by James Lasdun
“Thanks,” he said, and turned to Matthew.
“And just to go back to the Millstream Inn, sir. You left at what time, approximately?”
“I’d say around seven-fifteen, seven-thirty.”
“But you didn’t see Mr. Grollier take a call on his phone.”
“No. I think I’d have remembered if I had.”
“Did you go to the fireworks?”
Matthew had already decided there was nothing to gain by pretending he’d been at the fireworks.
“No, I came back here. Got an early night.”
The detective nodded, writing in his pad.
“All right.” He turned to face Chloe and Charlie. “Now, if I could just ask if either of you have plans to travel over the next few days? Just in case we have other questions for you.”
“No,” Charlie said dryly. “We have friends coming to visit. I doubt we’ll be leaving the house. Feel free to drop in anytime.”
“I’m actually going to New York tomorrow for a few days,” Matthew volunteered. “I’ll be back on Thursday.”
“Okay,” the detective said, without great interest.
He stood up, his glance lingering a moment on the coffee table.
“What’s the word for those little orange guys?” he said, pointing at the plate Chloe had brought in earlier. “My mom used to call them quinotos . . .”
“Those? Kumquats,” Charlie said. “My wife’s addicted to them. Kumquats and chocolate together. Preferably in the same bite. Right, Chlo? Help yourself.”
“Maybe I’ll take one for the road, and a little piece of chocolate.” The detective took a kumquat and a piece of the dark chocolate.
“Let me just get those contacts from you,” he said. “Then we’ll be out of your hair.”
The uniformed officer took down the contact details. Matthew looked at her, wondering again if she’d seen something, but there was nothing to be gleaned from her blank expression.
It was still raining when they left. Their car, an unmarked black Ford Explorer, sizzled on the wet as it pulled out. A few yellow leaves, fallen from the trees along the driveway, gleamed behind them on the darkened gravel.
• • •
“Morons,” Charlie said, closing the door.
Chloe looked at him.
“You weren’t very polite.”
“I don’t grovel to flunkies. Not my style. Anyway, the guy was completely out of line.”
“He was just doing his job.”
“His job? His job is to be down at that Rainbow encampment or over in Crackville or Methville”—those were Charlie’s names for the two little run-down communities west of Aurelia where the county’s poorest residents lived—“finding out whose deadbeat neighbor just tricked out his Chevy or came home from Sears with a brand-new log-splitter. Not lounging around nice people’s houses sipping coffee and pretending to be Hercule Poirot. ‘Dotting our i’s and crossing our t’s’ . . . For fuck’s sake!”
“Calm down, Charlie.” Chloe was clearing off the table now, moving slowly, as if through some thicker element than air. She had the look of an accident victim trying to assess the damage while still absorbing the blow.
“I mean, he seemed to think it was seriously possible we had something to do with this business!”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Chlo, he practically accused you of having an affair with the guy.”
Chloe looked at her husband, her face wrung tight. For a terrible instant Matthew thought she was going to crack; spill it all. But she said quietly:
“You’re getting carried away, Charlie.”
Charlie glanced at her, holding her gaze for a moment before turning aside with a subdued, sheepish look.
“Sorry.”
“Why don’t you take Fu for a walk? He needs exercise.”
“Good idea,” Charlie muttered. “I could use some air myself.”
Fu came padding in at the sound of his own name, and Charlie clipped on his leash. He’d put on his Burberry rain jacket and was just leading Fu out through the sliding door when he turned back to Matthew.
“By the way, Matt. I thought you were leaving us for good tomorrow. I didn’t realize you were coming back.”
“Oh!” Matthew said. “Well, if you’d rather I didn’t . . .”
“No. I’d just forgotten.”
“Of course we want you to come back,” Chloe said, looking sharply at Charlie.
“Of course,” Charlie echoed. “I’m just saying, I’d forgotten. I’ll see you later.”
He went out with the dog.
He’s upset about me contradicting him in front of Fernandez, Matthew thought, watching Charlie through the glass doors. Well, he’d certainly made Charlie look like a liar. Had he intended to? He hoped not. It was a matter of principle with him not to indulge any feelings of ill will toward Charlie. Not for Charlie’s sake, but his own. His sense of personal dignity was tightly bound up in the disavowal of anything that might have been termed resentment. The position he had taken, from the start, was that he was above such pettiness. He preferred to be thought pragmatic, even coldly detached, than vindictive.
He stared out at his cousin: the tall, straight figure walking away from him, as it always was in Matthew’s imagination; the slight stiffness of his bearing conveying, as it always had, Charlie’s obstinate sense of the world’s being forever in his debt. For a brief moment Matthew allowed himself to recall how he had acquiesced in that sense; unprotestingly handing over his own existence when Charlie had required it of him. After all, Matt, things are already screwed for you, so you might as well . . . It was the first time since coming to America, he realized, that he’d permitted himself a direct glance at this incident through the intervening years, but the words came back as clearly as if Charlie had just spoken them.
