Read Online The Pact by Jennifer Sturman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Sturman
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uniforms. I could tell from his posture that Mr. Furlong was angry, and I could also tell from their postures that the policemen were intimidated. Mr. Furlong was not a force to be toyed with. His every gesture radiated strength, even when it was as simple as running a paint-stained hand through his bristly gray hair.
With an exasperated shrug he turned from them and made his way toward where Matthew and I were sitting. “What’s going on?” Matthew asked him. “What do the police think happened?”
Mr. Furlong gave Matthew a tired smile, but his eyes were cold as he spoke. “Our local law enforcement experts are intent on blowing up what was clearly an accident into a major event.” The way he said experts made the word sound like an obscenity, and his voice still bore a faint twinge from his Louisiana upbringing. “This is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened up here in a long time. They don’t get many opportunities to use all of their fancy equipment, and they want to make the most of it.”
“They don’t think it was an accident?” I asked.
Mr. Furlong responded to my question with a bitter laugh. “They find the circumstances suspicious and feel that they need to look into the situation more closely. I explained to them that my daughter just lost her fiancé and it would be appropriate of them to demonstrate at least a bit of courtesy, but they’re insisting on talking to everyone present. They also ask that nobody leave the premises until given permission to do so. As if we don’t have enough to worry about with hundreds of guests arriving this afternoon for a wedding that’s not going to happen.”
“Is there anything we can do?” asked Matthew.
Mr. Furlong flashed him a grateful look and responded quickly, as if he’d already thought everything through. “Could you make sure that the police do whatever it is they have to as quietly and quickly as possible? Put them somewhere in the house and make sure they talk to whomever it is they need to talk to and don’t harass anyone. You could probably use the downstairs library.”
“Sure,” Matthew agreed.
But Mr. Furlong had already turned away from us. “I’ll be in my studio if anyone needs me,” he called over his shoulder. I was taken aback. Was he really just going to abandon the situation and return to work?
“Unbelievable,” said Matthew, his voice barely audible, giving words to my own reaction. Then he pulled himself up from the steps and, with a parting pat on my shoulder, ambled over to the policemen.
CHAPTER 7
U nbelievable, indeed.
The Furlongs, so I’d always been led to believe, were the consummate happy family. But I was having difficulty reconciling this long-held conviction with Mr. Furlong’s nonchalant delegation of responsibilities, not to mention the cryptic and heated exchange I’d overhead between him and Emma the previous night. Surely he should be carefully supervising the activities of the police or rushing upstairs to check in on his daughter, and perhaps even his wife, rather than deserting to his studio? He didn’t seem to fully appreciate the gravity of what was happening. If someone in the household had killed Richard, it would be better for one of us to figure it out before the police did so that the situation could be managed properly. Not that I had any idea what would constitute proper management in such unusual circumstances, but I could cross that bridge when I got there. Years of training in sorting out data and figures had made the orderly arrangement of information almost a religion to me, and one thing I had learned was that you had to have your fact base in place before you could make any good decisions.
I rose to my feet and headed through the French doors to the living room. At this time of day, it was bathed with early morning light, which spilled over the glossy butter-yellow walls and comfortable furniture, all upholstered in variations on the theme of chintz. This was
With an exasperated shrug he turned from them and made his way toward where Matthew and I were sitting. “What’s going on?” Matthew asked him. “What do the police think happened?”
Mr. Furlong gave Matthew a tired smile, but his eyes were cold as he spoke. “Our local law enforcement experts are intent on blowing up what was clearly an accident into a major event.” The way he said experts made the word sound like an obscenity, and his voice still bore a faint twinge from his Louisiana upbringing. “This is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened up here in a long time. They don’t get many opportunities to use all of their fancy equipment, and they want to make the most of it.”
“They don’t think it was an accident?” I asked.
Mr. Furlong responded to my question with a bitter laugh. “They find the circumstances suspicious and feel that they need to look into the situation more closely. I explained to them that my daughter just lost her fiancé and it would be appropriate of them to demonstrate at least a bit of courtesy, but they’re insisting on talking to everyone present. They also ask that nobody leave the premises until given permission to do so. As if we don’t have enough to worry about with hundreds of guests arriving this afternoon for a wedding that’s not going to happen.”
“Is there anything we can do?” asked Matthew.
Mr. Furlong flashed him a grateful look and responded quickly, as if he’d already thought everything through. “Could you make sure that the police do whatever it is they have to as quietly and quickly as possible? Put them somewhere in the house and make sure they talk to whomever it is they need to talk to and don’t harass anyone. You could probably use the downstairs library.”
“Sure,” Matthew agreed.
But Mr. Furlong had already turned away from us. “I’ll be in my studio if anyone needs me,” he called over his shoulder. I was taken aback. Was he really just going to abandon the situation and return to work?
“Unbelievable,” said Matthew, his voice barely audible, giving words to my own reaction. Then he pulled himself up from the steps and, with a parting pat on my shoulder, ambled over to the policemen.
CHAPTER 7
U nbelievable, indeed.
The Furlongs, so I’d always been led to believe, were the consummate happy family. But I was having difficulty reconciling this long-held conviction with Mr. Furlong’s nonchalant delegation of responsibilities, not to mention the cryptic and heated exchange I’d overhead between him and Emma the previous night. Surely he should be carefully supervising the activities of the police or rushing upstairs to check in on his daughter, and perhaps even his wife, rather than deserting to his studio? He didn’t seem to fully appreciate the gravity of what was happening. If someone in the household had killed Richard, it would be better for one of us to figure it out before the police did so that the situation could be managed properly. Not that I had any idea what would constitute proper management in such unusual circumstances, but I could cross that bridge when I got there. Years of training in sorting out data and figures had made the orderly arrangement of information almost a religion to me, and one thing I had learned was that you had to have your fact base in place before you could make any good decisions.
I rose to my feet and headed through the French doors to the living room. At this time of day, it was bathed with early morning light, which spilled over the glossy butter-yellow walls and comfortable furniture, all upholstered in variations on the theme of chintz. This was