“Let me ask you something, Reven. Have you ever done something…something you couldn’t control? Like on the spur of the moment you just acted impulsively, and that thing changed the course of your whole life because you suddenly realized you were another person? Someone you never thought you were? Never dreamed you could be…? I don’t know. Am I making any sense?”
“Yes. Listen, Grant, we’ve all done things we wish we hadn’t, made choices we didn’t even know were choices at the time. But that doesn’t mean we have to stick by them. In life, you find out who you are gradually, not all at once. You made a bad choice, okay? But you can still get out of it.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t. I’ve done something irrevocable here,” he said.
“I know it feels like that now. But trust me, in a few months you’ll be over it.”
“I wish that were true. You don’t know how much I wish that.”
Grant assured me he was going to do some “very deep soul searching.” And although I didn’t think his soul was exactly the place he needed to search first, I left his office feeling rather pleased with myself, knowing I had done everything in my power to keep Violet’s marriage together and her happiness intact.
Grant’s infidelity was no longer merely a secret I was hiding from Violet; it was a bomb I was protecting her from. Our friendship had changed once more. I had the upper hand again. Only unlike our school days, Violet would hopefully never know it.
Chapter 18
Gunner drifted in and out of my life at this point. He called to check in occasionally, and whenever he wanted to see me in person, he texted me with the word “Usherville” and the time, and I’d meet him at the Hollis mausoleum. We usually met in the morning or the evening when the cemetery was closed. I once saw a groundskeeper in the distance, but he ignored me. I figured Gunner had received permission for us to be there.
There was no new news about the serial killer, but Gunner was obsessed with Bob Poll. He always asked me how my relationship with Bob was going. I was very honest with him. I told him I was seeing Bob nearly every night and that things were very easy and pleasant between us, but we’d reached a kind of plateau and I didn’t quite know how to move us forward.
“Count yourself lucky,” Gunner said.
I, of course, was curious to know from Gunner if Bob had been back to the strip club. Gunner said he hadn’t seen him there again, but he’d found out that Bob had not only dated several of the girls, he’d paid for one of them to go to graduate school and for another to have breast implants. There was no evidence that Bob and Miss Montrose had ever known each other, although Bob had frequented the club during the time she worked there. Gunner didn’t seem reassured when I told him Bob had made light of serial killers, telling me they were basically Hollywood villains.
“You keep expecting this guy to take off his mask. He won’t, unless he gets you in a situation where he wants to,” Gunner said.
It was on one of these walks that Gunner told me that they had located a safety deposit box belonging to Nancy Sawtelle. It contained over a hundred thousand dollars in cash.
“Wow. What does that mean?” I asked him.
“Could mean any number of things. Maybe she had a sugar daddy. Maybe she was blackmailing someone. Or maybe she was just thrifty,” he said with a snicker.
Gunner asked me how my “pal” Violet was doing, and I told him I’d gone to the bank to confront Grant about his affair with Cynthia.
“Still haven’t told her yet, huh?”
“Nope. But people are talking, and I wanted Grant to know that,” I said.
“So’s he gonna give her up?” Gunner asked.
“Who knows? All I know is that every time I see Violet, I feel so guilty I can hardly stand it. And when I see the three of them together, I want to throw up. I have no idea if I’m doing the right thing not telling her.”
“You’ve known her a long time, right?”
“Ever since boarding school.”
“What does she think of Bob Poll?”
“Violet? She just wants me to be married and happy like her. Or like she thinks she is. She used to say Bob had a dark side.”
“Maybe you should listen to her.”
“Violet thinks everyone has a dark side,” I said, joking.
“She may be right,” Gunner said.
One mild late-winter evening as we were walking in the graveyard, a long and plaintive howl pierced the evening air.
“Sounds like a wolf,” I remarked.
“A werewolf, if it’s around here,” Gunner joked. “You know there’s a theory about werewolves.”
“Oh-oh…. Let’s hear it.”
“When Ted Bundy was in prison on death row, he was interviewed by one of those profilers from the FBI. The profiler described Bundy as being a kind of engaging guy. He said Bundy talked about the murders like they’d been committed by another person. ‘The Entity,’ Bundy called himself.”
“The Entity? That’s creepy.”
“Yeah. He was able to distance himself from the crimes by referring to himself as another being, apart from himself. That was Bundy’s way of maintaining control and not losing his cool—except for this one time. The profiler asked Bundy a question that embarrassed him.”
I guffawed. “What embarrasses a serial killer, I’d like to know?”
“It was something gross like how Bundy masturbated in front of the heads he’d cut off.”
“Ugh!”
“Anyway, according to the profiler, Bundy lost control. His features physically changed, and his body gave off this putrid smell. He started sweating and panting, and his eyes looked like fire. The profiler said he was really terrified to be in the same room with the guy, ’cause he’d finally gotten a look at the real monster. This is what his victims saw.”
I made a mental note to tell Violet this story, assuming she didn’t already know it. She loved stories about Ted.
“So what’s the theory?” I said.
