Perfect Lies (37 page)

“Take off your coat,” he said, helping her pull off her snow-dampened parka. “Where have you come from? I didn’t think you’d—uh—come up this year….”

“Where’s Lark?” Meg asked, letting him take her coat. “And the girls?”

“Up at the house,” Clint said, staring down at her with his head cocked to one side. His smile seemed uncertain and he glanced around the room as if to confirm his statement. “Why?”

“Clint…” Meg began, searching his face. His wide forehead had crumpled into a frown.

“What is it Meg?” he asked.

“I know who killed Ethan.”

“Oh, Meg,” Clint said, stepping away from her. She saw that he held his parka in his arms as if it were a child. “Let’s not do this … Please let’s not.”

“But it wasn’t Lucinda, Clint!” The fire was suddenly too hot, too close. She noticed that he seemed to be cowering, as if her words could physically hurt him.

“Please, no, Meg. I just can’t stand it anymore.”

“I know this has been horrible. For everyone. But it wasn’t Lucinda.”

“Please—” he swayed a little in front of her, his few strands of hair falling across his forehead. “Don’t tell—”

“It was Abe.”

“Abe?”

“He invited me to his place this weekend,” Meg began, taking a step toward Clint. “When he came here for the reception this afternoon, Becca called the house. She left a message saying she’d
seen
him kill Ethan. She was there, in the studio, when Ethan was murdered.”

“Yes, but Becca—”

“And I tried to get away. To get help. But Abe came back. That’s when I found out where he’d really been. Not at the reception.”

“But he
was
here,” Clint interjected, rubbing his beard as he tried to take in what Meg was saying.

“For a time, maybe. But then he left and he attacked Becca. Lark called the house about an hour ago and I picked up downstairs. He pretended to be surprised. But I knew. He had to shut her up. She was demanding that he confess—that she’d tell everyone if he didn’t. So, I don’t know, I guess he’d just had enough from her. And now I’m so afraid—for everyone.”

Clint was staring at her, his hand over his mouth, his head tilted as if he were trying to get a better look at her.

“Is Becca … still alive?”

“Yes, thank God. When did Lark go back to the house? We’ve got to make sure they’re safe.”

“Everyone’s fine,” Clint said soothingly.

“You don’t understand,” Meg said. “We’ve got to get to them—and to the police. We’ve got to stop Abe.”

Something caught Clint’s attention—a quick flash across the windows, a swirl of light along the glass display, a flickering gleam on the coffee urn. Clint swung around, dropping the parka on the floor, just as Abe, stepping into the room, said, “Stop me from what, Meg?”

“Y
ou killed Ethan,” Meg found that her voice was surprisingly even, though he had startled her. She hadn’t considered the possibility that he would follow her there. “And you tried to kill Becca because she was the only one who saw you do it.”

“Everything’s going to be okay, Meg,” Abe said, as though he hadn’t heard her. He looked at Clint, standing directly behind her.

“But Becca’s been telling people she witnessed the murder,” Meg went on. “She was going to tell Lark who it was. But we all know, Abe. Now what are you going to do?”

“Becca has been calling me night and day.” Abe explained conversationally, taking a step toward them. “Ever since you spoke to her in the city, Meg. She’s been calling me at the office. At my apartment. Up here. Haranguing me with these accusations. I thought she was going crazy. With grief, I thought. And she’d begun drinking too much again.”

“She saw you, Abe,” Meg retorted, her voice rising. She felt Clint’s arm slide around her waist as if trying to protect her. She could smell his sweat and feel the dampness of his shirt against her back. She knew she had better not try to move away. “She saw you with the pontil, standing over Ethan.”

“I know,” Abe said. “She was drinking this afternoon at the reception before I got here, wasn’t she, Clint? Drinking and whispering behind my back.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Clint replied, squeezing Meg’s waist reassuringly.

“I think you would, though. Lark told me that any number of people could have overheard her—she was not exactly being discreet. I think you were one of those people, Clint.”

“Is that why you attacked her?” Meg asked Abe. “Because she’d started to tell everyone—what you wouldn’t admit yourself?”

