A Dangerous Fiction

by Barbara Rogan

  The living-room windows were open, admitting a soft, soothing murmur of traffic and a breeze from the park. Jon Stewart was on, muted. I turned off the TV and picked up my glass, which was half-empty or half-full, depending on how you look at these things. “I’d offer you one,” I said, “but I know you can’t drink on the job.”

  “I’m not on the clock. I’ll have what you’re having, if it doesn’t come with little umbrellas.”

  “Do they teach condescension at the academy, or is it on-the-job training?”

  “I’m sorry, did you not use to drink piña coladas?”

  No defense was possible. I poured him a scotch and replenished my own while I was at it. Just a splash, though. It wasn’t like drinking with someone you trust.

  We sat on opposite sides of the coffee table, as if we were playing chess. “If you’ve come to apologize, go right ahead,” I said.

  “I don’t need to apologize for doing my job.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I was worried about you. That was rough, this afternoon.”

  “It was fascinating. I’ve never been accused of murdering a friend before.”

  “She wasn’t accusing you. Those questions have to be asked.”

  “‘A million dollars’ worth of motive and no alibi’? Sure sounded like an accusation to me. And you just sat there.”

  He sipped his drink before answering. “I said my piece before you came in.”

  “Maybe I should hire a lawyer. What do you think, Tommy?”

  I was certain he’d say no. Instead he stared into his glass, opened his mouth as if to speak, and shut it without uttering a word.

  “What an interesting pause,” I said.

  “I’m not the right person to ask.”

  “And yet I feel as if you’ve answered. But we both know that any lawyer would order me to stop cooperating with the police. Is that going to help find Rowena’s murderer?”

  “No,” he said carefully. “But you have to consider your own position.”

  “I am considering it. If you people don’t catch this bastard, all my clients could be in danger. Besides, the police couldn’t really be idiotic enough to seriously suspect me.”

  Another eloquent silence. Now I was shaken. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Do they know we were . . . do they know about us?”

  “Their impression is that we knew each other casually.”

  “Masterful use of the passive voice,” I said.

  “If I’d told the truth, I’d have been off the case. And that wouldn’t have been good for you.”

  “You did tell the truth.”

  He stared at me, and to my annoyance I found I could not quite meet those hooded eyes.

  “We were friends,” I said. “Today they call it friends with benefits. We had a good time. But it wasn’t a long-term kind of thing.”

  “That’s your story, is it?”

  “It’s not a story, it’s the truth.”

  “Sometimes I wonder what-all you remember.”

  I bristled. “It just so happens I have an excellent memory.”

  “For fiction, maybe. Just for the record, and not because it matters anymore, you and I went together for over a year, exclusively as far as I know. Thirteen months, to be precise.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “It started the summer before our senior years and ended the day you left me for Donovan. Do the math.”

  I did the math. Technically he was right, but it didn’t jibe at all with my recollection of a fling, an interlude. This dissonance troubled me. It was as if life before Hugo was foreshortened in my mind, like Saul Steinberg’s famous map of America. As if my life as Hugo’s wife and then his widow had taken up all available memory.

  But if I was mistaken about the duration of our affair, I was sure about its nature. “We had fun, but it wasn’t serious. We both knew that.”

  “You knew it. The day you dumped me, I had a diamond ring in my pocket. I’d been carrying it around for a month, waiting for the right moment.”

  He stated this with no emotion, in a voice I could imagine him using in court. Could it be true? Had he really meant to propose? Suddenly, vividly, I recalled his face when I told him we were through. We’d met in Central Park, the Columbus Circle entrance. It was early August, a hot summer afternoon. I could smell the carriage horses’ sweat. Tommy was stunned. I once saw a boy get hit in the back of the head with a baseball bat. Tommy’s face wore the same catastrophic look. He never saw it coming, but neither did I. Hugo just happened, like an act of God.

  But that was the old Tommy. The one sitting in front of me, if you hit him with a bat, the bat would shatter. This Tommy was a little scary.

