Who Killed Dorian Gray?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  He sat down next to Liza, folding his lean body into the tattered overstuffed armchair. As he did, the thought occurred to Claire that he was not used to such comfort; the softness of the chair seemed alien to him. Claire sat in a straight-backed chair near the door.

  “Vhere’s Jack?” said Maya.

  Everyone in the room seemed to stiffen. Terry snorted, and Camille muttered something Claire couldn’t make out. But the most pronounced effect was upon Tahir. His thin body became rigid, and his large dark eyes narrowed. He said nothing, but it was clear to Claire that there was bad blood between him and Jack Mulligan. Liza stood up quickly, ignoring Maya’s remark.

  “Well, shall we begin? Though I know most of you have met Claire, I’d just like to say a few words about her before we begin.”

  Liza proceeded to give a brief outline of Claire’s career. She mentioned a few of the writers Claire had edited at Ardor House, being careful to include the “stars” she had worked with. Claire shifted in her chair and looked at the shining faces turned toward her friend. She knew that the chances of any of the people in this room having such an illustrious career—or any writing career at all—were slim. However, it was not her job to tell them that, she told herself.

  “Okay, Claire, would you like to add anything?” Liza said when she was finished.

  “Not really; I think you’ve pretty well covered it. Until I heard you talk about me, I had no idea I was so successful.”

  Everyone laughed, and the tension in the room softened a little. Claire glanced at Terry, whose short fingers were wrapped around his pencil, his thick neck rigid. His laugh was more like a bark, short and brusque. Next to him, Maya smiled dreamily, as if oblivious of his devotion to her.

  “Well, I thought that we would begin by having Claire talk about the business aspect of publishing. Claire?”

  “Thank you, Liza. I know it’s usual to ask for questions afterward, but before I start talking, I’d like to know if any of you have questions that I might be able to answer.”

  Camille raised her hand. “Is it true that genre fiction sells better than ‘literary’ fiction?”

  “I’m afraid so. So-called genre fiction has a built-in market, because there is a guaranteed audience for mystery, science fiction, and the like—”

  “So I’d be better off bumping somebody off than telling them off?” said Terry, looking around to see the reaction to his joke. Several of the people in the room smiled politely; it was clear that Terry made many of them uncomfortable.

  “Yes, mysteries do tend to sell well,” Claire said carefully, “but—”

  “If you write it, they will come?” said Terry, grinning.

  A couple of the others sighed. Poor Terry, Claire thought. He was so needy, so edgy. “I was going to say that just because you write one, it doesn’t necessarily mean you can sell it,” she answered.

  “There are no guarantees in life,” Tahir observed.

  “I know that,” said Terry, bristling.

  “I think it would be a mistake to write something just because you think it will sell,” said Claire. “You should write about what interests you, not what you think will interest others.”

  “Follow your bliss?” said Maya languidly.

  Camille snorted and rolled her eyes.

  “Personally, I find murder very interesting,” said a silky baritone behind Claire. She turned to see a stocky, white-haired man with a beard to match. With his pink skin and jovial expression, he looked like the perfect Sears Santa Claus, right down to his rosy lips and upturned nose.

  “Come in, Jack,” said Liza. “Claire, this is Jack Mulligan.”

  At that moment Claire realized that she was looking at Ravenscroft’s resident Nazi.

  Chapter 4

  Jack Mulligan sat on the only available chair, which was next to Claire, so that she couldn’t look at him without turning sideways. It seemed to her that the others avoided looking at Jack, except for Terry, who stared at him for a few moments before looking away.

  “Well,” said Claire a little too brightly, “why don’t we have our first reading . . . Tahir? I believe you’ve got an excerpt from one of your stories.”

  Tahir nodded shyly and shuffled through a stack of papers. “I’m going to read from ‘Azu’s War.’ ”

  “All right.”

