Death of a Wandering Wolf

by Julia Buckley

  Bob’s wife, Carol, leaned forward and pointed her fork at Margie. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Grace Kelly?”

  Margie blushed and said no.

  “Well, you do,” Carol insisted. “Here, would anyone like the bowl of mostaciolli?”

  “I’ll take it,” Domo said. “I was just saying that Margie looked like Grace Kelly, wasn’t I, Hana? I’m a fan of her movies. Rear Window is a favorite.”

  Domo was a smooth one. Soon Bob and Carol were his best friends, and they chatted while the rest of us listened and passed around large bowls of pasta, chicken, beef, mashed potatoes, and rolls.

  Erik reappeared, bending to whisper an apology in my ear. “Did you get it all down?” I asked.

  “I think so. I have follow-up questions, though.”

  “Eat some dinner first.” I handed him the bowl of potatoes, and he scooped some onto his plate. He started to say something, but someone on the dais at the front of the room tapped a microphone. A man in a tuxedo stood there, looking almost like the ringmaster at a circus.

  “Good evening, everyone! I’m Trent Holloway, and I’m your master of ceremonies for this evening. I hope you’re all enjoying our annual autumn ball!”

  People clapped politely. Trent continued, “We worked hard this year, not only to make the room look this beautiful”—some more applause—“but also to pay special tribute to a friend of Riverwood who was taken from us too soon. So this evening’s festivities are held in honor of William Kodaly. Will, we drink to you.” He held up a glass, as did everyone in the suddenly quiet room. Then we all drank in honor of the man I had met only once.

  Trent was talking again. “We’ll have a special tribute to Will later tonight. He was a renowned artist, and he was generous to this town, sharing his time and talent with us on more than one occasion. His famous mural at the chamber of commerce is a testament to his talent. Several of his fellow artists are here to tell you a bit more about him, including Sofia Kálmar, another of Riverwood’s artistic geniuses.

  “But more about that later. Right now, while you’re enjoying that delicious meal, I’ll briefly tell you about all the goodies we have for you at the silent auction table. Proceeds benefit several local charities and help to support small business endeavors in Riverwood.”

  He launched into a description of gifts, from Eduardo’s ruby earrings to time-shares in Colorado to season tickets to the Chicago Cubs. At first, when the bad feeling started, I thought that I just found Trent irritating. But the feeling grew, and the room seemed less in focus, and I realized that I was experiencing a phenomenon I’d known only once before, and which I’d dubbed “the misery.” A general feeling of wrongness, of evil, had permeated either the room or me or both. I felt sick with it.

  “Erik,” I whispered.

  “Hmm?” He was sawing away at a piece of beef, looking watchful but serene.

  “Something’s wrong. I feel it the way I felt it at the tea house last month, right before Ava was killed.”

  His eyes widened and his head swiveled, scanning the room. He set down his fork and said, “I’m going to have a look around. Maybe call Greg as backup, just in case. He trusts your instincts. He’s fascinated by them, actually.”

  I managed a smile. Erik touched my hand and walked away. Domo looked up from his pasta. “Where’s he going?”

  “Just stretching his legs. He gets restless,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted. To my own ears my voice had a dead quality. Only Katie seemed to notice; she studied me with a frown.

  And then, as strangely as the feeling had emerged, it vanished, and the table glowed again with cheery Halloween light, the women glimmered anew in their soft and glittery dresses, and Katie’s concern was something I could wave off with a casual hand. “Nothing,” I said to her unspoken question. “I was feeling kind of sick, but it went away.”

  Her worried look remained for a while, but eventually Eduardo asked some question that drew her attention, and she grew animated again.

  By the time they brought ice cream in little dishes shaped like skulls, we were a festive and merry table, and I was enjoying myself.

  * * *

  Erik Wolf wasn’t a particularly good dancer, nor was I, but we had fun on the dance floor, jumping around to some Beatles covers done by the live band. When they finished their Beatles trio with “And I Love Her,” I was relieved to tuck against Erik’s chest and move barely at all, just sort of shifting my weight from foot to foot.

