Who Killed Dorian Gray? Read online

  Liza led her into a small alcove off the rear of the dining room, where there was a pay phone attached to an answering machine. “This is the house phone for the residents. You can give people this number to call, and the answering machine will pick up. If you take a message for someone else, just slip it in their mailbox; the mailboxes are by the front staircase. I have my own phone at the cabin, though, so if you want to use that to call out, you’re certainly welcome.”

  “Thank you.” Seeing the phone made Claire want to call Wally. She had spoken with him the evening before, but had a sudden sharp longing to hear his voice.

  “And there’s the laundry room,” Liza continued, pointing to a short hallway off the alcove that contained a washer and dryer. “I have detergent if you need some.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No televisions are allowed at Ravenscroft. You can have a radio in your room, but only if you keep the volume low enough so that it doesn’t disturb the other residents. A couple of the painters have radios in their studios, I think, and Sherry and I have one in the cabin if you ever need a news fix or anything.”

  Claire nodded. “Thanks.” She loved the idea of a week without television or even her beloved National Public Radio—with just the sounds of the surrounding woods to keep her company.

  “Some of the residents are already asleep; most of the painters go to bed early and get up early to catch the daylight,” said Liza as she led Claire through the dining room toward the kitchen. “But several of the writers are night owls; a couple of them work most of the night.”

  The kitchen was also huge, institution-sized, with a big center island, two stoves, and a double sink. There were two walk-in pantries, one for pots and china; the other held five full-sized refrigerators.

  “Everyone shares a refrigerator with one other person, and you each get your own shelf in the pantry for dry food,” Liza said. “You can share Camille’s refrigerator.”

  On one of the refrigerators someone had pasted a cartoon from The New Yorker. Two men in khakis and pith helmets stood in an African base camp, and one was saying, “Those drums all night, so insistent, repetitive, monotonous! It must be something by Philip Glass.” Claire read it and laughed.

  “Whose refrigerator is this?”

  “Oh, the cartoon? Billy Trimble put that there. He shares the fridge with Gary Robinson.”

  At that moment an extraordinary-looking person entered the kitchen. He was enormous; he seemed to be built on the same scale as the house—everything about him was oversized. He was at least six and a half feet tall, and Claire estimated that his massive frame carried a good three hundred pounds. His great head was topped by a tall black ten-gallon hat, the kind movie villains wear, and long black hair fell down his back, halfway to his waist. He wore blue jeans, a black cowboy shirt under a fringed leather vest, and cowboy boots. His entire outfit was more evocative of the Wild West than of the Catskills.

  “Hello,” he said to Claire in a deep but curiously soft voice.

  “Oh, this is Two Joe,” said Liza, emerging from the pantry. “Two Joe, this is Claire Rawlings.”

  Two Joe enveloped Claire’s hand in his; it was like shaking hands with a giant. His skin was as dry and leathery as alligator hide, and Claire could feel the power in his grasp.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “You are Liza’s editor friend?”

  “Uh, yes, I am.”

  “Two Joe is one of the painters,” said Liza. “He’s full-blooded Cherokee.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. They call me Two Joe because of my size. And I have recently lost a hundred and fifty pounds.”

  Claire didn’t actually want to picture Two Joe prior to his weight loss, so she just nodded. “Well, that’s impressive.”

  “Liza didn’t mention that you were a good-looking red-head.”

  Claire blushed and laughed. “Well . . .”

  Liza laughed too. “Two Joe is such a flirt. He’s only been here a week, and already he has all the women here eating out of his hand. Don’t you?”

  Two Joe just shrugged, but the right corner of his mouth twitched upward. Liza swatted his shoulder lightly. “Do you know what he told me when he first arrived? That if he’d known Southern women were so beautiful—”

  “I would have moved to Georgia years ago,” Two Joe declared solemnly, but the corner of his mouth still twitched upward.

  “Well, I don’t mind a little flirting, especially with a handsome Native American,” Claire said with uncharacteristic boldness. After the long drive, she felt light-headed and a little loopy.