  All eyes in the room turned to Tahir; though he did not have the complexion of a blusher, Claire could feel he was nervous. He cleared his throat and read in a soft, hoarse voice:

  “ ‘What I remember most, what is impossible to forget, is the howling of my dog, Azu. He was a one-eyed, yellow mutt (we think he lost the eye in a fight before he came to us). The day the soldiers came for my father, Azu sat on the porch and howled. He bayed all day long and into the night. A little after midnight he suddenly stopped howling, and at that moment we knew my father was dead. Azu crawled under the house, where he stayed for three days. My sister finally coaxed him out with a bowl of hot oatmeal. I think he felt he had to stay alive to protect the rest of us. He ultimately failed, though, because eventually the soldiers came for all of us, leaving Azu homeless. I often think about him and wonder if he found another family among the rubble of what was once our city.’ ”

  After Tahir finished reading there was a heavy silence in the room. Finally, Claire broke it.

  “Any reactions?”

  “Well, clearly it’s very powerful,” Camille said slowly. “What I particularly like is the device he uses of showing the situation through the actions of a dog.”

  “Yes, what about that?” said Claire. “Anyone else—yes, Liza?”

  “It works because it reveals the horrors of war at an angle, rather than straight on,” said Liza.

  “Right,” said Camille, “like when filmmakers shoot a scene showing people’s shadows, rather than the people themselves.”

  “Do you think it’s . . . sentimental?” Claire asked.

  “Nooo,” said Jack after a pause.

  “Anyone else?” Claire looked at Terry and Maya on the couch. Maya’s face was red and her body was rigid. Terry had laid a hand on her shoulder and was attempting to whisper something to her, but she wasn’t listening. Claire wondered if he had done or said something to upset her, but just then Maya got up from the couch.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaky. “Weel you excuse me, please? I’m not feeling so well.”

  “Of course,” Claire replied.

  Maya stumbled a little on her way to the door, and Liza rose to follow her out.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  Everyone sat looking puzzled until Liza returned. “She’s just feeling a little ill . . . she’ll be okay.”

  “Maybe she ate some bad granola,” Jack Mulligan said under his breath. No one laughed, and Terry looked as though he wanted to kill him.

  Claire finished the class as best she could. She talked more about what editors look for in a manuscript, answered a few more questions, and then it was four o’clock. As the others filed out of the room, Liza came over and put her arm around Claire’s shoulders.

  “That was great. Thanks.”

  “Oh, it was fun. They’re a smart group.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I’ll see you later. I promised Sherry a back rub.”

  Claire went back up to her room to put away her notes. As she walked down the hall she heard voices coming from a room across from hers.

  “I think you’re overreacting.”

  “Well, you can say that, but you’d have to experience life from my perspective, and that’s impossible.”

  Claire didn’t recognize the first voice, but she was fairly certain the other one belonged to Gary Robinson. The door to the room suddenly opened and she found herself face-to-face with a tall, sandy-haired man. He looked distracted, and when he saw her he frowned.

  “Hi, I’m Claire Rawlings,” she managed to say, wondering if he knew she had overheard his conversation.

  “Ah, yes—the ed
itor.” There was a hint of a sneer in his tone, as if the word was a euphemism for something not quite admirable. “I’m Billy Trimble.” He offered no hand to shake. There was an uncomfortable pause, and then he said, “How do you like Ravenscroft?”

  “Oh, it’s very nice.”

  “I think it’s positively Victorian,” he said enigmatically.

  “I suppose it is,” Claire agreed, trying to figure out if that was a criticism or not.

  “That’s your car out in the lot, I suppose?” he asked after a moment.

  “Yes, the Mercedes. Liza said not many of the people who come here bring cars . . . one of the others is yours, I think?”