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “I’m sorry. But even without Hugo, it never would have happened. I was looking for something else.”

  “Found it, too, didn’t you? I’ve read all your interviews. You always tell the same fairy tale about meeting Hugo, falling madly in love, a whirlwind romance in montage that ends in happily ever after.”

  “It happens to be true.”

  He held his glass up to the light. “Excellent scotch, Jo. Well distilled, like your version of the truth.”

  “Clever, Tommy.”

  “It’s not even a good story. Where are the impediments? Where are the jilted lovers? Life’s a lot messier and more interesting than your fictional account.”

  “I believe you’re drunk,” I said.

  “Just a hair, but that’s irrevelant. Irrelevant. You’re missing the point. It’s not about us; that’s ancient history. It’s about you needing to wake up and remember.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means Boniface asked you some questions worth pondering. Maybe there was someone in your life, someone you couldn’t hear or wouldn’t listen to.”

  “Apart from you, you mean?”

  The silence in the room was total; even the distant murmur of traffic seemed to pause.

  “That’s right,” Tommy said without expression. “Apart from me.”

  Chapter 16

  Five weeks after Rowena’s murder, on a crisp autumn afternoon, we held her memorial in the concert hall of the New York Society for Ethical Culture. The society was housed in a beautiful old limestone building overlooking Central Park, in the heart of the neighborhood Rowena had loved. Originally Molly and I had planned to use the social hall, which seated 280, but it soon became clear that this would not suffice, and we switched to the 800-seat auditorium. Color-coded tickets had been distributed. Rowena’s friends and colleagues were seated in the orchestra and mezzanine, among them a sizable Hollywood contingent, representatives of the various causes and charities that Rowena had supported, and the Mayor of New York, to whom she had been a generous donor as well as a friend. Pellucid Press was of course there in force, from the publisher to the salespeople, all looking suitably grim. A writer who sells millions of copies a year supports many people besides herself, but their sorrow was personal as well, for Rowena had known and cultivated just about everyone in the company. Many writers had attended, friends and protégées of Rowena’s as well as clients of mine and Molly’s who’d turned out in a show of support and solidarity. The balcony was reserved for Rowena’s fans, several hundred of the thousands who’d applied for seats. They’d gathered from all around the country and the world, almost all women, dressed in black for the occasion.

  And somewhere, among all these mourners, all these dear friends and colleagues, was Rowena’s killer. I felt it, a small seed pearl of malice hidden somewhere in the room.

  I wasn’t the only one who thought so. There were uniformed police on the door and plainclothes detectives milling about inside, Tommy Cullen among them. We exchanged nods when our eyes met; n
othing more. I hadn’t seen him since our late-night stroll down memory lane, which turned out to be two separate lanes.

  I sat in the front row, between Molly and Rowena’s sister, Janet Hubbard. On her other side sat her son, Chris, a newly minted lawyer dressed in a black Brooks Brothers suit. Molly and I had met the whole family when we flew to Kansas for the funeral. We’d stayed at the farmhouse, at Janet’s insistence, and were treated like visiting royalty. Janet’s black dress was dowdy and frayed at the collar, and her figure had settled into what Mma Precious Ramotswe would have called a traditional build. But her face and smile were so like Rowena’s that people coming up to pay their respects froze in momentary shock.

  Molly and I had come early to see to the arrangements, although in truth, Lorna, hustling about with a clipboard, had everything well in hand. The auditorium looked beautiful. Huge urns of calla lilies, black-eyed Susans, purple trachelium, and brilliant orange roses anchored the corners of the stage; on the podium was a smaller bouquet of autumn flowers from Molly’s garden. I could smell their earthy, pungent scent from where we sat. The musicians and singers sat to one side of the podium while a screen at the back of the stage played a continuing montage of photos from Rowena’s life.

