My friends look uncomfortable, staring at the blue envelope. I’m waiting to see if any of them want to read it.
Blushing painfully, Lily says, “Okay, first of all, guys, this walking on eggshells is not necessary. The man’s comment was something like, ‘Look at that hideous chick and her gorgeous friend. Isn’t it amazing how her ugliness brings out the other’s beauty, and vice versa? It would ruin my evening, having to look at a dog like that, not to mention if I had to be seen with one.’”
Lily waits for our reaction to her recollection. After a moment of stunned silence, we mutter our grim indignation at the man’s comment.
I don’t read the next two sentences of the letter. I recite them, my gaze locked on my friends’ faces so as not to miss the slightest quivering of an eyelash: “The man who made the comment was murdered that night, in his apartment, by one of you.”
I note a few sharp intakes of breath and a couple of frowns. Penelope’s hand flies to her mouth.
I continue: “The killer among you (K.A.Y.) confessed it to me two weeks later. Please take a moment now to look at the article I’ve enclosed about the man’s murder.”
My friends look at each other and at me in shock. Lily looks particularly distressed, which I can well understand. Even if she’s not the killer, she might nevertheless feel indirectly responsible for the man’s death.
I hand them the New York Times article.
They crowd around it, looking at the man’s photo under the headline “Murder Strikes Home In Tribeca Neighborhood.” They try to read bits of the article over one another’s shoulders, while appearing uneasy about possibly huddling too close to a murderer.
“Read it out loud,” Jack finally instructs Georgia, who’s holding it.
She reads:
Tribeca residents were stunned yesterday to learn that a local resident, 33-year-old Lawrence Finn, has been found murdered in the kitchen of his Vestry Street home. Mr. Finn was discovered yesterday morning in his apartment on the third floor of his elevator building by his housekeeper who alerted authorities. It is believed that Mr. Finn was killed by a single knife wound to the throat, but police are not releasing specific details of the crime. It is not known if a weapon has been recovered.
“This was a senseless and bloody act,” said Detective Vince Monticelli of the First Precinct. “We are appealing to anyone who may have seen anything suspicious in the Vestry Street area between the hours of midnight and 3 a.m. to come forward. The motive for this crime does not appear to have been robbery. It is possible Mr. Finn knew his attacker and allowed him or her entry into the apartment.”
Mr. Finn was an employee of Morrison & Partners, a New York-based hedge fund company. “Larry was a nice guy,” said Anthony Morrison, chief executive officer of Morrison & Partners. “I know of no one who wished him any harm.”
Police are investigating the recent trading activity in which Mr. Finn was engaged for clues to a possible motive. The often secretive trading practices of the unregulated hedge fund industry frequently result in large gains and losses for investors. Companies targeted by hedge fund traders are also known to resent the impact such trading has on their market valuations.
A friend of Mr. Finn’s, Mark Stanley, was the last known person to see him alive. Mr. Stanley and Mr. Finn were together on Tuesday evening at the Saratoga Lounge on East 16th Street. According to Mr. Stanley, he left Mr. Finn at the bar at approximately 11:45 p.m. “I can’t believe this,” said a stunned Mr. Stanley. “Larry always liked to party hard. We were having a great time.” Mr. Stanley was interviewed by the police but is not considered a suspect.
Detectives have questioned employees at the Saratoga Lounge and are trying to ascertain at what time Mr. Finn left the bar, and if he was alone at that time. They are asking anybody who was in the Saratoga Lounge on Tuesday evening after 8 p.m. to come forward with any information they may have.
When Georgia finishes reading the article, she gazes at Lily. We all do.
Slowly and quietly, Lily says, “I’m horrified by what you’ve just read. How do we know this letter is really from Gabriel or if it is, that Gabriel is telling the truth?”
Georgia turns to me. “Barb, have you looked into the case?”
I inform them that I researched it online last night and that the murder has never been solved. The police believe it was an isolated, spontaneous act. It didn’t appear to be related to any other crimes that had taken place in the city.
“As for the authenticity of the letter,” I add, “I can’t imagine what motive anyone could have for forging Gabriel’s handwriting and making all this up. I think our safest bet is to assume the letter’s real and that Gabriel is telling the truth. It would be risky not to take it seriously.”
Jack nods. “Still, I’d like to get the opinion of a forensic handwriting expert to make sure this letter really is from Gabriel.”
“Good idea,” Georgia says.
“But what if Jack is the killer and has a motive for creating a false report?” Penelope says. “You would trust his ‘expert’?”
“We can get a second opinion, if you want,” Georgia tells her. “Why don’t you find us a second expert and ask him or her as well?”
“Okay, I will,” Penelope says.
“I doubt the letter’s forged,” Georgia says. “I think what’s more important is figuring out who KAY is.”
I continue reading the letter from where I left off: “A few weeks after confessing this crime to me, KAY said, ‘I don’t want you to think this will be a recurring thing I do, but there’s someone else I’ve decided to put an end to. I’m going to kill Strad.’”
“Wha—?” Lily gasps. I carefully observe her reaction.