  Billy’s eyelids drooped. “The Toyota,” he said with a sigh, as if it were a hardship to explain. Claire thought maybe she had insulted him by not coming to the conclusion herself; the Toyota was clearly much nicer—and more expensive—than the ratty old Chevy, which she now knew must belong to Jack Mulligan. She recalled seeing Gary get into a white Toyota, and concluded he must have borrowed Billy’s car. She looked around the room for Gary, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  They stood there awkwardly for a moment, then Billy Trimble cleared his throat. “Well, nice to meet you. Please pardon me, but my studio calls. I must paint while the light is still good.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Claire replied, glad to see him go.

  Later that afternoon, however, she came upon a scene that made her think again about Billy Trimble. On her way to Liza’s cabin, Claire caught a glimpse of two people out behind the house. They were so still that at first she didn’t see them, but when she turned, she saw it was Billy and Maya, their bodies locked in an embrace, a latticework of dappled sunlight falling softly on their shoulders. With their sandy hair and long, lean bodies, they could have been brother and sister, Claire thought, but there was nothing brotherly about the way Billy stroked Maya’s cheek as he bent down to kiss her. It was a sweet sight, these two handsome creatures enjoying a kiss in the late-summer sunlight, and Claire sighed. She wished Wally were there; the thought of kissing him in that same sunlight made her heart beat faster.

  She looked again at Billy and Maya. Who would have thought Billy capable of such tenderness? she wondered as his fingers lightly grazed Maya’s blond hair. People have their contradictions, no doubt about it, Claire thought as she headed across the lawn toward Liza’s cabin.

  That night Liza threw a little party to welcome Claire.

  “I’ve invited one of the Guild ladies, Evelyn Gardner,” Liza said as she stood at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables. The big kitchen was empty except for Liza and Claire, the hum of the refrigerators in the pantry blending with the sound of crickets as dusk settled outside the screen door. “If I don’t, I’ll never hear the end of it,” she added.

  “Is she the one who hired you?”

  “There’s actually a committee, though Evelyn is the one I interviewed with,” Liza replied, dumping a pile of carrots into a wooden bowl. “She’s the one whose job it is to oversee Ravenscroft. She’s . . . well, she’s all right, I guess, but . . . Evelyn is what my mother used to refer to as a ‘pistol.’ ” Liza finished chopping a pile of celery and swept the pieces into the bowl next to the carrots. “That ought to hold the little bastards for a while, as the man said.”

  Claire laughed. “I remember that one—my brother and I had it on a record of radio bloopers.”

  “Yeah, that was a famous one. I guess it was some well-known kids’ show.”

  “My brother and I loved that one because he said a bad word on the air. Actually, we didn’t even know what it meant; we just knew it was bad.”

  Liza laughed. “Yeah, right. In my family no one swore either, so it was a real thrill to hear a grown-up say a bad word.”

  Claire popped a piece of carrot into her mouth. “We were so easily amused then.”

  Liza opened the cupboard and took out a large bottle of red wine. “Here’s some amusement for grown-ups. Let’s have a pre-party glass of wine. Want some?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Liza took two goblets down from the shelf. “Here’s to Art with a capital A, which rhymes with fey,” she said, handing a glass to Claire. “To Art; l’chaim!”

  Claire raised her glass. “L’chaim!”

  Sherry entered the kitchen. “Get a load of this—two goyim talking like a couple of Yiddishe mamas! Oo—hootch!” she said, seeing the wine bottle. “Please, sir, can I have some?”

  “Only if you’ve been very, very good,” Liza replied, holding the bottle above her head so that Sherry couldn’t reach it. “Have you?”

  “Oh, I can be if you’ll just give me a chance. I promise I’ll be very good!”

  Liza laughed and handed Sherry the bottle. Claire laughed, too, but felt a little uneasy. She was always uncomfortable eavesdropping on other people’s relationships, which was one reason she was an editor rather than a writer; writers have to eavesdrop as part of their job. She thought about the couple she had overheard arguing earlier, and almost said something about it to Liza, but decided against it.

  * * * * *

  The first guest to arrive at the party was the “Guild lady,” Evelyn Gardner, who was tall and handsome, with a long-jawed face and thick, grey-streaked black hair that she swept up into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her black linen pantsuit was simple but expensive, and Claire had no doubt the diamond brooch on her collar was real. Everything about her bespoke money.

