Perfect Lies (13 page)

“Meg, dear, could you check to see who might like some more coffee?” she asked in her best hostess’s voice.

“Actually, perhaps Meg might be more useful taking care of Brook and Phoebe,” Francine suggested. “The weather’s finally cleared, and they haven’t been out of the house all day.”

“I’d be happy to,” Meg replied, though she hardly needed Francine to tell her that the girls needed some attention. Phoebe hadn’t taken her thumb out of her mouth since Meg had arrived and Brook had the stunned look of a wounded animal.

“Hey, guys, let’s go for a walk,” Meg said, her voice falsely cheerful even to her own ears. But the girls nevertheless followed her obediently to the mud room beyond the kitchen where she helped them pull on boots and jackets. Outside, though the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees, the sky had lightened, and to the west the last of the sun streamed dramatically thought the departing banks of cloud. The trees dripped with leftover rain, and the swollen river roared between its banks. A family of chickadees swooped and chattered around the elaborate array of handcrafted feeders that Ethan had constructed in the backyard. It felt wrong to Meg that the afternoon had suddenly turned so calm, so normal. She wanted everything to stop. To be silent. To feel as damaged and different as she did.

The three of them walked along the bank of the river, the mud sucking at their boots with each step. Meg tried to think of something comforting to say, something to stave off the confusion and pain in their young hearts. Without any warning, Phoebe suddenly raised the stick she’d been trailing and slashed it into a large pile of soggy leaves.

“That’s what Lucie did to Daddy, right?” Phoebe said, turning to Meg for confirmation. She looked so like Lark as a child—the heart-shaped face, bright blue eyes, a sweetness that either a child was born with, or wasn’t. Brook, on the other hand, didn’t have Phoebe’s sunlit nature; neither had Meg at her age. Brook was more cautious, more curious, demanding proofs and answers. Phoebe had always jumped right into life, laughing, ready for anything, come what may. That’s, why, Meg thought, it hurt so much more to have Phoebe ask the question rather than Brook.

“We don’t really know for sure,” Meg began, looking from Phoebe’s wide eyes to Brook’s lowered gaze. She could not lie to them. “But it looks like that’s what happened.”

B
y Sunday evening, Meg was beginning to think that the guests would never leave. She hadn’t slept much the night before—nobody in the household had—and she’d spent most of the day on her feet. She was trying her best to handle the kinds of household things that Lark would usually have attended to. Francine had made an announcement from the pulpit that morning about Ethan’s death, asking the congregation to pray for peace and forgiveness and suggesting that neighbors offer whatever help they could to the bereaved family. It seemed to Meg that the help consisted primarily of casseroles and sweets that only the visitors themselves had the appetites to consume.

Over the course of the afternoon, the flow of guests increased dramatically. Each new arrival brought yet another covered dish or cookie tin and Meg had to see to it that everything was properly heated, set out on the long planked table on the sun porch, and, when necessary, the empty dishes removed, to make room for the new ones waiting in the kitchen. Even the smallest task seemed to take an enormous amount of effort on her part. It didn’t help that Lark was doing her best to ignore her, turning to Francine, Janine—anyone but her sister—for the emotional support Meg would have so gladly supplied.

Later on, Abe drove Lark into town to meet with the police. Janine helped Meg attempt to feed the girls in the kitchen. No one ate much of anything. Francine became the de facto hostess, welcoming new visitors with a serenity Meg found particularly grating. And something about the milling, chattering group began to take on the feel of rubberneckers crowding around the scene of an accident. As she stacked yet another load of dishes in the washer, she overheard snippets of conversations taking place in the hallway:

“There was blood all over the place, I hear.”

“Poor old Tom. He’s never had to handle more ‘n’ a traffic ticket before in this town.”

“Deputy Voberg told me Tom called up the state police so fast his head was spinning.”

“Yeah, I saw the cruisers down by the studio.”

Lark and Abe came back a little past eight-thirty, and Lark went up to see the girls, while Abe sought Meg out in the kitchen.

“I don’t know how Lark’s managing to hold herself together,” he said, helping himself to a cup of coffee. He looked as tired as Meg felt, the skin under his eyes smudged with fatigue. “Huddleson was nice enough, but those state detectives are all business. They’re already all set up in the clerk’s spare office above the police station.”

