The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair: A Novel

by Joël Dicker

  “Did you slip away from home?”

  “Yes. I love you, Harry. Do you hear me?”

  “Don’t say that, Nola . . .”

  “Why not?”

  His stomach was in knots. The pages he was hiding in front of him contained the first chapter of his novel. He had finally managed to start it. It was a book about her. He was writing her a book. He did not dare tell her that, however.

  “I can’t love you,” he said, pretending to be emotionless.

  She let the tears run down her cheeks.

  “You’re lying! You’re a bastard and a liar! Why take me to Rockland, then? What was the point of all that?”

  He forced himself to be cruel.

  “It was a mistake.”

  “No! No! It was special, you and me! Is it because of Jenny? Do you love her? What does she have that I don’t?”

  And Harry, incapable of uttering a single word, watched Nola flee, in tears, into the night.

  “That was a horrible night,” Harry told me in the visiting room of the state prison. “I can still see her running away that night, on the beach. And I was wondering what to do. Should I run after her? Or should I stay holed up at Goose Cove? Would I have the courage to leave this town? I spent the next few days at the lake in Montburry, just so I wouldn’t be at home, where she could come and find me. As for my book—the reason I had to come to Somerset, the reason I had spent all my savings—it was not progressing. Worse than that, in fact: I had written the opening pages, but now I was blocked again. It was a book about Nola, but how could I write without her? How could I write a love story that was doomed to failure? I spent hours and hours staring at those pages, hours and hours to produce just a few words. Three lines. Three bad lines. The most banal platitudes. I was in that pitiful stage when you begin to hate everything connected to books and writing because all of it seems better than yours—even a restaurant menu strikes you as being composed with extraordinary talent. ‘T-bone steak: eight dollars.’ How skillfully put! I should have thought of that! It was horrifying, Marcus. I was miserable, and because of me, Nola was miserable too. For almost a whole week I avoided her as much as I could. But, on several evenings, she came to Goose Cove, bringing wildflowers that she had picked for me. She knocked at the door, and I just played dead. I heard her collapse against the door. I heard her knocks continue while she sobbed. And I stayed on the other side, without moving. I waited. She sometimes stayed like that for more than an hour. Then she would leave the flowers by the door and I would hear her walk away. I would rush to the kitchen window and watch her go up the driveway. I loved her so much I wanted to rip my heart out. But she was fifteen years old. So I would go outside to pick up the flowers and, as with all the other bouquets she brought me, I put them in a vase in the living room. I would stare at those flowers for a long, long time. And then, that Sunday—July 13, 1975—something terrible happened.”

  Sunday, July 13, 1975

  A dense crowd stood in front of 245 Terrace Avenue. The news had already spread through town. It had come from Chief Pratt—or rather from his wife, Amy, after her husband had received an emergency call from David Kellergan. Amy Pratt had immediately told her neighbor, who had called a friend, who had called her sister, whose children, mounting their bicycles, had gone off to ring the doorbells of their friends’ houses: Something bad had happened. In front of the Kellergans’ house there were two police cars and an ambulance; Officer Travis Dawn was holding back the gawkers on the sidewalk. Music could be heard blaring from the garage.

  It was Ernie Pinkas who told Harry, at ten that morning. He banged on the door, and realized he had woken him when Harry opened it in his bathrobe, his hair a mess.

  “I came just so you could hear the news.”

  “What news?”

  “It’s Nola Kellergan.”

  “What about her?”

  “She tried to kill herself.”

  20

  THE DAY OF THE GARDEN PARTY

  “HARRY, IS THERE AN order to what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, now that you ask me . . . maybe there isn’t, actually.”

  “Harry! This is important! I’m not going to make it if you don’t help me!”

  “Listen, my order doesn’t really matter. What counts in the end is your order. So what number are we up to? Nineteen?”

  “Twenty.”

  “All right. So, twenty: Victory is within you. All you need is to want to let it out.”

