* * *
Elizabeth’s second call, in February, was very different. I had been up past midnight, drinking alone, and for this reason I was not totally myself when the phone rang at 6 in the morning.
“Jun,” said the voice on the other end, and it was so racked with sobs that at first I couldn’t place it. “Jun, you have to come quickly. Ashley’s dead.”
Now I realized that it was Elizabeth. And since her words made no sense, I assumed she was drunk, or else I was having a dream.
“Ashley’s dead!” she repeated.
“What?” I said. “What are you talking about?” I was still half asleep.
“He was found dead this morning, right there in his bedroom. I was with him last night, Jun. He was fine!”
I was starting to comprehend what she was saying. “You were with him?” I didn’t know whether the twisting I felt in my stomach was shock over the news or jealousy.
“Yes, I was with him, but I left around 9, and he walked me out to the car. The next thing I know, I get a phone call this morning telling me he’s dead!”
“Who called you? The police?”
“No, no. The studio.”
“The studio?”
“Yes, I don’t know who found him, but the studio is calling people. Tom Stewart from Benjamin Dreyfus’ office called about half an hour ago.”
“Why did he call you? What did he say?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going over there. I think people are there already. Jun, will you please come with me?”
I couldn’t answer right away—this was too much information to consider all at once. Tyler, my favorite director. Tyler, the man who everybody seemed to admire. Tyler, my rival for Elizabeth’s affections. Could it be true that he was dead? I couldn’t believe it, and I had no desire to go to his house, not even for Elizabeth. But in the end I couldn’t deny her, not when she was in such a state, so I agreed to meet her at the director’s home.
Tyler’s bungalow court was not unlike the one I live in now—a group of two-story buildings arranged in a U-shape around an open courtyard. I arrived before Elizabeth and stood there in the morning winter cold, still trying to absorb the news. There were no police yet, no reporters, no indication that there was anything amiss. I saw a drape stir behind the window of another apartment, but nobody came outside. Elizabeth appeared shortly, her eyes red and her coat drawn tightly around her. She gripped my arm hard and I remember thinking, bitterly, that she never held me with such urgency when I made love to her. I resisted the urge to shake her off and placed my hand on her back, guiding her to Tyler’s front door.
I didn’t recognize the man who answered our knock, but he appeared to recognize us, for he stepped aside without speaking and let us in. I had never before been inside Tyler’s home, and my first thought, as I laid eyes on the couch, the fireplace, his fine paintings and pieces of sculpture, was to wonder about the hours he passed there with Elizabeth; how often and in exactly what posture they had talked. Despite the good furniture and expensive art, the place already felt lifeless to me. It was dark and sad and too carefully decorated—the home of a man concerned more with appearances than comfort.
But perhaps it was unfair to judge Tyler this way, for his home was already changed. What we found when we stepped inside was five gloved men engaged in frantic activity; the sounds of furniture being moved around above us indicated that there were more upstairs. These were studio employees, several of whom I recognized, and they were working so fast they didn’t stop to acknowledge us. One of them was going through Tyler’s desk. Another was examining the hutch in the dining room, removing and replacing every plate. A third was lifting each painting, touching its frame, and feeling the wall behind it. Yet another was on his hands and knees, peering beneath the couch. I didn’t know what they were searching for, but there was a growing collection of papers and photographs on the dining room table, along with two bottles of whiskey. The whole tableau made me think of a film set, the final frantic preparation that went into making it perfect before the actors stepped in to perform their scene.
Elizabeth gasped when she saw what was happening and gripped my arm even tighter. She wavered a bit as she walked, and I wasn’t sure if her unsteadiness was due to alcohol or grief. She led me to the kitchen, and I realized with a fresh spasm of pain that she knew every inch of the place. We found an older black man sitting at the table, and when he and Elizabeth saw each other, they both let out a cry.
“Willy!” she said, rushing over to him.
“Oh, Miss Elizabeth,” the old man answered, “I can’t believe it.”
Once again I suppressed my distaste. The man seemed respectable enough—he was neat and well-dressed—but this was the person on whose behalf Tyler had testified in court to combat the morals charge. After some more tears and sounds of grief, Willy relayed his story. He’d come in right at 5 a.m. as always. He first took in the dishes that Tyler and Elizabeth had left by the couch, and then fixed his boss a pot of morning tea. But when he took it upstairs, he