“To do what?” Meg asked. “Everybody knows Lucinda killed Ethan.”

“But it’s a homicide case, Meg,” Abe explained. “There has to be an investigation no matter what the circumstances. And a town this size just isn’t equipped to handle that kind of thing. That’s what this state crime unit does. The detectives come in with all the latest forensic training and equipment. They’ve sealed off the studio.”

“Yes, I know.” Meg said. Wearily, she turned back to the sink. Though the question weighed heavily on her mind, she asked with forced lightness, “Did you see Lucinda? Has anyone spoken to her … since it happened?”

“They took her to the medical center over in Montville,” Abe said, setting his coffee mug down on the counter and picking up a towel to help her with the dishes. “She’s still in pretty bad shape, I understand. Bad burns on her hands. And hungover as hell from whatever she was on. Tom told me she was really out of it when they took her in.”

“Oh God, Abe.” Meg sighed, leaning on the sink for support. “I just feel so … so …” When Abe put his arms around her, Meg finally found the permission she needed to give in to the distress that had been building within her all day. She wept. Abe guided her over to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair, taking a seat beside her. In the middle of the round wooden table, Ethan and Lark had years ago carved their initials in a big heart and, when the girls were old enough to spell, they’d been allowed to add their names to the battered oak surface. Reaching for the tissue Abe held out to her, Meg saw the uncertain spidery letters spelling
brook
chiseled into the wood and she felt another wave of sorrow break within her. Ethan’s murder was more than a loss of one life; it signaled the end of innocence for his daughters, as well. Today’s events would forever change the carefree little girl who’d carved her name. Just as it had destroyed all immediate hope for Lucinda to find the love and acceptance she needed.

“You okay?” Abe asked, tucking a strand of Meg’s hair behind her ear and leaning in to look at her.

“Not really,” Meg answered. She found herself longing to confide in Abe, to pour out her feelings of guilt and regret. He had always been a good listener, fair-minded and realistic. She sat across from him now, trying to think of the right way to begin. “Everyone’s so furious with Lucinda. I hear such hate in their voices. Am I the only one who feels sorry for her at all?”

“Well, this town’s pretty upset right now,” Abe said. “They’re thinking about themselves—the danger Lucinda represents in their minds. It’ll calm down eventually.”

“I hope so. I’ve been listening to Francine all day, preaching tolerance and forgiveness. The whole time I’ve had this sneaking suspicion that she’s … I hate to say this. She seems perfectly okay with the idea that Ethan’s dead—and that Lucinda killed him.”

Abe sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Even in his faded flannel shirt and jeans it was evident he wasn’t a local. His hair was fashionably cut. His skin had the smooth pallor of someone who worked indoors. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who knows his place and value in the wider world. “Not everybody in this town felt the way you did about Lucinda and Ethan.”

“Meaning?”

“A lot goes on in a small town like this that you—visiting every few weeks or so—never see. It looks like a place Norman Rockwell would have painted, doesn’t it? Everyone’s so friendly. So different from the city. You begin to think that the people are genuinely
nicer,
and somehow
better
here than in other places. Don’t kid yourself, Meg. Human nature doesn’t change with location.”

“People were jealous of Ethan? His success with the studio?”

“Jealous, maybe … but…” Abe thought better of what he was going to say. “Listen, it’s late. We’re all tired. I’ll try to roust that crowd out of there so you and Lark can get to bed.”

“Wait, Abe.” She touched his arm. She hesitated a moment, examining the face before her, etched with exhaustion. Her own problems could wait. “Are you trying to tell me something that I’m not getting?”

“Maybe just to watch your step the next few days… and watch your temper, as well. Things might be said … you may hear some things that you won’t like. Remember, this isn’t your town, Meg. Or Lucinda’s. And, in many ways, it was never Ethan’s. When all is said and done, he was just visiting, too.” Abe rose. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Not surprisingly, Francine was the last to leave. Lark walked her to the front door and Meg saw them embrace. Francine whispered something urgently in Lark’s ear and gave her one last hug.

“Goodnight, Meg,” Francine called over her shoulder as she zipped up her jacket. “You’ve been a tremendous source of strength.” Lark closed the door behind her. The night before, Lark gone to bed with a tranquilizer. Today she had been busy with her children, visitors, endless phone calls, and the police.

