The Pact

by Jennifer Sturman

  Sean considered this for a moment and then gave a decisive shake of his head. “Well, he seemed to have had a good bit to drink, but we all had. And he’s always been able to drink even the most serious drinkers under the table. I think the rest of us were far worse for wear than he was. I was practically ready to pass out by the time I went in to bed.” He flashed me a self-deprecating smile. “Quiet married life hasn’t done much for my level of alcohol tolerance. I only have a hazy memory of Jane coming in, although, according to her, I really distinguished myself on the snoring front last night.”

  I had to laugh. Sean’s snoring was legendary, capable of raising roofs and setting windowpanes to shaking in their frames. Then I thought about what he’d said. If Sean had gone to bed before Jane, he must have come in before 2:00 a.m., which was when I’d arrived in the bedroom I was sharing with Emma, also a little worse for wear from several hours of steady drinking, after my friends and I had decided to call it a night. Almost unconsciously, I started putting together a mental chronology of the early morning’s events.

  “Did the other guys go to bed when you did?” I asked.

  “No,” Sean said with another shake of his head. “I was the first to go. Jane and I were going to take advantage of being up in the country to take a long run before all of the wedding action began.” Some people, myself included, exercised for normal reasons like wanting to look cute in one’s clothes. Jane and Sean, however, actually thought exercise was fun. I’d always prided myself on being able to stay friends with people who enjoyed marathons but didn’t find them sufficiently challenging.

  “Still,” Sean went on, “everybody was getting tired. I don’t think they lasted that much longer.” Especially not Richard, I couldn’t help but think with morbid humor.

  “So, let me get this straight,” I summarized, “you all were drinking by the pool while we were out on the dock, you then came in before two, we all came in around two, and you’re not quite sure when the rest of the guys went to bed but you think it was pretty soon after that.” That meant that whatever happened took place sometime between two and six, which was a big window for foul play.

  He gave me a quizzical look and then grinned again, more fully this time. “What’s going on, here, Rach? You thinking of tossing in your banking gig to become a private investigator?”

  I gave him a sheepish smile. “I don’t know. Do you think I’d be any good?”

  “Good or not, I don’t think it pays enough to keep you in the style you’d like. You might want to stick with Wall Street.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said.

  “Any time. Now, assuming you have no more questions, Madame Detective, I’m going to go make myself useful.”

  “That’s Mademoiselle, to you. And you’re dismissed.” He gave me a mock salute and I waved him out the door.

  CHAPTER 8

  I found my friends upstairs in Mrs. Furlong’s sitting room, where the air seemed infused with palpable relief. Or perhaps I was just projecting my own emotions. Mrs. Furlong was bent over her desk, sorting though piles of papers, while everyone else looked on expectantly, still dressed as they’d been when we’d discovered Richard’s body.

  “Hi,” I said to announce my presence.

  Mrs. Furlong looked up at me, a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses perched on her nose. Her usual air of gracious composure appeared to be firmly back in place, as if the woman who’d emitted the bloodcurdling shriek at the pool had been someone entirely different. I wondered if she’d learned how to deal with situations like this one in finishing school along with French and needlepoint.

  “Hello, Rachel, dear,” she said. “The girls and I realized that it’s going to be a scramble to cancel all of the arrangements for this afternoon. I’m trying to get everything together so that we can get on the phone and start calling the various tradespeople and the guests. It’s nearly eight, and I think it would be all right to start making calls around eight-thirty or so.”

  “Where’s Emma?” I asked. “How is she doing?”

  “This is such a shock for her, poor thing,” said Mrs. Furlong. “We gave her a sedative and put her to bed in my room. It seemed like the best thing to do.”

  “I just checked on her again and she’s asleep,” added Jane. “It’s probably better this way than making her deal with everything right away.”

  “Wow,” I said, at a loss for any but the most banal words. “I can’t imagine what she must be feeling right now.”