I continue reading:
KAY said to me, “I’ve made up my mind that in two years’ time, if Lily still loves him and he still doesn’t love her, I will try to kill him. But I will leave it partly in the hands of fate. What I mean by that is that in two years, on the evening of October 27th, sometime between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight, I will kill him if I get a chance. I may even plan it in advance. I will put a fairly serious amount of effort into it. But if I don’t succeed during those four hours—like let’s say there are constant obstacles—I will take it as a sign from fate that Strad should not be killed, and I will not continue trying. See, I’m easygoing and flexible.”
I did my best to dissuade KAY from this plan, but nothing worked. I even threatened KAY, said I would call the police and tell them about the first murder. KAY said that was my right, and that I should do it if I wanted to.
My dear friends, I’m sorry to be keeping KAY’s identity from you, but I’m afraid that if I don’t, you’ll turn KAY in to the police. You may judge me harshly, but I care too deeply for KAY to send him/her to prison.
I need to take a break from my reading because Lily is crying.
“Are you okay?” I give her a sympathetic look and hand her tissues.
“Please finish the letter,” she says, wiping her nose.
I continue reading:
I’m sorry to be leaving you with this burden, but your job now is to protect Strad on October 27th (next Friday), between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight. If you succeed in keeping him alive during that time, KAY will never again try to harm Strad or anyone else. KAY promised. And I believe KAY.
Just because Georgia may be the likeliest candidate, don’t assume it’s her. Or that it’s not. Just because Lily may be the least likely one, don’t assume it’s not her. Or that it is. Any of you might be the killer, except you, Barb. I’m exempting Barb because all of you will have an easier time protecting Strad if at least one of you has been cleared of suspicion.
You should know that KAY loves you all and would never harm any of you. In addition, KAY promised never again to kill anyone, other than Strad. This was a solemn promise. You may wonder why I choose to believe a homicidal maniac. I don’t have an easy answer. I’m sure you know, though, that I would not leave you
in the hands of anyone I thought would ever harm you.
“Oh my God, he’s insane,” Georgia says. “How can he trust a psycho? I think we’re in grave danger.”
Jack looks at her and nods grimly.
I continue reading the letter:
If, on the day you read this letter, Lily is no longer in love with Strad, or if she is and he loves her back, then you can disregard this letter.
There are some rules you need to be aware of:
1) KAY will not hesitate to kill Strad in front of any of you. If the attempt is successful, KAY will leave it up to you to decide if you want to help KAY hide/dispose of the body or turn KAY in to the police. KAY trusts that you will make the right decision.
“Oh, how horrible,” Georgia groans. “How could you put us in that position, whoever you are?” she says, looking at Jack, Penelope, and Lily.
After duly noting her reaction, I resume reading the letter:
2) KAY will not go so far as to kill Strad in front of anyone other than you guys because KAY would then without question get turned in.
3) KAY has agreed not to set up a lethal situation that would kill Strad outside of those four hours. For example, KAY can’t give Strad a package between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight that will explode after midnight.
I don’t want to explain to you in great depth KAY’s motives for wanting to kill Strad, mostly for fear of inadvertently revealing KAY’s identity. So I will limit myself to saying that KAY feels that Strad’s existence is ruining Lily’s life. I assume you will try to present arguments to change KAY’s mind, and perhaps you’ll have better luck than I did, but don’t count on it.
I told KAY that I would warn you of KAY’s murderous plan before it’s meant to happen. So don’t think that my letters to you are much of a surprise to KAY. I told KAY I would instruct you all to do everything in your power to protect Strad during the four dangerous hours. KAY accepted this, said your success or lack of it would be part of what KAY will interpret as destiny’s will.
In case you’re wondering why I revealed to KAY that I would alert you, I had no choice. I was afraid that if KAY felt betrayed by my letters, KAY would decide to change the rules and would make an attempt on Strad’s life at another time, on another day, when Strad wasn’t protected.
If you ever find out who KAY is, I hope you will be compassionate and able to forgive her/him.
I wish I could say “My thoughts will be with you,” but I will have no thoughts. And that’s what I’m looking forward to. Please be happy for me and love one another as I love each of you.
You will never hear from me again. Barb, this is my final letter.
Much love,
Gabriel
I fold the letter, my eyes moist despite my anger at Gabriel.
Lily is the first to speak. “If one of you kills Strad and if the cops don’t get you, I will hunt you down myself and kill you and then kill myself.” She pauses. “Is that clear?”
“What a charming day,” Jack says.
Georgia says, “I think we have to settle one question: Do we want one of us, a friend, to go to prison? I mean, Gabriel was afraid we would, which is why he didn’t want to tell us who it is. But is he right?”
We all look at one another.
“Maybe it depends on who it is,” Georgia adds.
“Oh?” says Jack. “And which of us would you feel good about sending to prison?”
“No one. I’m just throwing the question out there. Maybe some of you would feel okay about sending someone like . . . oh, I don’t know . . . me, for instance, to jail, and not someone like, um . . . Lily. Or Penelope.”
A little impatiently, I say, “Please, Georgia, we don’t have time for your insecurities and paranoia right now. Of course we don’t want to see you go to prison, what’s wrong with you? Especially if you’re not the killer. Now, let’s focus! The 27th is only five days from now.”
