The School of Night by Louis Bayard Page A

good.”
    Clarissa rocked herself to her feet.
    â€œAnd nobody asked this woman if she knew Alonzo? Or knew of him?”
    â€œWhy would they?” I said. “It was an inquest, not a trial. Whatever happened was already a matter of record. Alonzo’s family just wanted to put the whole thing to rest.”
    â€œSo if Lily’s cousin was out by the river that night…”
    I pressed my knuckles into my temple. “Lily must have sent her there.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œBecause a witness was needed.”
    â€œWhy?”
    I had to sound the answer in my head before I trusted myself to speak it.
    â€œBecause it was the only way people would believe Alonzo killed himself.”
    Because there were too many reasons he wouldn’t have. Wouldn’t have traveled miles from home to do a job he could have accomplished a few blocks from his apartment.
    Whoever chose that bridge had had very specific criteria in mind. The place had to be dark, it had to be remote, and it had to be a place where nobody could ever know for sure what had happened.
    â€œWhew,” said Clarissa, blowing out two cheekfuls of air. “If you’re right—”
    â€œIf I’m right, Lily Pentzler was part of a conspiracy to commit murder.”
    In the silence that ensued, that final word seemed actually to revolve in the air between us. Slowly, so we could study all its aspects.
    I know . That’s what I’d said to Lily, the last time I saw her alive. I know.
    No. You don’t.
    Clarissa and I looked at each other.
    â€œPolice?” she suggested at last.
    From my wallet I unearthed the card. Punched in the number.
    â€œThis is Detective August Acree. I am not available to take your call at this time.…”
    I left a vague message and then a number and then, after great thought, the following afterword:
    â€œUm, thanks.”
    And then, for several minutes, we sat there, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning window unit.
    â€œStill no word?” I asked.
    â€œFrom who?”
    â€œMr. Swale the book dealer.”
    Absently, Clarissa reached for her Trio, scanned the roster of new messages.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œThen what do you say we get out of here?”
    â€œAnd go where?”
    I briefly thought of saying, Anywhere . But in fact, I had a specific place in mind: the Fort Ralegh Historic Site.
    Located not by the ocean but several miles inland and corresponding roughly to the site where Thomas Harriot and his fellow colonists hunkered down more than four centuries ago. The original settlements, of course, were long gone, and the only thing that still bore Harriot’s name was a nature path, which, for reasons inscrutable, was listed as the Thomas Harlot trail.
    â€œOoh,” said Clarissa. “I like the sound of that.”
    A remark just saucy enough to make me fall back a pace. For which I was rewarded by the sight of her gypsum-alabaster legs, striding down the path. It took me a hundred yards to catch up with her again.
    â€œI’m guessing you’ve been married, Henry.”
    â€œOnce or twice. Or so.”
    â€œWhat went wrong?”
    â€œUm, me , I guess. Is this something we need to talk about?”
    â€œNo.”
    The only things we could hear now were the sounds of our feet, muffled by a carpet of loblolly pine needles.
    â€œSo what exactly is wrong with you, Henry? That you can’t keep a woman?”
    â€œUm…”
    â€œYou can be nice enough.”
    â€œWell—anyone can. Serial killers…”
    â€œYou’re nice to look at.”
    God help me, I blushed.
    â€œYou mean for my age,” I said.
    â€œAny age,” she answered, meeting my eyes. “One might even call you a catch, Henry.”
    â€œWell, every time I was caught, I was released. Shortly after.”
    â€œSo what was the deal?”
    â€œWe’re really going to talk about this.”
    â€œOnly if you