Eight Perfect Murders(63)
“You know that list I mentioned,” I said.
“The list of murders?”
“Someone is using that list to actually kill people. I know I sound crazy. I’m not. The FBI have been talking with me. I thought it might have something to do with you. Or with Brian.”
“Why?” she said.
“Why were our coffees different? Why did you just tell me I couldn’t leave?”
She lowered her head and laughed a little. “Please, help me up. I promise I won’t kill you.”
I leaned down, and she took my hand and I helped her to her feet. “Our coffees tasted different because mine is decaf and yours was regular. And the reason I said you couldn’t leave was because I was trying to seduce you.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Brian knew, or Brian knows, I mean, that I was going to try. He’s fine with it. That part of our life is over, and now that I’m here in Boston for a while . . . He likes you.” She shrugged. “So did I.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s just ridiculous, is all. I’m trying to get you to spend the night, and you think I’m trying to kill you.”
“I haven’t been getting much sleep,” I said, suddenly embarrassed.
“Is it true? About the list?”
“It is,” I said. “Someone’s using it to kill people. And I’m pretty sure it’s someone who knows me.”
“Jesus. Are you willing to tell me about it? It really isn’t that late.”
“Not right now, okay?” I said. “I really do think I should get going. I’m sorry I pushed you. I’m sorry I . . .”
“It’s fine,” she said and hugged me, squeezing tight. I thought she’d try and kiss me, as well, but I guess that moment had passed. She pulled away and said, “Have a safe walk home. You want me to call you a cab, or anything?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “And next time we see each other, I’ll tell you more about what’s been going on.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
After the door shut behind me, I stood outside on their front stoop for a moment. The street was quiet, the snow sticking to everything. I heard the distant sound of music and saw that people were exiting a bar down on the corner. I took the three steps down to the sidewalk and turned left, aware that I was stepping on pristine snow, leaving behind fresh marks. I hadn’t gone even half a block when I heard the steps behind me, rushing, and I turned to see Tess moving fast, coatless, something in her hand. I must have flinched because she stopped, three feet away from me, and reached out with a book in her hand.
“I forgot,” she said, a little bit breathless. “Brian really wanted you to have this. It’s an ARC of his new one. Don’t tell him I told you but he’s going to dedicate it to you.”
Chapter 26
I was home an hour later, cold and damp, and out of breath from clambering up my steep street in the accumulating snow.
I shed my coat, and my shoes and socks, and lay down on the sofa in the dark. I needed to think. If nothing else, the long walk home had sobered me up, and images from the farcical night I’d just spent at Brian and Tess’s kept repeating in my mind. It now seemed ridiculous that I had accused Tess of murdering Nick Pruitt and the others from the list, but when I’d said it, when I’d been there, convinced my coffee had been poisoned, it made perfect sense. I wondered what Tess was doing right now. Had she woken Brian up, told him the story of how I’d shoved her to the ground and accused her of murder? Did she think I’d gone insane? I decided that I’d call her first thing in the morning, maybe confide in her a little more about what had been going on recently. I also thought a little bit about her offer, about the reason I was brought to their house in the first place. In different circumstances, I might be in bed with Tess Murray right now.
I sat up, and Brian Murray’s book fell off my lap and onto the floor. I turned on the lamp, then picked the book up, looking at it for the first time. The title was The Wild Air, and the cover art, like the art of so many of his covers, showed the back of Ellis Fitzgerald looking out toward some sort of landscape, or crime scene. On this cover, she was looking at a single tree on the horizon line, a flock of birds taking off from its branches, one of the birds lying on a snow-covered field. Presumably dead.
I turned to the page where the dedication usually was, and all it said was Dedication TK, editor-speak for text that wasn’t available yet. I wondered if Brian would still dedicate the book to me after he found out I thought his wife was a murderer.
The book began with a line of dialogue: “What’ll you have?” Mitch asked. Ellis hesitated. Her answer was a glass of wine—it was always a glass of wine—but this time she said, “Soda water and cranberry, thanks.”
I thought about reading the rest, but I decided I needed to get some rest instead. I put the book on the coffee table, turned off the lamp, and turned onto my side on the sofa, closing my eyes. I lasted about five minutes. My mind kept revving, going over and over the events of the past few days. Then I remembered the message I’d left on Duckburg trying to reconnect with Charlie and wondered if I had a response. I went and got my laptop, bringing it back to the sofa, and logged on under Farley Walker, my new alias. A blue dot indicated that I’d received a response to my latest message. I clicked through and read it: Hello, old friend was all it said.