Perfect Lies (17 page)

“But what are we to do with the injuries his death has left—the torn ligaments of our lives that were once so effortlessly attached to his? How do we attend to the horrible injustice that has ripped him from us … that has sundered this town?”

Francine took a step back, as if affronted. She let a moment of silence follow the question before she went on, “Friends … Family … This, this loss was not God’s doing. It was not Her will. Death in many ways is a noble thing, a natural process, a homage to life. Death is, as a famous poet once wrote, the mother of beauty. But
this
was not such a death. This was an aberration. And its burden is much harder to bear. Its message is much more complicated—darker and more difficult to comprehend….”

Meg could feel the congregation listening as one. And though there were many small children in the church, there was not one cry, one cough. Francine’s voice held them spellbound.

“We must take heart and draw courage from the fact that even the vilest acts of man and woman are perpetrated under God’s all-seeing eye. We must recognize that there is a grand design to our lives … to all of life. We must believe that there is a method in what we sometimes perceive as madness. God saw the hand raised in hatred against Ethan McGowan. She saw it… and She did not halt it. She
allowed
it…. But why.
Why?”

The question came out as an urgent whisper—angry, outraged. Francine’s nostrils flared and she closed her eyes. She bowed her head and shook it back and forth. Then, slowly, she raised her head again and looked out over congregation.

“We may never have the one, complete answer. But I believe there are many answers and each of us carries a slightly different one within themselves. Each time we feel hate in our heart… each time we experience a twinge of jealousy … each time we slight another … each time we lie… we know that we, too, have acted against God. We, too, are capable—as Cain was, as Judas was, as Ethan’s assailant was—to lift up our arm in anger against another. And every day, each moment of our lives, we choose—to walk on God’s path… or to follow our own. God
lets
us decide. She must let us decide. Because She knows, as every parent here today knows, that the only way children really learn is by trying, by failing, and by trying again.”

Francine looked over at the coffin resting among the frozen wands of gladioli, carnations, and lilies.

“But what
do
we do with the terrible fact of this man’s death? How do we learn from what seems to be such a senseless act of violence? Where do we turn for answers and guidance? Let me tell you, friends, do not look into your hearts. Do not follow your instincts. For the raw, emotional, immediate response to murder is … more bloodshed. An eye for a eye. Revenge, blame, blind justice. Let us all beware of what our hearts clamor for. Let us hold our fire. For as the Bible warns us: “Judge not that ye be not judged.’ There is not one person among us today who is without sin…. Friends, family …”

There was a singsong finality to Francine’s words now. “We must put aside our anger. We must walk out of the shadows of our despair … and into the light of God’s wisdom. We must understand that Ethan’s death is, in a way we may never truly comprehend, a part of God’s plan. We must allow justice to take its course. We must not lay blame.”

Francine ended the address, as she did every sermon that Meg had heard her deliver, with the evocation: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.”

After the prayer, Francine kept her head bowed in silence. Meg had been moved by the power of her words, encouraged by her moral support for Lucinda. Yet during the sermon, she kept sensing that something was missing. It took her until the very end to realize that while Francine had praised and mourned a life, it wasn’t really Ethan’s. She had made no attempt to evoke the charisma—his laughter, his voice, his outsized, sometimes outrageous enthusiasm. She had spoken about him only through the eyes of others—Lark and the children, his friends and neighbors in town. She had praised Ethan’s work in the community, his accomplishments as an artist, and though she touched on all the finer points of Ethan’s character, it was as though Francine were speaking about a man she had never met. Of the powerful, opinionated man himself—the man with whom Francine had clearly had her differences—she made no mention.

Meg was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t realize right away that the silence was stretching on far too long. The congregation was waiting for Clint to start the Bach Fugue he always played for the processional, but nothing happened. A baby started to cry. Meg could hear people whispering behind her, a rustling of clothes as neighbor turned to neighbor. Francine stepped out of the pulpit and looked questioningly up at the organ loft.

Just when it seemed obvious that something had gone wrong, Clint began. Note after note, phrase by phrase, Clint’s playing was strong, purposeful, and, it seemed to Meg, uncharacteristically—almost eerily—perfect.

