by Joël Dicker
He nodded. “This whole story is unbelievable! You have no idea how huge your book is going to be. Barnaski knows—that’s why he offered you so much money. Three million bucks is nothing compared with what he might make from it. In New York this case is all anyone talks about. The Hollywood studios are already talking about making it into a movie; all the other publishers want to bring out books on Quebert. But everyone knows that the only person who can really write about it is you. You’re the only one who knows Harry, the only one who can write about Somerset from the inside. Barnaski says that if they are the first ones to bring out a book on this, Nola Kellergan could become a registered trademark for them.”
“And what do you think?” I asked.
“That it’s an exciting adventure for a writer. And a good way of countering all the disgraceful things that have been said about Quebert. The reason you went to Somerset in the first place was to defend him, wasn’t it?”
I nodded, then glanced up above us, toward the building’s upper floors, where Barnaski was reading the beginning of my story, expanded considerably in the light of recent events.
July 3, 2008, four days before the signing of the contract
A few hours had elapsed since Chief Pratt’s arrest. I went back to Goose Cove from the state prison, where Harry had lost his head and I had come close to being smashed in the face by a flying chair. I parked in front of the house, and as I got out of the car, my eye was immediately caught by the piece of paper jammed in the front doorway: yet another letter. And this time, the message had changed:
Last warning, Goldman
First warning, last warning . . . what difference did it make? I threw the letter in the kitchen trash can and turned on the television. Chief Pratt’s arrest was all over the news. Some commentators were calling into question the investigation he had led at the time, speculating that perhaps he had been deliberately negligent.
The sun was setting, and it promised to be a warm, dry night, the kind of summer evening that ought to be spent with friends, barbecuing huge steaks and drinking beer. I did not have any friends, but I thought I had steaks and beer. The fridge was empty though; I had forgotten to buy groceries. I had forgotten myself. I realized that my fridge was like Harry’s: a single man’s fridge. I ordered a pizza and ate it on the deck. At least I had the deck and the ocean. All I was missing was a barbecue, some friends, and a girlfriend to make this the perfect evening. It was at that moment that I received a phone call from one of my few friends, someone I hadn’t heard from in quite some time: Douglas.
“Hey, Marc, what’s up?”
“What’s up? It’s been weeks since I’ve heard from you. Where were you? You’re supposed to be my agent, for Christ’s sake!”
“I know—I’m sorry. We’ve been through a difficult time. You and me, I mean. But if you still want me as your agent, I would be honored to continue our collaboration.”
“Of course I still want you. On one condition: that you continue coming over to my apartment to watch baseball.”
He laughed.
“Fine with me. You take care of the beer, I’ll get the nachos.”
“Barnaski offered me a contract,” I said.
“I know. He told me. Are you going to sign it?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Barnaski wants to see you as soon as possible.”
“Why?”
“To sign the contract.”
“Already?”
“Yes. I think he wants to make sure you’ve actually started work on the book. The deadline is short—you’ll have to write quickly. He’s totally obsessed by the presidential campaign. Are you ready?”
“Yes—I’ve already started writing again. But I don’t know what I ought to be writing, exactly. Should I tell everything I know? Should I say that Harry had intended to elope with the girl? This story is insane, Doug. I don’t think you even realize.”
“You just need to tell the truth, Marc. Tell the truth about Nola Kellergan.”
“What if the truth harms Harry?”
“You have to tell the truth anyway. It’s your responsibility as a writer. No matter how difficult it is. That’s my advice as a friend.”
“What about your advice as an agent?”
“Cover your ass. Try not to end up with as many lawsuits as there are people in New Hampshire. For example, you told me the girl was beaten by her parents?”
“By her mother, yes.”
“So just write that Nola was ‘an unhappy and mistreated girl.’ Everyone will understand that her parents are responsible for the mistreatment, without its being made explicit. So no one will be able to take you to court.”
“But the mother plays an important part in this story.”
“My advice as an agent: you need concrete proof if you’re going to accuse people. Otherwise you’re going to spend the rest of your life in court. And I think you’ve probably had enough of that kind of hassle recently. Find a reliable witness who will tell you that the mother was an evil bitch and that she beat the living daylights out of the girl—and if you can’t, then stick to ‘unhappy and mistreated girl.’ We also want to avoid an injunction on book sales due to libel problems. Where Pratt is concerned, on the other hand, now that everyone knows what he did, you can go into the sordid details. That’ll boost sales.”
Barnaski suggested we meet on Monday, July 7, in Boston, a city that had the advantage of being one hour from New York by airplane and roughly the same from Somerset by car, and I agreed. That left me four days to work flat out on the book, so I would have a few chapters to show him.
“Call me if you need anything,” Douglas told me again before hanging up.
“I will, thanks. Oh, Doug, wait . . .”
“Yes?”
“Remember when you used to make mojitos?”
I knew he was smiling.
“Of course I remember.”
“Those were good times, weren’t they?”
“These are still good times, Marc. We have wonderful lives, even if we go through difficult periods now and then.”