“A lot of people believe that the whole werewolf myth got started with a real-life serial killer—some guy who hunted in the Balkans hundreds of years ago who seemed supernatural because his crimes were so horrific and they couldn’t catch him.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“All serial killers are werewolves, only most of ’em don’t need a full moon to morph into monsters. They have their own little moons inside them.”
“Here’s a Ted Bundy story for you. Violet told me that Ted went to Lake Sammamish one summer day with his arm in a sling. He approached eight women, asking each of them if she’d help him unload a sailboat from his car, which was parked a little ways away. Five of the women said no. One of the women actually walked with him to the car, but when she saw there was no sailboat, she fled. Two women said yes. They both disappeared without a trace that day. Months later, their skulls were found in the woods near the lake.”
“That’s a famous story,” Gunner said.
“But here’s the thing: I’ve often wondered what I would have done if he’d approached me. Did those six women who got away sense that he was evil? Or were they just lucky? Would I have gone with him? Would I recognize evil if it came so close?”
Gunner stared at me. “What do you think?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t think any of us really knows until it’s too late.”
“Oh, I think some of us can make what’s called an educated guess,” Gunner said.
“Which means I should be wary of Bob Poll.”
“You tell me.”
The howl came again. This time, Gunner lifted his head up and howled back at the top of his lungs—a long and plaintive howl, just like the distant one. It was a pretty weird moment.
“Are you guys communicating?” I joked, trying to diffuse my sudden unease.
“Nah…Just kidding around, is all. Barkin’, tryin’ to make them listen to me…. Story of my life.”
Chapter 19
The
night of the Golden Key Awards, as they were called, Bob came to pick me up in person for a change. I was pleasantly surprised when I opened the door and saw him standing there instead of Maxwell. He asked if he could come in for a drink. He said he had something he wanted to give me. We were having a glass of wine when he pulled the robin’s-egg blue box out of his tuxedo pocket and handed it to me.
“I hope you like it,” he said.
I recognized the Tiffany wrapping and pretended not to be as excited as I was. We hadn’t made much emotional progress since he’d told me that he loved me that one time. But we were coasting along at a good clip, and I instinctively felt this present was a declaration of more serious intentions on his part. I opened the box and pulled out a gold bracelet made of small, square links with a slide-in clasp—nothing super extravagant and not really my taste, but still quite nice. The fact that he gave me a gift was much more important than the gift itself. I put it on and made a big fuss over it. I kissed him and told him I’d “thank him properly” for it later on. After we finished our drinks, Maxwell drove us to the Kennedy Center.
I confess I’ve never really cared much for the Kennedy Center architecturally. The big marble box with its gaunt metallic columns somehow reminds me of a government building in the People’s Republic of China. But that night, gleaming against a lapis lazuli evening sky, it struck me as very elegant. I kept fingering my bracelet and holding it up to admire it, not just because I wanted Bob to understand how much it meant to me, but because it really did mean something to me. I figured he was a man who just couldn’t express his feelings easily, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
As we pulled up to the front entrance, a huge white stretch limousine was disgorging its cargo just ahead of us—Moby Dick in a sea of black catfish. Cynthia stepped out of the car, followed by Braden Boyd, a tall, gangly, dapper man-about-town. A former ambassador and dedicated public servant, Braden always reminded me of Ichabod Crane. Like Bob Poll, he had been divorced for many years, and he looked like he was ripe for the picking, but dream on. He always outran the pack of single Washington women snapping at his heels. Like Bob, Braden was known to enjoy escorting high-profile ladies of all ages, however, and it was interesting to see him with Cynthia—whose profile now was as high as a head on Mount Rushmore. I watched her sashay into the Kennedy Center on Braden’s arm. She was wearing a long emerald green satin gown, an ermine capelet, and an air of entitlement. She acted like she owned the place. And in a way, she kind of did.
This gala was being held to celebrate the Cynthia A. Rinehart Foundation’s first annual Golden Key Awards. Life-size color photographs of the evening’s honorees, resting against huge gold easels, stretched the length of the long hall leading down to the Grand Foyer. Large gold letters hanging overhead proclaimed this to be the “WALK OF ACCOMPLISHMENT.” The honorees were collectively identified as “KEY PLAYERS.”
When Bob went to pick up our tickets at the box office, I strolled down the hall, looking at the photographs. It was a group of celebrities, all of whom were famous, and a few of whom were accomplished. Then I came to the one honoree who wasn’t particularly famous or particularly accomplished—unless you count owning a bank: Grant Bolton. I knew Grant was going to be honored because Violet had mentioned it, even though it was supposed to be a secret. She was very excited about Grant being included in such exalted company.
Grant was posed sitting behind his desk at the bank, with his hands clasped in front of him and a vaguely pained expression on his face. Carmen Appleton sidled up alongside me. I hadn’t seen Carmen in months—not since the Symphony Ball. She looked up at Grant’s picture and said in her husky voice: “God, I hope he’s sitting on a toilet, ’cause he sure looks like he needs to go—if I may be so crude.”
I laughed because it was absolutely true. All the old-time movie star lighting and smooth grooming couldn’t soften Grant’s constipated smile.
“He seems a little out of place in this star-studded group, don’t you think?”