“You know, Clint,” Abe went on, ignoring Meg’s question, “I couldn’t figure out why she was so sure it was me at first. Becca isn’t dumb. She has a great eye. And I’ve never thought of her as particularly hysterical. Why would she be so convinced that it was me she saw with the pontil? Nothing I said could change her thinking when she finally decided to tell people what she thought she saw. This obsession she had that I’d killed him. Then, today, it all came together, Clint. Those ridiculous suspenders you’re wearing. You know they used to be mine. Becca gave them to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re—” Clint’s arm tightened around Meg as he began to speak, but Abe interrupted him.

“You were wearing a shirt of mine the afternoon you killed Ethan. I remember now that I saw you in the general store that morning with it on. It’s very distinctive: orange and yellow checks with ridiculous little green pineapples. Becca thought it looked sporty. I hated the thing. Never wore it. Gave it to Francine’s rummage sale when Becca and I split up. But, of course, Becca wouldn’t have known that. Becca thought that you were me.”

“Don’t be stup—”

“No, no, you’re the stupid one,” Abe cut him off again, edging toward them. “You probably had a good reason for killing Ethan. And, you know what? We all might have understood it, Clint. We might have helped you through it. If you’d had the guts to admit it. Instead you hung it on Lucinda. And then when Becca began to talk, oh—you bastard!” Abe picked up a glass, threw it against the wood-burning stove in an attempt to distract Clint, and lunged at them.

But Clint was stronger and just as fast.

“Don’t,” Clint said, pulling Meg against his side. Groping behind him with his other hand, he smashed a large glass pitcher against the tabletop and waved it in front of him—the jagged edges glinting dangerously. “Don’t get any closer.”

“Okay,” Abe held both hands up. “Listen, okay. There’s no need for anyone else to get hurt.”

“I … tried to reason with Becca.” Clint’s voice cracked. “I drove over to her place when things were winding down here. Tried to get her to tell me what she knew. But she was so … snotty. Too good for the likes of me. Got it into her head that I was coming on to her. I just got so mad. Everything had been going so right, you know? Just as I’d hoped. Then she starts in saying she saw you kill Ethan? I worked it out, too, Abe. Of course—it was your shirt. And it was just a matter of time before the police figured it out, as well. I really didn’t mean to hurt her so bad …” Clint’s voice trailed off.

“But Ethan was a different story?” Abe said.

“You’re damn right he was.” Clint’s tone hardened. “I had a reason to kill Ethan. I had years and years of reasons, piling up around me like garbage. You’ve got no idea. You people—you never bothered to notice me. Or Janine. All we did for him—and Lark and the girls. He dismissed every goddamned decent idea I ever had! He … he scoffed at my proposals for putting in the showroom, teaching classes. Oh sure, they pretended to care, like we were all friends. But underneath it all—who were they kidding? When you got right down to it, we were just the hired help. Even after I started doing all the real work around here. Kept the place running for him. So that he could do his art.” Clint spat out the word as if it were a curse.

“Why did you stay?” Abe asked, from where he stood, six feet away. He made eye contact with Meg—one hard glance—and the briefest of nods.

“Because of her. Janine,” Clint answered. His breath shortened with emotion as he went on: “She lived and breathed for him, you know. Lived and breathed. It was Ethan this, Ethan that. For years. She idolized him. Ethan, who could do no wrong. Maybe I should have been pissed off at her—caring for him so. But I’m not like that. I knew who we were, what we had. Ethan? He was just Janine’s pipe dream. I knew nothing would ever come of it. He made her happy in a harmless kind of way. That’s what I decided.

“But then I—we—gave up so much for that bastard and he never even knew. His ego was so huge—he didn’t really acknowledge that we existed. We didn’t matter. We were just the little people, not particularly bright or good-looking. I’ll tell you the truth, I didn’t mind her having this thing for him, so long as it was her secret, our secret. But when it all came out… and he just stepped all over it. Like it was nothing. Like she was—”

“What happened?” Abe asked gently. “What happened that morning in the studio?”

Clint didn’t answer at first. He looked down at the broken pitcher in his hand as if he was suddenly unsure what it was doing there.

