Читать книгу The Pact - Jennifer Sturman - Страница 13

Unbelievable, indeed.

The Furlongs, so I’d always been led to believe, were the consummate happy family. But I was having difficulty reconciling this long-held conviction with Mr. Furlong’s nonchalant delegation of responsibilities, not to mention the cryptic and heated exchange I’d overhead between him and Emma the previous night. Surely he should be carefully supervising the activities of the police or rushing upstairs to check in on his daughter, and perhaps even his wife, rather than deserting to his studio? He didn’t seem to fully appreciate the gravity of what was happening. If someone in the household had killed Richard, it would be better for one of us to figure it out before the police did so that the situation could be managed properly. Not that I had any idea what would constitute proper management in such unusual circumstances, but I could cross that bridge when I got there. Years of training in sorting out data and figures had made the orderly arrangement of information almost a religion to me, and one thing I had learned was that you had to have your fact base in place before you could make any good decisions.

I rose to my feet and headed through the French doors to the living room. At this time of day, it was bathed with early morning light, which spilled over the glossy butter-yellow walls and comfortable furniture, all upholstered in variations on the theme of chintz. This was the room where Emma and I had spent most of our evenings when I’d visited before, sprawled on sofas reading or playing Scrabble around the coffee table with her parents or Matthew.

I was confident that Jane, with her usual unflappable calm and organizational prowess, would have the situation well in hand upstairs, so I paused to gather my thoughts. My eyes settled on the collection of silver-framed photographs on top of the gleaming Steinway, including a black-and-white picture of the Furlongs on their wedding day. Lily was radiant in a satin dress that accentuated the graceful lines of her collarbone, and Jacob was resplendent in a morning suit. He had the dark good looks of a young Sean Connery, and they set off Lily’s delicate fairness beautifully.

Over the years, I’d learned a lot about Emma’s family, not only from Emma herself but from magazines like Vanity Fair and Vogue, where you could often find articles about Emma’s grandmother, Arianna Schuyler, who had rivaled Jackie Onassis as an icon of style and elegance, or about Lily and Jacob, who had been one of the most prominent couples in New York for decades. I knew that Lily’s parents had quite a different husband in mind for their youngest daughter, somebody who shared their own blue-blooded and Ivy-draped backgrounds.

Instead, Jacob Furlong was the son of a dirt-poor Louisiana farmer. He broke upon the New York art scene in the mid-1960s with a splash that was as much about his bold paintings as it was about the notoriety he quickly gained as a man about town. His picture was just as likely to appear on Page Six of the New York Post, which breathlessly chronicled his exploits with companions like Andy Warhol and Edie Sedgwick, as it was to appear next to a favorable review in the New York Times or ArtWorld.

But the press he received in his early years in New York was nothing compared to the scoopfest that began when he started squiring Lily Schuyler around town. The Schuylers epitomized old-guard society, and Lily shattered convention in her unusual choice of a beau. It was hard to imagine where the two of them even crossed paths, but somehow they did. And after a whirlwind courtship, they announced their engagement. The Schuylers were stunned by the willfulness and determination with which Lily met their objections. Never before had she strayed from the path they’d set out for her, nor were they prepared for the onslaught of charm combined with tenacity that Jacob used to overcome their misgivings. Lily withdrew from Wellesley after her freshman year, and she married Jacob in June of 1970 in front of five hundred guests at Saint James Episcopal on Fifth Avenue.

If you were going only on the photographs before me, the elder Schuylers’ fears were unwarranted. The pictures documented the happy life of a golden couple, complemented by their golden-haired daughter and a wide circle of friends. There were photos of the Furlong family with socialites and artists, corporate titans and noted intellectuals, all set against the background of the world’s most expensive and exotic locales.

Without warning, I felt a pang of sympathy for Richard. While I was beginning to suspect that the golden surface masked complex depths, if you saw only the surface it would be easy to think that it was an accurate representation of life with the Furlongs. What little I knew about Richard’s childhood suggested that it had been a far cry from this Elysian existence. I could only imagine the appeal that the Furlongs would have held for him, perhaps not only for the ambitious and avaricious reasons my friends and I had discussed just a few hours before while we sat on the dock, but as part of a far more human desire to be a member of a real family.