December 1, 2006, New York City
“Hey, Doug, can you make more mojitos?”
Standing behind the counter in my kitchen, Douglas—wearing an apron depicting a naked woman—howled like a wolf, grabbed a bottle of rum, and emptied it into a pitcher filled with crushed ice.
It was three months after the publication of my first book; my fame was at its peak. For the fifth time in the three weeks since I had moved into my apartment in the Village, I was hosting a party. There were dozens of people crammed into my living room, and I knew barely a quarter of them. But I loved that. Douglas was in charge of keeping the mojitos coming, and I was taking care of the White Russians, the only cocktail I had ever found drinkable.
“What a party!” Douglas said. “Is that your doorman dancing in your living room?”
“Yes. I invited him.”
“And Lydia Gloor is here! Holy crap, can you believe it? Lydia Gloor is in your apartment!”
“Who’s Lydia Gloor?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. She’s the actress of the moment. She’s on that show that everyone’s watching . . . well, everyone except you, obviously. How did you manage to get her here?”
“I have no idea. People ring the doorbell, and I let them in. Mi casa es tu casa!”
I went back into the living room carrying a tray of canapés and cocktail shakers. Then I saw through the window that it was snowing, and I felt a sudden desire to get some fresh air. I went onto the balcony without a coat; the air was icy. I contemplated the millions of lights around me, and I yelled at the top of my lungs: “I am Marcus Goldman!” Just then I heard a voice behind me. I turned around and saw a pretty blonde my own age whom I had never seen before in my life.
“Marcus Goldman, your friend
Douglas says your phone is ringing.”
Her face was familiar.
“Have I seen you somewhere before?” I asked.
“On TV, probably.”
“You’re Lydia Gloor.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
I asked if she would wait for me on the balcony, and I rushed to the kitchen to answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“Marcus? It’s Harry.”
“Harry! It’s great to hear your voice! How are you?”
“I’m okay. I just thought I’d see how you were doing. It’s kind of noisy there. Are you having a party? Maybe this is a bad time.”
“Just a small party. In my new apartment.”
“You’ve left Montclair?”
“Yes, I bought an apartment in the Village. I live in New York now! You have to come see this place—the view is amazing.”
“I’m sure it is. Anyway, it sounds like you’re having fun. I’m happy for you, Marcus. You must have a lot of friends.”
“I do! And not only that, but there is an incredibly hot actress waiting for me on my balcony! Ha-ha—this is just unbelievable! Life is sweet, Harry. And how about you? What are you up to tonight?”
“I . . . I just have friends over for steaks and beer. Who could ask for more? We’re having a good time. All that’s missing is you. But I just heard my doorbell, Marcus. Other guests arriving. I need to let you go. I don’t know if we’re all going to fit here—and God knows it’s a big house!”
“Have a great night, Harry. I’ll call you.”
I went back out onto the balcony. That was the evening I began going out with Lydia Gloor—the girl my mother would refer to as “that TV actress.” At Goose Cove, Harry would open the door to the pizza delivery man. He would take his pizza and eat it in front of the television.
I did call Harry, as promised, after that night. But more than a year went by between those two calls. It was now February 2008.
“Hello?”
“Harry, it’s Marcus.”
“Oh, Marcus! Is it really you? Incredible. I haven’t heard a word from you since you became a star. I tried calling you a month ago and was told by your secretary that you weren’t coming to the phone for anyone.”
“I’m in trouble, Harry,” I answered bluntly. “I don’t think I’m a writer anymore.”
He immediately dropped the sarcasm. “What’re you talking about?”
“I don’t know what to write anymore. I’m finished. Totally blocked. It’s been like this for months, maybe a year.”
He laughed warmly, reassuringly. “It’s just a mental hang-up, Marcus! Writer’s block is as senseless as sexual impotence: It’s just your genius panicking, the same way your libido makes you go soft when you’re about to get it on with one of your young admirers and all you can think about is how you’re going to give her an orgasm that can be measured on the Richter scale. Don’t worry about genius—just keep churning out the words. Genius comes naturally.”
“You think?”
“I’m sure of it. But you might have to give up a few of your celebrity parties. Writing is a serious business. I thought I’d taught you that.”
“But I am working hard! That’s all I’m doing! And yet I’m not getting anywhere.”
“Well, maybe you’re in the wrong place, then. New York is a wonderful city, but there’s too much noise. Why don’t you come here, to my place, like you did when you were my student?”
July 4–6, 2008
In the days preceding the meeting with Barnaski in Boston, the investigation moved forward in spectacular style.
First, Chief Pratt was charged with engaging in sexual acts with a minor, and released on bail the day after his arrest. He moved temporarily to a motel in Montburry, while Amy went to stay with her sister, who lived out of state. Pratt’s interview by the state police criminal division confirmed not only that Tamara Quinn had showed him the note about Nola that she had found in Harry’s house, but also that Nancy Hattaway had told him what she knew about Elijah Stern. The reason Pratt had deliberately ignored these two avenues of investigation was that he feared Nola had told one of them about the incident in the police car, and he didn’t want to risk compromising himself by interrogating them. He did, however, swear that he had nothing to do with the deaths of Nola and Deborah Cooper, and that the search he had carried out for Nola’s body was beyond reproach.
