An Unwanted Guest by Shari Lapena
• • •
One by one, the guests reappear in the lobby, as if summoned by an invisible bell. Hungry, no doubt, David thinks, wondering what there is to eat.
After speaking to Matthew, David had spent the morning in his room. Thinking about Dana at the bottom of the stairs. About how it might have happened. Thinking about the bereft young man holed up in his room, waiting for the inevitable visit by the police.
Thinking about Gwen. Thinking a lot about Gwen.
Now, in the lobby, David looks at her. She seems even more distressed than she had earlier that morning, at breakfast. And she hasn’t turned his way once since he entered the lobby. She’s sitting by the fire, holding her hands out to it for warmth, not looking his way. He would like to go to her, but he senses she doesn’t want him to. He tries to understand it. She can’t be one of those women who enjoy one-night stands but want nothing more. He doesn’t think she’s the type. He’s certain of it. Of course, they’re all distressed by the death of Dana.
And he doesn’t know what her friend Riley might have said to her, once they were alone together. Warned her off him, no doubt.
He knew it was better not to get involved, with any of it. Not with her, and not with Matthew. He’s had enough trouble. What he wants now is peace. But he fears that peace might have to wait.
* * *
• • •
Gwen catches David looking at her and averts her eyes. What Riley told her about David—it can’t possibly be true. Maybe she’s just saying this to restore the balance of power between them to what it was before. Maybe Riley is deliberately sabotaging her. That is what Gwen doesn’t know. How easy it would be to do—to warn her to stay away from David all weekend, and then when they get back to civilization and Google David Paley, he probably won’t be who she’s thinking of at all. The only thing he will have in common with the man who was arrested for murdering his wife is that they are both attorneys. And Riley will just laugh it off, Oh, I was so sure. Sorry. But it will be too late. Her opportunity with David will be gone. She’s already thirty and she might never meet anyone else. She studies Riley resentfully and then turns away.
Or maybe it’s not deliberate at all; maybe Riley’s paranoia is simply spilling over into everything.
* * *
• • •
Henry is sitting beside his wife, not looking at her. His muscles are pleasantly tired from clearing the path out to the icehouse, and he’s built up an appetite. Surely lunch will be soon.
He can feel Beverly looking sidelong at him. He wonders what they would be doing right now, if this hadn’t happened. Dismantling their life together bit by bit, he thinks, over cold cups of coffee in some corner of the hotel. He realizes that he is almost glad of the diversion the accident has brought.
He thinks about what the attorney said. It’s for the coroner to decide. He dips his head down now to his wife and whispers, “Do you think she was pushed?” She looks back at him, worried.
* * *
• • •
Beverly answers him anxiously, “I don’t know.” Should she bring up the argument she overheard between Dana and Matthew? She tells herself it’s none of her business.
She’s decided to say nothing, at least for the time being. No one ever really knows what goes on in other people’s relationships, or what another person’s relationship is like. Perhaps they quarreled all the time, and it means nothing.
She looks now at Henry and realizes that she doesn’t actually know what goes through his mind most of the time. She makes assumptions, that’s all. And believes they are the truth. All these years she thought she knew him so well, but did she really? How utterly shocked she’d been last night when he said it was too late for them to fix their marriage. The truth is, she doesn’t know what he’s thinking at all.
Perhaps he has a mistress. It’s the first time the thought has occurred to her. Maybe it isn’t so hard to believe. She hasn’t been that interested in sex for a long time. Perhaps he’s found someone else, and that’s why he wants to leave her. Otherwise, she doesn’t think he’d bother. That’s it, she thinks, that must be the reason for this bombshell he’s dropped so callously. He can’t want to tear their family apart just so that he can be away from her—they’re not that bad together. He can’t be looking forward to being financially ruined and living alone in some sad apartment, missing his children, just to be away from her. No. There must be someone else. Someone who makes him think that leaving her and the kids is going to be some fun, giddy, sex-soaked adventure. She wonders who it is, whether it’s someone she knows.
She remembers how annoyed he’d been when he realized there was no wi-fi here at the inn. Perhaps he was hoping to be able to stay in touch with his girlfriend; perhaps she had expected him to stay in touch with her—the girlfriend that Beverly is now afraid actually exists.
