Who Killed Mona Lisa?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  Meredith scooped the dog up in her arms and followed them as they trudged through the snow back to the inn. The lights in the windows were beckoning, inviting them back into the land of warmth, but still Claire felt a creeping chill in her heart as they made their way across the frozen landscape.

  It was difficult for Wally and Claire to know what was the right thing to do, under the circumstances. Henry Wilson was clearly a deeply disturbed child, but given the recent events at the Wayside Inn, they could hardly blame him. They were worried about the dog, however, and were determined to protect Shatzy from any further harm. In the end they decided that they would keep the dog in their room until Wally had a chance to speak with Frank Wilson. Claire wasn’t sure, but she thought Wally was as afraid of Paula Wilson as everyone else—including herself—seemed to be.

  Wally attempted to talk gently to Henry about the incident, but the boy appeared to be traumatized, and just kept repeating, “Don’t tell my mother—please!” over and over. Finally Wally gave up and sent him back home until they could speak with his father, who was in town running errands.

  “That kid is in bad shape,” Meredith remarked as they closed the bedroom door.

  “What a strange family,” Claire said as she stroked Shatzy’s ears. Fortunately, the dog had no visible marks, but looked traumatized after his ordeal. He trembled from time to time, and when anyone petted him he licked their hand obsessively, as if doing so would prevent them from hurting him. “Poor Shatzy,” she said. “Don’t worry; we’ll protect you.”

  Meredith lay down on the rug next to the dog. “Maybe we could keep him. He needs a new home.”

  “We?” said Claire. “What is this ‘we’?”

  “Well, I mean, you could keep him in New York, and I could come visit him.”

  “Right. Ralph would really go for that!” Claire couldn’t imagine her fat white cat sharing the apartment with any other animal, let alone a scraggly mixed-breed terrier.

  Just then there was a commotion downstairs; Claire heard the sound of loud voices and the slamming of several doors.

  “Hey, something’s going on down there!” Meredith cried, and was out the door before Claire could stop her. Claire and Wally followed, and when they arrived downstairs, they saw Detective Hornblower in the front hall. With him was Philippe. The door to the bar was open, and it looked to Claire as if both of them had just emerged from the room.

  “There is no mistake in the DNA, Mr. Houis,” Hornblower was saying. “The match is precise. Now, if you’ll just step back inside with me—that is, unless you’d rather come down to the station to answer questions.”

  As he spoke, Otis Knox emerged from the main dining room, followed by Frank Wilson.

  “Okay,” said Philippe, “I had sex with her that night, but I didn’t kill her. I swear it!” He looked around at the others as though trying to find someone who would believe him. Claire looked at the faces of the others: Otis Knox stood staring at the floor, biting his lower lip, as though he didn’t trust himself to look at Philippe. Detective Hornblower looked at Philippe calmly, with his usual impassive stare, and Max averted his gaze—out of a sense of modesty and decorum, Claire felt. What surprised her was the look on Frank Wilson’s face. The innkeeper stared at the waiter with an expression of raw fury; he didn’t just stare, he glowered, as if Philippe had just confessed to the murder. Claire glanced at Detective Hornblower to see if he noticed how upset Wilson was, but the detective was hard to read; his face did not betray what he was thinking or feeling.

  “No one’s saying you did, Mr. Houis,” he said evenly. “But if you were with her that night, there’s a chance you may have seen or heard something.”

  “She was seeing someone else, you know,” Philippe blurted out. “And I can tell you one thing: it wasn’t Jim Pewter!”

  “Don’t look at me!” Otis said as eyes turned upon him. “Why don’t you talk to her brother? She told me she was thinking of suing him over the power of attorney for their father.”

  Hornblower sighed. “Mr. Callahan has already told us that.” He turned back to Philippe. “So the last time you saw her was when she was in your room?”

  “Yeah. We made love on the spur of the moment, and then I fell asleep. When I woke up she was gone. I just assumed she’d gone back to her room, and I didn’t think anything of it until . . .” He stopped and lowered his head. Everyone knew the words he had left unsaid: until she was found dead.