  “Any more feelings since dinner?” he murmured in my ear.

  “No. I don’t know what that was. It was weird, I’ll tell you that. And it was real. But I can’t trace it to anything.”

  “Greg is going to come by later, just sort of circle the building a few times. I want to have eyes outside.”

  “Okay. Nobody inside looks particularly threatening.”

  “No.” His chin had been resting on my head, but now he lifted it and glanced around. I looked with him: some tipsy people, laughing in one corner. A huge cluster of bodies on the dance floor, and another crowd milling around the silent auction tables. Some people still at their tables, chatting or eating or looking at their phones. Many of the dancers were edging toward the gazebo.

  “Before we leave, we have to dance in there,” I said, tipping my head toward the gazebo.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Because it’s dimly lit and full of starlight, and it makes people fall in love.”

  “That was poetic, Hana. But I don’t need the starlight room. I’m already in love with you.”

  I tripped and stepped on his toe, and he said, “Ow.”

  I stared up at him, reading his face.

  “Did I say that too soon?” he said.

  The band moved on to Elvis and a raucous “Jailhouse Rock.”

  Katie and Eduardo practically crashed into us. “Hey!” Katie said. “We just bid one hundred dollars on a weekend at a Colorado time-share. If we win, you guys are going with us.”

  I said, “That sounds great,” and gave a thumbs-up, drowned out by the music.

  Erik’s phone must have buzzed in his pocket. He looked at it now with some concern, and then he put his mouth by my ear. “Greg’s outside. I’ll be right back.”

  He left the room and I floated back to our table, where Domo was clearly trying to scandalize Margie with whatever he was whispering to her. She was blushing and smiling like an innocent.

  I sat down at the table and Domo said, “Hey, there’s Ms. Derrien. Let me grab her.” He jumped up and returned with my high school English teacher, who still looked pretty “hot” in a long black dress with a sequined bodice. She was probably in her mid-forties now, but she was one of those women who looked youthful and probably would do so well into old age.

  “Hello, Hana,” she said, reaching out to shake my hand. “How’s my Shakespeare lover doing these days?”

  “Not bad,” I said. “I still love Shakespeare, and I still annoy people by quoting him to them.”

  She smiled, sitting down in the empty chair beside me. “And what quote would suit this noble assemblage?” She waved an ironic hand at the undulating dancers.

  A burst of bad feeling made me say, “‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’”

  She laughed. “Can’t say that I disagree. No less than three men have implied ignoble intentions toward me this evening.”

  “I hope your husband put them in their place.”

  Her nose wrinkled in a rueful expression. “Sadly, he’s at a conference in Indianapolis this weekend, so he cannot be my bold protector.”

  Erik returned and sat across from us.

  Domo said, “Erik Wolf, this is Amber Derrien, our former teacher and current friend.”

  Erik stood up and reached across the table to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  �
��You, too. And you’re here with—?”

  “Hana,” said Erik.

  “And what do you do, Erik?”

  “I’m a detective with the Riverwood Police.”

  Perhaps it was a trick of the light that Ms. Derrien’s skin seemed to grow pale at his words. Then she pointed at him. “You investigated that woman’s death last month. I saw you on television.”

  “Yes. I’m investigating the death of William Kodaly, as well.”

  “Oh. Poor Will,” she said with genuine regret. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her hair, with just a hint of gray, was swept up in an elegant bun that had been her preferred hairstyle even when I was in school.

  “I understand you dated Will Kodaly,” Erik said, his gaze directed at Ms. Derrien.

  Her eyes widened. “Wow, word travels fast, huh? Yeah, I did. Brad and I had separated, and I met Will at an art fair last summer. We hit it off and started seeing each other. He was fun, really fun. And romantic.” She shrugged. Her hands were in her lap, pulling at each other. “It didn’t last. And I suppose I was just using Will as a way to avoid addressing the problems in my marriage. Brad had gotten involved with Sofia, I suppose you heard that, too?”

  Erik nodded. “I had heard that. And how was it that you ended up back together?”