How quickly and how absolutely trust—built over many years—can collapse. She needs to be sure. She realizes she needs to look at her husband’s cell phone, but he always keeps it on him, or at least near him. And she has no idea what his password is; she can’t even guess. But she is suddenly certain that if she could get into his cell phone, she would find the truth.
And then she would know what she’s dealing with.
THIRTEEN
Lauren watches Henry and his wife, Beverly, seated side by side. They are barely speaking to one another.
Riley and Gwen are sitting far apart; Lauren senses a rift. She has been watching Riley especially. The edge of hysteria that Lauren first noticed when they’d rescued her out of the ditch the night before is still there. Amplified, even. Riley fidgets endlessly, twirling the silver ring on her index finger, her eyes constantly scanning the room as if looking for something, some threat. Lauren notices that Gwen is ignoring Riley, which is odd. Last night, Gwen had seemed overly solicitous, trying her best to manage Riley’s mood, but now she doesn’t seem to care. Something must have happened. Lauren remembers last night, noticing the little flirtation between David and Gwen in the dining room coming to an abrupt halt. She wonders if Riley had anything to do with that. And if she did, what her reason might have been. Jealousy, probably.
* * *
• • •
Riley knows Gwen is angry at her. But it had to be done. Riley studies David, watching him, trying to remember what she knows about the case. She’s almost certain he’s the New York attorney who was arrested—and released—for the violent murder of his wife, three or four years ago. She tries to recall the details. It was a bludgeoning death, a particularly brutal one. The woman had been so badly beaten that her back was broken. She’d been struck repeatedly in the head with something heavy, in the kitchen of their home, in one of New York’s expensive suburbs. The murder weapon had never been recovered. The husband claimed that he’d returned home late from work and found her. He’d called 911. But there was some discrepancy about the details that didn’t work in his favor. There was some lost time. A neighbor had insisted that he’d noticed the husband’s car drive in considerably earlier than the 911 call. The attorney had then explained it by saying that he hadn’t gone into the kitchen when he first got home. It hadn’t sounded likely.
She stares at David’s hands, hanging down by his sides as he stands near the fireplace, calmly waiting for lunch. Strong, masculine hands. She wonders what he is capable of. She lifts her eyes and catches him staring at her. She looks away.
There were other suspicious circumstances, Riley recalls. The marriage had been in trouble. There had been talk of divorce. That might describe half the marriages out there, but there had been an insurance policy—a large one. And there had been no sign of forced entry.
As far as she can remember, the charges had been dropped. They could find no bloody clothes, no murder weapon. With no physical evidence tying the husband to the crime, and no witnesses—other than the neighbor who said he’d been home earli
er than he at first claimed—there wasn’t enough. They let him go. And as far as she remembered, the case was still unsolved.
Riley studies David’s face as he stands near the fire, and asks herself if it is the face of a killer. She thinks of him in bed with Gwen, his hands on her—imagines him pummeling his fists into Gwen’s face, over and over—
She is breathing too quickly. She must stop thinking like this. She must control her thoughts. If only they could get the hell out of here.
* * *
• • •
Finally, James and Bradley appear and invite everyone into the dining room. They’ve put together a huge plate of sandwiches and supplied more coffee.
Gwen finds herself wishing for a stiff drink, even though it’s only lunchtime. She hears Lauren say to Bradley, “Candice wanted me to mention that she’d like you to bring her lunch to her in the library, if that’s all right. Oh, and hot tea.”
“Yes, I figured as much,” Bradley answers, and bends over the platter and selects a few sandwiches with a pair of silver tongs and arranges them on a smaller plate. He heads off toward the library.
Even with the corpse lying at the foot of the stairs in the next room, only yards away, the sandwiches quickly vanish from the platter.
Gwen watches the others eat with distaste. She wants to leave. She doesn’t want to spend another night here, in this hotel, in what will be almost total, claustrophobic darkness, with no heat.
She steals a glance at David. She can’t believe what Riley said about him this morning is true. It can’t be. He can’t have killed his wife. He can’t be a murderer. The idea is absurd. Riley must have it wrong.
When they’ve all finished eating, they drift together out toward the lobby, and the warmth of the fire.
Gwen says, “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could use a drink.”