It was odd to think of Richard having such a basic need for familial warmth and security. The most unlikely emotion he’d ever stirred in me was empathy, even when I met him more than a dozen years ago at Harvard. Then, he was a senior and already the ultimate in dashing sophistication. He presented such a seamlessly polished face to the world that it was hard to imagine any sort of emotional neediness. Emma had always been a soft touch—sophomore year she’d brought home the meanest stray cat in existence, who promptly shredded the upholstery on the sofa in our common room and gave lie to the assumption that any cat can be litter trained. She only agreed to give him up when she’d placed him with a family in Cambridge. Perhaps emotional neediness was the quality that drew Emma to Richard, the trait that kept her with him long after he stopped making her happy. Richard was the human equivalent of the mean stray cat, albeit better groomed.

But somehow I knew that wasn’t the answer, the secret to her motivations. I wondered what the real answer was, and if it had been connected in any way to the end Richard had met.

That was an unsettling idea.

I heard the slap of tennis shoes descending the front stairs, and the sound dragged me back to the present with a guilty jolt. I hadn’t meant to spend so much time on a psychological retrospective of Richard Mallory. Sean entered the room at a brisk pace, and his burly, familiar form was a welcome distraction. He’d changed out of his pajamas into a pair of khakis and a faded polo shirt. His simple presence was reassuring, not only because of the sheer bulk of it but because his character was so solid and dependable. If a WASP could be a mensch, then Sean won that title hands down.

Jane was lucky enough to meet Sean early our freshman year, when he was a junior. They were both on the sailing team, which was a haven for hard-core outdoorsy-variety New Englanders. Sean was one of the cocaptains of the Varsity team, and Jane, a former medalist in sailing at the Junior Olympics, was the rare freshman to bypass JV altogether to take a place in the first boat. The two of them were well matched, with the clean bone structure, long healthy limbs, and sun-streaked hair that were the most common by-products of generations of WASP in-breeding. They also shared the same easygoing, down-to-earth way of navigating the world. They dated almost continuously throughout college, and their wedding on the Cape the summer after we graduated felt inevitable, from the blond-haired flower girl to the white tent that shielded the guests from the cool winds blowing off the Atlantic. It was hard to believe that they had been married for more than ten years, especially when the rest of us had so steadfastly maintained our single states. At least, all of us except Emma.

“Hey, there, Rach,” he said, his trademark grin diminished in deference to the morning’s events. He crossed the room to join me by the piano and put a large comforting hand on my shoulder. “How are you doing? You got quite a wakeup this morning, didn’t you?”

It had been so hectic that it hadn’t occurred to me that I was, in fact, a bit shell-shocked at having awakened to discover a body, but I decided not to think too carefully about that. There would be plenty of time to process it all later; figuring out how Richard had died would have to take precedence for the time being. “I’m okay,” I said. “A little freaked out, but I’ll get over it. More importantly, how’s Emma?”

“I’m not sure. Jesus. I’ve never seen anybody faint dead away like that. I took her upstairs and then Mrs. Furlong shooed me off. Jane and Luisa and Hil are up there, too, so she’s in capable hands. I thought I’d come back down to see if I could help out with anything.”

“Matthew’s out by the pool dealing with the police,” I offered. “I’m sure he’d appreciate a little moral support.”

“Right,” said Sean. “I’ll go see what I can do.” He started toward the door.

It occurred to me then that he might be able to shed some light on things. “Hey, Sean,” I called out, “wait a second.”

“What is it? Is everything all right?” he asked, pausing and turning back to face me. The sun pouring in through the open doorway silhouetted him, and his bulk cast a long shadow across the floor.

“I was wondering—you had a nightcap with Richard last night, didn’t you? Out by the pool?”

“Yep. All the guys did. Just a quick drink and a little male bonding before we went to bed.”

“Did everything seem…normal?” Normal seemed like a lame word choice, but Sean would know what I meant. I was hoping for easy enlightenment, something that could explain—without implicating anyone I knew or cared about—how Richard had ended up floating facedown and lifeless in the pool.

