The top drawer of his black lacquer nightstand was open. She yanked it out and overturned the drawer onto the floor, where the contents rolled and clattered. She did the same with the bottom drawer. She got down on all fours and pushed through the pile of junk with her hands. Finn saved everything. Old cell phones and computer cables. Half-completed tax forms. Dried-up pens and pencils snapped in half. Thumbed porno magazines, bottles of lubricant, and rubber strokers crusted over with discharge.
An old photograph.
Rikke held it up and stared at it. The picture was four inches square, with a narrow white border, its colors faded and unnatural. She recognized Finn in the backyard of their house, sitting next to Laura at a picnic bench, with his arm around her shoulder. They were young and smiling. Laura wore a tank top. Finn was bare-chested, his blond hair curly and big. Rikke remembered taking the photograph. She held it, her hands trembling, then tore it in half, and tore it in half again, and again, until the pieces were too small to rip. She scattered them like pinches of coarse salt over the mess on the floor.
Back then, Finn had given up his room for Laura on those nights when she stayed over. She had slept here in his twin bed, while he slept on the sofa downstairs. Except when he would creep upstairs and watch. Rikke knew all about it. She had seen him hovering in the blackness of the doorway to his room, staring at his bed, where the stars glowed faintly and illuminated bare flesh. They never talked about it. Some things were just understood.
She went to his desk next, pulled out all the drawers, and poured them out like jugs of water. She sifted through the debris without seeing what she wanted, but she knew she would find what she was looking for eventually. She knew Finn. With her face sober and emotionless, she pulled all of his clothes off the hangers in the closet, pulled the board games down off the dusty shelf, and felt along the grainy surface of the wood with outstretched fingers. When she found nothing, she dragged the mattress off Finns bed and then flipped the box spring off the frame.
Nothing.
She toppled the black nightstand to the floor with one hand. The lamp came with it, crashing and breaking. She bent over and peered at the underside of the nightstand and nodded grimly to herself.
There it was.
A bulging manila envelope was taped to the unfinished wood with duct tape that was losing its stickiness, because it had been pulled off and resealed countless times. Rikke grabbed the envelope. Slabs of tape came with it. She ripped the flap and extracted the dog-eared sheaf of papers inside. She went through each one carefully, studying every picture. They were grainy color photographs, printed on the inkjet on Finns desk. Blurry images, taken at night. It didnt matter. She could see clearly enough what they were.
Teenage girls.
When she had seen them all, she shoved them back into the envelope. On the opposite wall, beside Finns desk, was a metal trash can. She emptied it of garbage and then put the envelope inside. She hunted for a box of matches amid the chaos she had created on the floor, then lit a match and dropped it inside the trash can, where the wispy fire smoldered on the paper and grew into a widening torch of flame. Smoke and orange lightning belched from the can. The envelope and all the photographs curled into flakes of black ash that floated in the room like coal-colored snow. In the hallway, the smoke alarm honked in protest. Rikke ignored it.
When it was over, the metal inside was scorched. She took a ruler, got down on her knees, and hacked at the warm ashes, turning them into dust. Her skin was streaked with soot. She got up and wiped her hands on her shorts, leaving black fingerprints.
The computer was next. And the camera. They would all go in the river sometime during the middle-night hours. You couldnt erase things like that. Someone who knew what they were doing could always find them again.
Rikke heard a noise in the hall and looked up.
Finn was in the doorway.
22
___________
Tish parked in an alley behind the Kitch, where it was dark except for a soft yellow glow from inside the club windows. A diagonal rain swept the street as she climbed out of her Civic. She unfolded an umbrella, held it at an angle like a flag, and splashed through the puddles in her heels around the corner of the building toward the high door. The four-story clubhouse towered above her, regal and imposing in red brick, like a rich mans mansion. Hollow-eyed Indian gargoyles guarded the entrance and stared at her disapprovingly. By the time she slipped inside, her white dress was speckled with rain spots. She flipped her hair, and water sprayed onto the wine red carpet.
The sprawling main corridor was lined in dark wood and sconce lights and bore the clubs logo in gold on the floor. Tish took a few tentative steps, expecting someone to stop her. Instead, the hallway was empty. She had never been here before, but she remembered people talking about the Kitch the way people on the East Coast talked about Skull and Bones. The faces of members had changed in 125 years, but admission was still by invitation only. To Tish, it felt like a secret society for the privileged. A place built stone by stone on money and tradition.
On her left was a lounge with thick beams lining the ceiling and deep paisley carpet on the floor. A wood fire burned in a brick fireplace, and two leather recliners were carefully placed on either side of the hearth. She was cold from the rain, and she approached the fireplace, putting out her hands to warm them and feeling heat on her dress. As she dripped on the carpet, she noticed an oil painting on the west wall with a familiar face. It was an old man in a three-piece suit. His head was almost bald. He looked tough and prosperous. When she approached the portrait, she saw his name inscribed on a brass plate on the frame.
Randall Stanhope. Former president of the club.
Can I help you?
The voice came from behind her. Tish turned and saw a tuxedo-clad attendant in his fifties with a clipped mustache.
Im sorry, Tish said. She squared her shoulders and gave the man an engaging smile. Im supposed to be meeting Peter Stanhope here. Can you tell me where to find him?
She had no meeting scheduled. Peter hadnt seen her in thirty years. But everyone told her that the Kitch was where he spent most of his evenings. Like his father.
Mr. Stanhope is in the pool room downstairs, he told her. Would you like me to tell him youre here?
No, Ill just join him there.
Do you know the way? the man asked.
Im afraid not.
Let me show you.
