung by the office. We could have talked.”
“I’m not dumb. What could be better than this? A house full of your friends and employees plus a super famous pop star and her enorm
ous bodyguard. The stakes are too high for you to pull anything here. But alone? Not a chance. Who’s to say your husband wouldn’t try and kill me like he did my father and Mr. Miller?”
“My husband?”
Claudine began laughing. Laughing and laughing. The bartender looked uncertain.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“You think my husband is a killer?”
“I know he is,” the bartender said. “And, given the chance, I’m sure he’d kill again.”
Claudine unsheathed the knife from her sleeve. He was backed into a corner, the only options to jump off the deck and over a cliff or go straight through her.
“Henry kill again?” she said. “That would mean he’s killed before. Henry didn’t kill your father. I did.”
Henry
He’d been wrong. It was only the bartender she followed outside. No doubt to yell at him about Henry’s drinking. He was about to call out to her, tell her to lay off, leave the kid alone, this was his fault, when their voices reached him. He stood and listened.
“Henry kill again? That would mean he’s killed before. Henry didn’t kill your father. I did.”
What was she saying? And why was she saying it to the bartender? He didn’t understand. The booze wasn’t helping. But still, he wrapped his fingers tighter around his drink, processing what he’d overheard.
“Claudine?”
Her back flinched when she heard her name.
“Claudine. What’s going on?”
She turned around. The knife blade flashed in her hand.
“Henry, dear, meet—I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Thomas,” the bartender said. He looked frightened.
“Well, of course it is,” Claudine said. “Henry, this is Thomas James Cooke. He’s named after his father. Who you killed. No, I’m sorry, whom I killed?”
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