Sarah sipped her coffee and said nothing.
Arvo glanced over at the telephone answering machine, where the red light was still flashing. Three calls. “You could start by playing back the messages,” he said.
Sarah got up and hit the play button. The first was a hang-up, the second a computerized sales call, and the third was a man’s voice.
“I know you’re not there, Sarah,” he said. “I know you’re in old Blighty. It’s Christmas Eve and I’ve had a few drinks and I can’t get it together to punch all those overseas buttons. Do they even have phones over there? Anyway, I just want it on record I did call to wish you a Merry Christmas. Maybe it’ll give you a laugh listening to this when you get back. Am I slurring my words a lot? Hope you had a good one, sweetie. See you back at the sweat factory.”
The voice was vaguely familiar, but Arvo couldn’t place it. Whoever it was, he certainly sounded drunk or stoned. He glanced at Sarah, and she looked at him through the tears that filmed her eyes. “Jack,” she said. “It was Jack. Just the kind of thing he’d do. Idiot.” She hit the stop button and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.
Jack Marillo, the day before he died. It was an eerie feeling. Arvo gave her a moment to sit down and compose herself, then he asked, “Have you received any more letters?”
Sarah hesitated, then nodded.
“Will you show them to me?”
She reached for her purse and passed him the letter and card. He was aware of her watching him over the rim of her coffee cup as he read. Though he doubted that the specialists would find any prints or saliva traces — according to their report, whoever had mailed the first letter had used water and a sponge for the flap and stamp — he handled it carefully anyway.
“Interesting,” Arvo said, setting the card and letter down carefully on the table. “When did you get the letter?”
“I picked it up on my way to the airport, when we came here to pack. I was running late. I didn’t want to miss my plane.”
“No, I don’t suppose you did. And I suppose you thought as soon as you were a few thousand miles away the police would get on with their jobs and clear up the mess for you before you came back? Right? Or maybe that it would all just magically go away?”
She chewed on her bottom lip.
“And the last thing you wanted to have to deal with when you got back was a situation even worse than the one before you went away, so you tried to convince yourself that none of it had really happened, didn’t you? Denial.” He held up the letter. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you that this practically constitutes a confession to the John Heimar murder?”
“But I didn’t see how it could help you,” Sarah protested. “How I could help you. It doesn’t tell you who did it, does it?”
“It’s evidence,” Arvo said. “That’s the point. Have you thought any more about who could be doing this? About someone with the initial M and about what “Little Star” means?”
“I’ve thought about it, yes,” she said, “but I still don’t know who it could be.”
“Could it have anything to do with Gary Knox?”
She frowned. “I don’t understand. Gary’s dead.”
“I know that. I mean before. The tour. It looks like we’re dealing with an American, unless he’s being very clever indeed. Look how he spells ‘honor’ and ‘anesthetist.’ That means that if it is someone who knows you, then it’s most likely either someone you’re working with now, someone at the studio, maybe even on the show, or someone you came into contact with during the tour.”
Sarah seemed surprised. “Who have you been talking to? Did Ellie tell you this?”
A light breeze fanned through the doors and ruffled Arvo’s hair. The waves rolled and crashed on the shore. “Does it matter? Why don’t you just answer the question?”
“It could be. I don’t remember a lot about it.”
“Drugs?”
Sarah said nothing.
“Look, can you just give me a name? Someone who might remember. I need some sort of lead here.”
She thought for a moment, then said, “Stan Harvey. He wasn’t part of it, but he promoted the tour here. I’d also met him in London once when he was on business. He was kind to me,” she added. “Here, I mean. Funny, I should remember that.”
Arvo wrote the name down. “And you spent some time in the Shelley Clinic, right?”
Sarah paused. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I spent some time there.”
“Did you form any close relationships with any other patients in the clinic?”
“No. I was too... I was suffering from depression. I didn’t really talk to anyone except Dr. Fermor. I was very ill.” She put her hand to her forehead in what Arvo thought was a theatrical gesture. “Please... I’m tired... what do you want from me?”
Arvo leaned forward. “In a nutshell? I want you to tell me what you know. I think that the same person who’s been writing you letters killed John Heimar. Then I think he killed Jack Marillo. And I think you know something you’re not telling me. I’m not sure why, but I’d guess you’re still trying to deny the connections to yourself, and you can’t bear to admit any responsibility for Jack’s murder. I’m not blaming you for that. Nobody wants to admit they’re the victim of a love-obsessional, someone who has killed twice already. After all, you didn’t ask for it, did you? You don’t feel you’ve done anything to deserve it, do you? You just don’t want to be involved in the mess. It’ll spoil that neat, comfortable ordered life you’ve got going for you. But you are involved. The order is already spoiled. And that’s not all. You’re in danger, too, and I think you’re scared. It’s time to wake up, Sarah. Face the truth.”
Sarah put her coffee cup on the glass table, stood up and walked over to the sliding glass doors, her back to him. “Why are you so certain that Jack’s murder has anything to do with me?” she asked.
Arvo picked up the briefcase he had brought in with him, took out a black-and-white photograph and walked over to her.
“Is this scene familiar?” he asked, holding it out in front of her and pointing to the faint outline in the wet sand. “Do you notice anything here?”
Sarah looked at the picture and shook her head, more in denial than to indicate no. She wrapped her arms around herself. The sleeves of her sweater were so long that they covered her hands, and she looked as if she were wearing a straitjacket. She was so tightly coiled in on herself that Arvo could feel the tension in the air around her.
“Sarah,” he said slowly. “Does the symbol of a heart pierced by an arrow mean anything to you?”
He saw the blood drain from her already pale face, leaving her looking like a ghost, and he knew he’d hit the spot. Shock tactics, but he felt he had to play out this little game, run through the script, to get her where she wanted and needed to be.
“Why?” she asked.
“With maybe a name or something written inside?”
“A name?”
“We think it might be, yes.”
“What name?” she whispered.
“We can’t read it.” This was the information about Jack Marillo’s body that they had managed to keep out of the media. He was probably telling her too much, he knew, but he was running on instinct. He couldn’t stop himself now if he tried.
“Why?” she asked again. “Where did you find this thing?”
Arvo paused, then said, “Someone carved it into Jack Marillo’s stomach with a kitchen knife.”
A sound halfway between a gasp and a groan came from deep in her throat. She looked at Arvo with anger blazing in her eyes and started pounding on his face and chest with her fists until he got his arms around her and held her tightly. Then the violence subsided and she buried her head between his chest and shoulder, and her whole body shuddered with deep, convulsive sobs.