* * *
• • •
Ian is delighted that someone else has mentioned drinks, so that he doesn’t have to. He’s surprised that it’s the pretty, pale Gwen who has suggested it, rather than her hard-drinking friend who looks like she’s escaped from rehab.
“Yes, why don’t I fetch the bar cart,” Ian offers now, glancing at Lauren, as if for permission. Bradley isn’t there, and James has returned to the kitchen. “I think we could all use a little something, considering.”
Ian gets up and wheels the cart closer, then starts serving drinks. For a time, there is only the tinkling sound of ice against glass and the wind howling around the building.
There’s an awkward silence, as if no one knows what to say.
Saturday, 1:30 p.m.
Riley is sitting on her own, away from those arranged around the coffee table near the fire, looking out occasionally across the lobby to the windows. But she is listening to their conversation as they hover over the game board on the coffee table. Ian had found some games on a bookshelf and suggested they play Scrabble.
She sees Bradley return to the lobby and tend to the fire.
It’s Ian who starts it, bluntly asking the attorney why he seems to be suggesting that Dana’s death might not have been an accident.
“Oh, please, let’s not talk about it!” Gwen says, obviously preferring to focus on the game. She has always excelled at Scrabble, Riley knows. And she’s also good at avoiding things she doesn’t want to face.
“Why not?” Ian replies. “It’s all any of us are thinking about. He’s a criminal attorney—I want to know what he thinks.”
“I’d like to hear what he thinks too,” Henry chimes in.
Riley turns and stares now at David, who has just been put on the spot.
“I don’t know any more than the rest of you,” the attorney says evasively. “I simply said that I think we ought to wait for the coroner to decide what happened.”
“I’m not asking you what you know, I’m asking you what you think,” Ian presses.
“Very well,” David says, looking around at the rest of them, as if considering what to say. He takes a deep breath and exhales. “I don’t think that Dana’s death was an accident.” He pauses and adds, “In fact, I think she was pushed. And then I think her head was deliberately and forcefully smashed against the bottom stair.”
Riley almost spills her drink. She sees Ian’s eyebrows go up in surprise.
“Seriously?” Ian says. “You think someone murdered her?” He shifts in his seat, looks uneasy. “I thought—” But he lets his sentence trail away.
Riley is trying her best to appear completely calm, completely normal. She’s had two glasses of wine already, which helps. She sees David look at Gwen; Gwen averts her eyes. Frightened little Gwen, Riley thinks. If she could bury her head in the sand, she would.
“I think it’s a distinct possibility,” the attorney says crisply.
Riley grips the arms of her chair tightly. She feels the tension build in the silent room; it’s palpable. Then Riley blurts out what they’re all thinking: “Did Matthew do it?”
She hears several gasps from the guests around her. She has been impolite. She doesn’t care. They all seem to think she’s a train wreck anyway.
David turns to her and says, “I have no idea.”
Ian asks, “Are you acting as his attorney?”
“No, I am not. I have enough cases on my plate as it is,” he answers rather irritably. “I’ve merely suggested he remain in his room.” He takes a last drink from his glass, finishes it. “The police will sort it all out when they get here—which I hope will be soon.” He adds, “But for now, nobody is moving the body.”
FOURTEEN
It seems to me,” Henry says, in his slightly pompous way, “that if this is a murder, it would be almost impossible to solve. It seems to have happened in the middle of the night. We were all asleep in our beds. There are no witnesses. Unless someone wants to confess, or share some helpful information about seeing someone creeping about in the night, I don’t see that there’s much to go on.”
Beverly listens to him, licks her lips nervously, and waits. No one else volunteers anything.
Finally, she blurts out, “There’s something I should probably say.”
All eyes turn her way. She almost loses courage. She doesn’t know if the argument between Dana and Matthew is relevant or not, but it will certainly sound damning.
“What is it?” David says calmly, as she hesitates.
“I heard them arguing, last night.”
“Dana and Matthew?” David says, as if in surprise.
“Yes.”
“What was the argument about, do you know?”
She shakes her head. “I heard them shouting, but I couldn’t make out any words. Their room is next to ours, on the same side of the hall.” She looks at her husband. “Henry slept through it all.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know, but late.”
“Did it sound . . . violent?” David asks.