  All of my staff had worked hard to arrange this memorial, with help from Pellucid, but no one had done more than Lorna. It was my good fortune that her twenty-fourth birthday had fallen last week, for it gave me an opportunity to thank her. I spent hours choosing her gift, a beautiful shoulder bag to replace the old tote she wore to work every day. At first I looked at Juicy Couture, whose satchels were popular with the twentysomethings; Chloe owned two at least. But they didn’t seem right for Lorna, too whimsical and pleased with themselves, and in the end I went with a classic Coach bag in supple black leather. Feeling that we all needed a break, I took everyone to lunch that day at a little Italian place two blocks from the office. The birthday girl was made to sit at the head of the table where she presided, red-faced, lumpish, and more than usually silent. Chloe flirted extravagantly with the handsome young waiter, while Jean-Paul affected not to notice. I ordered wine and we drank a toast; then Harriet demanded a speech. “This is the nicest birthday party I ever had,” Lorna said, which saddened me because it rang true. Lorna was a lonely soul, a young Eleanor Rigby. She lived alone in a basement studio in Brooklyn and had no family to speak of. Her parents were Irish immigrants who never managed to set down roots in America. When Lorna was eighteen, they’d taken their meager savings and moved back to Ireland, leaving their only daughter behind. When she first told me her story, I’d felt a bond with her, though of course my parents hadn’t chosen to leave me, and I wasn’t eighteen when they did.

  Now Lorna hovered about me, scrutinizing everyone who came near and competing with Jean-Paul for the privilege. She had dressed with more care than usual, in a white rayon blouse and a black skirt (too long) over patterned black tights. The Coach bag would have been perfect with her outfit but was nowhere to be seen. Was it petty of me to mind? It was a beautiful bag, but one meant for everyday use, not special occasions; yet Lorna still used her battered old hobo carryall. Most likely, I thought, she’d returned the Coach bag, and how could I blame her? The money would have paid half her monthly rent. I hoped she hadn’t, though. Every woman needs a few nice things, as a hedge against despair.

  On stage, the cellist and violinist had begun tuning their instruments, while the pianist and singers arranged their song sheets. Rowena had loved Broadway musicals, the hokier the better, and Molly had chosen the songs accordingly. She found the musicians and singers, too, through a friend at Juilliard.

  Rowena’s murder, and our subsequent trip to Kansas, had taken a visible toll on Molly. She’d lost the hair that had been growing back and was thinner than ever. Friends who came up to greet us tried unsuccessfully to hide their shock. “It’ll be my turn next, that’s what they’re thinking,” Molly whispered to me between visitors.

  I, too, had seen that thought cross their faces, but it was one thing to think it, quite another to say it out loud. “Shut up, Molly! Sufficient unto the day and all that.”

  “You’re right.” She squeezed my arm apologetically, but I wouldn’t look at her. Molly fixing to die felt like a betrayal of the worst sort. She knew I couldn’t spare her. Who would I turn to for strength and comfort when their very source was gone?

  Someone was calling my name, a man’s voice, deep and diffident. I looked up through a scrim of unshed tears at Gordon Hayes. I hardly knew him in a suit; he looked like a soldier in civvies. “Didn’t mean to intrude,” he said. “Just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I hugged him, thanked him for coming, and congratulated him once again on the sale to Animal Planet. The offer had come in last Tuesday: the one bright moment in a dismal week.

  “It’s beyond anything I imagined,” he said. “I’m so grateful, Jo.”

  I beckoned my assistant, who was standing a few feet away with his back to the stage. “Much as I’d love to take the credit, it was all Jean-Paul.”

  “No, it was Jo’s idea,” Jean-Paul said. “Turning lemons into lemonade for all the writers who got those fake offers.”

  “And have you done that?” Gordon asked, shaking his hand. “For me, obviously, but for the others as well?”

  “A few. It’s still a work in progress.”

  “Strange that something good could come out of such a malicious act.”

  Gordon was innocent; he had no idea that we were here today because of my stalker.

  “Come over afterward,” I said. “I’m having a few friends. There’ll be food, and you’ll get to see Mingus.”