Carmen sang softly, “‘It’s not for me to say…da, da, da, da…’”
This was ominous. I couldn’t quite figure out whether she was implying that Grant had somehow bought his way into the event or, worse—did she know about Cynthia and Grant?
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Oh, Miss Reven, how I would just love to tell you so many, many, many, many things…. But unfortunately, I must run off now and try and accommodate the never-ending demands of our great benefactress, who is tonight’s lovely hostess.”
She knew something—no question.
“Does anyone know what these awards are all about?” I asked her.
Carmen raised her large brown eyes to the ceiling and thought for a moment. “Egomania?” she said coyly.
She trotted on, then turned with an afterthought. “Oh, and by the way—I seated Ms. Hartford waaaay far away from the head table, so you and Mr. Wonderful won’t have to see her carrying that big huge Statue of Liberty torch for him.”
So Melody was there. Did Bob know that? All my anxieties ambushed me anew. I fingered the bracelet to reassure myself that he loved me. Me. That bracelet was the tangible proof.
“Your former girlfriend’s here,” I said to Bob teasingly when he walked up with the tickets.
“Yeah, I know. I just saw her,” he said casually. “Come on, let’s get our seats.”
I surreptitiously checked myself out in my compact mirror to make sure I was still looking my best. My face had definitely lost its glow.
The evening was a people-watching smorgasbord with all forms of celebrity life represented, “sports to nuts,” as Violet said. Everywhere I looked I saw a famous face.
“I’m the only person here I don’t know!” I joked to Bob.
He didn’t laugh. I don’t think he liked being reminded I wasn’t as prominent as some of the other ladies he’d escorted—particularly not at a party where you’re ranked by how many hits you have on Google. It was times like these that I sensed his bristling insecurity more than ever.
We had good seats near the front of the theater. But, as usual, Bob complained they weren’t the best. I caught sight of Melody Hartford’s bouffant hair and even more bouffant bust three rows ahead of us to the right. I was on alert. When the curtain went up, the evening’s fourteen honorees were seated onstage in front of a large movie screen. Cynthia walked out from the wings to hefty applause and stood in front of the microphone at the center of the stage.
“Welcome, everybody, to the first annual Golden Key Awards!” She looked radiant in the spotlight, and her delivery had become even more polished and self-assured. “There are top people in every field,” she continued. “But it’s my belief that you are only as good as you give. The Cynthia A. Rinehart Foundation is pleased to honor those people who have not only achieved a great level of success but who have also given generously of their time and resources to a variety of worthy causes around the globe. I call them my Key Players, because they and people like them have made a real difference in the world. This is the first ceremony of what I hope will become a long and important tradition here in Washington.”
Cynthia seemed right at home on stage. Her jewels of mass destruction—a diamond and emerald necklace and earrings to match—sparkled under the bright spotlights. Grant was the only one of the honorees who didn’t look at her as she spoke. He sat staring into space, seeming vaguely catatonic.
Cynthia introduced the first honoree, a reality television star who recently emceed a telethon for victims of diabetes. The auditorium darkened, and a short movie about the star’s life played on the big screen. When the lights went up again, Cynthia delivered a few more platitudes, then asked the star to stand up. She hung a big golden key on a blue ribbon around his neck. As the audience applauded, and it was clear we were going to have to endure this little ceremony fourteen times, Bob leaned in and whispered to me, “Long night ahead.”
Totem-pole Grant was much mo
re ill at ease than the other honorees, most of whom were famous or semi-famous and thus accustomed to the spotlight. The little movie of his life made much of the Potomac Bank’s charitable activities in Washington. I was rather surprised Grant had agreed to participate in this kind of event—or that his parents had let him agree to it—simply because the Boltons had always prided themselves on strict privacy. The Bolton seniors’ patron saint of philanthropy was Andrew Mellon, who built the National Gallery and donated it to the nation along with its core collection of paintings from the Hermitage, yet declined to call it the Mellon Gallery in the interests of modesty and genuine humility—a decision that seems like science fiction in today’s world of eleemosynary egos.
I caught Bob glancing in Melody’s direction a couple of times. To be fair, I couldn’t really tell if he was looking at her or just looking around because he was bored.
At the dinner, Bob and I were seated near enough to the head table so I could see the action. Each table had an honoree. Grant was at Cynthia’s table, seated on her left. It would seem an odd choice to many, given the fact that she could have selected someone far more famous among the honorees. The Secretary of Commerce was on her right.
I studied Grant and Cynthia closely. They barely exchanged a word the entire night. That’s when I knew for sure they were still seeing each other. People who are having an affair never talk to each other at parties. It’s always the first clue. I caught Violet’s eye at one point and gave her a little wave. She didn’t wave back.
At our table, Peggy Myers, who can talk to the soup, was doing her best to charm Bob, but he’d sunk into a really foul mood. I wondered if it had to do with Melody being there, or if it was merely the result of enduring this endless, boring evening. I waved to him across the table and pointed to my bracelet to let him know how much I loved it. He nodded back with a halfhearted smile.
Mortal Friends Page 13