“I don’t know. It was just raised voices. No crying or anything. Nothing slamming, if that’s what you mean.”
There, she’s said it. If Matthew’s done something wrong, then it’s good that she’s told them.
* * *
• • •
David can sense the heightened distress of the others. They don’t like what Beverly has said; it makes them uneasy. They don’t like to think the unthinkable. He can see from their faces that they are all imagining it—the argument, the push down the stairs.
He’s sorry for their distress, but he’s only telling it how he sees it. It doesn’t seem possible that Dana could have been injured like that from her fall, and he doesn’t want them messing about with the body. And now this new information—Matthew had told him that he and Dana had not argued. If Beverly is to be believed, Matthew lied to him.
It depresses him. Matthew seemed so shattered, so gen
uinely grief-stricken. But David reminds himself that many a murderer—especially one who kills in passion—is genuinely regretful at what he’s done, and he’s still guilty.
Perhaps it’s more personal than that. Maybe David is giving Matthew the benefit of the doubt because he has himself been accused of killing his wife, and he knows how it feels. Perhaps that is all.
Perhaps he’s wrong, and Matthew did force Dana off the landing and then finish her off. He just doesn’t want to believe it.
But he definitely thinks it’s murder. And if Matthew didn’t do it, who did?
* * *
• • •
Gwen gets up suddenly and walks away from the little circle by the fireplace. She can’t bear to sit there any longer. She goes to the front of the room and paces back and forth before the windows. She glances out occasionally at the icy drive, as if hoping for rescue.
She flicks a look over her shoulder at the rest of them, still sitting by the fireplace. No one is pretending to carry on with the game of Scrabble without her. What David said—and now what Beverly has said—has unsettled them all far too much.
She couldn’t bear to be near David any longer. That delicious tension that had existed between them last night has been corrupted. Now she’s not sure what she feels when she looks at him—it’s a confusing mix of attraction and fear.
She digs her nails into the palms of her hands. How can he be so detached about a man—even if he is a complete stranger—killing a woman he purports to love?
After a while, Riley joins her by the windows. Gwen turns to her briefly. Riley’s eyes are large and alert. For a moment the two of them stand together looking out at the frozen landscape that holds them trapped here.
Finally, Gwen leans in close to Riley and speaks quietly. “Do you think David is right? That Dana may have been murdered?”
One by one, the guests reappear in the lobby, as if summoned by an invisible bell. Hungry, no doubt, David thinks, wondering what there is to eat.
After speaking to Matthew, David had spent the morning in his room. Thinking about Dana at the bottom of the stairs. About how it might have happened. Thinking about the bereft young man holed up in his room, waiting for the inevitable visit by the police.
Thinking about Gwen. Thinking a lot about Gwen.
Now, in the lobby, David looks at her. She seems even more distressed than she had earlier that morning, at breakfast. And she hasn’t turned his way once since he entered the lobby. She’s sitting by the fire, holding her hands out to it for warmth, not looking his way. He would like to go to her, but he senses she doesn’t want him to. He tries to understand it. She can’t be one of those women who enjoy one-night stands but want nothing more. He doesn’t think she’s the type. He’s certain of it. Of course, they’re all distressed by the death of Dana.
And he doesn’t know what her friend Riley might have said to her, once they were alone together. Warned her off him, no doubt.
He knew it was better not to get involved, with any of it. Not with her, and not with Matthew. He’s had enough trouble. What he wants now is peace. But he fears that peace might have to wait.
* * *
• • •
Gwen catches David looking at her and averts her eyes. What Riley told her about David—it can’t possibly be true. Maybe she’s just saying this to restore the balance of power between them to what it was before. Maybe Riley is deliberately sabotaging her. That is what Gwen doesn’t know. How easy it would be to do—to warn her to stay away from David all weekend, and then when they get back to civilization and Google David Paley, he probably won’t be who she’s thinking of at all. The only thing he will have in common with the man who was arrested for murdering his wife is that they are both attorneys. And Riley will just laugh it off, Oh, I was so sure. Sorry. But it will be too late. Her opportunity with David will be gone. She’s already thirty and she might never meet anyone else. She studies Riley resentfully and then turns away.
Or maybe it’s not deliberate at all; maybe Riley’s paranoia is simply spilling over into everything.
