Grace’s interviewing style is effective. In the way Barbara Walters gets people to cry, Grace gets them to say things they normally wouldn’t. She has qualities that make people open up to her: she’s a great enthusiast, a flatterer and an empathic listener. Before they know it, guests have let down their guard and spilled a secret or expressed an opinion they regret. Grace could go national, she was so adept at this. But ambition is not Grace’s thing. “My porridge is just right in Pequod,” she’d said when we’d discussed whether she would pursue an opening at NPR in DC.
I stood outside her small, soundproof studio, watching her through the glass as she prepped for her show. She sat in one of two metal chairs at a long wooden table with her MacBook, pad and pen, two table mikes and two sets of headphones in front of her. The empty chair hosted a pink pillow that said, “Grace is a gift from God” in red stitching. I realized I was reluctant to go in. It was time to tell Grace everything, including the fact that my sleepwalking problem had returned. I dreaded doing it. Telling Grace meant admitting I’d lied to her. Without Grace trusting me, going through all this would be intolerable.
I stepped inside. Her studio was quiet as a confessional—Grace had switched the station speakers off. I set the mugs on the table, along with the thermos of coffee I’d brought. Then I sat on the pillow and dug into my Yoplait.
“Monty just cheered me on like I’m about to run a triathlon,” I said, still avoiding the difficult subject. “I appreciated it. I need the boost.”
Grace adjusted the mikes and her MacBook unnecessarily. She wouldn’t look at me.
“Grace?”
“He thinks you’ve come in to be interviewed about Hugh.”
I stopped eating and set down the spoon.
“I wanted to tell you before at the bowling alley. Monty asked me to do a show on Hugh today. He wants me to interview you as the main event. He said: ‘It’s called Talk of the Townies, and she’s what the townies are talking about.’”
“And you said yes?”
Maybe not so loyal.
“I said ‘absolutely not’ regarding you, but I did set up phoners with the art contingency—Abbas Masout and Davis Kimmerle, the critic. It’s hard for me to avoid the topic altogether. I figured you might not mind so much since Hugh is, you know . . . dead. But say the word and I’ll pull the plug.”
I looked into Grace’s clear blue eyes and saw that she meant it. She’d ditch the show if I told her to. I had no right to object to her doing her job; Hugh was a major cultural figure who lived in the area. “I can’t participate. But of course, you should go ahead with your other guests. Do what you need to do,” I said.
Grace touched my arm. “Thanks, Nor.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay, my turn for confessing. And please don’t ask questions until I’m done.”
It was difficult for Grace not to interrogate me, but she managed to let me speak. It all poured out in a rush. I told her about Ben and Gubbins both subscribing to the theory that I’d been framed. The slashed painting, the posed bodies.
“What the fuck?”
I told her about Hugh’s damning divorce diary that documented my attack on the very same painting.
“He was collecting evidence on you for the divorce? That’s rich.”
“You promised not to interrupt.”
I gave her my list of possible suspects: an angry drug dealer, a jilted lover of Hugh’s and, finally, Stokes. I made the strongest case for him, positing him as a serial killer whose trigger was humiliation. “His in-laws demeaned him. He asphyxiated them and managed to get his hands on their money. Then Helene and Hugh humiliated him, and there was a sexual mortification this time. He took his revenge.”
Grace tapped her pen. “I don’t know. I can’t see Stokes Diekmann having the bandwidth to orchestrate the framing scenario.”
“He’s a very angry guy. He’s scary, believe me. It’s good Kelly is staying with you. Now please stop interrupting. There’s more.”
Then I told her about sleeping with Ben. “Well, not sleeping, except for an hour.”
Her eyes widened. “You’ve finally met someone, and it’s Ben fucking Wickstein. Wow. How was it?”
“Wait. I’m not finished.”
“Nor, come on.”
“It was great. But kind of overwhelming . . .”
“Of course, it’s been a while. But that’s wonderful. I’m thrilled for you. For both of you.”
“Please don’t make too much of it. It was probably a one-night thing.”
Grace frowned. “What makes you think so?”
I glanced at the clock on Grace’s wall. Almost 9:45 a.m. Ben would be at the Courier’s weekly staff meeting, where I should be. How could I have walked out on him? I felt lousy about it. Cowardly. Small. But I still cringed when I thought of telling him about my sleepwalking. I took another deep breath.
“Grace. I’ve been sleepwalking again.”
“What?” She stiffened. “I asked you. You told me you weren’t.”
“I wasn’t sure. Then it happened last night at Ben’s. And maybe before that, too, I think.” I paused. I wasn’t going to hedge with her now. “No. I know I was sleepwalking before.”
Grace stared at me, her expression growing more concerned by the second. What was going through her mind?
“The morning of the murders . . . Nora, you had all that crud in your hair. And the scratch on your face. You said you went for a walk and you fell. Was that a lie? Had you been sleepwalking?”
“I’m pretty sure. I just don’t know where I went.”
“Holy shit. You must be terrified,” she said. I could hear the stress in her voice.
She rolled her chair back slightly and angled her body away. It was subtle, but I knew what it meant. My heart sank. I’d never seen a graver look on Grace’s face. I began wringing my hands, anguished.
“You think I did it.”
Grace flinched.
“You think I killed Hugh and Helene.”
I crumpled into the chair, crushed.
“Stop the crazy talk.” Grace stood up and shook her head adamantly.
“I know you. You couldn’t do something like that. No way in hell. You are not that person.”
“It’s just . . . there are so many things that line up,” I said. “How can you be sure? Remember Axel? Nora Scissorhands?”
“That was a sweatshirt. These are human beings. It’s completely impossible. Never in a million years. You understand? Never.” She grabbed both my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Repeat after me. Never.”
It felt like I’d just been yanked back from the precipice.
“Never.”
“Good. What does Ben have to say about it?”
I averted my eyes. “I didn’t tell him.”
“You need to.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
I looked at Grace again, pleading. “What if it makes him think I killed them?”
“Then he’s not the man for you. You’ve got to tell him.”
“No.” I stiffened and crossed my arms. As empathic as she was, Grace had no idea what this was like. How exposed and defenseless I felt.
“You’re stubborn,” she said sternly.
“You’re bossy.”
She flipped her hair back with her hand and sat back down. We eyed each other, unblinking.
“We’ll revisit this,” Grace said. “Meanwhile, I think you should find a sleep clinic. You haven’t tried that.”
“The police are watching. They don’t have those clinics out here. Gubbins said if I leave the county, they’d be sure to track me. I can’t have them finding out about my sleepwalking. A sleep clinic isn’t an option right now.”
“Okay. Then we’ve got to figure out a way to reduce your stress. I bet that’s triggering the episodes.”
“Finding the killer and getting me off the suspect list would help with the stress, believe me.”