Lily was still upstairs. Alone with Chloe, Matthew felt an unaccustomed awkwardness. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something about the interview, but it was hard to think of anything that wouldn’t sound either too knowing or too bland. He wondered if he should make some comment on her lie about not seeing Grollier’s movies. It occurred to him that if he didn’t, she might think he was deliberately making things easier for her—effectively colluding in the deception—which in turn might make her wonder why. Maybe that was what she was waiting for: some harmless explanation. He plunged in:
“I thought that was extremely cool of you, telling the detective you hadn’t seen Grollier’s movies.”
She looked away, but he had a feeling he’d been right.
“Oh . . . I just didn’t feel like going into it.”
“That’s what I assumed,” Matthew said quickly. “I’d have felt the same. The guy was obviously just stirring things up for the sake of it. Making insinuations, like Charlie said. Why should you play along with it? I was impressed. It showed real sangfroid, as my father would have said.”
She opened her mouth, closed it again, and then said:
“What if I had been having an affair with Grollier?”
“Ha!” Matthew exclaimed, trying to sound lightheartedly amused.
“Seriously . . .”
“Well . . .”
“I’d be in trouble right now for not having told them, wouldn’t I?”
“I guess so. If they found out.”
“They’d find out, don’t you think?”
“Why?”
“Like Charlie said, if he was having an affair up here, there’d be traces of it all over the house, wouldn’t there? Hair, body fluids . . .”
“I suppose. But they’d have to have some reason to try to match them to any particular individual, wouldn’t they? I mean, they couldn’t just demand DNA samples from every beautiful woman in Aurelia . . .”
“I imagine they’d figure it out, sooner or later,” Chloe said, ignoring the compliment. “They aren’t actually idiots, whatever Charlie thinks.”
“Well, even if they did, so what? It’s not as
if it would help solve the murder. Unless you did it yourself!” Matthew laughed.
“All the same, I should probably tell them, shouldn’t I? I mean, if I had been having an affair?”
She was practically confessing. In fact he wondered if at this point it would even be plausible for him to go on pretending she wasn’t. But if he let her talk, he knew he’d have to tell her to go to the cops, or else risk looking shifty himself. It struck him that she probably wanted him to tell her to go to the cops; that she was looking to him precisely for reassurance that it was the right thing, and that she shouldn’t be afraid. Well, he was damned if he was going to do that.
“Depends if you wanted to get dragged into a murder investigation,” he said. “Have the affair splashed all over the papers . . . I don’t imagine the police would keep it secret for long.”
“I thought they sometimes made deals about that kind of thing . . .”
“That seems highly unlikely. Anyway, since you presumably weren’t having an affair with the guy and didn’t kill him, there’s no need to torment yourself, is there?”
Matthew smiled at her as encouragingly as he could, wishing he could just tell her she’d handled the detective impeccably, and that she had nothing to worry about.
She nodded vaguely.
“I should go and shop for dinner,” he said, eager to change the subject. “Anything you need?”
“No, thanks.
“I’ll make something nice.”
She managed a frail smile.
“You always make something nice, Matt.”
He drove off. At a deer farm by the Thruway that advertised all-season meat, he bought a short loin of venison. She’d told him once that venison was her favorite meat, and he wanted to cook something special for her. He’d begun to think he might not be coming back after all. Not that he felt in any immediate danger, but it seemed tempting fate to come back to Aurelia while the police were—effectively, though they didn’t know it—looking for him. Also, Charlie obviously didn’t want him around.
• • •
Both cars were gone from the driveway when he got back. He was putting his purchases in the fridge when he saw what had been somehow invisible to him earlier: the little dish of kumquats and chocolates that Chloe had brought out during the game of Scrabble. They’d been on the coffee table, staring him in the face all the time he’d been trying to figure out what the detective had seen. She’d left the same snack in the A-frame. He could see it in his mind’s eye, down on the glass table beside the love seat. He’d even been dimly aware of it in the darkness and tumult of his departure, but far from thinking he should get rid of it, he’d thought it added a natural touch to the scenario he’d tried to create, of a random burglary gone wrong. Quinotos, he thought, remembering the detective’s word . . . Had the guy been deliberately signaling to Chloe that he was on to her? Giving her a chance to tell him about her affair in private? Was that where she’d picked up the idea of some kind of confidentiality deal? In which case, he wondered uneasily, what was she doing right now?
He was still unpacking the food when he heard a car pull up outside. Chloe came into the house. She was wearing a white blouse, gray skirt and blue Mary Janes.
She regarded him a moment, the bones of her face outlined by a shaft of sunlight piercing the trees along the driveway. He smiled at her.
“You look like you’ve been to a job interview!”
“I went to church. I haven’t been for a while.”
“They have services in the afternoon?”
“Yes.”
He turned away, not wanting to look too interested.
“Did you go to confession?” he asked, putting the meat in the fridge.
“Of course.”
“I can’t imagine,” he said, “what someone as saintly as you could possibly find to say inside a confessional.”
“Oh, there’s always something.”
He turned back to her.
“Charlie took Lily tubing,” she said. “They’ll be home by six-thirty. We should eat early if that’s okay.”
She went out of the kitchen. He heard her open the bar fridge by the drinks cabinet in the living room, before climbing the stairs up to her bedroom.