  Liza laughed. “She’s got you at your own game, Two Joe.”

  Two Joe grinned widely. “Who said anything about a game?”

  “Would you mind keeping it down a little? It’s late,” said a voice behind Claire.

  Claire turned to see a tall, angular black man standing in the hallway outside the kitchen. He wore old-fashioned round spectacles, and though he looked young, his thin-lipped face had a grave air, suggesting someone older—a college professor perhaps.

  “Oh, I’m sorry Gary,” Liza apologized. “Sound really carries in this old house,” she added, looking at Claire.

  Claire turned to look at Two Joe, whose face was stolid and expressionless. It was clear that he did not like Gary.

  “Gary, this is my friend Claire Rawlings, who just arrived from New York,” Liza added quickly. “Claire, this is Gary Robinson. He’s a painter, and he teaches art at City College in New York.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Claire said.

  “How do you do?” Gary responded formally. He did not offer his hand as Two Joe had, but made a stiff little bow. He paused as if he was about to say something else, but evidently changed his mind and turned to leave.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to try to get some sleep,” he said, and left as soundlessly as he had come. After he was gone, there was a brief silence, then Liza spoke.

  “He’s not really as cold as he seems,” she said apologetically.

  Two Joe snorted softly in response. It was so like Liza to act as peacemaker; she had done the same thing when she and Claire worked together at Waverly. Liza hated it when people fought. Claire wondered what was between Gary and Two Joe but this wasn’t the time for gossip; she would get Liza alone later and find out. A wave of fatigue swept through her body. She tried to stifle a yawn, but Liza noticed it.

  “You’re tired, aren’t you?” she asked sympathetically.

  “I guess so. I just got caught up in the excitement of being here.”

  “Well, it’s late. I guess we’re all tired—except for Two Joe, who likes to burn the midnight oil.”

  Two Joe nodded.

  “Two Joe likes to paint at night,” he said. Claire wondered if that was really the way he talked, or if he was laying on the Native American shtick for her benefit.

  “Well, Liza likes to sleep at night,” Liza said, yawning. “Can I help you with your luggage?”

  “Oh, I’ll get it. I left it in the car. If I could just borrow your umbrella—”

  Two Joe stepped forward. “Two Joe will get your luggage.”

  “Oh, that’s very kind, but I can—”

  “No, no; Two Joe will take care of you.”

  Claire looked at Liza, who shrugged.

  “Well, thank you; that’s very kind of you. It’s nice to find that chivalry is still alive in some parts of the world,” Claire added as he left the kitchen, the ancient floorboards creaking under his weight.

  “Being a full-time feminist can be so tiring, don’t you think?” Liza said, smiling.

  Claire laughed. “It’s just too late at night to stand on principle.”

  “Let me show you to your room,” said Liza when Two Joe arrived with the luggage. He insisted on carrying it upstairs, and Claire followed behind, down a long hallway covered with a thin, rust-colored carpet. Liza stopped at the last door on the left.

  “I call this the Edwardian
Room,” she said, producing a key from her pocket. Claire was a little surprised that the rooms had locks. It made sense, she supposed; even artists and writers can be thieves.

  The room was small but cozy, with a thick oak dresser and matching rocking chair. There was a single window overlooking the front drive, the curtains were white lace, and the floor was covered with a green and white hooked rug. A poster of a Turner painting hung on one wall, the murky yellow colors warm and fuzzy in the glow of the bedside lamp.

  “It’s quiet in this corner of the house,” Liza said, fluffing the pillows on the bed. “The only room you’re directly over is the dining room, and people don’t even use it that much. Mostly we eat on the porch. There’s a back staircase which leads down to the first floor, but again, people tend to use the main stairs more often. I think you’ll find it pretty peaceful here.”

  “This will be great—thanks,” said Claire as Ralph slunk into the room, making the half-purr, half-meow sound that was his way of announcing his presence.

  “Hi, Ralph; are you settling in?” said Liza.

