Eight Perfect Murders(59)
“It’s a good book.”
“Thanks for that, Mal,” he said.
“You never wanted to write another one in the same vein? Another Ellis revenge book?”
“Nah, not really. Thing is, you only need to do it once, and then the reader knows that Ellis has this side to her. But if every time she lost someone she loved, she went on some kind of killing spree, then she’d be someone else. No, it only happens once. She gets broken. She gets her revenge, and she knows she can never let that side of her take over again. I did, however, write a book without her once, did I ever tell you about that?”
He had, of course, but I told him that I didn’t think so.
“Yeah, I wrote a standalone. This was a couple of years after Sticking Place, I think. It was another revenge book but with a guy this time. South Boston cop whose wife gets raped and murdered by a bunch of Irish thugs. He tracks ’em down and takes them all out. I wrote it in about two weeks, read it over, and realized I’d basically rewritten Sticking Place. So I stuck it in my drawer and forgot about it.”
“You still have it?”
“Jesus,” he said, scratching the side of his rubbery nose. “That’s when I was living with Mary out in Newton so who knows if it survived the move. But, yeah, I don’t remember throwing it out so it’s around here somewhere.”
“You talking about Mary?” Tess said, coming into the room. She was no longer wearing the apron, and it looked as though she’d put on some makeup.
“Yeah, the good old days,” Brian said. “Dinner ready?”
“Dinner’s ready.”
We went down to the ground floor and ate by candlelight at the dining room table nestled in front of the bay window that looked out onto the street. Humphrey the dog had been given some sort of treat and was busy chewing on it from his dog bed in the corner. Tess had made braised short ribs, and between the three of us we went through three bottles of wine before she brought out dessert, a clementine tart.
“Did you make this?” I said.
“God, no. I cook, but I don’t bake. Who wants port?”
“We don’t,” Brian said, looking at me. “Let’s have some of that whiskey I was talking about earlier. The Talisker.”
“You can have that,” Tess said. “I’ll have port.”
“Can I get it for you?” I said and stood up, banging my thigh a little against the edge of the table.
“Thank you, Mal, that would be lovely. There’s port down in our cellar. Bri, tell him which bottle he should grab. And the whiskey’s upstairs, I think.”
I was given my instructions and went down into the basement first to look for the port. I’d never been down there before; it was semifinished, the walls Sheetrocked, but the floor just poured cement. Along one wall was an enormous bookcase. I went over to look at it and found that it was entirely filled with books by Brian Murray, all the various versions, including foreign editions, of his Ellis Fitzgerald series. I stood, staring at them for a moment, aware that I’d had far too much to drink at dinner. The dim light of the basement made it feel like I was in a dream. Conversation at dinner had been entertaining, Tess and Brian using me as an audience for their slightly hostile, slightly flirty back-and-forth insults. But as I swayed in front of the bookshelf, holding what looked to be a Russian paperback edition of To Play the Villain, I kept thinking back to what Brian and I had talked about over drinks, about how much he clearly enjoyed writing his violent revenge novels. How he’d written a second one and never published it. I wanted to get back to that conversation.
The other side of the basement was filled with floor-to-ceiling wine racks. Brian had told me to look for a bottle of Taylor Fladgate Tawny Port that should be in the upper right. I pulled several bottles out before I found the right one and brought it back upstairs and into the kitchen, where Tess was piling dishes in their enormous sink.
“For you,” I said.
I was not entirely surprised when, after she took the bottle, she thanked me, then placed it on the counter and pulled me in for a hug. “So nice to have you here, Mal,” she said, “I hope you’re having fun, too.”
“Of course,” I said.
She placed a hand along my jawline and told me how sweet I was. “Go get Brian his whiskey before he sobers up. I’ll open the port.”
I went up the stairs and into the living room. All that remained of the fire was a few smoldering embers in a pile of ash. The room was still warm. I walked to the liquor cabinet, crouched down, and opened it. Inside there were about a dozen bottles, all whiskey as far as I could tell. I found the Talisker and pulled it out. Behind it was a triangular bottle of whiskey called Dimple Pinch. It was the same scotch that had been lying at the feet of Nick Pruitt. I was sure of it. The shape of the bottle was so unique—three-sided and each side dented in a little. Thin wire encased the bottle. I dug further into the cabinet and found there were two more bottles of the same scotch, each unopened. This was probably Brian’s midweek scotch, the one he put in his decanter on top of the cabinet.
I stood, still holding the Talisker, wishing I was less drunk, wishing I could figure out exactly what to do next. I heard someone enter the room, but it was only Humphrey, breathing heavily, bounding toward the cheese and crackers still on the coffee table.