The Pact (18 page)

“I do trust you. I know that you’d never do anything to hurt anyone.”

“No. I never do, do I?”

Emma looked away and ran a hand through her hair. “I should probably go downstairs. The police must be ready for me by now.” She slid down from the bed and crossed to the closet, pulling out a pair of sandals. I watched in silence as she slipped them on and headed for the door.

“Emma, wait. Maybe you shouldn’t do this alone.”

She stopped and turned back to face me. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe you should have a lawyer with you or something,” I suggested gently.

“Good Lord, Rachel! How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t do it.”

“I know you didn’t. That’s not what I meant. It’s just that it might be best to have someone there to protect you, to help you—”

“Enough, already! Jesus, first Matthew and now you. When will you realize that I’m not an idiot, and I’m not a child? I can take care of myself, dammit.” She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I
’d never seen Emma so angry and I felt terrible—ineffectual and obtuse. All of my probing and prying had accomplished nothing except to bring out a temper in Emma I’d never known existed, much less seen aimed at me. This was the only time in all of the years we’d known each other that she’d even yelled at me. Something was desperately wrong in her life, and not only wouldn’t she tell me, she thought I was condescending to her.

I felt foolish, too. I’d spent much of the day playing amateur detective, trying to piece together the events of the previous night, assuming that if I could get to an answer, I could manage the situation. But I hadn’t been managing anything except a gross display of hubris—I’d just been fabricating scenarios that implicated my closest friends in Richard’s death. I was a fool, and I wasn’t a very good friend, either, projecting my idle suspicions everywhere I looked based on conversations I hadn’t been meant to hear.

I hoped again that Jane was right—perhaps there was a very simple, very innocent explanation for everything. Regardless, I should probably stop meddling, before I pissed off anyone else for no reason with my blundering arrogance.

Dejected, I stepped into the shower to rinse off the lake water, checking for any sign of a tan line as I toweled myself off. No such luck. There was a patch of pink on my right ankle where I’d missed a spot with the sunblock. It went nicely with the bruise that had spread like a rainbow across my instep, a colorful blotch that was black in the center and rimmed with a purplish-navy-blue that faded into greens and yellows at its outer edges. The good news was that I wasn’t going to have to squeeze either of my feet into satin pumps that had been dyed seafoam-green to match my bridesmaid’s gown. Instead, I put on my sundress and sandals again and combed my wet hair, leaving it loose to dry. I fastened my grandmother’s locket around my neck and slipped a cardigan over my shoulders.

I left Emma’s room and went to Jacob’s study. I was a lousy friend and a rotten detective, but I was pretty good at my job, and, unless I wanted to screw that up, too, the time had come to stop procrastinating and work on Stan’s new deal. I checked the fax but the pages in the output tray were smudged and unreadable, completely in keeping with everything else that was happening that day. I threw them in the trash and opened up the machine, removed the toner cartridge, and gave it a good shake before replacing it. Then I picked up the receiver and dialed OS again.

When Cora answered, I explained that the fax hadn’t come through clearly the first time around, and she agreed to resend it. That done, I glanced around the room, looking for something to keep my mind from trains of thought that might further offend any of my friends. I crossed over to the bookshelves and scanned the titles. Mr. Furlong’s taste ran to history and biography, but I found something more interesting tucked discreetly into a lower shelf. It was an oversize tome with glossy photographs, designed to grace coffee tables and proclaim to guests that the house in which it sat was an erudite and cultured one. For the Furlongs to display it in such a way would have been tacky, at best—it was a complete retrospective of Jacob Furlong’s work.

I took the book and settled onto the sofa, idly flipping the stiff pages. I didn’t know much about art, particularly not about abstract art, but many of the paintings were achingly beautiful. When Lily came into the room, I was so deeply immersed that I gave a start.

“Rachel, darling. So sorry—I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”

“I’m just waiting for a fax to come through from the office,” I explained. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I just realized that I’d scheduled a cleaning crew to come on Monday, and there really won’t be any need for it. I couldn’t find their phone number, but Jacob has a phone book in here.” She opened a desk drawer, removed a Yellow Pages, and began leafing through it. “Oh, dear. I left my reading glasses in the other room and the print is so small—would you mind looking it up for me?”

“Not at all,” I said, joining her at the desk. She gave me the name of the service, and I found the listing and printed the number on a scrap of paper.

When I turned to hand it to her, Lily had bent to examine the title of the book I’d left on the sofa. “Ah, Jacob’s retrospective,” she said. “They put that out after the big show at the Museum of Modern Art last year.”

“It’s very impressive. I saw the show, too.”

“Yes, it was a lovely exhibit. MOMA’s always been very good to Jacob.” She changed the subject. “And how are you, Rachel? Things have been so hectic that we haven’t had a chance to catch up.” She moved the book aside and perched on the sofa, readying herself for a good girlish chat. Apparently the discussion we’d had at lunch didn’t count. It was a relief to see her so relaxed, so normal, after her earlier behavior.

“There isn’t much to tell,” I confessed. “My life is really dull.”

“That’s because you work too hard, dear. Emma’s always talking about how they have you there until all hours. You must be terribly important.”

I laughed. “If you only knew. I don’t even qualify as a cog in the wheel.”

“You’re too self-deprecating, darling. You’re a brilliant young woman—they’re lucky to have you.”

“I wish they felt the same way.”

“And are there any young men or have you just been hiding yourself away in your office?”

“Nobody worth mentioning.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it? New York is such a big city, but it can be hard to meet people.”

“Meeting people is easy. It’s meeting people I like that’s difficult. How did you and Mr. Furlong meet?” I asked, eager to move the conversation away from my love life, or, more accurately, my lack thereof. The words were no sooner out of my mouth than it occurred to me that her relationship with Jacob was probably not the best topic to bring up right now, but it was too late to take them back.

