Eight Perfect Murders(13)

“I have a confession to make,” I said and watched as Agent Mulvey’s cheeks reddened in anticipation. “I haven’t actually ever seen the play, or even read it. But I have seen the movie and I’m pretty sure that it’s very faithful. Anyway, I’m embarrassed.”

“You should be,” she said, but laughed. Her face was no longer red.

“So, in the movie, all I can actually talk about,” I said, “the victim dies of a heart attack when she sees a man she thinks is dead loom up in her bedroom and murder her husband. Was Elaine Johnson found dead in her bedroom?”

“I’ll have to check,” she said. “I can’t remember offhand. You know, when you said you had a confession, I thought you were going to say something else.”

“You thought I was going to confess to being Charlie,” I said, in what I hoped was a flippant way.

“No,” she said. “I thought you were going to confess to me that you knew Elaine Johnson.”





Chapter 6




I hesitated, then said, “Is she the same Elaine Johnson who used to live in Boston?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then I did know her. Not well, but she used to come into the bookstore all the time, and she used to come to author readings.”

“You didn’t want to tell me this yesterday afternoon?”

“Honestly, it didn’t occur to me that it was the same person. The name rang a bell but it’s a common name.”

“Okay,” she said, but her eyes didn’t quite meet mine. “What was she like, Elaine Johnson?”

I pretended to think, just to buy a little time, but the truth was, Elaine was memorable. She had seriously thick glasses—I think you’d call them coke bottles—and thinning hair, and she always wore what appeared to be handmade sweaters, even in summertime, but none of that was what had made her memorable. She was memorable because she was one of those people who take advantage of the vulnerable nature of retail employees, by cornering them and subjecting them to endless monologues, more like diatribes, on her favorite subjects. Elaine’s favorite subject was crime writers—who was a genius, who was merely good, and who was bad (“fucking atrocious” was the phrase she generally used)—and she used to come into the store every day and corner whatever employee she encountered first. It was exhausting, and annoying, but we all figured out the best way to deal with her, which was to continue working while she talked, give her about ten minutes, then tell her, in no uncertain terms, that her time was up. It sounds rude, but the thing is, Elaine Johnson was rude, herself. She said outrageous things about the authors she didn’t like. She was casually racist, openly homophobic, and, surprisingly, loved to comment on other people’s appearances, despite her own. I think anyone who works in a bookstore, or any store probably, is used to dealing with difficult customers, including difficult customers who come in every day. The thing about Elaine Johnson was that she also showed up at all our author readings, and she was always the first to raise her hand, asking a question that subtly, or not so subtly, insulted the poor author onstage. We would always warn the authors in advance, but we’d also mention that she always bought a copy of the book to get it autographed, even when they were, according to her, “a no-talent fraud.” Most authors, I find, are willing to put up with an asshole if it means a book sale, especially a hardcover book sale.

I knew that Elaine Johnson had moved to Rockland, Maine, because she told us about the move on a daily basis for about a year before it happened. Her sister had died and left her a house. On the day she finally left, my employees and I went out for a celebratory drink.

“She was pretty abrasive,” I said to Agent Mulvey. “She came to the store every day and cornered one of us to talk about the book she was reading. I remember now that she did move to Maine, but I didn’t connect the name when you said it. I just knew her as Elaine, not Elaine Johnson.”

“Did she deserve to die?” she asked.

I raised my eyebrows. “Did she deserve to die? Are you asking me personally? No, of course not.”

“No, sorry. I mean, you said she was an abrasive personality. It’s clear, at least to me, that all the victims so far have been less than likable people. Did she fall into the category?”

“She was definitely not likable. She told me once that lesbians made terrible writers because they didn’t spend enough time with men, who had superior intellects.”

“Oh.”

“She used to say stuff just to get a rise, I think. Ultimately, she was sad and lonely, more so than a terrible person.”

“Did you know she had a weak heart?”

After her surgery, I remember her pulling down the neck of her pilly sweater to show me the puckered scar on her wrinkled chest. I remember saying, “Please don’t ever show that to me again,” which got a laugh. Sometimes I thought that Elaine Johnson’s act was just that, an act, and what she really craved was people being rude to her back.

“It rings a bell,” I said to Agent Mulvey. “I remember there was a time when she didn’t come in to the store—we were all thrilled—but then she started to come back. I remember it was medical.”

The waiter had sidled over. Agent Mulvey’s plate was spotless, and my eggs were untouched. He asked if everything was okay.