Who Killed Dorian Gray?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “Anyway,” Sherry continued, “what I understand from talking to Gary, Billy was the one who pursued him, and then when the summer ended, he suddenly went from hot to cold, leaving Gary all confused. They exchanged letters over the winter, but Gary’s still not sure what happened.”

  “So Gary confides in you?” Meredith said.

  “Mmm.” Sherry nodded and reached for Nubs, who had just sauntered in from the kitchen. She scratched the top of his head; the cat flattened his ears and smiled, his purring gathering volume, rumbling like a little diesel engine. “Maybe it’s because we’re both ‘minorities’ or something—I don’t know—but he’s always seemed to be able to talk to me.”

  Claire nodded. “So he comes back here and finds Billy involved with this—”

  “Shiksa goddess,” said Sherry.

  Claire thought Liza tensed at these words; she remembered the argument she overheard the night Maya was murdered, with Sherry accusing Liza of being jealous—and it occurred to her that Maya might have been the object of Sherry’s affections as well.

  “. . . and no wonder he’s pissed at Billy,” Meredith was saying. “He doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.”

  “But if Gary killed Maya, why would he then use his own knife to kill Terry? Gary’s much smarter than that.”

  Meredith’s eyes narrowed as she looked into the glowing coals of the potbellied stove. “Maybe there were two killers,” she said slowly. “Maybe whoever killed Terry did it to protect Maya’s killer.”

  The rest of them in the room looked at each other.

  “Or to punish him,” Claire added. Her implication was clear: Billy.

  “But if Billy did kill Terry, thinking he had killed Maya, why would he use Gary’s knife?” said Liza.

  Meredith smiled enigmatically. “Why indeed?”

  “That’s a very good question,” said Claire.

  “One thing I know,” said Meredith, “this killer will slip up sooner or later, and then we’ll have him.”

  “Or her,” said Sherry.

  “Or her,” Meredith repeated.

  The flames from the stove reflected yellow on her face, turning her hair the color of burnished copper. A silence fell over the women in the room and Claire tried to imagine a woman slitting Terry’s throat or wrapping her hands around Maya’s white neck.

  Chapter 17

  The media frenzy that greeted Terry’s death lasted two days, then the vans and cables and parade of TV reporters in pressed polyester and shellacked hair vanished as suddenly as they had come. When no arrests were forthcoming, they slid off into the night to cover local mayoral politicking; a fight between an Ulster County Republican incumbent and a Democratic challenger showed promising signs of getting ugly.

  The police presence, however, remained. Claire still had not gotten used to the constant presence of patrol cars in front of Ravenscroft. It was startling to walk onto the porch and see the patrol cars parked out on Camelot Road. Detective Hansom had ordered a twenty-four-hour police presence (Meredith liked to call it “surveillance”) at the house, and every eight hours one black-and-white patrol car would pull out from the dusty dirt of Camelot Road, only to be replaced by another identical one. The policemen who came and went were almost as much alike as their patrol cars. Young, with close-cropped hair and pink scrubbed faces, they looked chubby and soft in their uniforms, which always appeared to be one size too small. Watching them consume a steady supply of Dunkin’ Donuts and coffee, Claire wondered if joining the police force led to the same mandatory weight gain college freshmen traditionally experienced.

  Sergeant Rollins, Detective Hansom’s second in command, was no exception. Puffy-faced from his cold virus, he stumbled into the kitchen every morning to load his thermos with coffee; Camille insisted on making coffee for the officers whenever possible. “They’re our protectors,” she would say as she poured another steaming pot of black coffee into a thermos carafe and carried it down to where the policemen sat in their cars, the ubiquitous box of Dunkin’ Donuts nestled between their chunky blue-clad thighs on the front seat.

  Claire thought Camille just liked policemen. She could certainly relate to that; after all, Wally Jackson was a police detective. Claire had tried to imagine him in his previous life as a professor, but when she tried to picture him standing in front of eager college students, she always saw him in his rumpled trench coat.

