by Harry Dolan
Carter Shan seemed to listen eagerly. Elizabeth, who knew he was acting, was half convinced that he was fascinated by Tully’s conversation.
“I never thought of that,” Shan said appreciatively. “You’re saying we should ask people to guess who killed Tom Kristoll.”
“Well, it sounds frivolous when you put it that way,” Tully said.
“No, it makes sense. We ought to try that,” Shan said. “Maybe we could start now. Who do you think might have killed him?”
“I don’t know. Anything I tell you would be a guess.”
“That’s fine.”
“I don’t know. I suppose—David Loogan.”
Shan looked surprised. “Now why would you pick him?”
“It’s only a guess.”
“It must be based on something.”
“Well, I don’t like to talk out of turn, but I think he may be having an affair with Laura.”
Elizabeth broke in. “Is that right? What makes you say that?”
“Just the way they act around each other.”
“Do you spend a lot of time with them?”
“No.”
“But you’ve observed how they act around each other,” Elizabeth said. Tully shrugged his shoulders. “During the summer, Tom and Laura had parties at their house. David Loogan came to some of them. He would go off with her alone sometimes and talk. And I saw him with her once on campus.”
“Did you ever ask Laura about it?”
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“She’s my dissertation adviser. It’s not my place to ask about her personal life.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said. “Do you think Tom Kristoll suspected his wife was having an affair?”
“I couldn’t say. I didn’t know him that well.”
Shan had gotten up from the table unobtrusively. From an open cabinet over the sink he took a glass and filled it from the tap. Carrying it with him, he wandered into the living room.
Elizabeth asked Tully about his work in the English department. She let him ramble on a little about the subject of his dissertation. Then she said, “You were an intern at Gray Streets this past spring.”
“That’s right.”
“What does an intern do, at a magazine like that?”
“Some light copyediting, some proofreading. But mostly you read slush—manuscripts that come in unsolicited.”
“You worked there in the office?”
“Usually I brought things home.”
“So you never saw much of the boss.”
“Not really. Like I said, I’m afraid I can’t be much help.”
“Just a few more things,” Elizabeth said. “When was the last time you saw Tom Kristoll?”
Tully considered the question. “It would have been at one of those parties they had at the house,” he said. “Early September, I think.”
“When was the last time you went to the Gray Streets office?”
“I haven’t been there since May, when my internship ended.”
“We’re trying to nail down Kristoll’s movements in the days leading up to his death. You didn’t see him in the past week, or talk to him?”
“No.”
“And for the record, where were you Friday afternoon and evening?”
“I was here,” Tully said. “I graded papers and worked on a chapter of my dissertation. I’m afraid there’s no one to vouch for me. I live alone.”
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Shan had wandered back in from the living room. He emptied his glass into the sink and left it on the counter.
“That’s fine,” Elizabeth said. “I think that’s all we need.”
A drizzle of rain spotted the sidewalk in front of Tully’s apartment building. The sky was darkening. Shan started the car and pulled away from the curb.
“Well, you’ve had a look at him now,” he said.
“I have,” said Elizabeth.
“What do you think?”
“I think if we asked a lot of random people if Adrian Tully is a weasel, they’d say yes, yes, yes.”
“He was eager to steer us toward David Loogan,” Shan said. “But he didn’t want to seem eager. You figure he has a thing for Laura Kristoll?”
“She’s an attractive woman,” Elizabeth said. “And she’s his adviser.”
“Hot for teacher. And he has it in for Loogan because Loogan was having an affair with Laura Kristoll?”
“Suppose he wasn’t sure about the affair. So on Friday he followed her to Loogan’s house. His suspicions were confirmed. He was angry. He slashed Loogan’s tires and keyed his car.”
“Did he go beyond that?” Shan said. “Did he kill Tom Kristoll? It seems like a stretch. If he was mad at Loogan, why would he kill Kristoll?”
Elizabeth wound a fi nger through the string of beads around her neck.
“Try it this way. Tully feels rejected. If he can’t have Laura Kristoll, at least he can ruin what she’s got going with Loogan. He goes to her husband’s office to tell him about it. But Tom Kristoll doesn’t buy it—his wife and his friend having an affair. So he tells Tully to go to hell. Tempers flare. Tully knocks Kristoll over the head. Now Kristoll is unconscious. Tully panics. He didn’t mean for this to happen. He eases Kristoll out the window and tries to make it look like a suicide.”
Beside her Shan was nodding. “With a suicide note courtesy of Shake-7 4 h a r r y
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speare,” he said. “ ‘I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.’ Tully had a copy of Hamlet on his bookshelf.”
“Is that right?”
“I paged through it. There were a fair number of lines highlighted—
including the one about an antique Roman.”
The light on the porch was glowing when Elizabeth got home. In the kitchen she found a casserole warming in the oven, a bowl of salad covered in plastic in the refrigerator. Two soda cans—Pepsi and Mountain Dew—at the top of the recycling bin.