  “Thanks so much for letting me bring him,” said Claire.

  “It is good to have your spirit guide with you,” Joe remarked, heaving Claire’s suitcase onto the bed. Claire knew it was heavier than it looked; she never went anywhere without her hand weights.

  “Oh, is Ralph your spirit guide?” Liza asked.

  “Everyone has a spirit guide,” Two Joe said seriously, and again Claire thought he was laying the Native American thing on a bit thick.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to unpack,” said Liza. “Feel free to use any bathroom, but the closest one is just down the hall to the left. They’re all showers except for the one downstairs, where there’s an actual bathtub.”

  “Where is your room?” Claire asked.

  “Oh, Sherry and I are renting a little cabin next door; you can see it through your window, actually.”

  Claire peered through the window and saw the lights blazing in the windows of a cozy little bungalow sitting up the hill just a few hundred yards from Ravenscroft.

  “They offered me a room in Ravenscroft, but Sherry and I wanted some privacy, and the cabins are very cheap. If you ever need anything, just come knock on our door.”

  “Thanks so much—and thank you for carrying my luggage, Two Joe.”

  Two Joe nodded solemnly and withdrew.

  “Good night,” said Liza, closing the door behind her. “Sleep well.”

  “Oh, don’t worry—I will.”

  Claire decided to postpone her unpacking until the next day. She put on her flannel pajamas and soon was snuggling underneath a down comforter. It was much cooler up here than in town; Liza had warned her to be prepared for cold nights on Guardian Mountain. Ralph roamed the room for a while, sniffing into corners, then jumped up on the bed and settled near Claire’s face, breathing his thin little cat’s breath on her chin. She inhaled the odor of Purina Tuna Dinner.

  “Very nice, Ralph,” she murmured, turning over. Ralph responded by licking himself.

  Claire lay for a long time listening to the rain outside. It murmured suggestively, softly, closing them inside the house, dripping from the window casements, sliding down the windowpanes, beckoning. The wind whipped and whistled in the eaves, rustling the curtains and nestling against the side of the house, whining and tapping like a dog begging to come inside. Lying in the soft warm bed, it was hard for Claire to resist the pull of sleep, the tug of the subconscious on her weary body. But there was something so delicious, so luxurious about lying there that she fought to remain conscious.

  Then a memory surfaced from her subconscious, swimming its way up through layers of forgetfulness: the feel of Robert’s hands closing around her throat. Panic seized her and she sat up in bed, sweating. Nine months had passed since he tried to kill her, but the memory of his hands on her neck had not faded.

  Robert. How could a man with so much outward grace be so essentially rotten, like a house with a fresh coat of paint that is crumbling inside, decayed at its core. There had been the smell of decay about Robert, in retrospect, Claire thought; if only she had sensed it at the time. But she was blind to essential aspects of him, and that blindness had almost killed her. All along, she thought, he had used her—used to her get closer to Blanche DuBois—and then when Claire threatened, quite unwittingly, to close in on his secret, he had tried to kill her. If it weren’t for Wally and Meredith, no doubt he would have succeeded. Their last-minute rescue of her was both dramatic and miraculous, and if Claire shared her mother’s faith in God, she would have called it a miracle.

  Claire snuggled back under the quilt, comforted by the idea of Wally and Meredith, unknown to her a year ago, now both so much a part of her life. There were so many imponderables, she thought; no wonder people grasped at the idea of a higher power to help them explain life’s great questions. But Robert . . . Robert would always remain for her one of those questions. She could never answer why or how she could have come close to loving a man who had tried—and very nearly succeeded—in killing her.

  She listened to the wind whistling in the eaves, curling around the side of the building, wrapping itself around the old house like a blanket. Finally she surrendered to the pull of fatigue, and sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Claire awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of sparrows squabbling outside her window. She sat up and brushed the cat hairs from her chin, then looked around the room for Ralph. He was seated on the window sill, watching the sparrows patiently. He glanced back at Claire when she rose and began to dress, then returned to his vigil.

