Friends Like These(15)

“Maybe you and I should talk first, Mr. Cheung? Given that this is your house,” I suggest. “Out in the other room.”

“You’re separating us?” Stephanie asks.

“Procedure,” I say. “That a problem?”

“It’s not a problem at all,” Maeve says, her tone much softer. “We’re just upset. And Stephanie is a lawyer. She questions everything. She can’t help it.” A lawyer. Of course she is.

“Understood.” I look over at Jonathan and motion toward the dining room. “Maybe out there?”

“Um, yeah, sure.” Jonathan rubs his hands on his pants legs. Nervous, for sure. Could be nothing. Could be the thing.

I follow Jonathan out into the dining room, which has one of those absurdly long tables with plank benches, the kind people pay extra for because they look worn. Jonathan sits on the near side of the table, threading his legs through the long bench as I walk around to the other side. His shoulders are still hunched, eyes heavy under that stupid beanie.

“So when’s the wedding?” I ask as I sit.

Jonathan looks up like he’s got no clue what I’m talking about.

“Sorry, I thought you said this was your bachelor party? That usually suggests a wedding.”

Jonathan closes his eyes. “Right, of course, yeah. This has all just been . . .” He presses his lips together. “In May or June. We haven’t set an exact date.”

“Your house is amazing, by the way.” I gesture to the huge chandelier, an elaborate architectural formation of crystals that somehow manages to be hip and not fussy. “Looks like a real labor of love.”

“Yeah, we, um— we renovated the whole place.” Jonathan’s face tightens as he looks up at the chandelier. “My, um, fiancé, Peter, did most of the work. He has a much better eye for those kinds of things, and a lot more patience. We bought the place six months ago. The transformation since then has been— it’s unrecognizable. For months, Peter was up here a lot.” He hesitates. “Days and days at a time.”

Jonathan sounds tense now. Maybe he expects me to care that his fiancé is a man? I don’t, but it’s fair to wonder. We’re only two hours from New York City, but there are some deep pockets of small-mindedness in the Catskills— homophobia, racism, sexism. Even in the department, starting at the top with Chief Seldon, who talks nonstop about the “way things used to be”— code for very male and very white and extremely heterosexual. Seldon’s beloved in town, though. Chief of police for fifteen years, he’s flyby charming with a booming laugh, and he’s married to a gorgeous young wife with twin girls and two sons, adopted from Haiti and Uganda respectively, one of whom has special needs. Taken together, it’s qualified Seldon for Kaaterskill sainthood.

“How did you end up with a house here, if you don’t mind my asking? I’ve lived in this area most of my life, so I’m partial. But I always wonder how people from the city”— people like you with money— “find this area. We’re not exactly the Hamptons.”

“Peter and I considered the Hamptons. But that’s not my speed. Peter has friends who bought a house up here.”

“Is Peter here?” I ask.

Jonathan shakes his head. “No.” He leans forward a little like he might elaborate. I see in his face the precise moment he decides not to. He rubs a hand over his forehead instead, pushing his hat up just enough to reveal the bottom edge of what appears to be a large bruise.

“That looks painful.” I point to his head.

“Oh, yeah.” Jonathan tugs the hat back down. A hat that now seems not just stupid-looking but also suspicious. “There’s a cabinet above the dishwasher,” he explains. “It’s, you know, in the exact wrong spot.”

Our eyes met. “Ouch,” I say after a long beat. I’m guessing either the fiancé hits him or that bump on his head has something to do with our dead guy at the accident scene. “So the five of you were up here for the weekend?”

“Yes,” Jonathan says. “Wait, I mean no.”

“No?”

“There were six of us at first, but Finch left.”

“His name is Finch?” These weekenders sure do know how to be hateable.

“Yeah, he’s one of Keith’s clients.”

“Keith’s a lawyer, too?”

“No, no. He owns a gallery. Finch is one of the artists he represents. Client is the wrong word. Keith is always telling me that. Finch kind of invited himself to come along.”

“You don’t sound happy about that.”

“It’s just that the rest of us are old friends,” Jonathan says. “We went to college together. Finch is always trying to insert himself into our group. And he’s just really— well, he’s a big personality. Opinionated. And the rest of us are— it’s not the best fit, that’s all.”

“When did he leave?” I ask.

“In the morning, yesterday. Early. I don’t know exactly what time.”

“And why did he leave?”

“I don’t exactly know that either,” Jonathan says. “But he and Keith were having an issue, work-related. Apparently Finch was angry about some show in London. I didn’t even know that until a couple minutes ago. Stephanie told me. Honestly, we were just glad when he was gone.”