T
he basement was so crowded that it took Meg several minutes to make it down the stairs at the back of the church. It didn’t help that Janine had set up the three refreshment tables directly to the right of the steps. Though this location was conveniently close to the kitchen and supplies, it meant that the crowd waiting for soft drinks and pretzels kept backing up into the stairwell, and newcomers had to nudge and squeeze their way down the steps.

“Excuse me,” Meg said as she edged around the congested area, stepping, as she did so, on the heel of the woman in front of her.

“Quite all right,” the woman replied, the familiar voice prompting Meg to look at her more closely. Black velvet cloche. Pearls with the trademark Mikimoto butterfly clasp. Tailored black crepe suit. Meg had scuffed up a pair of pumps that she estimated were easily worth three hundred dollars.

“Hannah?” Meg asked.

“Yes?” The close-fitting hat had obscured her hair at the back. She turned slightly, blocked by the crowd from facing Meg. “Oh, it’s you! I was just looking for you, Meg. You know …”

The noise level was so high, Meg could only pick up bits and pieces of what Hannah was saying: “Awful sleet … van spinning out … I only just made it in time … desperate mood …”

At one point, Meg thought to ask, “What’s going to happen to Ethan’s show now? There’s been so much on my mind, I didn’t even think about you and the gallery.”

“What?” Hannah demanded irritably. “I can’t hear a damned thing you’re saying.”

“I can’t either,” Meg admitted. “Let’s try to find a quieter spot.” Meg pointed to the far corner by the coatracks.

“What a crush!” Hannah cried when they’d finally reached their destination. “Who
are
all these people?”

“They’re from the town mostly,” Meg told her, looking around the packed basement and seeing Ethan’s friends and neighbors through Hannah’s eyes. The majority were in their thirties and forties, overweight and badly dressed by Manhattan standards. A woman nearby had on a pale blue jersey pantsuit with pink piping—the kind of outfit New Yorkers wouldn’t even jog in—and beat-up white Reeboks. She wore her dyed blond hair pulled back in a thin ponytail. Meg had seen her around town, a load of kids in the back of a Chevy van. She was probably in her early thirties, but she had the worn-down look of someone much older.

“Oh, I see,” Hannah said, her green eyes scanning the room. “It’s very interesting. Different from what I expected. Ethan always painted something far more dramatic, you know. Nature in all its wildness. I passed a Stop ‘n Shop not fifteen minutes from here.”

“You came through Montville then,” Meg said and, wanting to justify Ethan’s view against Hannah’s urban scrutiny, she added, “Red River is still very rural. Some of the farms up here are the size of small counties. It’s a pretty tough life. A lot of hard work. And people just getting by.”

“I can see that,” Hannah said.

“This has hit them pretty hard,” Meg went on. “It’s a quiet town. A close one. Murder is something that just doesn’t happen here.”

“It’s hit everybody hard, Meg.”

“Yes,” she said and they were silent for a moment while the noise surged around them. Released from the solemnity of the church service, children raced through the crowd, their laughter drowned out by dozens of conversations, many conducted at shouting level. Meg strained to hear the snippets of conversation as the room filled to overflowing.

“I just saw him last Wednesday, at the Agway with the girls….”

“Her mother’s a druggie. That’s what I heard.”

“The first wife … Totally messed up. They had to put her away, right?”

“Yeah. And that kind of thing runs in a family, you know….”

Suddenly Meg realized that Hannah was speaking to her. She felt Hannah’s warm breath in her ear, as the woman leaned in closer to say, “I knew about you and Ethan, Meg.”

“What?” Meg turned to stare at Hannah. For the first time she saw the fine web of wrinkles around her eyes, the grooves bracketing her mouth. Meg couldn’t have heard her correctly.

“Ethan told me a little bit about what was going on before—before he was killed.”