  ON THE MORNING OF SATURDAY, June 28, Roy Barnaski called.

  “Goldman,” he said, “do you know what date Monday is?”

  “June 30.”

  “June 30. Yes, indeed! Crazy how time flies. Il tempo è passato, Goldman. And what happens on June 30?”

  “It’s National Meteor Day,” I said. “I just read an article about it.”

  “On June 30 your deadline expires, that is what happens on that day. I’ve just spoken with your agent. He says he doesn’t call you anymore because you’re out of control. ‘Goldman has lost it’ were his exact words. We’re trying to give you a helping hand here, to work out an arrangement, but it seems you’d rather drive your career straight into a brick wall.”

  “A helping hand? You want me to contrive some kind of pornographic story about Nola Kellergan.”

  “Get off your high horse, Marcus. I just want to entertain the public. Make them want to buy books. People are buying fewer and fewer books, except when they contain squalid stories that correspond to their own worst urges.”

  “I am not going to churn out trash.”

  “As you wish. Then this is what will happen on Monday: My secretary, whom you know well, will come to my office for our weekly ten-thirty meeting where we go over what manuscripts are due. She will tell me: ‘Marcus Goldman had until today to deliver his manuscript. We haven’t received anything.’ I’ll nod somberly. I’ll probably give you the rest of the day, postponing my unenviable duty, and then, around five-thirty, with a very heavy heart, I’ll call Richardson, the head of our legal department, to inform him of the situation. I’ll tell him we’re going to begin legal proceedings against you for breach of contract, and that we’re going to claim ten million dollars in damages.”

  “Ten million dollars? You’re being ridiculous, Barnaski.”

  “Damn right. Fifteen million!”

  “You’re a jerk, Barnaski.”

  “You see, that’s exactly where you’re wrong, Goldman. You’re the jerk! You want to play with the big boys, but you’re not playing by the rules. You want to play for the championship, but you’re refusing to take part in the playoffs, and that’s not how it works. And you know what? With the money we’ll get from you, I’ll pay an ambitious young writer to tell the story of Marcus Goldman, or how a talented young man with an overactive conscience sabotaged his career and future. He’ll go to interview you in the seedy little hut in Florida where you’ll be living, getting wasted every morning so you don’t have to think about the past. See you soon, Goldman—in court.”

  He hung up.

  Soon after this edifying phone call, I went to Clark’s to get lunch. By chance I bumped into the Quinns. Tamara was sitting at the counter, scolding her daughter because she was doing everything wrong, and Robert was hidden away at a far table, eating scrambled eggs and reading the sports section of the Concord Herald. I sat next to Tamara, opened a newspaper, and pretended to read it so I could listen to her grumbling that the kitchen was filthy, the service too slow, the coffee cold, the syrup bottles sticky, the sugar bowls empty, the tables dirty, that it was too hot in the restaurant, her toast was burnt and she wouldn’t pay a single cent for it, and two dollars for this coffee was outright theft. She said she would never have sold this restaurant to her daughter had she known she was going to turn it into a
second-rate greasy spoon. She’d had such ambitions for this place, and back in her day people came from all over the state for her hamburgers, which everyone said were the best. Then she turned to me with a contemptuous look and said, “Hey, you—why are you eavesdropping?”

  I put on a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression and turned to face her.

  “Me? I wasn’t eavesdropping, ma’am.”

  “You were obviously eavesdropping, or you wouldn’t have replied! Where are you from?”

  “New York.”

  She softened instantly, as if the words New York had a tranquilizing effect. “What is such a handsome young New Yorker doing in Somerset?” she asked.

  “I’m writing a book.”

  Her face darkened again, and she started bellowing. “A book? You’re a writer? I hate writers! They’re all lazy good-for-nothing liars. What do you live on? Government handouts? My daughter owns this restaurant, and I’m warning you now—you won’t get credit here! So if you’re not going to pay, then get the hell out of here. Get out before I call the cops. The chief of police is my son-in-law.”

