Chapter 21 #2
Did he . . . did he cut himself on purpose to make a chilling point?
To try to say Nash is a murderer?
“I’ve interviewed him already,” I say quickly.
Ricky lowers his voice to a mere whisper. “And yet . . . I fear . . . he hasn’t mentioned . . . his criminal background . . .
has he?”
I can’t help myself.
My face has fallen.
I inch closer.
“Nash doesn’t have a criminal history,” I say lowly. I glance up. Nash drops his eyes on me every once in a while, but true
to his word, he has given me space to talk privately without hearing.
“Do you know that?”
Ricky ever so slowly pulls a crisp white napkin from his pocket. Which he has waited precisely until this moment to use. “I
rescind my statement . . .” he says, wiping the napkin round his finger. “Hugh liked to . . . see the best in people . . .
despite their faults. I . . . on the other hand . . . prefer to see people . . . as they are. Four years ago . . . we disagreed
on precisely . . . that.”
“And what . . . precisely . . . is that?” I say.
His eyes move silently to stop at Nash.
That?
Ricky and Hugh disagreed four years ago about Nash joining the group? That kind of that?
“I would . . . consider your friend . . . again. Now . . . I am . . . finished.”
Ricky has ended the interview, not me, and with a sober look, I find myself compelled to stand.
He doesn’t.
Just goes on back to staring at the wall from his wingback chair, in total silence.
I don’t know if he’s counting the books or determining his blood count, but either way, of all the interviews so far, I am
all too willing to get out of here now.
I make for the door.
“Oh, and Pip. I almost forgot,” he calls out.
I turn at the door.
I can’t even see his head beneath the height of the wingback chair.
I return to him.
I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to have this conversation anymore.
I feel cold, the kind of cold you get from being outside in twenty-degree weather for too long.
A brittle cold laced over your bones, the kind that takes an hour-long shower of pure heat to try to soak through to your insides, and even then you feel a lingering chill for days.
It’s not a desirable feeling.
Ricky holds out an envelope, sealed in red wax with the monogram H. I recognize the seal immediately. I’ve sent a thousand letters on Hugh’s behalf, but he never let me use that seal. He held
on to the integrity of it, saying a letter with the seal of his ring meant it was truly and wholly from him.
Hugh.
It’s my turn now to have my sentences drift off. “Is that . . .” I begin.
“He wrote it to me the night of his . . . murder. Told me to only open it . . . if something went terribly . . . wrong.”
I flip it over. Frown. “But it’s still sealed.”
“You have become the investigator.”
“Not me, Pogache—”
“And I trust that in matters of life or death . . . it’s wisest to put a letter like this in the hands of the true decision
maker.”
A pure, unopened letter from Hugh.
A wax seal.
I know this handwriting.
Perhaps Ricky is tricking me now; perhaps there is some way he has counterfeited all of this. Perhaps he’s just trying to
convince me the suspect is someone else; either way, I find myself carefully putting the envelope in the inside pocket of
my navy blazer.
Because the fact is, I know this handwriting.
I know this seal.
It’s Hugh’s through and through.
“Why didn’t you come show me sooner?” I say.
“I have never moved, Pip,” Ricky says lowly. “I was always waiting . . . for you.”
Creepy.
As I pull Nash out to the hall and shut the door behind me, as one shuts a tomb, there is silence on the other side.
The hallway is full of warmth, the golden sconces lighting the cheerful carpet and the lively faces of passersby. Instantly
lighter.
“How was it?” Nash says.
“It was just as you’d expect. Thoroughly creepy.” I give a half-hearted laugh but find myself wrapping my arms tighter around
me, the edges of the envelope poking my ribs in secret.
Secrets.
I find it hard to look at Nash.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Nash says and puts an arm lightly to my back. It jump-starts me, a little too much, I
realize.
“Sorry,” I say. “I think this whole place is starting to get to me. I might go up and get some fresh air.” I make the mistake
of casting a look at Nash and feel a fresh chill run through my body. “And maybe some tea.”
“He really did get to you, didn’t he? What did he say?”
I shrug. “The same thing they all say. ‘I’m nothing like you expected and absolutely capable of murder.’ I just . . . I think
I need to sit down privately and work through everything. Sort it out in my mind.”
He casts me a puzzled look.
Calm down, Pip. You’ve got to chill out.
“If you don’t mind, though,” I say, “could you run to get me some tea? I like the kind they keep at the tea bar in the Magnolia
room. It’s the loose-leaf cinnamon.”
To be fair, it’s the really good kind.
