A Season in Purgatory (19 page)

We sped on toward the airport. I wanted not to hear any more talk about the Bradley family, from which I was being separated, but at the same time I wanted to know everything about them. I knew in my heart I would never again see Scarborough Hill, which had been more of a home to me than my own home had ever been. I wanted to be far, far away from it, and at the same time I already missed it. Charlie talked on. The Washington crowd was coming, he said. Congressman Sandro was becoming a popular figure down there, and he was bringing a large contingent from the capital. The governor had accepted, with the missus. And the mayor, with the missus. The cardinal’s sister was coming, and a great many of the clergy. The Leverett Somersets were going to be out of town, as were the Thralls, the Frenches, Eve Soby, and Mr. and Mrs. Utley.

“How are the Utleys?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they moved away in time,” answered Charlie. “A terrible reminder every time they look out the window of their house. It must have happened while she was making all those phone calls to Mrs. Wadsworth and Mrs. B. and the other mothers that night.”

“Let me ask you something, Charlie,” I said.

“Shoot.”

“Were you in your apartment over the garage that night?”

“I was.”

“One of your windows looks out toward the tennis court, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Did you hear or see anything?”

“No, no. Not a thing. I could sleep through an earthquake. That’s what I told Captain Riordan.”

We rode on for a bit.

“The story seems to have dropped out of the papers,” I said.

“And a good thing.”

“That reporter, Gus Bailey. You don’t hear anything of him.”

“Terrible, what that man was reportin’,” said Charlie. “Insinuatin’ all kinds of lies.”

“It was always a surprise to me that nothing ever happened to him,” I said. “That his legs weren’t broken. That he wasn’t beaten up.” I was thinking of Johnny Fuselli. I always imagined that that sort of thing, broken kneecaps, would have been in his line of work.

“There’s all kinds of ways of taking care of people,” said Charlie.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t hear of Gus Bailey anymore, do you?”

“No, you don’t, now that I think of it,” I said. “Are you saying—?”

“All I’m sayin’ is, if you make your livin’ that way, something eventually is going to happen to you. Why should people accept having their lives ruined by a person like that.”

I stared at him in the mirror.

“When you do what Gus Bailey was doin’, you put yourself at risk, and I’m sure he knew that,” said Charlie.

“But certainly Mr. Bradley wouldn’t be party to anything like that,” I said.

“Good God, no. No possible way.”

“Who then?”

“There are people out there only too glad to carry out your wishes for you. For a price, of course. People you never
have to meet. People whose names you don’t know, nor do they know yours.”

“Who puts the deal together?”

“Brokers, I suppose you call them.”

“Like Johnny Fuselli?” I asked.

Then the car pulled up to the front of the airline building, and his attention was diverted. Skycaps, seeing the limousine, gathered around the car. “Here we are,” said Charlie. “I’ll see to your luggage. Don’t worry, I’ll handle all the tipping. That’s the way Mr. B. wants it. You go over there by the counter, and I’ll meet you as soon as I park the car. Have your tickets ready and your passport. And then we’ll go up to the club and wait for your flight. You got plenty of time.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, by the way. I almost forgot.”

“What?”

“Mr. Constant said to tell you good-bye.”

I turned away from Charlie and walked inside. An hour later I was on the plane for London. I did not see Constant Bradley again for sixteen years. By then his family had moved away from Scarborough Hill.

PART TWO
1989
New York

It was happenstance, nothing more, that drew the exceedingly private Harrison Burns to public attention. Although he was well known by reputation, he was, by his own choice, unpublicized and only rarely appeared in the sort of social world to which his celebrity entitled him. In the course of his adult life, Harrison Burns had become used to solitude. He lived alone since his estrangement from his wife and often dined without companionship, usually at a corner table of a neighborhood restaurant, Borsalino’s, always with a magazine or book. “It’s not particularly fashionable,” someone had told him about the restaurant. “Literary people and artists go there. But the food is sublime. Northern Italian. No frills.”

His looks were not at their best in repose. A deep scowl between his eyebrows gave him the appearance of being older than he was, and a faintly pessimistic turn of his lips gave the impression that, when alone, he dwelt on disagreeable thoughts. This impression often deterred people from approaching him. But in conversation, or on encountering a friend, his face came to life, readjusted itself, and became actually inviting. Never handsome, he seemed pleasant enough looking then, and it was this unexpected warmth that made
him appear so. Often people would say to him, “I thought you looked familiar, but I was afraid to approach you.” Or, “You’re different from what I thought you were going to be.”

So Harrison Burns was not surprised when a well-dressed lady, past middle age, who had been staring at him throughout his meal with a questioning look, suddenly approached him and asked, “Are you who I think you are?”

There was a time, in the beginning of his celebrity, when he would have answered, “Who do you think I am?” But now, ten years later, he had learned to reply to such a question by simply offering his name. “My name is Harrison Burns,” he said quietly.

“Yes, of course. I knew I recognized you. It was driving me mad. I’ve read all your books.”