  She shrugged. “Sofia was losing interest in Brad. She had met someone new, I think. You’ll have to ask her. He was drowning his sorrows at the Hardigan Pub one night, and I had gone there to do the same thing.” She laughed without mirth. “Relationships ebb and flow, that’s all I can tell you. They ebb and flow. Will and I had ebbed, and that night Brad and I started to flow again. And now we’re working things out.”

  A man loomed up behind her and put his hands over her eyes. “Guess who?” he asked.

  I exchanged an irritated glance with Domo. What was this guy, in third grade?

  Amber wasn’t amused, either. “I have no idea,” she said, not playing his stupid game.

  He took his hands away; she turned and said, “Phil!” and suddenly his dumbness was forgiven as Amber hugged him. “Oh, everyone, this is Phil Drungill. We used to teach together at Arwell Academy, about a million years ago!” She turned back to him. “I can’t believe you’re here! I thought you lived in Chicago.”

  “Come over to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink and tell you all about it.”

  “In a minute,” she said. “I’ll meet you there—I’m just finishing with my friends here.”

  Phil nodded, sent a vague wave to us, and sauntered off. Amber really did lure the men.

  She turned back to us. “Sorry about that. It’s just—unbelievable to see him, after all these years.” She homed in on Erik. “So it must be a tough job, trying to catch a murderer.”

  Erik nodded.

  Ms. Derrien pointed at my brother. “Domo and I share a favorite book: Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Have you read it?”

  Erik shook his head. “I can’t say that I have.”

  “You’ve got to read it, man,” Domo said in that annoying voice that men use when they’re bonding. “It’s intense.”

  Ms. Derrien went into English teacher mode. “It’s a fascinating study, not just of the psychology of guilt but of the psychology of detection. There’s this amazing police detective, Porfiry Petrovich, who solves the case mainly through psychological profiling. I just wonder how much of that you have to do.”

  “A fair amount,” Erik said. “It’s become a sophisticated process.”

  The band started singing “Dancing Queen.” My feet tapped under the table.

  Amber’s eyes floated toward the bar. “Well, anyway. I hope you find him soon and poor Will can rest in peace. My dear friend Will.”

  Erik said, “Did you feel angry at him when he left?”

  Her eyes, like those of Will’s two other lovers, were sad. “He didn’t leave, Detective Wolf.” She sent a quick, glittering glance around the table. “I did.”

  Erik processed this while the female vocalist on the stage did a creditable Agnetha Fältskog.

  Domo said, “I’m glad you and your husband have worked things out. Maybe you should text him and tell him that guys are hitting on you.”

  She let out a watery laugh. “I may just do that. But first I’ll have a drink with Phil, to celebrate old times.” She stood up and waved to everyone, touched me briefly on the arm, and glimmered away in her sequined gown.

  On the stage the band said they were taking a break, and a group of people approached the microphone. Sofia stepped forward. “We hope you’re all enjoying the dance and this festive prelude to Halloween. Earlier we paid tribute to Will Kodaly, our friend and mentor, and we artists especially can credit him as someone who shaped the way we see the world. This is one of two paintings I did of Will; I tried to capture his spirit, and I like to think I have done so.”

  A painting of Kodaly was projected on a big screen behind the stage: a powerful image of him laughing, head thrown back, captured in bold, minimalist strokes. It was simple and beautiful; Sofia had talent.

  She spoke a bit more about Kodaly, about the first time she met him at an artists’ retreat, about his gentle humor and his loyalty. “And now,” she said, “several Riverwood artists will tell you what Will Kodaly taught them about art. While they share their stories, please look at the screen to see some of Will Kodaly’s work. One of his pieces, called Summer Wheat, is available in today’s silent auction.” She stepped back, looking relieved, and another artist came to the microphone, a young man with a shock of dark hair. I tuned him out and focused on the images that flashed behind him. I stole a glance at Erik and saw that he, too, was looking carefully.