  Detective Hornblower picked up his battered fedora. “If any of you would like to amend your statements, please feel free to do so. Whatever you say will be held in confidence.” He rose in one smooth motion and, replacing his hat on his head, stretched himself. “Well, thank you for your time.”

  Before he left, Wally inquired about the DNA testing on the fetus Mona had carried in her womb, but the big detective shook his head. “Not finished yet. We had to put in a rush order just to get what we got. Usually this kind of thing takes weeks, if not months. A complete DNA profile is complicated and time-consuming. I’ll tell you something in confidence, though,” he said, leaning closer. “The DNA sketch of the fetus so far is real different than the sperm in her body—so it looks as though she was buttering both sides of her bread.”

  “Wow,” Meredith said later over tea and dessert. “Someone knows something they ain’t telling.” She reached across the table for the plate of orange scones.

  “Meredith,” Claire cautioned, “watch your boarding-house reach.”

  “Sorry,” said Meredith. “Please pass the scones.”

  “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, who told the detective that James Pewter was the ‘other man’?” Wally mused as he spread blackberry jam on a scone.

  “Yes, it does,” Claire agreed. “And that is probably the key to the whole thing.”

  Meredith and Wally decided to take Shatzy for a walk after dinner, and Claire went upstairs to lie down. Alone up in their room, Claire saw Meredith’s book on Zen training lying on the bedside table. Curious, she opened it to the chapter on koans.

  The Sound of Firewood Tumbling Down. A certain monk suddenly realized his Original Self when he heard the sound of a heap of firewood tumbling down. In that sound he heard all things collapse—delusive thoughts, the habitual way of consciousness—leaving pure existence exposed.

  Claire put the book down and looked at the maple tree outside the window; its bare branches seemed to reach toward her. Pure existence . . . it sounded so inviting, a life of contemplation and peace, the serenity of Zen enlightenment. She sighed. How different that was from this jumbled, messy existence she knew, full of ungoverned passions and human frailty. The sound of firewood tumbling down . . . she thought of young Henry Wilson, of his beating of poor Shatzy with a stick, and his obsession with fire.

  Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

  In the forests of the night.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered to herself. “Oh my God.” A thought formed in her mind, a tiny seed of suspicion, but once it began to take root she could feel it growing rapidly. Without bothering to put her shoes on, she left the room abruptly and went downstairs.

  Detective Hornblower seemed surprised to hear her voice when she reached him at the police station. He seemed even more surprised when she told him that Henry Wilson held the key to the murders.

  “Are you accusing him of murder, Ms. Rawlings?” he said, his voice wary.

  “No, of course not!” Claire answered impatiently. “But you need to talk to him!”

  “Would you like to explain your reasoning?”

  “Believe me, it would take longer to hear than you would want. It all involves Zen koans and firewood.”

  “Firewood?”

  “Just talk to him!”

  She waited impatiently for Hornblower to arrive, and finally saw his car pull up in front of the Wilsons’ house. Before long he appeared at the front door of the inn to tell Claire that Paula Wilson had said she wasn’t feeling well and Henry was in bed with a f
ever.

  “And she is dressed in her nightgown, but she doesn’t look all that sick,” he added, stomping the snow from his boots.

  “All right,” said Claire. “Then you should arrest Paula Wilson.”

  Detective Hornblower frowned. “Are you going to explain to me what this is all about?”

  “It’s very difficult, I’m afraid,” she replied, “because it involves more intuition than logic. But I’ll try.”

  They went into the bar to talk, but within minutes their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Meredith, who burst breathlessly into the room.

  “There’s a fire over at the Wilsons’!”

  After grabbing a coat from the front-hall rack, Claire and Detective Hornblower followed her outside. Sure enough, a blaze had blossomed in the Wilsons’ attic, and the flames were shooting up into the night sky. As Hornblower pulled out his cell phone to call the fire department, Claire noticed someone in white running away from the Wilsons’ across the snow in the direction of the mill house.

  “Look!” she said to Wally, who was already on his way to the Wilsons’ house. “Who’s that?”