He wasn’t sure what to think. It made a certain amount of sense, he supposed, that she’d go to church. She’d certainly have been in need of relief from the unremitting tension of the last few days, and maybe she’d decided this was a safer bet than going to the police. Priests were sworn to secrecy, as far as he knew. Anyway she’d have been careful about that, knowing her; kept anything identifiable with Grollier out of whatever story she’d told. No doubt there were established formulas she could use without going into details. Father, I’ve strayed from my vows, or something. The priest would have given her some Hail Marys, and told her to end the affair. And, of course, she’d be able to assure him that she already had.
But he had a feeling that she’d been lying to him: that she had in fact just been confessing her affair to Detective Fernandez.
Well, suppose she had? That didn’t automatically spell catastrophe. It was even possible, he thought, peering into the murky entanglements of the situation, that it might actually do some good. It would clarify Grollier’s connection to the household, which in turn might put an end to further investigation. Even if it didn’t, suspicion would naturally fall first on Charlie, as the deceived husband, especially after Charlie’s lie about what time he got home the night of the murder, which at the very least would buy Matthew some time, for whatever that was worth. All the same, he realized, he’d feel better if he could convince himself that Chloe really had just gone to church.
He poured himself a stiff gin and tonic. Aside from everything else, he didn’t think he could face Charlie, after that little clash earlier, without some alcohol inside him.
• • •
There was a Sous Vide machine in the pantry, which Charlie had given Chloe a couple of years ago, after she’d raved about the food at some French place out in Sag Harbor. Neither of them had learned how to use it, so it had stood on the shelf in its manufacturer’s box ever since Chloe had unwrapped it. Matthew, who found the whole Sous Vide system with its high-tech pretensions and nasty little cooking bags thoroughly unappealing, had avoided it all summer despite some strong hints from Charlie. But he’d decided to inaugurate it tonight. Along with the venison itself, it would make a nice parting gesture for Chloe. She’d have no idea that that was what it was until much later, of course, but that was fine. She would look back and remember he’d cooked venison for her, using a troublesome method that he’d never shown any personal interest in mastering, and it would cast him, retroactively, in just the right light of sentimental self-abnegation.
Topping up his drink, he salted the lean crimson meat, vacuum-sealed it in one of the plastic pouches, and set it to cook. He’d picked up boysenberries for a compote, a red cabbage to braise with a slab of pig cheek, and potatoes for a herbed spaetzle.
At six-thirty the convertible drew up outside, disgorging Charlie and Lily.
Charlie barely greeted him. He glanced at the Sous Vide machine as he walked past it, but didn’t comment.
“I thought I’d set up the Sous Vide,” Matthew said.
Charlie turned back briefly.
“Oh, that’s what that is.”
“I bought some venison.”
“Uh-huh? Chlo likes venison. I’m not crazy about it myself. When are we eating?”
“Shouldn’t be long.”
Charlie moved on out through the kitchen and disappeared upstairs, Lily following briskly behind. Matthew didn’t know whether to be amused or offended by Charlie’s rudeness. It was weirdly crass, but then Charlie had never been one to disguise his feelings, and he was obviously still angry about being contradicted in front of the detective.
Chloe made a little more effort to seem interested in the Sous Vide, when she came down.
“That’s exciting,” she said,
filling her wine glass.
“Well . . . I hope it lives up to expectations . . .”
She gave a distracted smile. She seemed to have retreated somewhere even deeper inside herself during the last hour. She’d clearly drunk quite a bit too. Not that Matthew was exactly sober himself.
The meat came out of its pouch the same raw burgundy color it had been when it went in. He’d forgotten that peculiarity of the Sous Vide. Along with the boysenberries and red cabbage, there was something unnervingly purplish about the whole dish.
“You don’t have a blowtorch, do you?” he asked, catching a flicker of dismay on Chloe’s face. “I could sear it . . .”
“I’m sure it’ll taste fine.”
“You know what?” Charlie said, looking at it. “I’m just going to grab some cheese and eat up in my office. I have a ton of work to do before these people come tomorrow. You don’t mind, do you, Chlo?”
Chloe looked blankly at her husband, and then shrugged. Under normal circumstances, Matthew felt, she wouldn’t have let him get away with that. But she clearly wasn’t in a state to confront anyone just now.
She barely said a word throughout the meal, and barely touched her food. Lily gazed at her anxiously.
“Are you okay, Mommy?”
Chloe gave her daughter a helpless look, her eyes wide and searching, as if trying to locate her through some thick mist.
“I’m fine, sweetheart.”
The girl drifted off upstairs.
Alone with Chloe, Matthew said, before he could stop himself:
“Charlie’s angry with me, isn’t he?”
He could tell at once that Charlie had already talked to her. They must have spoken before Charlie took Lily tubing.
“Is he?” she said. “About what?”
“I don’t know. I should ask him, I suppose.”
She looked away uncomfortably.
“Well, actually, I think I do know,” he said.
“Why?”
“He thinks I was trying to make him look like a liar in front of that detective. Chipping in about his nap on the Thruway.”
“Well . . .” She looked up at him, her eyes settling candidly on his. “Were you?”