  Hilary rolled her eyes. She was standing behind Mrs. Furlong and safely out of her line of sight. Fortunately, she omitted the snort that usually accompanied this familiar expression of impatient disgust.

  “What did the police say?” asked Luisa, flashing Hilary a warning glance.

  “Nothing much. They’re still looking around by the pool. But they’re going to want to talk to everyone. Matthew’s helping to arrange everything.”

  “Where’s Jacob?” Mrs. Furlong’s voice took on a sharp edge, and behind her glasses her eyes seemed unusually bright.

  “Um, I think he went back to his studio.”

  “You’re kidding.” Her tone was flat, but her expression had hardened.

  “Uh, no,” I answered.

  She swore under her breath and her hands gripped the edge of her desk, their knuckles white. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. That bastard. We have a body in the backyard and all he can do is…” She didn’t finish her sentence, and her words met our embarrassed silence. I had the slightly guilty sense of seeing something I shouldn’t have seen. Never before had Mrs. Furlong deviated in any way from her usual flawless decorum in my presence, but this morning, in the space of a few short hours, I’d seen more emotions, including shock and fury, than I’d seen in all of the years I’d known her.

  She recovered herself after a moment, embarrassed as well. She slowly straightened up, removed her glasses, and carefully put them back in a leather case.

  She handed a neat pile of folders to Jane. “All of the information is here, Jane,” she said, her voice back to normal. “The caterers, the florists, the band, the minister, the guests—all of the details and contact information should be in these files. You all should just try to reach whomever you can. You can use the phone in Jacob’s study down the hall and the one in the third-floor den. You know where it is, don’t you? Perhaps you could all split up and—what is it that you business people say, Rachel? Parallel process, right? We had a new phone system put in a few months ago—it’s all very high tech. There are three lines, but we should probably keep one free for the police. So two of you can use the land lines. And if any of you have your cell phones, sometimes you can get them to work up here. The reception’s not great, but it will do in a pinch.”

  We promised her we’d take care of everything and she thanked us politely for our help. Then she smoothed a hand over her hair and pulled her white terry robe around her a bit more tightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should check on Emma and get dressed.”

  “Of course,” said Jane. We all moved toward the door.

  In the hallway we agreed to go back to our rooms to change clothes and then to meet in Mr. Furlong’s study to divvy up the call lists. I hurried to Emma’s room and took a quick shower. Between my hangover, the smell of Luisa’s cigarette smoke in my hair and the scene this morning, I felt more than a little grimy. I lingered a few extra minutes under the stream of water, lathering my hair with a liberal dose of Emma’s favorite shampoo and rinsing with her favorite conditioner. I reluctantly shut off the water and wrapped myself in a towel, then searched my suitcase for something appropriate to wear.

  I had packed for a wedding weekend, not for finding a groom’s body, undoing the logistics for a wedding and being questioned by the police. Somehow, the strappy sundress I’d intended for the bridesmaids’ lunch seemed a little inappropriate given the change of events, but I put it on since my only other alternatives were the shorts I’d been wearing, an ancient
pair of Levi’s 501s, or a seafoam-green bridesmaid’s dress. I ran a comb through my wet hair and pulled it into a hasty knot. Then I slipped on some sandals and was almost out the door before I remembered the rumpled beds—if we were quarantined, it was unlikely that any of the household help would be allowed in to make beds or care for any other domestic details, and I knew enough about being a houseguest to realize that leaving the beds unmade would be a faux pas. I did a haphazard job of smoothing the duvets and plumping the pillows before heading toward Mr. Furlong’s study, clean if not fortified.