  “Looks like Paula Wilson,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m going over to see if everyone’s okay.” Released from his leash, Shatzy followed after him, barking.

  Just then the front door to the Wilsons’ house opened and Henry Wilson came running out. “Where did my mom go?” he wailed, loud enough for Claire to hear him across the road.

  She followed Wally across the street to where Henry stood, looking around.

  “Is anyone else in there?” Wally pointed to the house.

  Henry shook his head. “No. Where did my mom go?”

  “The mill house,” said Wally. “I think I saw her running toward the mill house.”

  Within minutes Claire heard the sound of fire-engine sirens, and shortly thereafter two bright red trucks came careening around the corner. By this time people were coming out of the Wayside Inn, and they stood, arms folded, watching the firemen pour out of the trucks; with their black rubber coats and bright yellow stripes, they reminded Claire of large honeybees, swarming around the coils of hose wrapped around the fire trucks. Standing in the driveway, Claire could make out Richard and Jeffrey, as well as Chris Callahan and his father. There was no sign of Lyle. Frank Wilson and Max were still in town, she supposed.

  But Henry Wilson wasn’t interested in the fire; he sprinted off toward the mill house, and Claire and Wally followed him. Indeed, the fire did not look very big, and the firemen appeared confident that they would soon have it under control. Meredith managed to grab Shatzy’s leash and loped along after Claire. He ran beside her, barking, looking rather pleased by all the excitement. It was about the length of two football fields to the mill house, and they covered the distance quickly in spite of the snow.

  When they arrived, they stopped abruptly. There, in the moonlight, perched precariously on a narrow ledge directly over the churning wheel, dressed only in a white nightgown and slippers, was Paula Wilson. She stared at the rushing water below her, but when she saw Claire and Wally she called out.

  “Don’t come a step nearer or I’ll jump!”

  Claire turned to Meredith. “Go get Detective Hornblower—quickly!”

  Chapter 22

  Paula Wilson stood, poised above the mill wheel, her hands outstretched as if in surrender, spread out from her body in the attitude of a crucified Christ. Her long white nightdress billowed out behind her like a sail and Claire was struck by how much she resembled the Woman in White from her dream. Her usually tightly coiffed hair flew loose in the wind, her long white gown flapping behind her like wings, and she looked as if she might indeed take off into the sky at any minute.

  Detective Hornblower came rushing up to where Claire and Wally stood at the same moment as Frank Wilson drove up in his car. He climbed out of the driver’s side as Max emerged from the passenger seat. They both hurried over to Hornblower.

  “What’s going on?” Wilson demanded.

  Paula Wilson looked down at her husband. “Why couldn’t you love me?” she wailed, decades of bitterness welling up in her voice. “Why was that so hard?”

  Frank Wilson stood, hands at his sides, a tortured expression on his face. He shouted into the wind but the sound flew back into his face and Claire couldn’t make out the words. The gale was gathering in force, and it took Claire’s breath away. Some of the other hotel residents had come across the road and now stood close by, arms wrapped around their bodies, a small band of people standing on the hard, windswept plain of frozen snow.

  Frank Wilson yelled again, and this time Claire heard clearly what he said.

  “Paula—no!”

  Wally stepped forward. “Mrs. Wilson, come down! Please let us help you!”

  She shook her head. “The time for help is past! No one can help me now.”

  “Paula, please come down!” her husband shouted.

  She stared at him as if he were the one who had lost his mind.

  “Why? Why does it matter to you?” Her thin face hardened, her eyes cold as flint, deep dark pieces of black coal. “Why was it so hard to love me?” she repeated.

  Claire looked at Paula’s son, who stood next to Max, his thin little body pressed against the comforting bulk of the big chef. Max had his hands on the boy’s shoulders, and Claire couldn’t tell whether or not he was holding him where he was, keeping him from running to his mother.

  Max stepped forward. “Please, Mrs. Wilson, come down! This isn’t going to solve anything. Think of your son!”

