Eight Perfect Murders(65)

My body ached, and I forced myself to loosen my grip on the steering wheel. The side street I was on hadn’t been plowed recently, and my wheels were spinning as I whipped along. As soon as I could I turned right then right again, hoping that would put me on the Murrays’ side street. It looked right, even though all the residential streets in the South End looked alike to me. I slowed down, peering out my window to see if I could pick out the Murrays’ house, with its blue door. I was about three-quarters down the street when I spotted it. Unlike most of the brick town houses, light glowed still from its street-facing windows. I tried not to think what that might mean, what I might find when I entered the house.

I parked in front of a hydrant, killed the engine, and stepped out of the car into three inches of icy slush. As I crossed the street toward the Murrays’ house, I heard someone shout out “Can’t park there,” and turned to see a woman standing under a streetlight with her dog about four houses down. I waved at her and kept going.

I reached the door and suddenly wished that I had some kind of weapon, anything, really, and almost considered going back to my car to get the tire jack from the trunk. But I didn’t want to waste any more time. I tried the door and it was locked, then I pressed the doorbell while knocking at the same time, wondering what I’d do if no one answered. I was wiping at the octagonal window in the middle of the door when I heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open.





Chapter 27




“Mal,” Tess said in a husky voice, reaching out and taking hold of the inside of my jacket, pulling me inside.

“Is everything okay here?” I said, but she was shutting the door. And then she pushed herself up against me, and we were kissing. I kissed back, part of it relief that she was still here, still alive, and part because it just felt good. I also didn’t want to tell her right away that I’d come back because I thought she was in danger. It would sound ludicrous.

We stopped kissing and hugged. She felt heavy in my arms, and I asked her again, “Everything okay here?”

She stepped out of our embrace, backed up, and said, “Why do you keep saying that?” Her voice was thick, and she blinked rapidly.

“You just seem . . . Are you drunk?” I said.

“Maybe,” she said. “So what? You’re drunk.” She turned away from me, and her whole body lurched, as though she were about to fall. I moved quickly and took her by the arm, led her to one of the two facing couches just outside of the entryway to the kitchen. We both sat.

“I feel strange,” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder and leaning in. Her breath was bitter with the smell of coffee.

“Tell me what you’ve been doing since I left,” I said.

“When did you leave?”

“Two hours ago. Maybe less. I’m not sure exactly.”

“Oh, right. I licked my wounds, because, you know . . . and had some more coffee, and then I got tired, real tired, and I was going to go upstairs and get ready for bed, but thought I might take a little nap here on this couch, and then I heard the door, and you were here.”

“Anyone else come by?”

“Anyone else come by? Here? No. Just you. Do you want to kiss again?”

I leaned in and kissed her, hoping to keep it short, but she opened her mouth and pressed hard against me. My eyes were open, but her hair was falling in waves and for a moment I couldn’t see anything. I stopped the kiss and brought her head down to my chest.

“That’s nice,” she said, then mumbled something I couldn’t understand.

We were like that for a minute. I could tell she was falling asleep on me, and I let it happen while I looked around at what I could see. It looked just as it had when I left, our coffee cups still on the dining room table in front of the bay window, a single lamp still on by the table. And what I could see of the kitchen was lit by the under-cabinet lighting. The house was quiet, although I thought I could hear Brian snoring in the downstairs guest room. I wasn’t sure. But if it was him, it was a good sign. He was still alive.

I knew that Charlie was in the house.

I’d already constructed a scenario. He’d followed me here tonight, probably waiting outside while I was inside having dinner with Brian and Tess. When I’d left, maybe he’d been planning to follow me, or maybe he’d been planning on breaking into Tess and Brian’s house. But then an opportunity had presented itself. Tess had rushed out to give me Brian’s book, leaving the door open behind her and unlocked. Charlie snuck inside. And then what? He’d hidden in the house, and somehow, he had managed to put something in Tess’s coffee, probably whatever it was that he’d spiked Pruitt’s whiskey with. I didn’t believe she was drunk, or that she was any more drunk than she’d been when I’d left two hours earlier. No, she’d been drugged. And then I’d arrived before Charlie had done anything else to her. And now here we all were in the house together. Where was Charlie, exactly? Where would I be, if I were him?

I slowly eased Tess off my chest, and onto the couch, then stood up.

“Where you going?” Tess said, but her voice was low and mumbled. She tucked a hand under her cheek and breathed deeply in through her nose, her eyes still closed. I walked as quietly as I could into the kitchen. A side door led to the first-floor hallway; from there you could get to a half bathroom, and to the guest room where Brian was sleeping. There was also a closet, if I remembered correctly. I went to the counter and found the rolling pin I’d noticed earlier, picking it up in my right hand. I thought of getting a knife instead, but I liked how the rolling pin felt. It was a heavy piece of wood, obviously useless if Charlie had a gun. But it was something, and I felt better with it in my hand.