  Behind the counter, Jenny looked embarrassed.

  “Mom, this is Marcus Goldman. He’s a well-known writer.”

  Mrs. Quinn almost spat out her coffee.

  “You’re that little son of a bitch who was always hanging around Quebert?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’ve grown since I last saw you. In fact, you’re not bad looking now. You want to know what I think of Quebert?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Well, I’m gonna tell you anyway. I think he’s a goddamn piece of shit and that he deserves to fry!”

  “Mom!” Jenny protested.

  “It’s the truth!”

  “Mom, stop!”

  “Shut your mouth, kiddo. I’m talking, not you. Write this down, Mr. Asshole Writer. If you have an ounce of honesty, write the truth about Harry Quebert: He is the lowest of the low, a pervert and a murderer. He killed poor Nola, nice Mrs. Cooper, and in some ways he killed my Jenny too.”

  Jenny ran into the kitchen. I think she was crying. Sitting iron backed on her stool, eyes bright with fury and finger jabbing at the air, Tamara Quinn told me the reason for her wrath, and how Harry Quebert had dishonored her good name. The incident she recounted took place on Sunday, July 13, 1975, a day that should have been proud for the Quinn family, who were hosting a garden party—from noon onward (as specified on the invitations, which had been sent to a dozen guests)—on the freshly mown lawn behind their house.

  July 13, 1975

  It was an important event, and Tamara Quinn had spared no expense: There was a big tent in the yard; silverware and white napkins on the long table; a buffet lunch ordered from a caterer in Concord, with an array of savory appetizers, lobsters, scallops, steamed clams, and a Waldorf salad; a waiter to serve the cold drinks and Italian wine. It was going to be a social gathering of the first order, and everything had to be perfect: Jenny was officially introducing her new boyfriend to a few select members of Somerset’s social scene.

  It was ten minutes to twelve. Tamara looked out over the backyard: Everything was ready. Because of the heat, she would wait until the last minute to bring out the dishes. How delighted everyone would be to nibble scallops, clams, and lobster while listening to Harry Quebert’s scintillating conversation and admiring, at his side, her ravishing Jenny. The Quinns were on the verge of greatness, and Tamara shivered with pleasure as she imagined the scene. Everything was perfect. The only things missing now were her guests.

  Tamara had invited four of her friends and their husbands. She had spent a long time thinking over the number of guests. It was a difficult choice. Too few, and people might think the party was a failure; too many, and her exquisite country lunch might resemble a church picnic. In the end she had decided to invite some of the biggest rumormongers in town. So there was Amy Pratt, because she was in charge of organizing the summer gala; Belle Carlton, who considered herself the local arbiter of good taste because her husband got a new car every year; Cindy Tirsten, who ran several women’s clubs; and Donna Mitchell, an annoying woman who talked too much and constantly boasted about how successful her children were. Tamara was getting ready to wow them all. Each had called her when they received the invitation to find out what the occasion was. But she had kept them in suspense: “I have some important news to announce.” She couldn’t wait to see their faces when they caught an eyeful of her Jenny and the great Quebert, together for life.

  Preoccupied as she was with her garden party, Tamara was one of the few Somerset residents not currently crowding in front of the Kellergans’ house. She had heard the news, like everyone else, early that morning, and she had been worried about how it might affect her party. But, thank God, Nola’s suicide attempt had been a failure, and now Tamara felt doubly lucky: first of all because, had Nola died, she would have had to cancel the party altogether, for it would not have been appropriate to celebrate in such circumstances; and second, it was a blessing that today was Sunday, rather than Saturday, because if Nola had tried to kill herself on Saturday, Tamara would have had to replace her at Clark’s and that would have been very complicated. Nola, she thought, was a very good girl to have attempted suicide on a Sunday and to have failed in the attempt.

