“No, it’s not a shame, because there’s really nothing I could have done,” I say, with some confidence considering the nearly twelve hours I spent thinking about it. I feel pretty sure that even Georgia, with her superior intelligence, could not have thought of how to uncover the killer’s identity.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” she says. “I’ve no doubt there’s something one might have thought of.”
“Like what?”
“I’d have to think about it.”
“Why don’t you. And let me know how you make out.”
“Okay.” A split second later she says, “Oh, I just thought of one.”
“What is it?”
“Not worth mentioning now. The opportunity’s gone.” She shoos the idea away with her hand.
“But please do. I would be very interested.”
“It’s really nothing special. I’m sure you would have thought of it yourself if you had spent even just twenty minutes trying to come up with something. And plus, as you so rightly pointed out, don’t we have more important things to talk about?”
I have an impulse to slug her. “Just tell me what you thought of.”
“All right. Here it is. You could have sent a letter to each of us, pretending to be Gabriel.”
I look at her sternly, waiting for her to elaborate. She doesn’t. I cave in: “Elaborate.”
“Each letter would have to appear to be a single, unique, confidential letter. The letters could say something like, ‘As you may or may not already know, I have sent a letter to Barb announcing your plan to kill Strad. In it, I do not reveal that you are the killer. I’m protecting your identity. But let me entreat you now, one last time, not to kill Strad.’ Blah, blah. End of letter. It’s obvious what would happen next. The three of us who are not the killer would be utterly baffled and freaked out by the letter. We’d be calling you up, shrieking: ‘Oh my God, Barb, I just received this crazy letter from Gabriel saying I have a plan to kill Strad, but I don’t!’ The killer would be the only one who wouldn’t call. Simple.”
I could indeed have done that, I realize sadly. It would have been brilliant. I’m deeply demoralized by this huge missed opportunity. I feel as though I’ve let Lily down (assuming she’s not the killer). Georgia is a worthier friend than I am (also assuming she’s not the killer). She’s a smarter friend.
“Barb, you can’t compare yourself to the queen of convoluted thinking. None of us can,” Jack says, as though he’s read my mind.
Georgia, too, has sensed my distress. She backpedals, her entire tone softening: “Jack’s right. And anyway, I wouldn’t wish this ability on anyone. It makes my life wretched, feeds my paranoia, makes me overly complicated, irritating to others, including to myself, but on some rare occasions, such as this one, it comes in handy.”
I gaze at my friends. “There’s something I’d like to say to whichever one of you is the killer.” My tone is chilling. I have their full attention. “If you, KAY, were so close to Gabriel and were his confidant to the degree that he even told you of his suicidal thoughts, why didn’t you prevent his death?” I start shouting at them, shooting them furious glances. “You could have sought out help! You should have told us. At least you should have told me of his love for me. I would have done something, acted differently, been more attuned to the situation. But most of all, you could have stopped him from killing himself. How could you let him die? Are you so incompetent, so lame, so selfish, what? Didn’t you care enough about him to save his life? You certainly are a murderer.”
I haven’t taken my eyes off of them for a second. My words were painful. Yet they had to be said — because they were the test I came up with last night. I wasn’t very optimistic that it would succeed in its purpose of provoking the killer into betraying him/herself. And I think I was right. The only purpose it seems to have served is to make us feel really awful.
I scrutinize my friends’ faces to try to catch any trace of emotion, any quivering lip, any distress, because I know the killer cared deeply for Gabriel and I’m certain my words must have inflicted particularly acute pain on him or her.
But as I contemplate these people, no single reaction stands out. They all display attitudes that could be used against them. Jack sighs and looks down. I ask him what’s up. He says he agrees with me, that the killer should have prevented Gabriel’s death, but that it can be hard to prevent such things.
Georgia also looks suspicious because she’s staring at me fixedly, her jaw clenched.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.
“Because I agree with you, too. You would think the murderer could have stopped this suicide if he cared about Gabriel.” But she says this a bit stiffly, which makes me narrow my eyes. Yet I move on.
Penelope acts perfectly normal, which is questionable in itself.
And Lily is wiping tears from her face, which is either shady or completely understandable.
We discuss whether or not we should request the help of the police.
“We can’t tell the police,” Georgia says. “KAY is sick and needs to be protected by us. I know you may take offense at this, Lily, and I’m sorry about it, but I care much more about KAY not rotting in prison than Strad staying alive.”
“You’re right, I do take offense at that,” Lily says softly.
Jack, who — perhaps because he’s a cop — has been looking especially glum since hearing me read the letter, says, “Telling the police would be one easy way to find out which of you is the killer. Unless the killer took extreme precautions, all the police would have to do is match each one of you against the forensics from that crime scene two years ago. But the price of finding out would be high — not only for KAY, who’d end up in prison, but for the rest of us, who’d lose her. I can’t see myself sending one of you to prison for life.”
Georgia exhales loudly with relief and clasps her hands. “You feel as I do, sweet Jack!”
“What kind of cop are you, to think this way?” Lily says to him.
“A cop who’s very fond of every single one of you,” he replies, gazing at her steadily.
Penelope asks him: “Aren’t you afraid that the killer, who must be a psycho, could be dangerous not only to Strad but to anyone, including us? Personally, I’m going to be afraid now of being alone with any single one of you.” She pauses thoughtfully. “That’s not to say I’d be capable of turning any of you in. I wouldn’t be.”
Jack says, “Keeping the killer among us is a risk, but I don’t see what other option we have. We just have to hope she cares as much about us as we care about her.”
“I feel very differently from you all,” Lily says. “I would rather see one of you go to prison than see the man I love get killed.”
“The man you love,” Georgia scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Has the man you love been wonderful to you the way we have been? Have you developed a close, loving relationship with the man you love the way you have with each of us? Would the man you love do anything for you the way we would? Does he love you at all, even just as a friend?”
Lily’s hard expression softens with this reminder of our devotion to her.
“And yet you want to take this to the police?” Georgia asks her.
“Yes, I want to. But obviously I can’t.”
Now it’s Georgia’s turn to soften. She smiles and puts her hand on Lily’s arm affectionately. “Aw, so you do feel the same way we do.”
“No.” Lily removes her arm. “I have another reason. If we bring the police into this, it’ll ruin my chances with Strad. The police will reveal everything to him. They’ll tell him that for years I’ve been so in love with him that one of my friends is ready to kill him to bring me peace and free me of my obsession. I’d be so embarrassed if Strad knew any of this. I could never face him again. And he’d be so horrified, he’d never want to face me again either, I’m sure.”