* * *
• • •
Henry is sitting beside his wife, not looking at her. His muscles are pleasantly tired from clearing the path out to the icehouse, and he’s built up an appetite. Surely lunch will be soon.
He can feel Beverly looking sidelong at him. He wonders what they would be doing right now, if this hadn’t happened. Dismantling their life together bit by bit, he thinks, over cold cups of coffee in some corner of the hotel. He realizes that he is almost glad of the diversion the accident has brought.
He thinks about what the attorney said. It’s for the coroner to decide. He dips his head down now to his wife and whispers, “Do you think she was pushed?” She looks back at him, worried.
* * *
• • •
Beverly answers him anxiously, “I don’t know.” Should she bring up the argument she overheard between Dana and Matthew? She tells herself it’s none of her business.
She’s decided to say nothing, at least for the time being. No one ever really knows what goes on in other people’s relationships, or what another person’s relationship is like. Perhaps they quarreled all the time, and it means nothing.
She looks now at Henry and realizes that she doesn’t actually know what goes through his mind most of the time. She makes assumptions, that’s all. And believes they are the truth. All these years she thought she knew him so well, but did she really? How utterly shocked she’d been last night when he said it was too late for them to fix their marriage. The truth is, she doesn’t know what he’s thinking at all.
Perhaps he has a mistress. It’s the first time the thought has occurred to her. Maybe it isn’t so hard to believe. She hasn’t been that interested in sex for a long time. Perhaps he’s found someone else, and that’s why he wants to leave her. Otherwise, she doesn’t think he’d bother. That’s it, she thinks, that must be the reason for this bombshell he’s dropped so callously. He can’t want to tear their family apart just so that he can be away from her—they’re not that bad together. He can’t be looking forward to being financially ruined and living alone in some sad apartment, missing his children, just to be away from her. No. There must be someone else. Someone who makes him think that leaving her and the kids is going to be some fun, giddy, sex-soaked adventure. She wonders who it is, whether it’s someone she knows.
She remembers how annoyed he’d been when he realized there was no wi-fi here at the inn. Perhaps he was hoping to be able to stay in touch with his girlfriend; perhaps she had expected him to stay in touch with her—the girlfriend that Beverly is now afraid actually exists.
How quickly and how absolutely trust—built over many years—can collapse. She needs to be sure. She realizes she needs to look at her husband’s cell phone, but he always keeps it on him, or at least near him. And she has no idea what his password is; she can’t even guess. But she is suddenly certain that if she could get into his cell phone, she would find the truth.
And then she would know what she’s dealing with.
THIRTEEN
Lauren watches Henry and his wife, Beverly, seated side by side. They are barely speaking to one another.
Riley and Gwen are sitting far apart; Lauren senses a rift. She has been watching Riley especially. The edge of hysteria that Lauren first noticed when they’d rescued her out of the ditch the night before is still there. Amplified, even. Riley fidgets endlessly, twirling the silver ring on her index finger, her eyes constantly scanning the room as if looking for something, some threat. Lauren notices that Gwen is ignoring Riley, which is odd. Last night, Gwen had seemed overly solicitous, trying her best to manage Riley’s mood, but now she doesn’t seem to care. Something must have happened. Lauren remembers last night, noticing the little flirtation between David and Gwen in the dining room coming to an abrupt halt. She wonders if Riley had anything to do with that. And if she did, what her reason might have been. Jealousy, probably.
* * *
• • •
Riley knows Gwen is angry at her. But it had to be done. Riley studies David, watching him, trying to remember what she knows about the case. She’s almost certain he’s the New York attorney who was arrested—and released—for the violent murder of his wife, three or four years ago. She tries to recall the details. It was a bludgeoning death, a particularly brutal one. The woman had been so badly beaten that her back was broken. She’d been struck repeatedly in the head with something heavy, in the kitchen of their home, in one of New York’s expensive suburbs. The murder weapon had never been recovered. The husband claimed that he’d returned home late from work and found her. He’d called 911. But there was some discrepancy about the details that didn’t work in his favor. There was some lost time. A neighbor had insisted that he’d noticed the husband’s car drive in considerably earlier than the 911 call. The attorney had then explained it by saying that he hadn’t gone into the kitchen when he first got home. It hadn’t sounded likely.