“Going on?” Meg cried over the noise.
“Nothing
was going on. It was all in Ethan’s head.” Meg felt her heart beating rapidly. The room was far too noisy and hot. Her head, too, was pounding—with anger, she realized. How easy it must have been for Ethan to imply that she had responded to his overtures. A slight smile on his part, a shrug to a certain question from Hannah, and the picture would be quickly painted: How could a single, lonely woman resist a man like Ethan? For someone as experienced and sophisticated as Hannah, the fact that Meg was Ethan’s sister-in-law was probably just a minor concern.

“Meg, don’t worry,” Hannah said, touching her elbow. “You can trust me. I’m really very discreet. And, God knows, I totally understand about Ethan. He was such a powerful presence—in my life, as well. From the moment I first saw him. I knew. He had that certain something—that life force that draws others to him.”

“That may be the case,” Meg replied. “But I was never drawn to him in that way. I don’t know what he told you, Hannah, but it simply wasn’t true.”

Hannah took a sip from the plastic cup she was holding, appraising Meg as she did so.

“You’re overreacting,” she said soothingly. “I really only brought up the subject because I assume you’d be upset. I thought you might want someone to talk to. I guess I’ve come to think of you as Ethan’s friend. And, by extension, my friend. I hope I haven’t upset you. But, quite frankly, I’ve been devastated by all of this, too. It was such a shock. He’d just been to see me Friday night, you know. He told me then that you two had had something of a lovers’ quarrel….”

“Hannah, we were
not
lovers,” Meg hissed, glancing quickly around the closely packed room. Nobody seemed the least bit interested in their conversation. Meg and Hannah were outsiders and, at any other time, would have been objects of intense curiosity. But that night there was only one subject among the residents of Red River: Ethan McGowan’s murder.

“Whatever you say,” Hannah whispered back. “Whatever you
need
to say. I understand your position. Really. All I want you to know, Meg, is that I do understand. More than you realize. I know what a special kind of man Ethan was. And, well, if you ever feel the need to talk to me about it… ”

The basement was a burbling sea of voices. Meg realized that Hannah was still talking to her. She saw other mouths moving: people drinking, chewing, talking, laughing. She smelled bourbon. She felt sick, as though she’d been drinking herself. The room had a precarious list to it, as though everyone were going to slide off to the right at any moment. She needed balance.

“Are you okay, darling?” Hannah asked.

“Yes, I think…” Meg turned toward the double doors leading out to the parking lot. “I’m going to get some air.”

The storm had passed, but night had already started to settle in and it was barely four-thirty. Meg could see stars through the branches of the old sugar maple trees that clustered around the church. The parking lot was still full, the surfaces of the cars aglitter with a hard coating of frozen sleet. Ice crackled like broken glass under her heels. It was damp and cold and she hadn’t bothered to find her coat. Though she was wearing nothing more than a lightweight black wool suit, she didn’t feel anything when she first started out except a kind of lulling numbness—as though not just a limb, but her entire body had gone to sleep.

She found herself walking aimlessly along the edge of the parking lot, clutching her arms to her chest to keep herself warm. She had to get some perspective on what Hannah had said. She had to come to terms with the ugly impression that Ethan had left behind. Ethan was gone, but the force that had driven him to such extremes of passion was still at work. The small lies Ethan had dropped—in front of Lark, and then Hannah—were rippling out across the lives that had intersected his. He probably had not intended any real harm. Meg could almost hear him justifying his actions now: He’d simply implied that she had responded a bit to his flattery—not such a big thing, really, hardly a sin. His ego couldn’t handle the truth, so he had changed it. He’d recast the facts to a shape more pleasing to himself.

But now Ethan’s offhand half-truth had blossomed into something Meg only seemed to make more substantive by denying. It had taken on a malevolent life of its own—undermining her relationship with Lark, producing an unwanted ally in Hannah. If Ethan were still alive, she would have asked that he retract the falsehood. But with him gone, she was left with a situation that was growing ever more complicated and dangerous.

The parking lot was bordered on its northern edge by an old graveyard, separated from the macadam by a lichen-crusted stone wall overrun with weeds and vines. No one had been buried there since 1918 when the flu epidemic of the First World War had—within the space of a few years—doubled the number of graves. The new cemetery—where Ethan would be buried the next day—lay to the south of Red River and boasted manicured lawns and neatly cared-for shrubbery.