“Total rage. Felt like they’d all been had. Some truth in that. But the books themselves were unimpeachable. Both perfectly legitimate contributions.”
“And you think all that was to draw attention to himself?”
“No!” she snapped. “Of course not! The
“So you’d say Ashton was a pretty smart guy?”
“Brilliant, actually. Unconventional and unpredictable. A supremely good listener and a fast learner. And a strangely tragic figure.”
Gurney was getting the impression that despite being in her late sixties, Marian Eliot was afflicted with something she would surely never acknowledge: a consuming crush on a man who was nearly three decades her junior.
“You mean ‘tragic’ in the sense of what happened on his wedding day?”
“It goes well beyond that. The murder, of course, ended up being part of it. But consider the mythic archetypes embedded in the story from start to finish.” She paused, allowing him time for such consideration.
“Not sure I follow that.”
“Cinderella… Pygmalion… Frankenstein.”
“You’re taking about the evolution of Scott Ashton’s relationship with Hector Flores?”
“Precisely.” She gave him a smile of approval befitting a good student. “The story has a classic beginning: A stranger wanders into the village, hungry, looking for work. A local landowner, a man of substance, hires him, takes him to his home, tries him at various tasks, sees great potential in him, gives him increasing responsibility, gives him entry into a new life. The poor scullery worker, in effect, is magically elevated to a rich new life. Not the Cinderella story in its gender details, but certainly in its essence. Yet in the larger scheme of the Ashton-Flores saga, the Cinderella story is only act one. Then a new paradigm becomes operative, as Dr. Ashton grows enthralled by the opportunity to mold his student into something greater, to lead him to his highest potential, to sculpt the statue into a kind of perfection-to bring Hector Flores to life in the fullest possible sense. He buys him books, a computer, online courses-spends hours each day supervising his education, pushing him toward a kind of perfection. Not the Pygmalion myth in its specific Greek details, but close enough. That was act two. Act three, of course, became the Frankenstein story. Intended to be the best of human creatures, Flores turns out to harbor the worst of human flaws, bringing havoc and horror into the life of the genius who created him.”
Nodding slowly, appreciatively, Gurney took all of this in-fascinated not only by the fairy-tale parallels to the real-life events but also by Marian Eliot’s insistence on their huge significance. Her eyes burned with conviction and something that resembled triumph. The question in Gurney’s mind: Was the triumph in some way related to the tragedy, or did it simply reflect an academic’s satisfaction with the profundity of her own understanding?
After a brief silence during which her excitement subsided, she asked, “What were you hoping to find out from Carl?”
“I don’t know. Maybe why the inside of his house is so much neater than the outside.” He wasn’t entirely serious, but she replied in a businesslike tone.
“I look in on Carl fairly regularly. He hasn’t been himself since Kiki disappeared. Understandable. While I’m there, I put things where they seem to belong. It’s nothing, really.” She gazed over Gurney’s shoulder in the direction of Muller’s house, hidden behind a couple of acres of trees. “He takes better care of himself than you might think.”
“You’ve heard his opinion of Latinos?”
She uttered a short, exasperated sigh. “Carl’s position on that issue isn’t much different from the campaign speeches of certain public figures.”
Gurney gave her a curious look.
“Yes, I know, he’s a bit intense about it, but considering… well, considering the situation with his wife…” Her voice trailed off.
“And the Christmas tree in September? And the Christmas carols?”
“He likes them. Finds them soothing.” She stood, took her hoe with a firm hand from where it was leaning against the trunk of the apple tree, and gave Gurney a quick little nod that communicated the end of their conversation. Discussing Carl’s craziness was clearly not her favorite activity. “I have work to do. Good luck with your inquiries, Mr. Gurney.”
Either she had forgotten or she had consciously chosen not to pursue her earlier interest in the missing puzzle pieces. Gurney wondered which it was.
The big Airedale, seemingly sensing a change in the emotional atmosphere, appeared out of nowhere at her side.
“Thank you for your time. And your insight,” Gurney said. “I hope you’ll give me an opportunity to speak with you again.”
“We’ll see. Despite retirement, I lead a busy life.”
She turned to the rose garden with her hoe and began hacking fiercely into the crusty soil, as if disciplining an unruly element of her own nature.
Chapter 20
Many of the houses on Badger Lane, especially those up toward Ashton’s end of the road, were old and large and had been maintained or restored with costly attention to detail. The result was a casual elegance toward which Gurney felt a resentment he would have resisted identifying as envy. Even measured by the elevated standards of Badger Lane, the Ashton property was striking: an impeccable two-story farmhouse of pale yellow stone surrounded by wild roses, huge free-form flower beds with herbaceous borders, and trellises of English ivy serving as passageways among the various areas of a gently sloping lawn. Gurney parked in a Belgian-block driveway that led to the kind of garage a real-estate agent would call a carriage house. Across the lawn stood the classical pavilion where the wedding musicians had played.
Gurney got out of his car and was immediately struck by a scent in the air. As he struggled to name it, a man came around from the rear of the main house carrying a pruning saw. Scott Ashton looked familiar but different, less vivid in person than on video. He was dressed in casually expensive country attire: Donegal tweed pants and a tailored flannel shirt. He noted Gurney’s presence without apparent pleasure or displeasure.
“You’re on time,” he said. His voice was even, mellow, impersonal.
“I appreciate your willingness to see me, Dr. Ashton.”
“Would you like to come inside?” It was purely a question, not an invitation.
“It would be helpful if I could see the area behind the house first-the location of the garden cottage. Also the patio table where you were sitting when the bullet hit the teacup.”
Ashton responded with a movement of his hand indicating that Gurney should follow him. As they passed through the trellis linking the garage and driveway area beside the house to the main lawn behind it-the trellis through which the wedding guests had entered the reception-Gurney experienced a feeling of combined recognition and dislocation. The pavilion, the cottage, the rear of the main house, the stone patio, the flower beds, the enclosing woods were recognizable but jarringly altered by the change of season, the emptiness, the silence. The odd scent in the air, exotically herbal, was stronger here. Gurney asked about it.
Ashton motioned vaguely toward the planting beds bordering the patio. “Chamomile, windflower, mallow, bergamot, tansy, boxwood. The relative strength of each component changes with the direction of the breeze.”
“Do you have a new gardener?”
Ashton’s features tightened. “In place of Hector Flores?”
“I understood he handled most of the work around the house.”
“No, he hasn’t been replaced.” Ashton noted the pruning saw he was carrying and smiled without warmth.