The attendant led her downstairs, where the ceilings were lower and the walls felt as if they were closing in. Tish heard raucous male laughter. The pool room was smaller than she expected, with lapis color on the walls and in the checkerboard carpet. Half a dozen men in white shirts and loosened ties gathered around a pool table lined with burgundy felt. They drank scotch from crystal lowball glasses.
The conversation stopped when they saw her. Tish recognized Peter Stanhope immediately. He had a custom pool cue in his hand and was bent over, taking aim on a shot down the table. He was the only man still wearing a suit coat. She was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath and see the overhead lights shining in his silver hair. As she watched, he struck
the cue ball with a sharp crack and thunked the solid purple four ball into the far pocket.
Mr. Stanhope?
Yes, George? Peter asked. He looked past the attendant and sized up Tish.
I believe you have a meeting with this woman.
Peter straightened up and propped his cue against the table. He folded his arms and rubbed his sunburned chin with his left hand. His blue eyes twinkled with curiosity behind penny- colored glasses. Do I?
Georges smile evaporated. Is there a problem? he asked.
I dont know, Peter replied pleasantly. He eyed Tish. Is there?
My name is Tish Verdure, she said quickly.
Tish heard a rumble of displeasure among the other men in the room. They knew who she was. Peter didnt react, other than to flick his tongue quickly across his upper teeth. Ah.
I was hoping we could talk.
Im terribly sorry, Mr. Stanhope, George said, stepping in front of Tish. This woman told me she had a meeting scheduled with you. Ill see her out immediately.
Peter waved his hand. No, no, its fine, George. Ive been anxious to speak to Ms. Verdure, as it happens. Boys, carry on without me, all right? He approached Tish and extended his hand. His grip was strong, and his fingers were smooth, except for the dust of pool chalk.
Would you like a drink? he asked her.
Some red wine, I guess.
George, a bottle of the Alphonse Mellot pinot that I had last night, all right? Is anyone in 306 tonight?
No, sir.
Take it up there, will you?
Of course.
Peter refilled his own tumbler from a half-empty bottle of Lagavulin and then took Tishs arm by the elbow. Shall we?
He guided her to a turn-of-the-century elevator that was uncomfortably small. They were shoulder to shoulder. Peter didnt say anything as they rode upward. He just smiled, showing beautifully white teeth, and smoothed down his hair. She noticed his eyes straying over her body.
When the doors opened, he led her to a room painted in cream, with an off-white sofa, an armchair, and a square glass coffee table. Through a doorway, Tish saw a queen-sized bed with an elaborately flowered comforter. She backed up.
This is a bedroom, she said.
A guest room, Peter said. Members outside the city stay here sometimes. Or men whose wives have kicked them out for the night. Thats why I prefer the single life. He added, Dont worry, Im not going to assault you, if thats what youre concerned about. I just thought we would both like some privacy.
Leave the door open.
Whatever you want.
Peter took the armchair and worked on his drink. Tish sat uneasily on the sofa, her knees squeezed together. A few minutes later, George entered the room with a balloon-shaped wineglass and an open bottle. He set them on the table in front of her and poured, then gave her an imperious look and retreated from the room, closing the door behind him.
Do you want me to open it again? Peter asked, nodding at the door.
Tish shrugged.
Well, here we are, he continued. Its been a long time. Youre looking good, Tish. Do you mind if I call you that?
Tish shrugged again.
You were sexy then, and you havent lost your appeal, he told her, his eyes roving. Real beauty matures with age, dont you think?
If you say so.
It wouldnt kill you to repay the compliment, he said.
You know you look good, so why do you need to hear it from me?
Peter laughed. Try the wine, Tish. Its excellent.
Tish did, and it was.
Are you trying to tell me youve changed? she asked.
We all change. Youre different, Im different.
It doesnt matter, she said. I dont care who you are now or how much money you have. Its what you did thirty years ago that concerns me.
Peter nodded. You think I murdered Laura. You think I took a baseball bat and beat her head in.
Yes, I do.
Well, I didnt do that. How can I convince you Im telling the truth?
Tish took another drink of wine. It was fruity and light as helium. You cant. I already know you lied back then.
Oh?
Finn Mathisen saw you, Tish snapped. He saw you attack Laura in the field. The black man, Dada, he
saved
her. When Laura ran off, the bat was still in the field. It was still with you.
Finn Mathisen, Peter murmured, shaking his head. I havent thought about him in years. Him and his sister, Rikke. She was one of those tasty young teachers we all lusted after. Please, Tish. We both know what kind of witness Finn is. Pat Burns is never going to put someone on the stand who probably cant remember most of the 1980s.
I dont care what kind of witness he would make, Tish said. Im writing a book, not doing a dance for a jury. What matters is that hes telling the truth.
Say he is. That doesnt mean I killed Laura.
Are you admitting you assaulted her?
Im not admitting anything. However, even if I was stupid enough to think that no from a girl really meant yes just because my name was Peter Stanhope, do you think I would kill her over something like that?
Over not getting what you want? Yes, I do.
Well, youre right, I dont take rejection well, Peter admitted. You said no to me, and I called you a queer. As I recall, I kissed you and grabbed your tits. I was a pig.
Yes, you were.
But I didnt kill you, did I? Because here you are.
Maybe you wanted Laura more than me.
Peters smile faltered. His full lips twitched.
Maybe you were obsessed with her, Tish continued. Maybe you were enraged that she didnt want you. She met his eyes and whispered,
Are you going to be alone tonight, you whore?
His fingers clutched the tumbler so tightly that she thought the crystal might shatter. I have no idea what youre talking about.
But he did.
