“I ran into Geoff, and he told me you were leaving. I figured you wouldn’t need it.” He patted the ducks’ heads on the arms. “We’re married. Equitable distribution.”
He smiled at me, sadly. “That’s all you care about? A silly chair?”
“Of course not,” I said. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“Really? Geoff seemed to think you were over me completely.”
Geoff had been sworn to secrecy, like Anne. He must have told William that Officer Paul was asking for him. I looked around at the house, the pine wood floors, the light coming in through the glass doors.
“You photographed Mary Rae here,” I said.
William groaned. “Stupid of me to keep the negatives.”
“She died that night,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. He rubbed his face in his hands. He leaned forward, businesslike. “It was an accident. We came here and after the shoot we argued and I went out to pick up some food and when I came back—I found her. I found the empty pill bottle.” His voice faltered. He’d planned out this story for Officer Paul, if needed. I was the first to hear it.
“I panicked,” he said, his palms up.
“Why didn’t you photograph her at your studio?” I stepped away from the table of photographs and stood in the middle of the room. I could see the lake beyond the sliding glass doors, the porch. Behind me stood the door I’d come in through—two exits should I need them.
“She wanted it to be here,” he said. “Away from Anne’s.”
Mr. Parmenter had waited for my mother at the Stardust Motel. What might have happened to her if she’d decided to go? And Mary Rae had been lured here for a final meeting, William maybe begging. I remained in line with the door, knowing Geoff’s car was parked on the road, that Marcia Fuller might glance out her large picture window, curious about where I’d gone.
“What kind of person leaves someone for dead in a place like that?” William said. “Who doesn’t report her husband missing? I’ve had a lot of time to think out here.”
“You were trying to hurt me,” I said. The accusation seemed childish now.
He rose from the chair and walked over to the door. I felt dizzy with fear, the Elgar concerto an eerie accompaniment.
“I got what I deserved? Is that what you’re saying?” He spoke facing the screen door, as if someone else were out there. “Have you ever spent the night in a freezing mental hospital?”
“You left Mary Rae to die in that trailer,” I said.
He stood by the screen door, his hands stuffed into his pockets, staring out at the little stone patio, the long set of stone steps up to the road.
“Trusty Anne came to save me,” he said. “That was my backup phone in my bag. I had a phone on me. I like to be prepared when I head out to remote locations. Anne thought we’d broken up already, that I’d gone there alone.”
“We used the same lie,” I said.
William pivoted on his good leg to face me. “Elgar wrote this piece in a cottage like this one, in Sussex. They say that during World War I, he could hear the sound of artillery echoing across the Channel.”
The concerto’s tempo slowed, and the piece ended with three haunting chords. The breeze blew the frames on the wall, a gentle thudding sound. Outside a boat passed, and the water from its wake rushed the grasses near shore.
“This was my mother’s place, and her mother’s before her.” William grasped the door handle, as if for balance. “You weren’t coming to look for me, were you? You and clever Del thought you’d gotten rid of me.”
“You took my photograph. My sister’s.” My voice sounded too loud. I couldn’t keep my indignation out.
He tottered a bit on his bad leg, moving away from the doorway toward the table.
“I have an exhibition next month. Anne set it up.” He carefully sifted through the prints on the table. “Tell me what you think.”
“You drugged us.” I was wound tight with fear and anger.
“I convinced Anne it was best if the girls were sound asleep,” he said, his voice soothing. “She didn’t know I’d photographed Mary Rae. I planned to stop, to forget the whole series, but the gallery owner wanted to set a date. And I thought I needed a couple more models.” William sighed. “I didn’t need any more.”
Anne would have done anything for William’s art, whatever he needed. But did she realize she hadn’t been helping him with his art? William was attracted to girls sleeping, to us unconscious. I’d known it from the images, the poses, from the way the Milton girls blushed when they looked at their likenesses.
“Did you have sex with all of them?” I said, slightly breathless.
His face was such a mask of despair, I almost pitied him.
“You’re sick,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
He came over to me and took my wrist and turned my hand to reveal my mother’s clock in my grip. “What do you have there?” he said. Then he chuckled. “Your little clock. I knew that would bother you.”
I felt sure he could feel the race of my pulse. Then he reached to touch Mary Rae’s necklace.
“Anne gave it to her, didn’t she?” he said.