Читать книгу The Pact - Jennifer Sturman - Страница 11

I woke up early the next morning and couldn’t fall back to sleep. This was highly irregular—I was famous in certain circles for my ability to sleep deeply and at great length, no doubt as a result of my usual work-induced state of sleep deprivation. Perhaps on some level I already knew what had happened and my curiosity to know yet more nudged me awake.

My mouth was dry and my head fuzzy from too many drinks the previous evening. All that champagne, and then the vodka tonics, and then even more champagne, had seemed like such a good idea at the time. But now I had a pounding headache, and every muscle in my body ached, and I had only myself to blame.

I was sharing Emma’s room, but she was still sleeping in the other twin bed, and, eager as I was to talk to her, it seemed criminal to disturb her peaceful slumber. Careful not to wake her, I slipped out from under the down-filled comforter, exchanged my nightie for a pair of cutoffs and a cotton sweater, grabbed a few Advil from my bag, and tiptoed down the stairs in flip-flops to search for something to wash the pain relievers down. The house was quiet, and the hands of the kitchen clock told me it was only half past six, a time of day that I hadn’t seen on a weekend in at least two years.

I reached into the refrigerator, took the pitcher that the Furlongs’ housekeeper kept filled with freshly squeezed orange juice, and poured myself a tall glass. I swallowed the pills down with a generous slug. Then I stepped through the kitchen door and onto the porch that wrapped around the house. Between the Advil, the juice, and the fresh air, I hoped I would shortly feel brand-new.

I strolled past the long oak table and wicker chairs where the Furlongs ate their meals during the summer and paused at the railing. Sipping my juice, I took in the panorama before me. While money couldn’t buy everything, it could most definitely purchase beauty and access to beautiful places. The view from the porch was breathtaking. Beyond the mirrored surface of the lake, the distant hills were thick with pine, and while the sky was still hazy, the early morning fog was beginning to recede, yielding to an intense, cloudless blue. In the foreground, the lush green of the lawn and gardens led down to the water’s edge. The tapestry was marred only by the billowing white tent that had been erected to one side, an ominous reminder of the ceremony that was to take place that afternoon.

It was gorgeous weather for a wedding. Richard had probably insisted on it when he made his pact with the Devil. I sighed, dreading the day ahead.

From the corner of my eye I could see the glint of the pool, which Emma’s mother had installed around the other side of the house the previous summer to better accommodate some of her more squeamish friends from the city. Emma and her father had argued with her about this for years, saying it was absurd to put in a pool when the cool expanse of lake stretched only a hundred yards away, but Lily had ultimately won out. Not everyone, she’d protested, was comfortable swimming with the water snakes and other slippery creatures that made the lake their home. And what Emma’s mother wanted, she inevitably got. So the pool had gone in beside the house, along with a pool house that contained changing rooms, a sauna and two guest rooms, each of which undoubtedly could have swallowed my New York apartment in one gulp.

I continued along the porch to get a better look at the additions. We’d arrived just in time for the wedding rehearsal the previous day, and after that we had to rush to change for dinner. This was my first chance to check out the pool and the pool house in the clear light of day.

Maybe it was the lurking possibility of wildlife that caused my heart to skip a beat when I glimpsed a dark shape floating on the water’s surface. I don’t know what I thought it could have been—a bear or some sort of mountain lion, perhaps?—but living in Manhattan had rendered me both alert to danger and skittish about animals that weren’t on a leash. I reminded myself that the porch stood several feet from the ground and gingerly made my way around the corner and toward the pool for a better look.

I noted with relief that the shape was neither furry nor moving before I registered that it was Richard. One of the custom-made shirts that usually hung just so from his lean frame was plastered to his torso, and his wet black hair gleamed in the sun. His face was in the water, but I knew it was him and I knew he was dead. It seemed somehow unjust that he should go just like Gatsby, when he had none of Gatsby’s charm or surprising innocence. That was my first thought. My second thought was muffled by my own deafening shriek.