  This morning Sergeant Rollins stood in the kitchen doorway, his eyes streaming, sniffling loudly.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Camille purred as she poured water into the coffeemaker. “What you need is some really nice herbal tea.”

  “Well, I don’t—” the sergeant began, but Camille cut him off.

  “Now, don’t argue; caffeine just dehydrates you,” she said, taking his thermos.

  Sergeant Rollins looked to Claire for help, his eyes pleading. “I really—” he began, but the shrill whistle of the teakettle drowned him out.

  “You’ll like this,” said Camille, pouring water into a pot filled with green flakes. They smelled like a combination of freshly mowed grass and mud.

  “This has slippery elm in it,” Camille said cheerfully, pressing the thermos into his hands. “Very good for the throat. Drink a cup of this every hour and you’ll feel better in no time.”

  Sergeant Rollins opened his mouth as if he wanted to speak, but Camille took him by the shoulders and turned him toward the door.

  “No need to thank me,” she said. “I’m glad to do it.”

  Sergeant Rollins gave one last desperate glance over his shoulder at Claire and walked out of the kitchen with the slow, heavy tread of a condemned man.

  Meredith brushed past him into the kitchen, sniffed at the air, and wrinkled her nose. “Who farted?”

  “Meredith, that’s rude,” said Claire.

  “It’s medicinal tea for Sergeant Rollins’s cold,” said Camille, cleaning out the teapot.

  “Ugh,” Meredith grunted. “Smells like elephant farts.”

  “All right, Meredith, that’s enough,” Claire said, ushering her out of the kitchen.

  They went out to the porch, arriving just in time to see Sergeant Rollins pouring the contents of his thermos into the bushes. When he heard the screen door bang, he looked up furtively.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said, returning to his task.

  Meredith leaned over the porch railing, her legs dangling. “That stuff’s awful, isn’t it? It smells like—”

  “All right, Meredith,” said Claire, “we’ve heard enough from you on the topic of what it smells like.”

  “You won’t tell Camille, will you?” Sergeant Rollins said. “I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  Meredith swung one leg over the railing and perched herself on top of it. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

  Claire had the feeling she had heard those words recently, and tried to think where. Then she remembered: Jack Mulligan had said the exact same thing to Roger Gardner at the party Liza gave for her. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. At the time she remembered wondering what Jack was talking about. Now that she knew, she wondered how on earth Jack knew.

  The screen door opened and Gary Robinson entered the porch.

  “Hello, Gary,” said Claire.

  “Good morning,” Gary said, his manner stiff and formal as usual.

  “Claire tells me you own a hunting knife,” Meredith said, affecting a casual air.

  Gary looked at them, the sun reflecting off his wireframe glasses, making them opaque, so Claire couldn’t see his eyes. “You saw me whittling with it,” he said simply. “But it disappeared.”

  “Oh? When?” said Meredith.

  “A couple of days ago.”

  “Before—”

  “Before Terry was killed,” Gary finished for her in an irritated voice. “I told Detective Hansom all about that.”

  “Don’t be so blasé about it,” said Meredith. “If they find the knife is the mur
der weapon and your prints are on it, you’re in trouble.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, that only happens in movies,” said Gary, going down the stairs and out toward the artists’ studios.

  Sergeant Rollins drew a soppy grey handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. “Uh, excuse me, sir, may I ask you where you are going?”

  Gary turned and looked at the sergeant. His eyes fell on the handkerchief, which he gazed at with the same disdain one might regard a dog who has just tried to hump someone’s leg.

  “To my studio,” he said curtly. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to get some work done. This place is still an arts colony, and that’s what I came up here for.” He then continued on his way without looking back.

  Sergeant Rollins looked after Gary. “Just trying to do my job, that’s all . . . and these people treat me as if I’m accusing them of being the killer. That one,” he said, shaking his head, “he hasn’t got a chip on his shoulder, he’s got a whole goddamn log. Oh, begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said quickly, looking at Claire, who couldn’t help smiling.

