voices off to the side, trying to look as if possible foul play was a staple of life in this remote corner of the Adirondacks. Sean had picked up Emma after she fainted and carried her inside, escorted by Mrs. Furlong and Jane and followed by Luisa and Hilary.
Matthew had disappeared into the pool house, but he quickly reemerged in a dry T-shirt and shorts and came to perch beside me on the steps leading up to the porch. We watched Mr. Furlong talking to the paramedics, his lined face inscrutable.
“What do you think happened?” Matthew asked me in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “If he were anyone else, I would guess that he had too much to drink or something and fell in. But Richard could always hold his liquor. Maybe he slipped, and hit his head, and then fell in?” I was angling for death by accident, and I was eager for Matthew to validate my hopes with solid medical evidence.
Matthew was quiet for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words. “I don’t think he drowned, Rach. I think he was dead before he hit the water.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?”
“I don’t know, at least not for sure, but I was doing CPR on him, pumping his chest. If Richard were breathing when he went underwater, he would have water in his lungs. If he had water in his lungs, it’s almost impossible that some of it wouldn’t have come up. But none did.”
I considered this. A police photographer had arrived to record the scene for posterity and, I would assume, for evidence of a crime. She asked Mr. Furlong and the paramedics to back away from the body.
“There’s something else,” added Matthew. “His pupils were dilated.”
“What does that mean?”
He sighed. “I see a lot of ODs—overdose cases—at the clinic. And their eyes look a lot like Richard’s did.”
“He OD’d?”
“Possibly.”
“But Richard didn’t use drugs.” In fact, I remembered him holding forth in a nauseatingly self-righteous way on the topic, complete with several ideas about how the war against drugs should be fought. That most of his suggestions would violate the civil rights guaranteed by a number of constitutional amendments hadn’t seemed to bother him.
“I’m not necessarily talking about heroin or cocaine.”
“Even pills. He didn’t even like to take aspirin when he had a headache—he thought it was for wimps.”
Matthew shrugged. “This is all speculation, Rach. I don’t know anything for sure.”
I ran my hands through my disheveled hair. Had Richard been drugged, poisoned in some way, without his knowledge? Did someone kill him, perhaps slipping something into his drink, and then push him into the water in an attempt to mask the crime?
And while part of me wanted to know the answers to these questions, part of me was scared to find out.
I’d thought that nothing could be worse than Emma marrying Richard, but maybe I’d been wrong. If Richard had been killed, it meant that someone here—one of this close-knit circle of family and friends—was a murderer. And that was an idea I didn’t like one bit.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to think about Emma’s pained exchange with her father the previous evening, or Luisa’s rapid appearance on the scene this morning and surprising composure, or Hilary’s ill-contained excitement, almost bordering on glee. And then, of course, there was Matthew.
I opened my eyes and looked over at him. He was silently watching the paramedics and police, his expression neutral. I’d realized long ago, however, that Matthew wore his plain, unassuming face like a mask. This wasn’t the first time I’d wondered what he was thinking.
Matthew was Emma’s boy-next-door in just about every sense of the word. His mother and Mrs. Furlong had been friends since birth, practically, classmates at both Miss Porter’s and Wellesley. He’d grown up in a discreetly luxurious apartment a few blocks up Park Avenue from the discreetly
Matthew had disappeared into the pool house, but he quickly reemerged in a dry T-shirt and shorts and came to perch beside me on the steps leading up to the porch. We watched Mr. Furlong talking to the paramedics, his lined face inscrutable.
“What do you think happened?” Matthew asked me in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “If he were anyone else, I would guess that he had too much to drink or something and fell in. But Richard could always hold his liquor. Maybe he slipped, and hit his head, and then fell in?” I was angling for death by accident, and I was eager for Matthew to validate my hopes with solid medical evidence.
Matthew was quiet for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words. “I don’t think he drowned, Rach. I think he was dead before he hit the water.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?”
“I don’t know, at least not for sure, but I was doing CPR on him, pumping his chest. If Richard were breathing when he went underwater, he would have water in his lungs. If he had water in his lungs, it’s almost impossible that some of it wouldn’t have come up. But none did.”
I considered this. A police photographer had arrived to record the scene for posterity and, I would assume, for evidence of a crime. She asked Mr. Furlong and the paramedics to back away from the body.
“There’s something else,” added Matthew. “His pupils were dilated.”
“What does that mean?”
He sighed. “I see a lot of ODs—overdose cases—at the clinic. And their eyes look a lot like Richard’s did.”
“He OD’d?”
“Possibly.”
“But Richard didn’t use drugs.” In fact, I remembered him holding forth in a nauseatingly self-righteous way on the topic, complete with several ideas about how the war against drugs should be fought. That most of his suggestions would violate the civil rights guaranteed by a number of constitutional amendments hadn’t seemed to bother him.
“I’m not necessarily talking about heroin or cocaine.”
“Even pills. He didn’t even like to take aspirin when he had a headache—he thought it was for wimps.”
Matthew shrugged. “This is all speculation, Rach. I don’t know anything for sure.”
I ran my hands through my disheveled hair. Had Richard been drugged, poisoned in some way, without his knowledge? Did someone kill him, perhaps slipping something into his drink, and then push him into the water in an attempt to mask the crime?
And while part of me wanted to know the answers to these questions, part of me was scared to find out.
I’d thought that nothing could be worse than Emma marrying Richard, but maybe I’d been wrong. If Richard had been killed, it meant that someone here—one of this close-knit circle of family and friends—was a murderer. And that was an idea I didn’t like one bit.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to think about Emma’s pained exchange with her father the previous evening, or Luisa’s rapid appearance on the scene this morning and surprising composure, or Hilary’s ill-contained excitement, almost bordering on glee. And then, of course, there was Matthew.
I opened my eyes and looked over at him. He was silently watching the paramedics and police, his expression neutral. I’d realized long ago, however, that Matthew wore his plain, unassuming face like a mask. This wasn’t the first time I’d wondered what he was thinking.
Matthew was Emma’s boy-next-door in just about every sense of the word. His mother and Mrs. Furlong had been friends since birth, practically, classmates at both Miss Porter’s and Wellesley. He’d grown up in a discreetly luxurious apartment a few blocks up Park Avenue from the discreetly
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