Matthew came running out of the pool house in boxer shorts and a faded T-shirt, toothbrush in hand. “Rachel—what is it? Are you—” He stopped short when he caught sight of the body. Before I could respond, he dropped his toothbrush and dove into the water, flipping Richard over with the practiced moves of a lifeguard. I watched, paralyzed, as Matthew hoisted the body up out of the water and checked for a pulse. “Call 911!” Matthew yelled to me, already beginning CPR.

“I just did,” I heard a calm voice say behind me. “They’re on their way. I gave them the gate code, so they’ll be able to get in.” I turned, startled. Luisa was standing in the open French doors that led to the downstairs sitting room. Her curvy figure was wrapped in a silk kimono, and her dark hair hung nearly to her waist, freed from its usual thick knot. She pulled her silver cigarette case and lighter from a pocket. Her expression was almost bemused, and she dropped her voice, speaking as if to herself. “It looks like it’s too late, though, doesn’t it?”

The click of her lighter melted my paralysis, and I ran down the steps to the pool. I crouched next to Matthew, listening to him counting under his breath as he pumped Richard’s chest. “Come on, you bastard, breathe already,” he muttered.

I watched him for what felt like hours but was probably only a minute or two. Finally, he sat back on his heels and shook his head. “He’s dead,” he told me. He glanced at the back of his hands, lightly freckled and sparsely covered with light-brown hair, as if in disgust at their inefficacy. He seemed unaware of the water streaming from his drenched clothing to puddle at his feet.

I looked at the body stretched on the flagstones before us. In death Richard looked a lot like he had looked in life—just paler and wetter. His icy blue eyes stared unblinking at the sky, and his thin lips were bloodless and tinged with purple. I shivered as Matthew leaned over and gently smoothed his eyelids shut.

I heard footsteps and voices as other members of the household appeared, awakened by the uproar. Hilary stepped onto the porch dressed in a leopard-print negligee. She rubbed sleepily at her eyes, visibly grumpy at the disturbance. There was some distance between us, but from where I was I could have sworn she brightened considerably when she got a good look at the scene before her. “What have we here?” she asked in a tone that sounded more excited than distraught. She leaned over the wooden railing to get a closer look. Luisa grabbed her elbow and admonished her in a low voice.

Hilary was followed by Jane and Sean. I knew that happy couples frequently tended to start dressing alike, but surely their matching striped pajamas were a little much, even if they hadn’t deliberately intended to match? They joined Hilary at the railing and made a quick assessment of what had happened. “Dead?” Sean asked, his arm grasping Jane around her waist. I nodded.

Emma’s mother was right behind Jane and Sean, her petite form swathed in a simple terry bathrobe that she wore with the same unstudied elegance as the Chanel suits she favored in the city and the designer sportswear she wore in the country. Absent her usual subtle makeup and with her dark gold hair hanging loose about her shoulders, Mrs. Furlong looked like an eerily faded version of Emma. “What—?” she started to ask. Then she took in Richard’s body and let out a shriek that made mine seem distinctly amateur.

Emma ran out after her mother, a long T-shirt hanging halfway to her knees. She looked no older than she had freshman year. “Mother—what’s wrong?” she cried, her voice trailing off as she followed her mother’s gaze. “Oh. Oh. Is he…is he…?” A wave of white washed the color from her face.

Matthew looked up at her wordlessly, his expression blank. Hilary and Mrs. Furlong caught her as she crumpled to the floor.

I wasn’t sure when, exactly, Emma’s father arrived, but I remembered that he was panting, having run from his studio in the old stables. He stopped short at the edge of the pool area where the grass gave way to flagstone. I’d just noted his presence when I heard cars pulling up the drive toward the house. Their sirens echoed in the quiet morning air, the sound ricocheting from hill to hill.

I had a strange sense of déjà vu, as if I had woken up in an Agatha Christie novel. The only missing pieces were the vicar and Miss Marple.