A Killer’s Kiss

29

As soon as I could dump Derek off in his North Philly neighborhood, I hied it over to the very last place I should have hied it over to. Julia’s, of course. But I had to go. I wanted to see her, to talk to her, to kiss her and maybe more her. And I had great news. I had solved the mystery of those troubling letters she’d been sent. There was money somewhere, and I suspected I knew where to find it, though it was way too dangerous right now to pick it up myself. And, most crucial of all, I knew who had killed her husband, and why. The only thing I didn’t know was how wrong I could be.

It had been a scene of tears and bitterness in Margaret’s neat little Cape Cod. She didn’t blame him. How could she? He was just being led astray by the emotions conjured by that witch. The way she swished in his presence, the way she touched his arm and lowered her voice when she spoke to him. She had bewitched Dr. Denniston, leading him into ruin, and she had done the same to her Clarence, all the time reveling in her power, the power women like that had over men, a power Margaret would never know.

“But Clarence loves me in his soul,” she said, and she might have been right, but that’s not where it matters.

The bitterness was etched deep into her features, as if with some brutal awl. The way the fey little girls at dance class got the solos while Margaret was pressed to the back of the chorus. The way the bright, bubbly girls in elementary school got the teachers’ attention and the pretty girls with clear voices got the leads in the middle-school musicals. The designation of beauty in America is remarkably generous – so many beautiful girls walk the hallways of our high schools it can break your heart – but that only makes being on the wrong side of that line ever more painful. For Margaret, life was never so easy, expectations were lowered. The straws had been drawn, and hers came out short, and forever after, everything she held close would be at risk from those who had won the lottery.

The cat came over and nestled against one of her strong calves. She kicked it away.

“He follows her around like a pet,” she said. “He does her bidding. He laughs at her jokes – not even jokes, she doesn’t make jokes. She makes her world-weary little comments, and he chuckles like a fool. Sometimes he stalks after her through the night and spies on her. And other times he does whatever she asks of him. He has become her lapdog.”

“So you sent the letters,” I said.

“I couldn’t help myself. The urge was uncontrollable. It was either write the letters or shoot her dead.”

“Good choice, then. What about the drugs?”

“What drugs?”

“Clarence. How did the drugs start?”

“Clarence? Drugs?”

“No drugs?”

“Of course not. What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I guess I’m confused. But why did you write to her, why not to him?”

“Because it wasn’t his fault, Mr. Carl. She could see it happening, she could have done something about it if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to. She’s a siren, that’s her to the bone, Clarence couldn’t help himself.”

“No, I suppose not.”

And I couldn’t help myself either, as I barreled through the dark, leafy streets of Chestnut Hill on the way to her house. There were three cars in the driveway, two I recognized: the Dennistons’ blue BMW and a boxy black Volvo. I had seen the Volvo before, at that very spot. It was Clarence’s car. Why should I have been surprised?

I knocked at the door and knocked some more. When Gwen opened it a crack, I pushed it open wider.

“Where is she?” I said.

“Mr. Carl, you shouldn’t be here now,” said Gwen in a hush, barring my way with one strong arm.

“I need to see her.”

“Mr. Carl, please.”

“Let him in, Gwen,” came a voice I recognized from inside the house. “It’s not a party without Victor.”

I looked around Gwen, and there he was, Clarence Swift himself, bent aggressively forward, hands rubbing one the other beneath his insincere smile.

“It looks like I came just in time,” I said.

“Your timing couldn’t be more perfect,” he said.

“Where is she?”

“In the den,” he said. “Hurry. She’s waiting for you.”

“Go home, Mr. Carl,” said Gwen.

I gently took hold of her arm and pushed it away. “It’s all right, Gwen. I can handle Clarence.”

“It’s not him you should be worried about,” she said, but by the time she said it, I was already past her.

“I figured out most of it,” I said to Clarence, who waited unflinchingly as I approached. “The whole deal you created with your pal Wren Denniston to steal Gregor Trocek’s money. Why you plotted against and killed your old friend Wren. How you’ve been working hard to frame me for your murder.”

“I was right about you from the start, Victor. You are wondrously clever. Only a fool would underestimate you.”

“But what I don’t understand, Clarence, what I’ll never understand, is how you figure a pathetic wretch like you will end up with Julia.”

“Don’t you worry, I know my place.”

“And I know mine – between her and you.”

“You want to know a secret, Victor?” said Clarence.

“Sure,” I said as I stopped right in front of him.

He leaned close and whispered. “You’re not good enough for her.”

“We’ll see about that,” I said, and then I brushed past him, toward the den. I called out, “Julia?”

“Victor?”

I had wanted to hear that sweet lilt of pleasant surprise. I’m so glad you came. But that’s not what I heard in the voice. What I heard instead was, What the hell are you doing here? But what the hell did it matter? I was there, so was Julia, and maybe, for once, a piece of the truth would be in the room with us.

“Julia,” I said as I pushed open the door to the den. “I’ve got news.”

And there she was, in her chair, in her corner, wearing pants this time, and a loose white shirt, rolled up at the cuffs. Her shirt was buttoned, her hair back, her face scrubbed, she had been crying. She stood up when she saw me and stepped forward on bare feet. So captivated was I by the sight of her that it took me a moment to register that there were others in the room, two others.

My head swiveled back and forth. Hanratty leaned against the wall behind me. Sims was sitting on the red leather couch by the fireplace. They both seemed quite pleased to see me.

“What are you clowns doing here?” I said.

“We were invited,” said Sims. “By Mr. Swift.”

“I told them Mrs. Denniston was ready to talk,” said Clarence Swift from behind me.

“Talk?” I said. “About what?”

“About her husband’s murder, of course,” said Clarence.

“I told them, Victor,” said Julia as she stepped up to me. Her arms were stretched wide before she wrapped them around my neck. “I told them everything.”