On the basis of these statements, Gahalowood persuaded the prosecutor’s office to issue a search warrant for Elijah Stern’s home. The search took place on the morning of Friday, July 4. The painting of Nola was found in the studio and removed. Elijah Stern was taken to the state police headquarters to be interviewed, but he was not charged. Nevertheless, this latest development ratcheted up public curiosity about the case even higher. First the famous writer Harry Quebert was arrested, and then the former police chief Gareth Pratt was, and now the richest man in New Hampshire was apparently mixed up in the death of young Nola Kellergan.
Gahalowood described Stern’s interview to me in detail. “He’s an impressive guy. Totally calm. He even told his army of lawyers to wait out in the hallway. That presence of his, those steel-blue eyes—he made me feel almost ill at ease during the examination, and God knows I’ve had plenty of experience with that kind of thing. I showed him the painting, and he acknowledged that it was of Nola.”
“Why did you have this painting in your house?” Gahalowood had asked him.
Stern had replied, as if the answer were obvious, “Because it’s mine. Is there a law in this state against hanging paintings on one’s walls?”
“No. But this painting is of a young girl who was murdered.”
“If I had a painting of John Lennon, would I be suspected of his murder?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Mr. Stern. Where did you get this painting?”
“One of my former employees painted it. Luther Caleb.”
“Why did he paint this picture?”
“He loved painting.”
“When was this painting done?”
“Summer 1975. July or August, if my memory serves me.”
“Just before the girl disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“How did it come to be painted?”
“With a paintbrush, I imagine.”
“Cut the wisecracks, please, Mr. Stern. How did he know Nola?”
“Everyone in Somerset knew Nola. This painting was inspired by her.”
“And it didn’t bother you to own a painting of a girl who’d disappeared?”
“No. It’s a beautiful picture. We call this art. And true art is disturbing.”
“Are you aware that the possession of a picture showing a naked fifteen-year-old girl could cause problems for you, Mr. Stern?”
“Naked? Neither her breasts nor her genitalia are shown.”
“But it’s obvious that she’s naked.”
“Are you ready to defend your point of view in court, Sergeant? Because you would lose, and you know that as well as I do.”
“I would simply like to know why Luther Caleb painted Nola Kellergan.”
“I told you: He loved painting.”
“Did you know Nola Kellergan?”
“Slightly. Like everyone in Somerset did.”
“Only slightly?”
“Only slightly.”
“You’re lying, Mr. Stern. I have witnesses who will state that you were in a relationship with her. That you had her brought to your house.”
Stern laughed. “Do you have any proof for what you’re claiming? I doubt it, because it’s not true. I never touched that young girl. Clearly, Sergeant, your investigation is going nowhere, and you’re struggling to find the right questions. So I’m going to help you: Nola Kellergan came to find me. She c
ame to my house one day and told me she needed money. She agreed to pose for a painting.”
“You paid her to pose?”
“Yes. Luther had great talent as a painter. Unbelievable talent. He had already painted some wonderful pictures for me—views of the New Hampshire coast, scenes of daily life—and I was thrilled by them. Luther had the potential to be one of the century’s greatest painters, and I believed he might produce something magnificent if he painted that beautiful girl. And I was right: Were I to sell this picture today, with all the hype surrounding this case, I would undoubtedly make at least a million dollars, maybe two. Do you know many contemporary painters whose work sells for that much?”
Stern then stated that he had wasted enough time already and that the interview was over, and he left, followed by his army of lawyers, leaving Gahalowood speechless and adding yet another mystery to the investigation.
• • •
“Did you fully grasp that, writer?” Gahalowood asked me after he had finished his report on Stern’s interrogation. “One day the girl goes to Stern’s house and offers to pose for a painting in exchange for money. Can you believe it?”
“It’s crazy. Why would she need money? To elope with Harry?”
“Maybe. And yet she didn’t even take her savings with her. There’s a tin box in her bedroom containing a hundred and twenty dollars.”
“Where’s the painting?” I asked.
“We’re holding on to it for the moment. It’s evidence.”
“Evidence for what? I thought Stern hadn’t been charged.”
“Evidence against Caleb.”
“Is he really a suspect?”
“I don’t know. Stern wanted a painting of Nola, and Pratt wanted her to suck his cock, but what motive did they have for killing her?”
“Fear that she would talk?” I suggested. “She might have threatened to tell all, and in a moment of panic one of them might have hit her so hard that she died.”
“But then why leave that note on the manuscript? ‘Good-bye, darling Nola.’ This is someone who loved her. And the only one who loved her is Quebert. Everything brings us back to Quebert. What if Quebert, having learned about Pratt and Stern, lost his head and killed Nola? This might very well be a crime of passion. That was your theory at one point, if you remember.”