“He’d been getting worse,” Clint finally replied. “His show made him even more self-centered. Totally focused on his own work. You could tell he didn’t really even want us around. We were in his way, though we were keeping this place running for him. But he barely looked at my pieces. Signed off on the fall mail-order catalog without even reading the final proof. And he began to be away more. Down to the city every chance he got. And Janine hated that. Not that we ever talked about it. Not that she ever told me. She didn’t need to. Janine and me—we had decided a long time ago not to talk about the painful things. We both understood. What was the point? But I’d always known about Ethan. How she felt. A blind man could see … and I’m not blind …

“I knew something was wrong that morning after he got back from New York. He was slamming things around out here and cursing something awful. When Hannah came—I actually heard him crying. Couldn’t believe it. Janine and me overheard all this from the back offices, Ethan wasn’t bothering to keep any of it quiet. You should have seen the expression on Janine’s face! It was like her world was falling apart, too.

“When Becca showed up, Janine crept out to the hallway. I saw her there, eavesdropping. She was shaking her head as she listened to all that cursing and weeping. And after Becca left, I remember suddenly feeling scared. It was too quiet. It was like I knew something was going to happen. Like I knew what was going to happen. I had to go out to get some firewood, and when I came in up the back stairs, I overheard them. Janine had gone into the studio to see him. To try and comfort him. ‘Ethan, what’s wrong?’ she’d said. ‘What’s happened?’

“And then he told her, ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

“ ‘But Ethan, I can’t stand to see you in such pain.’ She begged him to let her help him. Then he yelled at her. ‘Don’t touch me, you cow,’ he said. ‘Don’t you dare slobber all over me—’ He’d called her … a cow. My wife.

“There was just no question about it in my mind by then. I waited until she was back in the office. He didn’t hear me. Or see me. He’d turned back to the table and I reached in and pulled out the hottest pontil I could find. I must have made a noise then, because he turned. He saw me coming at him. And it’s a funny thing…. He had the time, and he was just as strong as me, but he did absolutely nothing to stop me. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for the blow—”

It seemed to happen in a second. The rapping on the window. The front door flying open. Clint whirling around to the see what was happening. The cold blowing in. Abe diving low at Clint, trying to pull Meg free. And Clint kicking Abe in the chest, then the face, holding Meg so tightly she could hardly cry Abe’s name.

Abe was on his knees now, his hands and face bloodied, trying to struggle to his feet. Clint kicked him one more time, a horrible sound of boot connecting with bone and muscle, and Abe collapsed. Then three men in uniform burst into the icehouse, as Clint backed farther into the room. Tom Huddleson, his gun drawn, was flanked by two armed officers Meg didn’t recognize.

“Hold it right there, buddy,” Tom said, speaking calmly to Clint, his lifelong friend. “Just stop right there. Let Meg go. Nobody’s going to get hurt.”

Meg had thought that she could stall Clint in the icehouse, confuse him by pretending she believed Becca’s story, keep him pacified until Abe could arrive with help. She hadn’t factored in Clint’s brute strength, or his violent reaction to finally being caught out—and cornered. She realized now that Abe would never have left her alone with Clint for very long, no matter that his return to the showroom had never been part of her plan. Or his getting hurt. Abe. She was more frightened for him now than for herself.

“Stay back, Tom,” Clint said, his words coming out in dry sobs.

“C’mon, buddy,” The police chief took a slow step toward Clint. “Don’t make this any worse than it already is.”

Clint bumped up against something solid—a wall, Meg assumed at first. Then Clint heaved the broken pitcher at Tom, caught Meg up in his arms, and pushed them both through the back door of the icehouse. At the top of the stairs Clint hesitated for a moment as he slid home the doorbolt and tried to get his breath—and it was all Meg needed. She kicked him hard in the right shin with her booted heel, and struggled free.

She ran. Down the rickety back steps. Into the snow-slicked underbrush. She heard Clint curse and start down behind her. She didn’t turn around. It was slippery underfoot, the land sloping sharply to the river. Meg half ran, half slid along the bank. The snow had stopped falling. Stars glittered through the naked branches. She heard noises behind her—echoing through the still, snow-shrouded woods: Huddleson calling out to Clint to stop, the crackle of a walkie-talkie, and then the more distant but more familiar voices of Lark, Hannah, Janine, and—she almost stopped to make sure—Lucinda and Matt.

The river—a frozen ribbon—wound gracefully through the trees into town. Beyond it, the pond that Ethan had created glimmered beneath the starlit sky—an oval mirror. The voices followed her. Lark cried out her name and Lucinda shouted something. In the frigid air it was difficult to tell where they were coming from or what they were saying—and she couldn’t stop to find out. Twigs and branches snapped as Clint plowed through the underbrush on the bank just above her.