  “I am absolutely starving!” she announced as she descended upon the kitchen, where Liza was putting the finishing touches on a rack of miniature soufflés.

  “So nice to meet you,” she said when Liza introduced her to Claire. “I do think it’s so nice that Liza is giving the folks here such a special treat! Mind you, I had to finagle a few extra funds your way,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“but it was worth it, I’m sure! Oh, can I have just a teeny-weeny piece of that cheese?” She eyed a block of white Cheddar sitting on the counter.

  “Help yourself,” said Liza mildly, but when Evelyn turned away she looked at Claire and rolled her eyes.

  “Well, I’m sure you’re every bit as good as Liza says you are,” Evelyn continued, her mouth full of cheese.

  “Well, I don’t know about that—” Claire began, but Evelyn interrupted with a wave of her manicured hand.

  “No need for modesty around here,” she said gaily, “not with all these artistic egos galloping around.”

  “Would you like a glass of wine, Evelyn?” Liza offered, coming to Claire’s rescue.

  “I thought you’d never ask!”

  After pouring Evelyn a generous glass of Merlot, Liza handed her the bowl of crudités. “I wonder if you’d mind taking those out to the living room for me?”

  “Not at all; glad to be of service!” Evelyn seized the bowl and strode vigorously out of the room.

  “Good Lord,” was all Claire could say when she had left.

  “Yes, well . . .” Liza shrugged. “I guess we should take the rest of this out there,” she said, looking at the plates of hors d’oeuvres scattered about the kitchen.

  “Let me give you a hand.”

  “Thanks.”

  She picked up the soufflés and handed Claire the plate of cheese.

  “Come on; it’s time to face the music.”

  The Merlot was smooth and went down easy, and by the time the rest of the guests arrived, Claire was feeling no pain, as Wally would say. The living room looked nice: Liza had found some old-fashioned candleabras and placed them around—on the mantelpiece, on the sideboard—and their warm glow made the big room look cozier, the burnished wood of the ceiling beams rich and dark in the soft light.

  Claire stood for a while with Liza as people wandered in, then she felt a heavy arm wrap around her shoulders. She turned to see Two Joe, decked out in a black silk shirt and tight black jeans, his thick dark hair pulled into a single braid hanging down his broad back.

 
“Hello,” she said, wondering if it was obvious to him that she was feeling loopy. Two Joe pointed to Billy Trimble, who had just entered the room.

  “See him? I call him Crooked Arrow.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  But before Two Joe could answer, Liza appeared with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Would you care for some spinach soufflé?”

  Maybe it was the wine, or the country air, but Claire suddenly felt very hungry. She took two of the tiny hot puffs from the plate.

  “Thank you.” She popped a pastry into her mouth, and savored the warm rush of flavors as they mingled on her tongue. She ate the second one quickly and turned to Two Joe. “I’m going to get some more hors d’oeuvres; can I get you some?”

  Two Joe shook his magnificent head. He reminded Claire of a landlocked leviathan. “Two Joe will eat later,” he said.

  Claire made her way over to the long table of food and began piling a plate full of raw vegetables. She really wanted more soufflé, but she decided to fill up on vegetables first.

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  She turned to see Gary Robinson, dressed very nattily in a grey Harris-tweed jacket and a maroon silk tie over a black shirt.

  “Oh, yes, it’s so nice of Liza to throw this party . . .” Claire stood there awkwardly, a celery stick teetering dangerously on the edge of her plate.

  “Have you met Billy Trimble?” said Gary. Billy stood a few paces away, leaning against the wall, a drink in his hand, looking idly across the press of bodies in the room. An old-fashioned boating jacket hung loosely on his lean, rangy body. The jacket was blue with a yellow yachting insignia on the right breast pocket. With his classic profile and sandy hair, he looked as if he would be at home on a yacht.