A Place of Hiding

Gallery, she wrote, top of the house with Guy. Guy showing off pictures,posing for camera. Adrian shows up. Just arrived. Introductions all around.Grounds, she continued, Guy and me. Talk about taking pictures of theplace. Talk about Architectural Digest . Explain about doing things on spec. Seethe buildings and the different gardens. Feed the koi.Cherokee’s room, she continued, him and me. Talk about whether to stayor go.

On and on she had written, in what appeared to be a dogged and detailed account of what had gone on in the days leading up to Guy Brouard’s death. Deborah read it all and tried to look for key moments that could have been spied upon by someone else who used them for an end that had brought China into her present situation.

“Who’s Paul F.?” Deborah asked.

China explained: a protégé of Guy Brouard’s. Sort of a Big Brother thing. Did the Brits have Big Brothers like they had in the States? An older man taking on a young kid without a decent role model? That was the deal between Guy Brouard and Paul Fielder. He never said more than ten words at a time. Just looked at Guy with goo-goo eyes and followed him around like a dog.

“How old a boy?”

“Teenager. Pretty poor by the looks of his clothes. And his bike. He showed up pretty much every day on this rattletrap thing, more rust than anything else. He was always welcome. His dog, too.”

The boy, the clothes, and the dog. The description matched the teenager she and Simon had come upon on their way to the bay. Deborah said, “Was he at the party?”

“What, the night before?” When Deborah nodded, China said, “Sure. Everyone was there. It was sort of the social event of the season, from what we could figure.”

“How many people?”

China considered this. “Three hundred? More or less.”

“Contained in one place?”

“Not exactly. I mean, it wasn’t an open house or anything, but there were people wandering around all night. Caterers were coming and going from the kitchen. There were four bars. It wasn’t chaos, but I don’t think anyone was keeping track of who went where.”

“So your cloak could have been pinched,” Deborah said.

“I suppose. But it was there when I needed it, Debs. When Cherokee and I were leaving the next morning.”

“You didn’t see anyone when you were leaving?”

“Not a soul.”

They were silent then. China emptied the grocery bags into the tiny fridge and the single cupboard. She rooted round for something to place the flowers in and finally settled on a cooking pot. Deborah watched her and wondered how to ask what she needed to ask, how to put the question in a way that her friend wouldn’t read as suspicious or unsupportive. She had difficulties enough already.

“Earlier,” Deborah said, “on one of the previous days I mean, did you go with Guy Brouard for his morning swim? Perhaps just to watch?”

China shook her head. “I knew he went swimming in the bay. Everyone admired him for it. Cold water, early morning, the time of year. I think he liked how people would be in awe that he’d swim every day no matter what. But I never went to watch him.”

“Did anyone else?”

“I think his girlfriend did, from the way people talked about it. Sort of

‘Ana?s, can’t you do something to talk reason into that man?’ And, ‘I do try to whenever I’m there.’ ”

“So she would’ve gone with him that morning?”

“If she’d stayed the night. But I don’t know if she did. She hadn’t stayed over while we were there, Cherokee and me.”

“But she did stay sometimes?”

“She made it pretty obvious. I mean, she made sure I knew. So she may have stayed over on the night of the party, but I don’t think so.”

The fact that China refused to colour what little she knew in such a way that might guide suspicion onto someone else was something that Deborah found comforting. It spoke of a character much stronger than her own. She said, “China, I think there’re lots of directions the police could have taken looking into this.”

“Do you? Really?”

“I do.”

At this, China seemed to let go of something big and unnamed that she’d been holding within since the moment Deborah had come upon her and her brother in the grocery. She said, “Thank you, Debs.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“Yes, I do. For coming here. For being a friend. Without you and Simon, I’d be anyone’s victim. Will I get to meet him? Simon? I’d like to.”

“Of course you will,” Deborah said. “He’s looking forward to it.”

China came back to the table and took up the legal pad. She studied it for a moment, as if thinking something over, then extended it to Deborah as impulsively as Deborah had earlier handed over the lilies. She said, “Give this to him. Tell him to go over it with a fine-tooth comb. Ask him to grill me whenever he wants to and as many times as he thinks he needs to. Tell him to get to the truth.”