Eight Perfect Murders(43)

Brian was smiling. “She was all right, actually. I remember her now. Told me once her favorite writer was James Crumley, so I figured she couldn’t be all bad. She moved to Rockland, in Maine, didn’t she?”

“How’d you know that?”

“Emily, probably, last time I did a shift at Old Devils. She keeps track of all the problem customers for me.”

“Huh,” I said, slightly annoyed that Brian, who saw Emily probably every three months, seemed to have a better relationship with her than I did.

Tess walked me out. I wondered why, but when we got to the sidewalk, she said, “This stupid accident has changed him completely. He’s terrified of everything now. Walking. Getting out of bed. Doing anything. I can stay with him but not forever. I’ve got the store in Florida and I just can’t deal with him all the time, and I’m not sure he can deal with me.”

“Maybe you should get some help?”

“Exactly. That’s what I’ve told him a hundred times, but he doesn’t want to hear it. Look, if we have you over for dinner some night, will you bring it up for me? Maybe if he hears it from someone else . . .”

“Sure,” I said.

“Thanks, Mal. I appreciate it. Don’t get me wrong, I’d do absolutely anything for Brian, and he’d do absolutely anything for me, but helping him get out of a bathtub was not part of the deal.” She pushed a strand of her long dark hair behind one of her ears, then leaned in and kissed me on the lips before pulling me in for a hug. She’d done this before, even in front of Brian, who never seemed to mind.

Tess shivered in my arms as we hugged. “How do you stand this weather?” she said as she released me. Walking home I could smell her on my skin. A lemony perfume and the smell of olives from her martini.

I ate cereal for dinner that night, read some more of The Secret History, and waited for Gwen to get in touch. I sent her one more text before going to sleep, saying that I hoped everything was all right. And it was her face I thought of as I lay in bed, not my wife’s.





Chapter 18




The door buzzer went off at just past eight the following morning. I was up already and dressed, starting to brew some coffee.

I pressed the intercom and a male voice came over, saying that his name was Agent Berry and asking if he could come up. In the interval it took for the two sets of footsteps to loudly climb the stairs I had enough time to think about what to do when the questions came. I made several quick assumptions. They were here either to arrest me, or to question me about the death of Eric Atwell or Norman Chaney or both. The reason Gwen hadn’t returned my messages the day before was because I had become a suspect in a homicide.

I went to my door and opened it. Agent Berry was tall and stoop shouldered, dressed in a pin-striped suit. He showed his FBI identification, reintroduced himself, and said he had come up from the New Haven office and had a few questions. Behind him stood a much shorter woman, also in a suit. He introduced her as Agent Perez from the Boston office. I invited them both in, said that I was about to make coffee, and asked if they wanted some. Agent Berry said he wouldn’t mind. Agent Perez, who was now looking out the window, said nothing.

I started the coffee and felt surprisingly calm. All the adrenaline that had flooded through me after the buzzer sounded had dissipated with their arrival. I was light, almost spacey, as I walked the short distance to the chair and directed them to the sofa.

Agent Berry adjusted his suit pants above the knees before sitting down. He had enormous hands, spotted with age, and a large, elongated head with heavy jowls. He cleared his throat and said, “I was hoping you’d be able to shed some light on your relationship with Gwen Mulvey.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Can you tell us when you first met her?”

“Sure,” I said. “She called me at the bookstore—at Old Devils, where I work—last Thursday and asked if she could come in and ask some questions. Is she all right?”

“What were the questions she wanted to ask you?” he said. Agent Perez still hadn’t spoken, but she had pulled out a small spiral-bound notebook and had uncapped a pen.

“She had questions about a list I’d made, a blog post from several years ago.”

Berry pulled out his own notebook and peered down at it. “Called ‘Eight Perfect Murders’?” I could hear what sounded like disdain in his voice.

“That’s right,” I said.

“And what were her questions related to?”

I was under the impression that they already knew all about the conversation Gwen and I had had but decided to tell them anything they wanted to know. Well, anything that I’d already told Gwen. So, I began, explaining how Agent Mulvey had noticed a connection between the list I’d written in 2004 and several recent crimes. I mentioned how at first, I’d considered the connection to be dubious, probably coincidental, but how we’d found the eight books from my list at Elaine Johnson’s house in Rockland.

“Did it strike you as odd that Agent Mulvey asked you to accompany her on official FBI business? To visit the scene of a possible crime?” This question came from Agent Perez, the first words I’d heard her speak. She leaned forward as she spoke them, the buttons of her suit jacket straining a little as though she’d recently gained weight. She couldn’t have been much older than thirty, with short black hair and a round face dominated by large eyes and thick brows.