But he had a feeling that she’d been lying to him: that she had in fact just been confessing her affair to Detective Fernandez.
Well, suppose she had? That didn’t automatically spell catastrophe. It was even possible, he thought, peering into the murky entanglements of the situation, that it might actually do some good. It would clarify Grollier’s connection to the household, which in turn might put an end to further investigation. Even if it didn’t, suspicion would naturally fall first on Charlie, as the deceived husband, especially after Charlie’s lie about what time he got home the night of the murder, which at the very least would buy Matthew some time, for whatever that was worth. All the same, he realized, he’d feel better if he could convince himself that Chloe really had just gone to church.
He poured himself a stiff gin and tonic. Aside from everything else, he didn’t think he could face Charlie, after that little clash earlier, without some alcohol inside him.
There was a Sous Vide machine in the pantry, which Charlie had given Chloe a couple of years ago, after she’d raved about the food at some French place out in Sag Harbor. Neither of them had learned how to use it, so it had stood on the shelf in its manufacturer’s box ever since Chloe had unwrapped it. Matthew, who found the whole Sous Vide system with its high-tech pretensions and nasty little cooking bags thoroughly unappealing, had avoided it all summer despite some strong hints from Charlie. But he’d decided to inaugurate it tonight. Along with the venison itself, it would make a nice parting gesture for Chloe. She’d have no idea that that was what it was until much later, of course, but that was fine. She would look back and remember he’d cooked venison for her, using a troublesome method that he’d never shown any personal interest in mastering, and it would cast him, retroactively, in just the right light of sentimental self-abnegation.
Topping up his drink, he salted the lean crimson meat, vacuum-sealed it in one of the plastic pouches, and set it to cook. He’d picked up boysenberries for a compote, a red cabbage to braise with a slab of pig cheek, and potatoes for a herbed spaetzle.
At six-thirty the convertible drew up outside, disgorging Charlie and Lily.
Charlie barely greeted him. He glanced at the Sous Vide machine as he walked past it, but didn’t comment.
“I thought I’d set up the Sous Vide,” Matthew said.
Charlie turned back briefly.
“Oh, that’s what that is.”
“I bought some venison.”
“Uh-huh? Chlo likes venison. I’m not crazy about it myself. When are we eating?”
“Shouldn’t be long.”
Charlie moved on out through the kitchen and disappeared upstairs, Lily following briskly behind. Matthew didn’t know whether to be amused or offended by Charlie’s rudeness. It was weirdly crass, but then Charlie had never been one to disguise his feelings, and he was obviously still angry about being contradicted in front of the detective.
Chloe made a little more effort to seem interested in the Sous Vide, when she came down.
“That’s exciting,” she said, filling her wine glass.
“Well… I hope it lives up to expectations…”
She gave a distracted smile. She seemed to have retreated somewhere even deeper inside herself during the last hour. She’d clearly drunk quite a bit too. Not that Matthew was exactly sober himself.
The meat came out of its pouch the same raw burgundy color it had been when it went in. He’d forgotten that peculiarity of the Sous Vide. Along with the boysenberries and red cabbage, there was something unnervingly purplish about the whole dish.
“You don’t have a blowtorch, do you?” he asked, catching a flicker of dismay on Chloe’s face. “I could sear it…”
“I’m sure it’ll taste fine.”
“You know what?” Charlie said, looking at it. “I’m just going to grab some cheese and eat up in my office. I have a ton of work to do before these people come tomorrow. You don’t mind, do you, Chlo?”
Chloe looked blankly at her husband, and then shrugged. Under normal circumstances, Matthew felt, she wouldn’t have let him get away with that. But she clearly wasn’t in a state to confront anyone just now.
She barely said a word throughout the meal, and barely touched her food. Lily gazed at her anxiously.
“Are you okay, Mommy?”
Chloe gave her daughter a helpless look, her eyes wide and searching, as if trying to locate her through some thick mist.
“I’m fine, sweetheart.”
The girl drifted off upstairs.
Alone with Chloe, Matthew said, before he could stop himself:
“Charlie’s angry with me, isn’t he?”
He could tell at once that Charlie had already talked to her. They must have spoken before Charlie took Lily tubing.
“Is he?” she said. “About what?”
“I don’t know. I should ask him, I suppose.”
She looked away uncomfortably.
“Well, actually, I think I do know,” he said.
“Why?”
“He thinks I was trying to make him look like a liar in front of that detective. Chipping in about his nap on the Thruway.”
“Well…” She looked up at him, her eyes settling candidly on his. “Were you?”
Something in her expression, a look of deliberate challenge, made him think of the things he’d heard her tell Grollier; all that crap about blackmailing Charlie.
“No, I wasn’t. It just happened to be the truth.”
“You weren’t trying to-” She broke off.
“What?”
“I don’t know… damage his reputation or something?”
“Huh?”
“Right before his deal goes through?”
So that was what Charlie had thought! As usual his cousin was a degree or two more cunning than him in his thinking. Chloe faced him again.
“I mean, it wouldn’t be good if his partners knew he’d been brought in for questioning in connection with a murder, would it?”
“Why would I want to spoil his deal?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you have something against him?”
She was looking at him more coolly than he liked.
An urge to set her straight seized him. Why not tell her? he thought. It wasn’t as if keeping the damn thing to himself all these years had done him any good. He’d told no one; not his mother or sister, not even Dr. McCubbin. It would have seemed a kind of special pleading, a bid for mercy or-worse-pity, and he’d had too much pride to allow himself that, even as a fourteen-year-old. Pride, courage, dignity… all those fine qualities were supposed to be their own reward. But really, what good had they done him? What difference had it made to be a proud wreck, a dignified fuckup?
“How could I possibly have anything against him?” he said, and then added, with careful nonchalance, “I mean, aside from that business when we were at school together. But that was a million years ago. Besides, I never held it against him.”
“What business?”
“He hasn’t told you about it?”
“No.”
“You knew I was thrown out, though?”
“Yes… but I didn’t think it had anything to do with Charlie.”
She looked a bit apprehensive suddenly, which was certainly better than that coldly appraising stare.