The truth is, I would sooner die than see Georgia go to prison.
But I can tell she’s offended by my tone. I brace myself for her favorite retaliation technique: gently demonstrating to everyone that her intelligence is superior to the offender’s (we all know she can dwarf us intellectually without effort, and it baffles me that she still feels the need to prove it).
On this occasion, she goes about it in the following insidious fashion. Adopting an innocuous tone, she says: “It was smart of you, Barb, not to read us the letter as soon as you got it. Did you use that valuable time to try and test us to figure out who the killer is?”
“No,” I reply, truthfully.
And the reason I didn’t is because even though I spent most of my time since yesterday afternoon trying to come up with ideas of how to test my friends, I failed to come up with any good ones (except for one little test I intend to try later, but which I doubt will work).
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she says. “The best time to figure out which of us is the killer would have been between the time you received the letter and the time you read it to us—when only you knew the situation. It’s a shame not to have made some use of that precious window of opportunity.”
“No, it’s not a shame, because there’s really nothing I could have done,” I say, with some confidence considering the nearly twelve hours I spent thinking about it. I feel pretty sure that even Georgia, with her superior intelligence, could not have thought of how to uncover the killer’s identity.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” she says. “I’ve no doubt there’s something one might have thought of.”
“Like what?”
“I’d have to think about it.”
“Why don’t you. And let me know how you make out.”
“Okay.” A split second later she says, “Oh, I just thought of one.”
“What is it?”
“Not worth mentioning now. The opportunity’s gone.” She shoos the idea away with her hand.
“But please do. I would be very interested.”
“It’s really nothing special. I’m sure you would have thought of it yourself if you had spent even just twenty minutes trying to come up with something. And plus, as you so rightly pointed out, don’t we have more important things to talk about?”
I have an impulse to slug her. “Just tell me what you thought of.”
“All right. Here it is. You could have sent a letter to each of us, pretending to be Gabriel.”
I look at her sternly, waiting for her to elaborate. She doesn’t. I cave in: “Elaborate.”
“Each letter would have to appear to be a single, unique, confidential letter. The letters could say something like, ‘As you may or may not already know, I have sent a letter to Barb announcing your plan to kill Strad. In it, I do not reveal that you are the killer. I’m protecting your identity. But let me entreat you now, one last time, not to kill Strad.’ Blah, blah. End of letter. It’s obvious what would happen next. The three of us who are not the killer would be utterly baffled and freaked out by the letter. We’d be calling you up, shrieking: ‘Oh my God, Barb, I just received this crazy letter from Gabriel saying I have a plan to kill Strad, but I don’t!’ The killer would be the only one who wouldn’t call. Simple.”
I could indeed have done that, I realize sadly. It would have been brilliant. I’m deeply demoralized by this huge missed opportunity. I feel as though I’ve let Lily down (assuming she’s not the killer). Georgia is a worthier friend than I am (also assuming she’s not the killer). She’s a smarter friend.
“Barb, you can’t compare yourself to the queen of convoluted thinking. None of us can,” Jack says, as though he’s read my mind.
Georgia, too, has sensed my distress. She backpedals, her entire tone softening: “Jack’s right. And anyway, I wouldn’t wish this ability on anyone. It makes my life wretched, feeds my paranoia, makes me overly complicated, irritating to others, including to myself, but on some rare occasions, such as this one, it comes in handy.”
I gaze at my friends. “There’s som
ething I’d like to say to whichever one of you is the killer.” My tone is chilling. I have their full attention. “If you, KAY, were so close to Gabriel and were his confidant to the degree that he even told you of his suicidal thoughts, why didn’t you prevent his death?” I start shouting at them, shooting them furious glances. “You could have sought out help! You should have told us. At least you should have told me of his love for me. I would have done something, acted differently, been more attuned to the situation. But most of all, you could have stopped him from killing himself. How could you let him die? Are you so incompetent, so lame, so selfish, what? Didn’t you care enough about him to save his life? You certainly are a murderer.”
I haven’t taken my eyes off of them for a second. My words were painful. Yet they had to be said—because they were the test I came up with last night. I wasn’t very optimistic that it would succeed in its purpose of provoking the killer into betraying him/herself. And I think I was right. The only purpose it seems to have served is to make us feel really awful.
I scrutinize my friends’ faces to try to catch any trace of emotion, any quivering lip, any distress, because I know the killer cared deeply for Gabriel and I’m certain my words must have inflicted particularly acute pain on him or her.
But as I contemplate these people, no single reaction stands out. They all display attitudes that could be used against them. Jack sighs and looks down. I ask him what’s up. He says he agrees with me, that the killer should have prevented Gabriel’s death, but that it can be hard to prevent such things.
Georgia also looks suspicious because she’s staring at me fixedly, her jaw clenched.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.
“Because I agree with you, too. You would think the murderer could have stopped this suicide if he cared about Gabriel.” But she says this a bit stiffly, which makes me narrow my eyes. Yet I move on.
Penelope acts perfectly normal, which is questionable in itself.
The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel Page 7