  Her face softened as she looked at Henry, pressed up against Max. “Oh, Henry, forgive me,” she said. A gust of wind caught at her and she wavered and almost tumbled from her perch.

  Suddenly the boy broke free of Max and rushed toward her. “Mother! Don’t jump—please!” he wailed. After a few steps, however, his legs failed him and he stumbled and fell to his knees in the snow. He struggled to rise but then collapsed weeping in a heap.

  Frank Wilson stepped forward and lifted his son from the ground. “Paula, we need you!” he called. “Please come down!”

  His wife’s face regained its hardened look. “You don’t need me!” she said bitterly. “You’ve never needed me!”

  “Mrs. Wilson, come down and we’ll talk,” said Detective Hornblower, stepping in front of the innkeeper.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she called back.

  Meredith, who had been standing quietly next to Claire all this time, stepped forward. Her usually pale face was red, either from the cold and wind or from emotion.

  “Look at him!” she shouted, pointing to Henry, who stood staring at his mother, terror etched on his thin features. “Don’t do this to him—don’t take away his mother! It’s a terrible thing to live without your mother; believe me!” She spoke with such conviction that everyone looked at her. The force of her emotion surprised even Claire, who had never heard Meredith speak so passionately in all the time she had known her. It was as if a dam had burst inside her and all the sorrow and anger at her own mother’s death was rushing out.

  Detective Hornblower made a brief movement, as if to stop Meredith, but then he stopped and just looked at her, hands at his sides. He looked like he had reached the end of his rope, run out of alternatives, and now Meredith represented a last-ditch chance to rescue the situation.

  Meredith struggled to be heard over the wind whipping across the flat white surface of snow. Her eyes watered and her nose was running as she cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled at Paula Wilson with all her might.

  “Please!” she cried, the physical effort shaking her thin body. “Please don’t leave your child!”

  There was a pause that seemed to last forever, and Claire felt as though everyone was holding their breath. She could feel her own heart pumping away underneath her jacket, pressing heavily against her chest. Her throat was so tight she could hardly breathe; it felt as if the muscles were so con
stricted that the thin, icy air could hardly make it through the narrow passageway. She straightened her shoulders and took a big gulp of frosty air into her lungs.

  At that moment Paula Wilson, who had been poised still as a statue upon her precarious perch, let out a heartrending wail, too loud for her thin body, Claire thought—it was the scream of an animal in pain, the release of years of bottled-up agony. For a moment no one moved and everything was still. Even the wind itself seemed to die down.

  Claire looked around at the others; they were all watching Paula Wilson, who stood poised on her ledge. For a second Claire thought Paula leaned forward, toward the churning mill wheel, and she closed her eyes and held her breath, afraid to watch. But instead of jumping, Paula Wilson’s whole body seemed to deflate, and she sank to her knees, burying her head in her hands. The sound of her sobs could be heard over the whistling wind, which had picked up once again, slicing through Claire’s clothing, sharp as a knife.

  All at once everyone seemed to explode into action. Detective Hornblower leaped forward with an agility Claire would not have imagined him capable of. In an instant he had covered the ground between himself and Paula Wilson and grabbed her securely by the shoulders. She didn’t appear even to notice him; she remained on her knees, her body collapsed in on itself. Her son ran to her, throwing himself in her arms sobbing as Hornblower lifted her gently to her feet.

  Wally followed after him, and helped Hornblower support Mrs. Wilson, who was still sobbing. She squeezed her son in her arms, her tears falling upon his upturned face. Then Detective Hornblower pulled him gently from his mother, and the boy ran to his father, who embraced him awkwardly. Claire looked at Meredith, who was watching mother and son, standing as still as Claire had ever seen her. There was a look on her face—hunger, loss, envy—that Claire had never seen before. It was a sad expression, but it was more than that; it seemed to Claire that as she watched, Meredith’s expression changed from grief to understanding to acceptance. Though she couldn’t be sure, she thought she was watching the girl beginning to process her mother’s death for the first time. After bottling her grief inside her, afraid no doubt of its power and fury, she was finally allowing it to manifest itself in, for her, that most foreign of all places, her body.