Now, for the first time since Ethan’s murder, Lark and Meg were alone together.

They sat by the fire—now just a pile of smoldering embers—in the living room, Lark curled up in a corner of the couch, Meg in the wooden rocker nearby. Lark appeared strangely composed, until she lifted her hand to brush back her hair and Meg saw that she was trembling.

“Long day,” Meg said.

“Yes. Horrible. And weirdly wonderful at the same time. Everyone has been so loving. Open. There for me. Us. And these aren’t people who show their emotions often. Francine says it was cathartic. For everyone.”

“Cathartic? Ethan’s
murder}
I can’t believe you really feel that way.”

“Don’t tell me how to feel.” Though Lark’s words were stinging, her tone was controlled and emphatic, as though she were reciting from memory. “I’m trying to cope with this … this
evil
… with love. I’m desperately trying not to wallow in anger. To stay above the horror of what has been inflicted on me. My family. I know precisely what we’re
talking
about.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Lark said. “I can only imagine how terrible you must feel. But I don’t want to hear about it. Your feelings. Or what happened between you and Ethan.”

“So Ethan told you,” Meg said, confirming what she had suspected from the moment she’d seen Lark the day before—when she’d resisted Meg’s embrace. Lark turned away from her now, pulling the afghan throw off the back of the couch and drawing it over her shoulders.

“Ethan told you that
nothing
happened, right?” Meg went on, trying to help her sister deal with the pain and humiliation of her husband’s emotional betrayal. “I still don’t understand what he was going through, exactly. I think it was some kind of midlife crisis—some kind of fixation.”

“He felt vulnerable about my book getting published,” Lark said. “He was having a hard time handling my success. It was a way of building his ego. I think it’s pretty simple.”

If only Ethan hadn’t first approached her before he even knew that Lark had sold her book, Meg thought. But tonight seemed the wrong time to try to correct Lark’s conclusion—there was too much else to cope with. But Meg was determined to help Lark face the truth someday; no good had come from letting her sister make up her own version of reality.

“Perhaps,” Meg said gently, rocking back in her chair. “But he was definitely working through some real conflicts, some serious problems. I’m afraid I was just too shocked by his behavior to be of much help.”

“It wasn’t your role to help,” Lark replied tersely. “I didn’t want to get into this, but I think now that I’d better. I know my husband is—” she hesitated and Meg saw her hands shaking again as she pulled at the afghan, “was enormously attractive. He had women throwing themselves at him. But I never for a moment thought that you—my sister—”

“What are you talking about?” Meg stopped rocking.

“How you felt about Ethan,” Lark said, staring blankly at the fire. “I don’t know why I should have been surprised. He’s so—that amazing appeal. And you’re lonely, you’ve been so disappointed—”

“Stop right there,” Meg said, standing up. “I never for one moment reciprocated Ethan’s feelings. Did he tell you that? What the hell did he say to you?”

“Please, Meg,” Lark shook her head. “Don’t shout. The children …” She hugged her knees to her chest. “Ethan was one of those men whom women just feel naturally feel drawn to. I’ve known this—I’ve dealt with it for years. It’s not a big deal for me—”

“Well, it is for me,” Meg interrupted again, crossing to the couch and sitting down. “I can’t have you thinking for even a moment that I felt anything for Ethan besides a—a sisterly kind of love.”

“It’s okay, Meg,” Lark said sadly. “It’s so relatively unimportant compared to what’s happened. God, this thing with Lucinda. My mind just can’t seem to process everything. The whole chain of events.” She paused. “Did you realize that Lucinda stole money from you? Off your dresser for a bus ride home?”

“No. I guess I was too upset to—”

“She took the bus to Albany,” Lark went on. “Called me from the station to pick her up. This was about an hour after you and Ethan had called. So I already knew what had happened when I went to get her.” Lark leaned back in her chair. “We had a good talk on the way home. It’s funny, but that’s the only decent conversation I think I’ve ever had with her. We bonded. We both agreed that men were shits. That you couldn’t count on them. You had to forge your own existence. We only spoke in general terms. She didn’t mention you and Ethan in particular. I assumed, of course, that she was upset about the situation for my sake. I was touched. I remember thinking that I really had never given her the chance she deserved….”