A cup of that actually does sound good.
I mean, as long as he doesn’t poison me along the way.
There’s an instant pounding in my temples at the thought that dared enter my head.
Oh my GOSH. Pull it TOGETHER.
This is Nash we are talking about.
The man who volunteers in hurricane relief with horses.
The man who stays up with you to watch the stars.
Cling to that reminder.
Cling to that fact.
The midday sun hits on the surface of the saltwater pool, Mediterranean tiles shimmering green in the sunlight. A few ladies
cluster at tables at the other end of the pool, playing some sort of card game at the instructor’s guidance. In my periphery,
Crystal (now Mary) flies by on her hoverboard, laughing maniacally, while several staff with untucked shirts and flying bow
ties race down the hall after her, fruitlessly pleading with her to stop.
I slip down into the same lounge chair I used for Jackie’s interview and for Neena’s. Immediately the same friendly butler
pops up, offering to open the umbrella.
I assent.
“And something to drink, miss?” he says. “Perhaps something to keep up your spirits?”
I must look like death rolled over. I can only imagine after these days of living off stress and no sleep. “How bad do I look?
Is it that bad?”
“Oh, miss . . .” He trails off.
“It’s that bad, isn’t it? I’m braced for the truth.”
“Perhaps a double shot of espresso. We don’t typically allow triple shots given the number of pacemakers on board, but just
this once, I could slip you a third upon request.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose.
“I’ll take that,” he says after a long pause, “as a request for a third. You also may consider removing the . . . for lack of a better term . . . debris from your hair. If I may . . .”
Before I know it, he’s gently removing something from the top of my head. Swiftly and with a polished air, whatever it is
vanishes from his fingers and into his pocket before I can look.
I drop my head. But of course I’m walking around with “debris.”
“You know, miss, we do have a salon available,” he continues, whipping out a tablet before I can interject. “If I may, I can
slip you into a quick appointment—”
“No, no,” I say, smoothing a hand over my hair and running into quite a few unfortunately unknown objects and bumps along
the way. “I appreciate that. But I’m busy—”
“Oh, madam.” His eyes crinkle in a soft, fatherly way. “If you cannot allow yourself to relax here, I daresay you will spend
the rest of your life wishing for relaxation but never finding any. Please, allow others to help you.”
“Unfortunately in my case, if I relax now, I just may never get the opportunity to relax again.” His look is so concerned
at my dark comment, I add, “I’m working.”
His face clears.
He waves a hand out at Neena at one of the bridge tables, holding her cards like she’s having the time of her life. She elbows
Jackie beside her, who frowns deeply at her cards. “Ah, but, madam, they are too.”
“It’s freakish, isn’t it?” I say. “Almost like they didn’t care about him at all.”
“Miss?”
I turn my attention back to him and sigh. “What is your name?”
Out of everything I’ve said, he looks the most taken aback by this. He pauses. Bows as he speaks. “Oliver, miss.”
“Well, Oliver. It’s nice to meet you. Officially. Do you have good friends?”
“Of course.”
“Friends who are there for you through thick and thin?”
“Naturally.”
“Consider yourself blessed. Because unfortunately, what I think I’m learning through all this is that I’ve never had real
friends after all.”
“Oh, miss, but I’m sure you do—I myself have witnessed their companionship with you.”
“Money, jealousy, and ambition are powerful motivators. And with enough motivation, you could quite possibly mask your entire
life.”
Because no matter how this all shakes out, one thing is certain.
The fact that the members of this “Magnificent Seven” have all shown their true colors, their lack of devastation, their willingness
to so easily move on, and their sole concern for themselves just shows that they aren’t so “magnificent” after all. They’re
just writers—some of them, at least—who happened to cling to the coattails of someone famous and used him until he was all
used up.
This time it’s Oliver who doesn’t speak, and after a long enough wait, I rub my brow. “You know, Oliver, I think I will take
that espresso after all. Double or triple. Surprise me.”
Oliver’s brow immediately smooths now that he’s tasked with something far more manageable than solving life crises, and with
a bow, he glides out of view.
I take a breath.
Sit back in my chair.
Fight a rising headache.
And looking left then right, behind and in front, I lift my legs up and tuck my feet under me, forming a little wall with
my knees between me and everyone else. Quietly, I slip out the letter from my blazer.
I hesitate for a blink, momentarily consider bringing this straight to Pogache, and then carefully break the seal on the envelope.
I rub the thick ivory cardstock between my fingers and recognize it immediately as Hugh’s. Not counterfeit.