  There were beautiful landscapes, detailed portraits, whimsical still lifes. There seemed to be nothing Kodaly couldn’t do. I recognized one of the paintings Katie had bought, along with the one of Cassandra standing at the fence. Magdalena’s Eyes came a few slides later; it was even more striking on a large screen: my mother’s eyes, made luminous and beautiful by the hand of a talented man. The crowd let out a little “ahhh” and I felt a burst of pride in my mother. And then, shocking and surprising me, came an image called Mother and Child Reunion. A baby’s head was visible from behind, held in someone’s arms. Past the child was the focal point: the face of a woman running toward him, her mouth wide with joy, her hands reaching. It was a picture of euphoria and gladness. “Oh, Henrik,” I whispered. The final image was Kodaly’s masterwork, Light Touches the Valley, and the crowd burst into spontaneous applause even as my eyes filled with tears.

  A thing of beauty is a joy forever, wrote Keats, and here was Kodaly, alive with us through his work. The painting’s power lay in its magical use of light; in fact, it seemed to me that only someone with supernatural guidance could do the things Kodaly did on a canvas.

  After the final artist spoke her words about Kodaly’s influence, the band came back and sang “I Will Remember You,” and then everyone clapped, and some cried, and the screen went dark.

  The band introduced their second set, and dancers swarmed the floor. Margie dragged Domo out to the gazebo, and Katie and Eduardo were nowhere to be found. Erik, still across the table, came to sit by my side. “Want to dance?”

  I nodded. “Just a couple more, and then we can go, if you want. I know you have to check in with Greg.”

  “Right now, I’m all yours.” He stood up and held out his hand. By the time we reached the gazebo, illuminated with wall sconces and starlight, the band had started to play “The Way You Look Tonight.” Erik led me into the darkened room and pulled me against him, and we did our minimal slow dancing, our eyes locked on each other. The song was so romantic that I felt it wrapping around me, making me weak in a good way.

  Erik put his mouth against my ear and sang some of the lyrics. I had never heard him sing, but he was good. “You should sing all the time,
” I said.

  He lifted his head and looked down at me. “I know you heard what I said before,” he said. “Should I be worried that you’re pretending you didn’t?”

  I smiled. “I’m not pretending, I’m savoring.” I tripped again, and this time I was the one who said “ow.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I hate high heels. I think I’ve about had enough of these. Let’s go by the window. There are some little benches there, and I can take off these darn—shoot.” My ankle twisted, and I lunged painfully forward. I felt a sudden pain on top of my left shoulder. “Oh no! I think I just burst a spaghetti strap,” I moaned. “Or a bee stung me,” I joked.

  Erik bent to look at my dress. “It’s not—” he said, and then everything went into slow motion.

  I felt the misery rise up fast, like a floodwater, even as Erik’s eyes widened with horror and his head whipped sidewise to study the window, where a spiderweb of cracks had appeared. Then he was dragging me, half carrying me, out of the room. My shoes fell off and my dress snagged on a nail; I felt rather than heard it tearing. He pushed me down against an inside wall and said, “Stay there. Stay there, Hana!”

  Then he was holding his ID in the air and saying, “Police! I need everyone to leave the gazebo now.”

  Someone screamed, and a stampede of feet ran by me as I sat, dazed, on the floor. I put a hand to my shoulder and my fingers came back covered in blood. Erik rushed past, his gun in one hand and pointed down, his phone in his other hand and pressed against his ear; he was talking rapidly into the phone and alternately shouting instructions to the people in the room.

  Finally, he went to the microphone and said, “Attention, please. I’m Detective Erik Wolf with the Riverwood PD. This building is on a soft lockdown until I can determine what is going on outside. Please do not leave the building or go into the gazebo until the police have determined the area is safe. Thank you.”

  He stepped down and spoke to Domo, who stood with Margie near the stage. Erik pointed at me and then disappeared. Domo came running, grabbing a clean napkin from one of the tables on the way. He said that the sight of me terrified him because the bodice of my dress was covered in blood, as was my left cheek and the hand that I held out to him, but I was laughing, chortling like a madwoman, although no one could hear me in the chaos of that room.