“Did everything seem normal?” he repeated thoughtfully, his hand on the door’s brass handle. “Yeah, as far as I could tell. Nothing strange happened that I noticed. Nothing out of the ordinary. That’s what’s so weird about this whole thing. I mean, Richard seemed like his same old self.” Sean was too nice to say what Richard’s same old self was like. He’d known Richard longer than any of us—they had both lived in Eliot House while at Harvard, an enclave that prided itself on its reputation for preppy elitism. “Lowest GPA, highest starting salary,” bragged the house T-shirt one year, only partly tongue-in-cheek. They also belonged to the same finals club, one of a handful of exclusive fraternities housed in discreet redbrick buildings around campus. Neither Eliot House nor the club really suited Sean, but he was reluctant to be the first Hallard in five generations to stray from tradition. Both of these venues gave Sean ample opportunity to get to know Richard, and I knew from comments that Jane had let drop that his opinion of Richard was no higher than my own.

Sean continued, “It’s so bizarre to think that there we were, just a few hours ago, talking about how the Yankees are doing this season and other nonsense, and the next thing you know…” His voice trailed off. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t.”

“I keep wondering what could have happened. There must be a good explanation, but for the life of me, I have no idea what it is. I thought for a moment that maybe he committed suicide, but Richard was as far from suicidal as…” He didn’t finish his sentence, unable to find the appropriate simile.

“Was he really drunk?” I asked, trying to mask the hopeful tone in my voice. It felt awkward and inappropriate to probe like this, but I desperately wanted to believe that it had, in fact, been possible that Richard could have had so much to drink that he could have fallen into the pool and been too far gone to save himself. Matthew’s assessment and Richard’s well-documented ability to hold his liquor notwithstanding, I was definitely rooting for accidental drowning as the cause of death. If suicide was out of the question, the only other alternative was less than appealing.

Sean considered this for a moment and then gave a decisive shake of his head. “Well, he seemed to have had a good bit to drink, but we all had. And he’s always been able to drink even the most serious drinkers under the table. I think the rest of us were far worse for wear than he was. I was practically ready to pass out by the time I went in to bed.” He flashed me a self-deprecating smile. “Quiet married life hasn’t done much for my level of alcohol tolerance. I only have a hazy memory of Jane coming in, although, according to her, I really distinguished myself on the snoring front last night.”

I had to laugh. Sean’s snoring was legendary, capable of raising roofs and setting windowpanes to shaking in their frames. Then I thought about what he’d said. If Sean had gone to bed before Jane, he must have come in before 2:00 a.m., which was when I’d arrived in the bedroom I was sharing with Emma, also a little worse for wear from several hours of steady drinking, after my friends and I had decided to call it a night. Almost unconsciously, I started putting together a mental chronology of the early morning’s events.

“Did the other guys go to bed when you did?” I asked.

“No,” Sean said with another shake of his head. “I was the first to go. Jane and I were going to take advantage of being up in the country to take a long run before all of the wedding action began.” Some people, myself included, exercised for normal reasons like wanting to look cute in one’s clothes. Jane and Sean, however, actually thought exercise was fun. I’d always prided myself on being able to stay friends with people who enjoyed marathons but didn’t find them sufficiently challenging.

“Still,” Sean went on, “everybody was getting tired. I don’t think they lasted that much longer.” Especially not Richard, I couldn’t help but think with morbid humor.

“So, let me get this straight,” I summarized, “you all were drinking by the pool while we were out on the dock, you then came in before two, we all came in around two, and you’re not quite sure when the rest of the guys went to bed but you think it was pretty soon after that.” That meant that whatever happened took place sometime between two and six, which was a big window for foul play.

He gave me a quizzical look and then grinned again, more fully this time. “What’s going on, here, Rach? You thinking of tossing in your banking gig to become a private investigator?”

I gave him a sheepish smile. “I don’t know. Do you think I’d be any good?”

“Good or not, I don’t think it pays enough to keep you in the style you’d like. You might want to stick with Wall Street.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said.

“Any time. Now, assuming you have no more questions, Madame Detective, I’m going to go make myself useful.”

“That’s Mademoiselle, to you. And you’re dismissed.” He gave me a mock salute and I waved him out the door.