She laughed again. “Oh, darling, that was so long ago. You can’t really want to bore yourself with old stories.”

“No, I’d love to know.” I couldn’t figure out a way to backpedal without sounding awkward.

“Well, let’s see. It was at a party down in the Village. The hostess was one of those Smith girls with intellectual pretensions, always trying to mix it up with the art world. A friend of a friend of Matthew’s mother, actually. I felt very risqué, going all the way downtown. Matthew’s mother practically had to drag me there. It was a good thing she did—Jacob was at the party. And the rest, I guess, is history.” Her smile seemed a bit sad.

“Speaking of history, it was fascinating to see how his work has evolved over time.” I was eager for a segue, no matter how clumsy.

The smile faded, and she was silent for a moment, looking from me to the retrospective beside her. “Yes, well, he’s had a long career.” She traced the image on the cover of the book with a long, tapered finger.

The fax machine rang once then began to hum. “That must be for you, Rachel,” said Lily, rising to her feet.

“Unfortunately,” I said. I returned to the fax machine to check the page it was spitting out. This time there were no smudges, but the print was too faded to be read. The toner probably needed to be replaced, I realized.

“Mrs. Furlong, I’m sorry to bother you about this, but do you know if there’s more toner for the fax machine anywhere? I think it’s just about out.”

“Toner? Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never understood how that thing works. You should probably ask Jacob. He’s in charge of everything mechanical around here. He’ll be able to help you.”

“Okay, I’ll do that. Thank you.”

“Of course, darling,” she answered distractedly. She was replacing the book on the shelf when I left.

I went downstairs, passing the closed door of the library. Emma was still inside with the police, and I tried not to worry that they seemed to be spending more time with her than they had with anyone else. I repeated Jane’s words to myself like a mantra—there was a very simple, very innocent explanation for everything—as I made my way across the lawns and along the path to Jacob’s studio in the old stables.

The door to the ramshackle building was ajar, and I could hear music playing within. Beethoven, I recognized. Not the Ninth Symphony, the
Ode to Joy,
but the melancholy, deliberate strains of the Seventh. I hesitated; I had little experience in interrupting geniuses at work, much less ones whose daughters had just told me they were adulterers. I stopped at the threshold and peered in.

Little had been done to renovate the interior, but the stalls now held stacks of canvases instead of horses, and the floor was so spattered with paint that it looked as if Jackson Pollock had been there. A rumpled daybed showed evidence of having been slept in, and judging by the stack of books next to it, this was indeed where Emma’s father spent his nights. The aroma of turpentine and linseed oil infused the air along with a faint tinge of pipe smoke. Jacob himself was not standing at his easel but sitting in an armchair, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. His eyes were gazing sightlessly at a spot on the wall. He looked up when I gave the open door a tentative knock, his startled expression quickly replaced by his usual avuncular smile. “Rachel? Come in, my dear. Do they need me back at the house?”

“Oh, no, at least, not that I know of. I’m sorry to intrude like this—it’s just that my office is trying to send me a fax and the machine is out of toner. Mrs. Furlong said you would know where I could find some more.”

“Toner? Sure. In fact, I think I have some in here, somewhere. Hang on a sec and I’ll take a look for it.” He rose from the armchair and crossed to a row of cabinets. The stiffness with which he knelt to rummage through a low shelf showed his age. It was hard to imagine him with Nina, who was only a few years older than me. Jacob was still a handsome man, but he was also eligible for Social Security. Emma must have been mistaken, I thought. But she had sounded so sure, and there was no reason to make up something like that.

“Here it is,” he said, holding a box aloft and shutting the cabinet door. “Do you know how to change the cartridge?” He handed me the box.

“Yes, thanks.” Winslow, Brown may have had an enormous support staff, but I’d fought more than my fair share of late-night battles with copiers, printers and sundry other office machinery.

“So, everything’s under control back at the house?”

“I think so. Emma’s in with the police right now, and they’ve talked to everyone else.” It felt wrong to have to be telling him this; surely he should have been up there himself rather than having Matthew act as the surrogate man of the house.

“Emma’s talking to them? Damn, I thought I told Matthew to come get me when…” I shifted uncomfortably as his voice trailed off. He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it yet more. “Well, I’ll walk back to the house with you.”

I waited while he shut down the stereo, and then we proceeded toward the house together, pine needles crunching under our feet. The sun cast long shadows across the path, and there was the beginning of a chill in the air. I was glad I had my cardigan.

“So, Rachel, it’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?” he said, more of a statement than a question.

“Not exactly what I’d expected,” I admitted.

“Nor I.”

“How’s Emma doing? Is she hanging in there?”

It wasn’t my place to point out that if he’d been up at the house he would have been able to ascertain this for himself, firsthand. “She seems to be,” I replied. “Mrs. Furlong and Matthew have been keeping a pretty close watch over her.”

“Poor girl.”

“Yes.”

“But there’s more strength in her than people realize.”

“Yes, there really is,” I agreed. Not that I’d given her any credit for it, I thought glumly.

“She must be exhausted, too,” he continued. “You all were up late last night, on top of everything else, weren’t you?” The inelegant way he asked this made me feel that he was fishing for something, but I wasn’t sure what.

“Actually, I think Emma’s one of the only people who got a good night’s sleep. She went to bed right after the dinner.”

“She did?”

“Sure. I came in around two and she was sound asleep.”

“She was?” He sounded relieved.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

But I was busy thinking that I didn’t like that tone in his voice one bit. It was as if he’d just laid some important concern to rest.

As if he’d suspected his own daughter.

A very simple, very innocent explanation, I chanted to myself. But no amount of chanting could banish the sick sensation from the pit of my stomach.