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant,” said Meredith. “I heard worse than that before I was old enough to have a golf handicap.”

  Sergeant Rollins’s round face clouded over. “Before you . . .?”

  “It’s a joke,” Meredith said wearily. “I’m from Connecticut.”

  “Oh, I get it,” he said, frowning. “A golf handicap; sure, sure.”

  The faint sound of the phone ringing came from inside the house, and Meredith lunged for the door. “I’ll get it!”

  A few moments later she emerged from the house, the screen door banging loudly behind her. “It’s my father. He wants to know when to come get me,” she said, her voice heavy with disgust. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Claire got up and went inside. She picked up the dangling receiver.

  “Hi, this is Claire.”

  “Hello, Claire.” Ted Lawrence’s voice was tight, as tense as she’d ever heard him. “I was wondering when you’d like me to come for Meredith.”

  “Well, I—”

  “As usual, she’s not anxious to come home; but I suppose you know that.”

  Claire felt that it was more polite not to say anything, so she remained silent. Ted Lawrence continued.

  “Well, I can understand how she feels . . . she and her stepmother don’t get along very well, though whose fault it is I’m not sure.”

  Knowing Jean Lawrence, Claire was somewhat biased—she didn’t see how anyone could live with that woman—but she also felt sorry for her. Meredith had probably been against her from the very beginning. She was, after all, in the unenviable position of not being Katherine Lawrence—and therefore not Meredith’s mother.

  “Look,” said Ted Lawrence, the discomfort in his voice almost palpable, “what would you think about keeping her there for a few more days? Would that be a terrible imposition?”

  “No, not at all. I’m enjoying having her around, and I think everyone else is, too.”

  “Good. Good, I’m glad.” He paused, and Claire thought, Uh-oh, here it comes. She didn’t want to hear any details of his troubles with his wife. The tension was increased by his upper-crust Connecticut dignity; it was kind of like knowing about Walter Cronkite’s bathroom habits: you just didn’t want to think about it.

  To her surprise, though, he just sighed and said, “Thank you again. I’ll send you a check for expenses, and please feel free to call me if there are any problems at all.”

  “All right.” Claire was a little surprised he had not expressed concern over Meredith’s safety; surely the girl told him about the second murder. She opened her mouth to say something, but he had already hung up.

  When Claire returned to the porch, she saw that Meredith had somehow managed to capture Ralph. Pinned down on the daybed, he submitted to her caresses with a martyred air, ears flat against his head, eyes tragic. He looked up at Claire with the wronged innocence of a melodrama heroine, pleading for deliverance from this fate worse than death. Claire decided on distraction as the quickest route to liberation.

  “How about some cookies?” she said. “There’s a fresh box in the kitchen.”

  “Okay!” Meredith cried, jumping up and releasing her captive. Ralph fled immediately, leaping from the porch into the thicket of bushes that surrounded it. Claire was glad that age and experience gave her some advantages; bright as Meredith was, she was unaware of such manipulations—or so Claire hoped.

  Claire sat down on one of the director’s chairs and sighed.

  “It’s a constant job, isn’t it?” said Camille, coming out onto the porch as Meredith rushed inside.

  “What? Oh, yeah, I guess it is . . .” Claire looked around for Sergeant Rollins, but he had vanished.

  Meredith emerged from the house with a box of assorted Pepperidge Farm cookies. “Well, what did the Ur-WASP say?” she said, plopping down onto the daybed, her thin legs akimbo.

  “Who’s that?” said Camille.

  “That’s what Meredith calls her father,” said Claire.

  “Well, what did he say?” said Meredith, popping a Bordeaux cookie in her mouth.

  “He said you can stay.”

  “Yes!” Meredith flung her arms into the air like a running back after scoring a touchdown.

  “Hmm . . . I’m surprised he isn’t concerned for her safety,” said Camille.

  Claire looked at Meredith. “You did tell him about the second murder, didn’t you?”

  Meredith rolled her eyes and sighed. “Why should I? What difference does it make?”