  Then Molly let out a whoop. I spun around. A tall man with a shiny bullet head was walking toward us, arms outstretched. I could hardly believe it. I’d talked to him just yesterday and he never said a word. “Max, what are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t not come.” He reached out with his free arm and pulled Molly and me into a group hug. I introduced him to Janet and Chris Hubbard, and he offered his condolences. Then he and Molly and I sat down together, and Molly thrust out her hand imperiously. “Pictures!”

  Baby pictures were produced and exclaimed over, and for once the object of our adoration fully deserved it. Little Molly was a black-haired, apple-cheeked beauty. Max had limited himself to a dozen or so prints out of what were undoubtedly hundreds. There were pictures of Molly lying in her crib, gazing up at a mobile; Molly cradled in Barry’s arms, drinking from a bottle; Molly napping on Max’s bare chest. “And here she is in one of those gorgeous outfits you two sent.”

  We weren’t three feet away from Rowena’s sister. I glanced back to see if she minded, but she, too, was smiling at the baby pictures. “What a beautiful little girl,” she said. “Yours, Max?”

  Max studied the pictures. “We don’t know. I think she’s the image of Barry, but he says she has my eyes.”

  “Definitely your eyes,” Molly said. “His mouth, though.”

  “I don’t actually think that’s possible.”

  “Strange things happen in centrifuges.”

  Max laughed. I’d never seen him so happy, and I wished him and Barry every joy in the world; yet I could not look at those pictures of their baby without thinking of my own, mine and Hugo’s. How do you let go of someone who never was? How do you cease mourning her? She would have been nine, if she’d been born. Or he. I never knew.

  It does no good to dwell on old sorrows, but my defenses had been battered and breached. Seeking distraction, I turned toward the podium, but the bright stage lights carried me back to another room, a cold room where I lie on a cold hard table, staring upward into the glare. Voices speak over me, some of them to me, but I have lost my French and my English, too. Inside me is an aching emptiness. I am hollowed out, a jack-o’-lantern, no woman at all.

  Now I pressed my hands to my temples and s
queezed hard. Wake up and remember, Tommy had said, but some things don’t bear remembering. Suddenly the smell of dying flowers and the press of people all around me were suffocating. I rose from my seat, meaning to seek refuge in the ladies’ room, but just then Rowena’s publisher approached the podium and asked everyone to take their seats.

  The ceremony began with music. The female singer was a pale, slender girl who looked like one deep breath would knock her over, but when she began singing the old Funny Girl classic, “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” the voice that emerged was big and brassy enough to fill the room. Molly and I exchanged smiles. Rowena would have approved.

  Next came a series of eulogies and reminiscences: from her publisher, the mayor, and a young writer whose career she’d mentored. “She changed my life forever,” the young woman said, a perfect segue to the next musical number, a duet from Wicked. When the singers reached the chorus: “Because I knew you, I have been changed for good,” tears welled in my eyes and Molly’s, too, but they were different sorts of tears. The secret inside me felt too big to contain; it swelled on the music, morphed into lyrics that played in my head. Because she knew me, her life has ended.

  When our turn came, Molly spoke for both of us, while I stood beside her like a mute. I have no idea what she said. She must have told Rowena stories, because people laughed. I looked out over a sea of familiar faces. In the second row, protectively arrayed behind my seat, sat the agency staff; even our accountant, Shelly, had come. One chair was empty: Harriet’s, I realized, and spotted her a moment later, several rows back, sitting beside Charlie Malvino. That irritating sight woke me from my stupor. They saw me looking. Charlie sketched a bow. Harriet met my gaze defiantly.

  It was nothing to me whom she chose to befriend, although what those two could have had in common was beyond me. “The Soufflé,” she used to call him; he’d called her “Old Ironsides.”

  Nearly every seat was occupied, and latecomers lined the back of the auditorium. I was surprised and touched by how many of my clients had come, given that few of them actually knew Rowena. When I first returned to the agency as a partner, I had suggested to Molly that we host an open house, so I could meet our clients and they could get to know one another.