She stares at David’s hands, hanging down by his sides as he stands near the fireplace, calmly waiting for lunch. Strong, masculine hands. She wonders what he is capable of. She lifts her eyes and catches him staring at her. She looks away.
There were other suspicious circumstances, Riley recalls. The marriage had been in trouble. There had been talk of divorce. That might describe half the marriages out there, but there had been an insurance policy—a large one. And there had been no sign of forced entry.
As far as she can remember, the charges had been dropped. They could find no bloody clothes, no murder weapon. With no physical evidence tying the husband to the crime, and no witnesses—other than the neighbor who said he’d been home earli
Riley studies David’s face as he stands near the fire, and asks herself if it is the face of a killer. She thinks of him in bed with Gwen, his hands on her—imagines him pummeling his fists into Gwen’s face, over and over—
She is breathing too quickly. She must stop thinking like this. She must control her thoughts. If only they could get the hell out of here.
* * *
• • •
Finally, James and Bradley appear and invite everyone into the dining room. They’ve put together a huge plate of sandwiches and supplied more coffee.
Gwen finds herself wishing for a stiff drink, even though it’s only lunchtime. She hears Lauren say to Bradley, “Candice wanted me to mention that she’d like you to bring her lunch to her in the library, if that’s all right. Oh, and hot tea.”
“Yes, I figured as much,” Bradley answers, and bends over the platter and selects a few sandwiches with a pair of silver tongs and arranges them on a smaller plate. He heads off toward the library.
Even with the corpse lying at the foot of the stairs in the next room, only yards away, the sandwiches quickly vanish from the platter.
Gwen watches the others eat with distaste. She wants to leave. She doesn’t want to spend another night here, in this hotel, in what will be almost total, claustrophobic darkness, with no heat.
She steals a glance at David. She can’t believe what Riley said about him this morning is true. It can’t be. He can’t have killed his wife. He can’t be a murderer. The idea is absurd. Riley must have it wrong.
When they’ve all finished eating, they drift together out toward the lobby, and the warmth of the fire.
Gwen says, “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could use a drink.”
* * *
• • •
Ian is delighted that someone else has mentioned drinks, so that he doesn’t have to. He’s surprised that it’s the pretty, pale Gwen who has suggested it, rather than her hard-drinking friend who looks like she’s escaped from rehab.
“Yes, why don’t I fetch the bar cart,” Ian offers now, glancing at Lauren, as if for permission. Bradley isn’t there, and James has returned to the kitchen. “I think we could all use a little something, considering.”
Ian gets up and wheels the cart closer, then starts serving drinks. For a time, there is only the tinkling sound of ice against glass and the wind howling around the building.
There’s an awkward silence, as if no one knows what to say.
Saturday, 1:30 p.m.
Riley is sitting on her own, away from those arranged around the coffee table near the fire, looking out occasionally across the lobby to the windows. But she is listening to their conversation as they hover over the game board on the coffee table. Ian had found some games on a bookshelf and suggested they play Scrabble.
She sees Bradley return to the lobby and tend to the fire.
It’s Ian who starts it, bluntly asking the attorney why he seems to be suggesting that Dana’s death might not have been an accident.
“Oh, please, let’s not talk about it!” Gwen says, obviously preferring to focus on the game. She has always excelled at Scrabble, Riley knows. And she’s also good at avoiding things she doesn’t want to face.
“Why not?” Ian replies. “It’s all any of us are thinking about. He’s a criminal attorney—I want to know what he thinks.”
“I’d like to hear what he thinks too,” Henry chimes in.
Riley turns and stares now at David, who has just been put on the spot.
“I don’t know any more than the rest of you,” the attorney says evasively. “I simply said that I think we ought to wait for the coroner to decide what happened.”
“I’m not asking you what you know, I’m asking you what you think,” Ian presses.
“Very well,” David says, looking around at the rest of them, as if considering what to say. He takes a deep breath and exhales. “I don’t think that Dana’s death was an accident.” He pauses and adds, “In fact, I think she was pushed. And then I think her head was deliberately and forcefully smashed against the bottom stair.”
Riley almost spills her drink. She sees Ian’s eyebrows go up in surprise.