  I thought for sure that I’d be the last person to get there, but I beat Jane and Luisa. Only Hilary was in the room, her nose pressed against the glass of the bay window that overlooked the pool. Where Mrs. Furlong’s sitting room was a perfect example of delicate femininity translated into décor—all light colors and smooth surfaces, serene watercolors and cozy sofas—Mr. Furlong’s study was, in contrast, archetypically masculine, from the wood-paneled walls to the worn leather furniture. It even smelled of pipe smoke. An original Furlong dominated one wall, its bold sweeping strokes and use of color marking the painting as unquestionably his. It could easily have fetched a price in the high six figures if Mr. Furlong was willing to part with it. A much earlier work hung on an adjacent wall, an abstract so different in style that it could have been painted by a different hand. I wondered if Mr. Furlong hung them together to remind himself of the dramatic evolution of his work over the path of his career.

  “What’s going on, Hil?” I asked.

  “You smell like Emma,” she said absently.

  “Her shampoo.”

  “Makes sense,” she answered, distracted by the scene below. “Come here and check this out. It’s just like the movies down there.” From her tone, you would have guessed that Richard’s death had been orchestrated purely for her viewing pleasure.

  I crossed the room to join her by the window. The technicians were still at work, and Matthew and Sean stood near the pool house talking to the detectives. “Who’s that guy?” Hilary asked.

  “Which one?”

  “The hot one, obviously. With the dark hair. Standing next to Matthew.” I followed her finger with my gaze. The man she pointed out was the detective who seemed to be in charge. He wore a gray suit that looked like it had seen better days, and the way he wore it suggested that he didn’t usually wear suits. He must have been well over six feet since he had a few inches on Matthew. He had close-cropped curly black hair and blue eyes that pierced even from this distance.

  “I don’t know, Hil. He’s one of the detectives, but I don’t know his name. You’ll get to meet him—they want to interview all of us.”

  “Goody,” she said, making no effort to hide how much she was looking forward to being interrogated by the police. Part of me was relieved.

  “Goody what?” asked Luisa, who’d materialized at my side.

  “Hilary’s just figuring out which cop she wants to hit on,” I explained.

  “Charming,” said Luisa dryly.

  “Isn’t it?” I responded.

  “Shut up. You’re both just jealous’ cause I’ve staked first dibs.” I didn’t point out that given Luisa’s sexual orientation, she was unlikely to be jealous. “Where’s Jane already?”

  “Right here,” said Jane, as she entered the room. She carried a tray with mugs and a carafe.

  “Is that what I’m hoping it is?” asked Hilary.

  “If you’re hoping for coffee then it is indeed what you’re hoping for.”

  “Caffeine,” cried Hilary, and swooped down on the tray.

  “You’re a mind reader. Bless you, Jane,” said Luisa, gratefully accepting a mug.

  “Don’t worry, Rach—I didn’t forget about you.” Jane handed me a can of Diet Coke.

  “You’re a goddess. Thank you.” I preferred my caffeine cold and carbonated, particularly in the morning. I popped the can open and took a satisfying swig. “Breakfast of champions.”

  “That’s disgusting,” said Hilary. “How can you drink that stuff so early in the day?” I shrugged and took another gulp.

  “What’s going on down there?” asked Jane. She peered out the window.

  “Standard crime scene stuff,” I answered. “Matthew’s the designated liaison.”

  “He must be psyched,” said Hilary. She had a unique gift for happily blurting out things that were both obvious and unspeakable.

  “Behave yourself,” admonished Luisa.

  I giggled. I couldn’t help myself. Even in these circumstances, it was nice to have all of my closest friends in one place instead of spread across the globe, and I basked in the easy familiarity of the usual joking banter, however black the current comedy might be. None of us was having an easy time mustering up much remorse at having seen the last of Richard Mallory.

  “Okay. We should get to work.” Jane seated herself behind the desk and began sorting through the files Mrs. Furlong had given her. She held one out to Hilary. “These are the local inns and hotels where people are staying. Why don’t you take care of calling them? They can alert the guests that the wedding’s off. Do you have a cell phone in your room?”

  Hilary nodded. “Of course I do. I’m a journalist for chrissakes,” she answered impatiently. “We practically had to take an oath in journalism school not to go anywhere without a cell phone, tape recorder and notebook.”

