Murder Takes the High Road(61)
As Vanessa brought the scene to its inevitable close, Bertie gasped, “Is it done yet? Is it nearly done?”
Vanessa gave a short laugh. “Yes. The completed manuscript is now with my publisher.” She sat up straighter and placed her hands on the printed pages. “That seems to be our cue to open the floor to questions.”
Bertie blushed and Edie nudged her in the ribs.
“Where do you get your ideas?” Nedda asked at once.
“Everywhere. From the news, from dreams, from the classics and the comics.”
“Do you agree with the advice to write what you know?” Yvonne asked.
“I agree entirely. I also believe that is one of the most misunderstood and misinterpreted bits of writing advice ever given.”
Before she had a chance to expand on the thought, Sally asked, “Have you ever thought of co-writing?”
Vanessa drawled, “You may have heard. I don’t play well with others.”
Nervous laughter followed.
Jim asked, “Do you think more crimes are committed for money or love?”
“I think most crimes, including murders, are committed for gain, be it financial gain or emotional gain. Jealousy is a powerful motivator. In my opinion, all emotion is destructive, but jealousy is perhaps the most destructive emotion.”
All emotion was destructive? That was interesting. I’d have liked to hear her expand on that.
Nedda asked, “I read that you love to play practical jokes.”
“You’ve seen the proof for yourself.”
More nervous laughter—and a few sheepish glances. John grunted.
I said, “You seem to write about two types of crimes. Serial killers who stalk multiple victims or people who kill on impulse. What you don’t ever seem to explore are crimes where someone deliberately plots to kill one particular person, be it for gain or lust or whatever. Is that conscious?”
She tilted her head as though to get a better view of me. “Carter, is it?”
I nodded.
“Carter, I can’t say that I consciously set out to write about one type of crime over the other. I suppose there are degrees of wickedness. The serial killer is insane, regardless of legal definition. The person who kills on impulse is also insane, but only for a brief moment in time—unless there is a successful outcome to their act of violence. In that case, there’s a great likelihood the madness will take permanent hold.”
I thought of Vance that day on the road in Tyndrum. “Do you think everyone is capable of that kind of violent impulse?”
She gave a strange smile. “Are you asking whether I believe I’m a moral anomaly?”
Into the stark silence that followed, the fire popped in the grate at the far end of the room.
“I wasn’t thinking of you,” I said honestly, “but I guess that’s the perfect example.”
Vanessa’s laugh was friendlier that time. “We need to chat, you and I. In answer to your question, yes. I believe every one of us is capable of violent impulse, and whether we give in to it on any chosen day can depend on something as trivial as a bad night’s sleep or what we had for breakfast.”
“What did you have for breakfast that day you killed the Kresley kid?” John’s voice was as hard and flat as a smack.
There were several gasps. I stared at John’s profile. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t look at anyone but Vanessa. Despite the half smile, he looked hard and dangerous and unfamiliar.
Vanessa continued to sit before us, also smiling, very cool. But then it wouldn’t have been the first time she had been confronted with such a question. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
No one moved. I’m not sure anyone so much as drew a breath. She rose unhurriedly. “Well, it’s been a long day and we don’t want to use up all our questions on the first night, do we?”
At once, every one snapped back into life, talking, getting to their feet and moving toward the door, throwing curious glances at Vanessa, who walked to the far end of the room. A few tentative thank-yous were thrown in her direction.
Alison and Elizabeth Ogilvie ushered us out with bright good night and sleep tights.
When I looked back one final time, Vanessa was standing motionless, staring into the fire.
Chapter Twenty
“Way to break up a party,” I said to John when we got back to the privacy of our room. I was trying to keep it light, but I was angry.
He gave me a dark, impatient look and pulled his white sweater over his head.
“You know, if you can’t get some professional distance, maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
His voice was muffled through the folds of sweater. “I don’t have a choice.”
It didn’t do anything to defuse my anger. “Well, you have a choice in how you behave once you’re here. You don’t have the right to come to her home, sit at her table, sleep beneath her roof, and insult her like that.”
He yanked the sweater off, tossed it in the general direction of his suitcase, and unbuttoned his shirt. “I’m sorry I ruined your evening, but listening to that woman joke about murdering someone was more than I could take.”
“She wasn’t—” I stopped. “Look, people cope in different ways. I think she’s learned to cope by—”