“Seriously?” Ian says. “You think someone murdered her?” He shifts in his seat, looks uneasy. “I thought—” But he lets his sentence trail away.
Riley is trying her best to appear completely calm, completely normal. She’s had two glasses of wine already, which helps. She sees David look at Gwen; Gwen averts her eyes. Frightened little Gwen, Riley thinks. If she could bury her head in the sand, she would.
“I think it’s a distinct possibility,” the attorney says crisply.
Riley grips the arms of her chair tightly. She feels the tension build in the silent room; it’s palpable. Then Riley blurts out what they’re all thinking: “Did Matthew do it?”
She hears several gasps from the guests around her. She has been impolite. She doesn’t care. They all seem to think she’s a train wreck anyway.
David turns to her and says, “I have no idea.”
Ian asks, “Are you acting as his attorney?”
“No, I am not. I have enough cases on my plate as it is,” he answers rather irritably. “I’ve merely suggested he remain in his room.” He takes a last drink from his glass, finishes it. “The police will sort it all out when they get here—which I hope will be soon.” He adds, “But for now, nobody is moving the body.”
FOURTEEN
It seems to me,” Henry says, in his slightly pompous way, “that if this is a murder, it would be almost impossible to solve. It seems to have happened in the middle of the night. We were all asleep in our beds. There are no witnesses. Unless someone wants to confess, or share some helpful information about seeing someone creeping about in the night, I don’t see that there’s much to go on.”
Beverly listens to him, licks her lips nervously, and waits. No one else volunteers anything.
Finally, she blurts out, “There’s something I should probably say.”
All eyes turn her way. She almost loses courage. She doesn’t know if the argument between Dana and Matthew is relevant or not, but it will certainly sound damning.
“What is it?” David says calmly, as she hesitates.
“I heard them arguing, last night.”
“Dana and Matthew?” David says, as if in surprise.
“Yes.”
“What was the argument about, do you know?”
She shakes her head. “I heard them shouting, but I couldn’t make out any words. Their room is next to ours, on the same side of the hall.” She looks at her husband. “Henry slept through it all.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know, but late.”
“Did it sound . . . violent?” David asks.
“I don’t know. It was just raised voices. No crying or anything. Nothing slamming, if that’s what you mean.”
There, she’s said it. If Matthew’s done something wrong, then it’s good that she’s told them.
* * *
• • •
David can sense the heightened distress of the others. They don’t like what Beverly has said; it makes them uneasy. They don’t like to think the unthinkable. He can see from their faces that they are all imagining it—the argument, the push down the stairs.
He’s sorry for their distress, but he’s only telling it how he sees it. It doesn’t seem possible that Dana could have been injured like that from her fall, and he doesn’t want them messing about with the body. And now this new information—Matthew had told him that he and Dana had not argued. If Beverly is to be believed, Matthew lied to him.
It depresses him. Matthew seemed so shattered, so gen
Perhaps it’s more personal than that. Maybe David is giving Matthew the benefit of the doubt because he has himself been accused of killing his wife, and he knows how it feels. Perhaps that is all.
Perhaps he’s wrong, and Matthew did force Dana off the landing and then finish her off. He just doesn’t want to believe it.
But he definitely thinks it’s murder. And if Matthew didn’t do it, who did?
* * *
• • •
Gwen gets up suddenly and walks away from the little circle by the fireplace. She can’t bear to sit there any longer. She goes to the front of the room and paces back and forth before the windows. She glances out occasionally at the icy drive, as if hoping for rescue.
She flicks a look over her shoulder at the rest of them, still sitting by the fireplace. No one is pretending to carry on with the game of Scrabble without her. What David said—and now what Beverly has said—has unsettled them all far too much.
She couldn’t bear to be near David any longer. That delicious tension that had existed between them last night has been corrupted. Now she’s not sure what she feels when she looks at him—it’s a confusing mix of attraction and fear.
She digs her nails into the palms of her hands. How can he be so detached about a man—even if he is a complete stranger—killing a woman he purports to love?
After a while, Riley joins her by the windows. Gwen turns to her briefly. Riley’s eyes are large and alert. For a moment the two of them stand together looking out at the frozen landscape that holds them trapped here.
Finally, Gwen leans in close to Riley and speaks quietly. “Do you think David is right? That Dana may have been murdered?”