He nodded in an agreeable manner. It was not an unpleasant sensation, being acknowledged, but then came the awkward moment that Harrison had come to know when strangers approached him. The silence. The slight embarrassment. How to continue, or how to withdraw. Sometimes there was a book to sign. He liked that better than forced conversation. There was a finality to the ceremony. “Tell me your name once more,” he would say, before writing. “Catherine? Do you spell Catherine with a
K
or a
C
?” Then a brief message. Then the signature, with the oversized
S
at the end of Burns. And then it was over. Thanks and farewell. But this woman did not move on. An instinct told him her interest in him was something other than literary.

“There’s no reason you should recognize me,” she said. “It’s been so many years.”

He looked at her more closely. “Actually, I don’t,” he said, even while he realized there was a remote familiarity to her face. Women at his lectures sometimes came up to speak to him and told him intimate things in conversation and then were disappointed two years later on a subsequent visit
to their city when he did not remember either their faces or where their conversations had left off. “Help me,” he said.

“I’m Luanne Utley,” she said.

“Good heavens, Mrs. Utley.” He jumped to his feet. “Please forgive me for not recognizing you. It was inexcusable of me.”

“Well, our acquaintance was brief, and traumatic, and sixteen years ago. I’ve had the advantage of seeing you on television or your picture in the papers. Please don’t stand.”

“Are you alone? Is Mr. Utley with you?”

“No. Ray died three years after Winifred’s death.”

“I didn’t know that. I hadn’t heard. I’m very sorry. That’s all I ever seem to have said to you: ‘I’m very sorry.’ ”

She nodded. “I moved away from Scarborough Hill. Too many memories.”

“Of course. Have you married again?”

“No. I saw someone for a while a few years back, but I ended it. It wouldn’t have been fair to him. There is still unfinished business in my life.”

“Please sit down. Please join me.”

“Just for a minute. I’m on my way out. I asked my friend to wait for me outside.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, no, nothing,” she said. “How are the Bradleys? One never stops reading about them. There are so many of them, one or the other is always being written about. Now, of course, they’re everywhere, but in those Scarborough Hill days they were never really accepted.”

“I suppose.”

“They were certainly the toast of Paris when Gerald was the ambassador there. Mary Pat marrying the count, and all that. It was the talk of Scarborough Hill. I suppose you were in Paris during all that.”

“No, I wasn’t. Actually, I haven’t seen any of the Bradleys in years.”

“Really?” She seemed surprised. “Not even Constant?”

“No.”

“But you were such good friends. You were at Yale together, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t go to Yale, after all. I stayed in Europe for a year after Milford, and when I came back I went to Brown.”

“I see. Have you married?”

“I have. I am separated at the moment.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We are trying to work it out. Marriage counselors, that sort of thing.”

“Are there children?”

“Twin boys. Age two.”

“I hope you do.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve done awfully well in life.”

“Lucky, I guess.”

“So law-abiding in everything you write. That fascinating thirst-for-justice theme of yours running through everything.” Their eyes met. “If you weren’t a writer, I bet you would be in law enforcement. I think that’s why so many people like reading you.”

“Well, I am the child of murdered parents, after all. Did you ever know that?”

“Good heavens, no. We have something in common.”

“Yes.”

“Did they catch the person who killed your parents?”

“Persons. There were two of them. Dropouts. Druggies. It was apparently a random thing, looking for money, being surprised, panicking, shooting, killing.”

“Did you go to the trial?”

“No. That was the year I stayed in Europe. That was
why I stayed in Europe. I didn’t come back until it was over.”

She looked at him for a moment before she spoke. “I can’t imagine staying away from the trial. I would want to be there. Every day. I would want to look the killer right in the face. I would want to make him meet my eye.” She had begun to become impassioned. Then she caught herself and shook her head. “Well, at least they caught your killers. There is a finality to that. They’re away, I assume.”

Harrison nodded. “Twenty years.”

She rose. “I should go. I hope I haven’t ruined your dinner with this morbid talk.”

“Oh, no. I’m delighted to have seen you, Mrs. Utley. I have thought of you often.”

“And I you. Do you remember Captain Riordan?”

“Of course.”

“I keep in touch with him. He’s a nice man.”

“I’m sure.”

“He’s about to retire. I’ll miss him. He never gave up hope that he would solve it. I never did, either.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. Somebody knows. One day somebody will come forward.”

“But it’s been years.”

“Whoever it was had to have had help carrying her. She wasn’t dragged, you see. She was carried. Someone at her head. Someone at her feet.”

Harrison stared at her, without replying.

She met his gaze. “It was in the police report,” she said.

“Oh,” said Harrison, surprised. “You have seen the police report?”

“Yes. It’s curious, though. Parts of the police report are blacked out. I never could understand that, who had that power.”

Harrison said nothing.

“I’ve offered a reward. Did you know that?” asked Mrs. Utley.

“No.”

“Yes, just last month. For information that would lead to an arrest. Quite a lot of money, really. Fifty thousand dollars. I figured whoever it was who helped him was a teenager then. Now that person would be in his young thirties. Married, probably. Having children. Buying a house. I thought whoever it was who knew who had done it could use fifty thousand dollars. I thought he would have outgrown that blind loyalty teenagers have to each other.”