John Verdon - Shut Your Eyes Tight

I was just trying to say how perfect everything is today-no bugs, no rain, no problems at all. And what a lovely affair, the music, handsome men everywhere…

CHIEF LUNTZ:

How you doing with your Mexican genius?

SCOTT ASHTON:

I wish I knew, Chief. Sometimes…

C AROL L UNTZ:

I heard there were some… strange… I don’t know, I don’t like repeating…

S COTT A SHTON:

Hector is going through some sort of emotional difficulty. His behavior has been different lately. I guess it’s been noticed. I’d be very interested in anything you’ve witnessed, anything that caught your attention.

C AROL L UNTZ:

Well, not witnessed by me, not directly, I only… rumors, but I try not to listen to rumors.

S COTT A SHTON:

Oh. Oh, just one second. Excuse me just one minute. Jillian seems to be waving at me.

Hardwick pushed the “pause” button. “See?” he said. “On the far left side of the picture?” Frozen in the pause frame was Jillian, looking in Ashton’s direction, holding up the gold watch on her left wrist and pointing to it. Hardwick pushed “play” again, and the action resumed. As Ashton made his way across the lawn through a scattering of guests to Jillian, the Luntzes continued their conversation without him, most of which was clear enough to Gurney with only an occasional glance at the transcript.

C HIEF L UNTZ:

You planning to tell him about that business with Kiki Muller?

C AROL L UNTZ:

Don’t you think he has a right to know?

C HIEF L UNTZ:

You don’t even know how that rumor started.

C AROL L UNTZ:

I think it’s more than a rumor.

C HIEF L UNTZ:

Yeah, yeah, you think. You don’t know. You think.

C AROL L UNTZ:

If you had someone living in your house, eating your food, who was secretly screwing your neighbor’s wife, wouldn’t you want to know?

C HIEF L UNTZ:

What I’m saying is, you don’t know.

C AROL L UNTZ:

What do I need, pictures?

C HIEF L UNTZ:

Pictures would help.

C AROL L UNTZ:

Burt, you can be ridiculous all you want, but if some weirdo Mexican was living in our house and screwing Charley Maxon’s wife, what would you do then, wait for pictures?

C HIEF L UNTZ:

Jesus fucking Christ, Carol…

C AROL L UNTZ:

Burt, that’s blasphemy. I told you, Burt, don’t talk that way.

C HIEF L UNTZ:

Got it. No blasphemy. Listen-here’s the point. You heard something from somebody who heard something from somebody who heard something from somebody-

C AROL L UNTZ:

All right, Burt, we can do without the sarcasm!

They fell silent. After a minute or so, the chief tried to get one of the canapés resting on his left hand into his mouth, finally succeeding by employing the base of his glass like a tiny shovel. His wife made a face, looked away, drained her drink, began tapping her foot to the rhythms emanating from the mini-Parthenon. Her expression became festive, bordering on manic, and her gaze darted around the crowd as though searching for a promised celebrity. When one of the servers approached with a tray of drinks, she traded in her empty glass for a full one. The chief was now observing her with lips compressed into a hard line.

C HIEF L UNTZ:

You might want to slow down a bit.

C AROL L UNTZ:

I beg your pardon?

C HIEF L UNTZ:

You heard me.

C AROL L UNTZ:

Someone’s got to tell the truth.

C HIEF L UNTZ:

What truth?

C AROL L UNTZ:

The truth about Scott’s slimy Mexican.

C HIEF L UNTZ:

The truth? Or is it just a rotten little rumor embellished by one of your idiot friends-total, slanderous, actionable bullcrap!

While the tempers of the Luntzes flared, Ashton and Jillian were visible in the left background of the scene, their distance from the fixed camera position putting their conversation out of audio range. It ended with Jillian turning and walking in the direction of the cottage, which was set with its rear against the bordering woodland on the opposite side of the lawn, and Ashton heading back toward the Luntzes with a troubled frown.

When Carol Luntz saw Ashton approaching, she downed her margarita in a couple of fast swallows. Her husband reacted to this with an inaudible word hissed through clenched teeth. (Gurney glanced down at the audio transcript, but it offered no interpretation.)

Switching expressions as Ashton rejoined them, the chief asked, “So, Scott, everything okay? Everything fine?”

“I hope so,” said Ashton. “I mean, I wish Jillian would just…” He shook his head, his voice trailing off.

“Oh, God,” exclaimed Carol Luntz, rather too hopefully, “there’s nothing wrong, is there?”

Ashton shook his head. “Jillian wants Hector to join us for the wedding toast. He told us earlier he doesn’t want to, and… well, that’s about it.” He smiled awkwardly, gazing down at the grass.

“What’s his problem, anyway?” asked Carol, leaning in toward Ashton.

Hardwick pushed “pause,” freezing Carol in a conspiratorial pose. He turned to Gurney with the fire of a man sharing a revelation. “This bitch is one of those bitches that gets off on trouble, wants to savor every detail, pretends she’s bursting with empathy. Cries for your pain and hopes you die so she can cry harder and show the world how much she cares.”

Gurney sensed truth in the diagnosis but found Hardwick’s excess hard to take. “What’s next?” he asked, turning impatiently toward the screen.

“Relax. It gets better.” Hardwick pushed “play,” reanimating the exchange between Carol Luntz and Scott Ashton.

Ashton was saying, “It’s all rather silly; I don’t want to bore you with it.”

“But what’s wrong with that man?” Carol persisted, turning wrong into a wail.

Ashton shrugged, looked too exhausted to keep the matter private any longer. “Hector has a negative attitude toward Jillian. Jillian, on the other hand, is determined to solve whatever undefined issue has come between them. For that reason she insisted that I invite him to our reception, which I attempted to do on two occasions-a week ago and again this morning. On both occasions he declined. Just a moment ago Jillian called me over to inform me that she intends to pry him out of his little cottage over there for the wedding toast. In my opinion it’s a waste of time, and I told her so.”

“Why would she want to bother with… with … him ?” She stumbled at the end, as though grabbing for a nasty epithet and finding none within reach.

“Good question, Carol, but not one I can answer.”

His comment was followed by a cut to the view from another camera, a camera positioned to cover a quadrant of the property that included the cottage, the rose garden, and half of the main house. Jillian, the picture-book bride, was knocking on the cottage door.

Again Hardwick stopped the video, causing the three figures to break down into a mosaic pattern on the screen. “All right,” he said. “Here we are. Starting now. The critical fourteen minutes. The fourteen minutes during which Hector Flores kills Jillian Perry Ashton. The fourteen minutes during which he cuts her head off with a machete, slips out the back window, and escapes without a trace. Those fourteen minutes start when she steps inside and closes the door.”

Hardwick released the “pause” button, and the action resumed. Jillian opened the cottage door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her.

“That’s it,” said Hardwick, pointing at the screen, “the last sight of her alive.”

The camera remained on the cottage while Gurney imagined the murder about to occur behind the floral-curtained windows.