  “Good. Why don’t you use your phone to make these calls. I have all of the tradespeople in this folder, and I’ll go call them from my cell phone.” From her quiet smile, I knew that Jane was amused by the term Mrs. Furlong had used. As Emma had once put it, “My mother is such a snob she doesn’t even realize she is one.” Her view of the world did seem to have been frozen in place at some genteel point in time during the late 1950s.

  “What about us?” I asked. “What should Luisa and I do?”

  “There’s a list of people who didn’t come to the rehearsal dinner but are supposed to come to the wedding. Most of them probably are driving up today. I thought you could try to reach them all before they leave to get here. If you split up the list, you can use two lines and still leave one free for the police.”

  “What should we say?” I asked. “I can’t imagine that the Furlongs want us to tell everyone that Richard turned up dead in their pool this morning.”

  “Why don’t you just say there was an accident, and that everyone’s fine but the wedding has been called off?”

  “It seems a little disingenuous, but I guess that will work for now.” It was a lot better than having to tell people that the bridegroom was dead.

  “Consider it done,” said Luisa.

  “Good luck. Let’s meet back here when we’re finished.” Jane handed Luisa a folder and picked up her own, balancing her coffee mug in her spare hand as she followed Hilary out the door.

  Luisa turned to me. “Which part of the alphabet do you want?”

  “Ugh,” I said. “Neither, really.” She shrugged and handed me the list of names beginning with M though Z. I leafed through it quickly. Somebody, probably Mrs. Furlong’s personal assistant, had kept thorough records of the guests, noting who would only be attending the wedding and not the rehearsal dinner and thus not scheduled to arrive until the afternoon. “There’s an extension up on the third floor. I’ll head up there and you can use the phone in here.”

  “Okay.” Luisa had already seated herself behind the desk in the big leather chair Jane had vacated and was lighting a cigarette as she studied her half of the list.

  I left her to her calls and headed up to the den on the third floor, which could more appropriately be called the attic.

  This was the only room in the house with a television, a medium that Emma’s parents scorned. The TV itself looked like something from the midseventies, and the VCR that sat under it dated from shortly thereafter. The furnishings were comfortable and old, clearly discards from one of Mrs. Furlong’s renovations of their New York apartment, and bookshelves filled wit
h well-thumbed paperbacks and videotapes lined the walls.

  I sank into a chair by the phone, which was indeed high tech. It looked anachronistic in this setting. There was a button for each line, as well as an intercom system that allowed the user to call any other extension in the house. I picked up the receiver and pressed the one unlit button on the panel to get an outside line.

  It was only a quarter past eight, so out of habit and guilt, the first call I placed was to check my voice mail at work. It was rare for me to go more than a couple of waking hours without checking messages; Winslow, Brown employees had elevated voice mail to an art form, and I frequently sent and received more than a hundred messages in any twenty-four-hour period. It was well understood that we were expected to check voice mail several times a day, even on weekends or when on vacation. The size of a banker’s voice mailbox was directly correlated with his or her status in the Winslow, Brown hierarchy. Of course, judging by their behavior, most of the men in my department seemed to feel that it was more directly correlated to a certain part of the male anatomy. When I’d been promoted to vice president, the capacity of my box had been doubled, from forty-five minutes to ninety minutes, but I still needed more than all of my hands and feet to count the number of times it had been entirely filled with messages.

  I punched in my extension number and password and awaited with mild dread the friendly automated voice that would tell me how many new messages I had. It had been at least twelve hours since the last time I’d checked in, which was more than enough time for all hell to break loose on any of the deals I had underway.

  “You have sixteen new messages,” the voice announced with jubilation. I winced and steeled myself to start going through them. Most were unimportant—department-wide announcements, the daily capital markets wrap-up and messages from my assistant about meetings that had to be rearranged the following week. Only one really concerned me, a message from Stan Winslow marked Urgent.