  Claire felt as though she had slept for days, and had trouble shaking the sleep from her body. She walked groggily through the long hall and down the creaking front staircase. The kitchen was empty, but Liza had left a note neatly taped to the coffee maker.

  Good morning! Had to go to town on Guild business—help yourself to coffee. Back by noon—L.

  Claire looked at the clock over the sink; it was already after ten. She rubbed her eyes and poured herself a cup of coffee, which she carried out to the porch. The cicadas were just beginning to drone their long descending scale, heralding the end of summer, as she settled into one of the canvas director’s chairs scattered about the porch. On the other end of the porch was a picnic table with benches. No wonder no one used the dining room, Claire thought as she sipped her coffee. This porch was the most perfect spot imaginable, its dry old sun-bleached wood posts covered by winding honeysuckle vines, the sweet smell mingling with the musty odor of loam and peat moss from the garden. She took another sip of coffee, closed her eyes, and heaved a deep sigh of contentment.

  Just then the screen door creaked, and Claire turned to see a short, dark, elegantly dressed woman enter the porch.

  “Good morning. You must be Claire Rawlings.”

  “Yes. Good morning.”

  “I’m Camille Sardou.”

  Her voice was striking—low and husky, with a touch of the Continent about it—and it lent her an air of glamour that her looks alone might not have. Her eyes were too prominent, and her grey-stained teeth advertised the reason for that throaty voice—as did the box of Sobraine Black Russians poking out from her shirt pocket.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Please do.”

  She sat on the musty old bed that served as a couch, pulling her feet up underneath her, neat as a cat. Chic, Claire thought. Her movements, her voice—everything about her is chic. It was true; though she was dressed in jeans and a loose, flowing black shirt, the jeans were pressed and the shirt had the sheen of real silk. Large silver-and-turquoise earrings dangled from her ears, and even at this hour of day, Claire noticed, Camille wore lipstick.

  “Everyone’s very excited about your being here,” Camille remarked, taking the cigarettes from her pocket and putting them on the coffee table. “Oh, don’t worry,” she added. “I’m not going to smoke one right now. Smoking
is forbidden anywhere inside the house, actually, so I have to head off toward the woods if I want to indulge in my habit.” She laughed, showing her darkened teeth. “Camelot Road is full of my cigarette stubs.”

  “Camelot Road?”

  Camille pointed to the dirt road leading past Ravenscroft and into the woods. “It’s not marked, but this is Camelot Road. If you walk it all the way to the end, it comes out on Rock Hill Road. They told me that you used to be able to drive it, but there’s been a lot of erosion; the bridge has been out for years, so only a four-wheel-drive could make it now. It’s a nice walk, though. I’ve done it several times.”

  “Good. I’m always looking for a place to jog.”

  Camille sighed. “Ah, a healthy person. I suppose there’ll be a time when I’m one of those people, but for now . . . well, unfortunately I associated smoking with writing early in life, and I find it hard to separate them.”

  “I understand; I used to smoke myself.”

  Camille looked at Claire and laughed, a deep, velvety chortle. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to talk about my writing. I’m sure some of the other writers here will have no such compunctions. They’ll want to squeeze you dry, so to speak.” She laughed again, a short little puff of sound, and again Claire caught a glance of discolored grey teeth through red lips. Claire had read the first three chapters of Camille’s book, which was an interesting account of life in Paris during World War II. It was rather well written, with few of the usual mistakes in grammar, punctuation, and syntax that Claire usually encountered in first-time authors.

  “I used to be an editor myself,” Camille continued, “so I know how writers can be—believe me.”

  “Oh? Where did you work?”

  “In Paris, and later in London.”

  “I didn’t think you were American.”

  “Actually, I’m French, but I was educated in England. How’s that for a schizophrenic cultural identity?” Camille smiled, and when she did, her face looked pretty, even beautiful. She had a quality Claire had seen before in French women: her grace and style gave an impression of glamour and beauty that went beyond mere physical appearance. She was at ease with herself, and thought herself attractive, so others did, too.