In the living room her daughter was sitting on the floor with her back to the couch. A math text and a notebook were open on the coffee table.
“I should be cooking you dinner,” Elizabeth said.
“That’s true,” said Sarah. “Sometimes I tell people I come from a broken home.”
“I should be helping you with your homework too.”
“I don’t know about that. It’s trigonometry.”
“I wouldn’t be any use then. We didn’t have triangles when I was in school.”
Sarah got up and together they set the table and sat down to eat. The salad was elaborate: three kinds of lettuce, tomatoes, slices of onion and carrot and apple, cashews, and shredded cheese.
“You could have invited him for dinner,” Elizabeth said. “I bet he would have been impressed.”
“Who would that be?” Sarah asked.
“The boy you’re having an affair with. Billy Rydell.”
“Oh. You saw the Mountain Dew can.”
“I did.”
“You know, I told him we could live a secret life, if only we were willing to give up soft drinks.”
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“When was he here?”
“He came by after school. We sat on the porch for a while.” Sarah went to the oven and brought out the casserole. Rice and broccoli and chicken—
she spooned it onto their plates. “What did you do today?” she asked.
“Talked to people,” Elizabeth said.
“You can tell me who. I won’t squeal to the press.”
“One of them was a man who might have killed Tom Kristoll.”
Sarah speared a piece of broccoli with her fork. “Tom Kristoll is the publisher who got defenestrated.”
“Yes.”
“And you talked to his killer. Was it the man with the sliver in his palm?”
Elizabeth had told her daughter about her encounter with David Looga
n.
“Not him,” she said. “We ruled him out.”
“I thought you might have ruled him back in.”
“No. The man I talked to is a student of Kristoll’s wife. His name is Adrian Tully.” She sketched the theory that she and Shan had worked out.
“How do you prove it?” Sarah asked.
“Tully gave us an alibi. He said he was home Friday afternoon and evening. We’ll try to prove he was lying. We’ll show his picture to people in David Loogan’s neighborhood and in the area around the building where Kristoll was killed.”
“What if no one remembers seeing him?”
“It might mean he didn’t do it, or it might just mean no one remem bers him.”
“Maybe he’ll confess.”
“It would be nice if someone would.”
“Maybe he’ll be racked with guilt,” Sarah said. “When will they have the funeral?”
“I don’t know if it’s been scheduled. The medical examiner hasn’t released the body yet.”
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“Tully—if he’s the murderer—he’ll go to the funeral.”
“He’ll probably go either way.”
“If he’s the murderer, he’ll feel compelled to go,” Sarah said. “You should be there. He’ll stand with the mourners at the grave, and he’ll feel tormented. If you’re there, he might confess to you.”
Chapter 11
Nathan Hideaway was a tall man, broad of shoulder, thick of neck. His face was all strong features: piercing eyes, formidable nose, wide mouth, square jaw. A lined forehead and a crown of curly white hair. David Loogan had seen the face before: in photos on the jackets of mystery novels. And he had met the man once, at a party at the Kristoll house on the Huron River.
At a few minutes past eight on Tuesday night, Loogan knocked on the door of the Kristoll house. The door swung inward and there was Nathan Hideaway, extending a great mitt of a hand in greeting. He was dressed in a suit that might have been black or might have been a very deep blue. His face betrayed no sign of recognition. He said, “Mr. Loogan, I presume.”
He led Loogan back through the house and into the study. Laura Kristoll came forward as if she might embrace Loogan, but in the end she only trailed her palm down his arm. She said, “Thank you for coming, David.”
There was another woman with her—a woman Loogan had met before, at the same party where he had met Nathan Hideaway. Her photo had also appeared on the jackets of novels. She was scarcely over five feet tall. Loogan estimated her age at forty, though she dressed as if she were fifteen years younger. Her white blouse hugged her slim form, and her skirt ended well above her knees. Her brown hair was cut short and disheveled, pixielike.
“This is Bridget Shellcross,” Hideaway said. “Bridge, meet David Loogan.”
“We’ve met,” Loogan said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
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“Of course,” she said. She plainly had no idea where she was supposed to have seen Loogan before.
The room was as Loogan remembered it. The desk at the far end, the rows of bookshelves, the four upholstered chairs. Three weeks ago he had stood here with Tom, and they had talked about disposing of a body. The same bottle of Scotch, or one very much like it, stood on the side table.
Nathan Hideaway settled into a chair, gesturing for Loogan to do the same. Laura and Bridget followed suit.
“Well, let’s begin,” Hideaway said. “I think I speak for us all—”
Bridget Shellcross interrupted him. “Before you start speaking for us all, Nate, maybe Mr. Loogan would like a drink.”
“Certainly,” Hideaway said. “By all means.”
“I don’t need a drink,” said Loogan.
“You ought to have something,” Bridget said. “We’ve been drinking Chardonnay.”
There was a half-spent glass on the floor by her chair.