  Satisfied with the arrangements outside, Tamara went into the house to monitor what was happening there. She found Jenny at her post in the entrance hall, ready to welcome the guests. But she did have to scold Robert, who was wearing a shirt and tie but had not yet put on his pants—because on Sundays he was allowed to read the newspaper in his underwear in the living room; he liked it when the draft from the open windows blew inside his underpants because that cooled him down, particularly his hairy parts, and he found that very pleasant.

  “Enough parading around naked, Bobbo!” his wife rebuked him. “All that is over now. Do you really imagine you’re going to walk around in your underwear when the great Harry Quebert is our son-in-law?”

  “You know,” Bobbo replied, “I don’t think he’s like everyone thinks. He’s actually a very simple guy. He likes car engines and cold beer, and I don’t think he would be offended to see me in my Sunday attire. I’ll ask him—”

  “You will not ask him anything of the kind! I don’t want to hear any of your nonsense during this meal! In fact, I don’t want to hear you at all. Oh, my poor Bobbo, if only it were legal, I would sew your lips shut. Every time you open your mouth, you sound like an imbecile. From now on, you wear a shirt and pants on Sundays. Period. I don’t want to see you hanging around the house in your underpants anymore. We’re very important people now.”

  While she was speaking, she noticed that her husband had scribbled something on a card that was in front of him on the coffee table.

  “What’s that?” she barked.

  “It’s . . . something.”

  “Show me!”

  “No,” he said daringly, and grabbed the card.

  “Bobbo, I want to see it!”

  “It’s a personal letter.”

  “Oh, Sir is writing personal letters now! Show me! Am I the one who makes the decisions in this house or not?”

  She tore the card from her husband’s hands as he tried to hide it under his newspaper. The picture on the front was of a puppy. In a sarcastic voice, she read out loud:

  Dearest Nola,

  We wish you a quick recovery and hope to see you at Clark’s very soon.

  We’re sending you candy to put some sweetness back in your life.

  Kind regards,

  The Quinn family

  “What is this crap?” Tamara yelled.

  “It’s a card for Nola. I’m going to buy her some candy to go with it. She’ll like that, don’t you think?”

  “You’re ridiculous, Bobbo! This card with a puppy on the f
ront is ridiculous. What you’ve written is ridiculous. ‘We hope to see you at Clark’s very soon.’ She’s just tried to off herself—do you really think she feels like going back to work? And candy? What do you want her to do with candy?”

  “Eat it. I think she’ll be pleased. You see, you ruin everything—that’s why I didn’t want to show you.”

  “Oh, stop whining,” Tamara snapped, tearing the card to pieces. “I’ll send her flowers—from a nice store in Montburry—not your supermarket candy. And I’ll write the note myself, on a tasteful blank card. I will write, in elegant handwriting: ‘Wishing you a full recovery. From the Quinn family and Harry Quebert.’ Now put your pants on. My guests will be here soon.”

  • • •

  Donna Mitchell and her husband rang the doorbell at exactly noon, quickly followed by Amy and Chief Pratt. Tamara signaled to the waiter to bring the welcome cocktails, which they drank in the backyard, where Chief Pratt told them how he had been dragged out of bed by the telephone.

  “The Kellergan girl tried to swallow a bunch of pills. I think she swallowed anything and everything, including a few sleeping pills. But nothing too serious. She was taken to the hospital in Montburry to have her stomach pumped. It was her father who found her, in the bathroom. He says she had a fever, and she accidentally took the wrong medicine. I don’t know about that, but . . . anyway, the important thing is the kid is okay.”

  “It’s lucky it happened in the morning and not at noon,” Tamara said. “It would have been a shame if you’d not been able to come.”

  “Speaking of which,” Donna said, unable to contain herself any longer, “what is this important news you have to announce?”

  Tamara smiled broadly and replied that she would prefer to wait until all the guests had arrived. The Tirstens showed up soon afterward, and the Carltons at 12:20, blaming their tardiness on a steering problem in their new car. Now everyone was there. Everyone except Harry Quebert. Tamara suggested a second welcome cocktail.