  “You know perfectly well what difference it makes! Your father should know everything before he makes a decision like that. I’m going to go call him back.”

  “No, please no!” Meredith cried, tears springing to her eyes. “You can’t call him back; he’ll think you don’t want me!” Her mood changed abruptly from casual to tragic.

  “But he should know—”

  “No, no—don’t you see? He’ll think you’re trying to get out of it!”

  Claire thought for a moment. Meredith was right; that was exactly how Ted Lawrence would interpret another call right now.

  “What about you?” Camille said to Meredith. “Aren’t you concerned about your safety?”

  “No way,” she answered breezily. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I believe you,” said Camille, smiling.

  “I still think we should call him back!” said Claire, but her heart wasn’t in it, and she knew Meredith sensed this.

  “I’m safer here with policemen all over the place than I would be up in Hartford with the Wicked Witch.”

  “Speaking of the cops, have you seen Sergeant Rollins?” said Camille. “I made him some tea, but then he disappeared.”

  As if in response, at that moment Sergeant Rollins appeared, walking along Camelot Road, coming from the direction of the woods.

  “Good morning, Sergeant; we were just wondering where you were,” Camille called out.

  Sergeant Rollins sneezed loudly. “Sorry,” he said, fishing his soggy handkerchief from his pants pocket.

  “What’s going on out there at the scene of the crime?” Meredith said.

  Sergeant Rollins blew his nose and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Well, the boys are combing the woods for clues.”

  “Find anything?”

  “If we did, we wouldn’t be able to reveal it to you, I’m afraid.”

  Meredith snapped a twig off a tree branch in an attempt to look casual. “Sure . . . I understand how it is . . . you probably haven’t found anything anyway. This killer’s pretty clever.”

  “Not that clever,” the sergeant replied, sounding a little peeved.

  “Well, no offense, but you’re only a country police department,” Meredith said, studying her shoelaces. “You can hardly be a match for . . . well, you know.”

  Sergeant Rollins’s already pink face reddened. My God, she’s playin
g him, thought Claire.

  “We’ve learned a few things about this killer,” he said defensively.

  “Oh?” said Meredith. “Like what?”

  Claire exchanged a glance with Camille, who smiled and went into the house.

  “Well, the killer’s right-handed, for one thing.”

  “Yeah? How do you know that?”

  Sergeant Rollins was about to answer, but just then a plain black sedan pulled into the driveway, scattering dust and gravel. The driver’s side door opened and a tired-looking Detective Hansom climbed out. His broad, bony shoulders slumped, like a tree bent by too many storms. Weight of the world on his shoulders, thought Claire. Why did she find that quality so appealing in a man?

  The detective walked over to where they were gathered on the porch and rested one long leg upon the bottom step.

  “Hello, sir,” said Sergeant Rollins.

  “Anything to report, Sergeant?”

  “Nothing yet, sir; McGill and Evans are out there now.”

  Just then Camille emerged from the house carrying a tray of tea. “You’re just in time for tea, Inspector.”

  “Detective,” he corrected gently.

  “Sorry—Detective,” Camille replied, setting the tray down on the shaky beechwood coffee table. As she poured the tea Claire admired her slim fingers and immaculately manicured nails. The only jewelry decorating her elegant hands today was a simple silver band on the fourth finger of her right hand. She wore a chic little tan jacket over a crisp white shirt, and black linen pants. Even though she dressed more elegantly than the rest of the residents, Claire thought, Camille never looked overdressed.

  Detective Hansom settled his bony frame uneasily in one of the canvas director’s chairs. He looked as if he were to move too suddenly, the chair might topple.

  “Tea, Sergeant?” Camille said. Rollins hesitated, looking at Detective Hansom, who nodded.

  “Go ahead—might help that cold of yours.”

  “Thank you, sir?” said Rollins, taking the cup Camille handed him. He sniffed at it, and then, apparently satisfied, leaned against the porch railing and sipped it greedily. Camille had evidently given up on the idea of herbal tea.