“Maybe I’ll have a Scotch.”
Laura stood up. “I’ll get some ice.”
“I’ll take it just as it is,” Loogan said.
She retrieved a tumbler from a cart beside the desk and poured Loogan three fingers from the bottle on the table.
“I think I speak for us all,” Hideaway said again, “when I say that Tom’s loss is a terrible blow—”
“He means Tom’s death,” said Bridget. “It’s Tom’s death and our loss. Christ, Nate, you always needed a good editor.”
Hideaway seemed to take no notice of her. “Tom was a vital man,” he said. “He has passed away from us far too soon, and with his passing it falls to us to look after his interests.”
“I believe that’s true,” Loogan said quietly.
“We must attend to the things he cared about,” Hideaway said. “One of b a d t h i n g s h a p p e n
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those is Gray Streets. Tom was the wellspring, the prime force, the motive power—”
“Get the man a thesaurus.”
“—the architect of the magazine’s success. Gray Streets was the central project of his life. If it were allowed to decline, or to cease publication—”
“Nate’s point is, we don’t intend to let that happen,” said Bridget.
“It’s our understanding,” Hideaway said to Loogan, “that Tom thought highly of your abilities as an editor. Laura shares that view. No one can take Tom’s place, of course. But we’d like you to consider taking over some of his responsibilities.”
Loogan felt a wave of something like nausea pass through him.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“What we have in mind,” said Hideaway, “is for you to continue to do the sort of editorial work you’ve been doing, and to take a hand in the selection of stories for publication. You needn’t worry about being on your own. We would advise you.”
Loogan tipped his glass side to side, watching the light play over the amber liquid. Several moments passed in silence.
“You’re reluctant,” Hideaway said.
“Yes.”
“There are details to be worked out. You’ll have your own thoughts on how things should be managed. I’m sure we can come to an accommodation.”
Loogan rose from his chair. “I don’t think I want to talk about this now.”
“It’s all right, David,” said Laura, rising in turn.
“Let it rest, Nate,” said Bridget. “He’ll want some time to think about it.”
Hideaway stood up and Bridget followed suit.
“Perhaps I could speak to Mr. Loogan alone,” Hideaway said. “Just for a few minutes. You don’t mind, do you, Laura?”
Laura’s face was unreadable. “I guess not,” she said. Bridget shook her head in disapproval, but she followed Laura out and 8
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closed the door of the study behind them. Hideaway got a glass and poured himself some Scotch.
“I handled this badly,” he said. “There are some things it’s easier to talk about one-on-one than in a crowd.”
He sipped from his glass. Loogan said nothing.
“Also, it’s too soon,” Hideaway said. “Tom has been gone for four days and we bring you here to talk about commerce. That’s my fault. The others wanted to wait. When I see something that needs to be done, I don’t like to delay. But it’s too soon. You think it’s unseemly.”
“It was certainly unexpected,” Loogan said.
“Was it?” Hideaway said. “You must have wondered what would become of Gray Streets. When we asked you to come here tonight, you must have assumed we had some motive. What did you suppose it was?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Hideaway swirled the Scotch in his glass. “Now I’m intrigued.”
“I thought you wanted to hire me to find out who killed Tom.”
The lin
es of Hideaway’s forehead crinkled. “Why would you think that?”
“Don’t you want to know who killed Tom?”
“Naturally,” Hideaway said. “But I’m afraid I’m at a loss. Laura was vague about your background. She hinted that you had a checkered past. She even suggested that you might have been a criminal. I took that as a piece of whimsy.”
“That’s the way it should be taken,” Loogan said.
“So you were never a criminal. Am I to understand you were a policeman?”
“No.”
“Then why would I want to hire you to solve a murder? Isn’t that a job for the police?”
“Is that what you believe? I’ve read some of your books.”
“That’s fiction.”
“In a Nathan Hideaway novel, the police are never quite up to speed. They’re always a few steps behind.”
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“Fiction, Mr. Loogan.”
“In a Nathan Hideaway novel, the protagonist is always an amateur detective,” Loogan said. “And he’s always a man who can be trusted with secrets. Secrets you might not want to share with the police.”
“I don’t think I’m following you,” said Hideaway.
“Now that Tom’s gone, we have to look out for his interests. That’s what you said. But that’s not an easy job, is it? Tom had his secrets. Is it better now we should keep them or reveal them?”
“Now I’m sure I’m not following you.”
“I wonder. Did you really ask me here to offer me a job?”
“Why else?”
“I think maybe you wanted to get a sense of me. To see if I was going to be trouble.”
“You really should listen to yourself, Mr. Loogan. You’re sounding very peculiar.”
“Maybe I’m wrong and you’re exactly what you seem to be. You’re just looking for someone to edit Gray Streets. ”
“I thought I’d made that clear.”
“Maybe you’re guileless.”
Hideaway spread his arms out at his sides. “I’d like to think so.”