“And it’s not an unusual convention in mystery stories,” Todd said. “Patricia Highsmith does something similar inThe Talented Mr. Ripley.”
Bernadette dug her heels into the pile of the rug. “But the protagonist in that book doesn’t actually encounter family members. Not under his assumed identity anyway. I just think family would know their own.”
Pete leaned back in his chair. “Never underestimate the gullibility of the average joe.”
Bernadette cut Pete a sidelong glance. “You’re saying you think most people would be fooled by someone impersonating a supposedly long-dead family member?”
“If years had passed, yes. Especially if the person was a child when they disappeared. People can change dramatically as they age.” Pete glanced at Sandy, who was studying her manicure as if the chipped polish on her nails held some secret clue. “And not just their appearance.”
“That is true,” Ophelia replied. “Believe it or not, I used to be dreadfully shy.”
“But that’s just growing and maturing,” Todd said. “Other characteristics, like vocal or physical mannerisms, don’t change much. At least I don’t think so.”
Scott shifted in his chair. “Tey did ensure that Brat was schooled by someone who knew the family well. He didn’t just show up and try to pass himself off to the family without possessing all the pertinent information.”
“Yes, she handled that well. Otherwise, I think the story would’ve seemed preposterous.” Sandy looked up and met Scott’s gaze. “The way Tey handled it, I could suspend my disbelief.”
Bernadette narrowed her eyes. “I still say it wouldn’t work. The family should’ve questioned Brat more, in my opinion. That would’ve seemed more realistic to me.”
Kelly Rowley, who’d kept her head bowed over her tightly clasped hands ever since I entered the room, murmured, “You’d be surprised what people will accept as the truth, if they really want to believe it.”
I turned to her. “You mean the family accepted Brat’s story primarily because they wanted it to be true?”
Kelly lifted her head, shoving her hair behind her ears. “Of course. Wouldn’t you, if your beloved nephew or brother had come back from the dead? You’d desperately want to believe, so you’d overlook the red flags and convince yourself that the impostor was telling the truth.”
Scott, leaning forward, templed his fingers before addressing Kelly. “Good point, Ms. Rowley. It adds an interesting psychological dynamic to the story, don’t you think?”
“Please call me Kelly, and yes, I suppose it does.”
I noticed the deep lines bracketing Kelly’s mouth. She was distressed, but then, so were all the others, despite their attempts to appear calm. A surreptitious glance around the room revealed that Sandy was twisting the hem of her T-shirt between her fingers, Pete was repeatedly tapping his foot against the rug, and Bernadette had rolled her notes into a baton she gripped like a weapon. Meanwhile, Ophelia gnawed on her pinkie nail every few seconds. As for Julie—she cradled her now-empty wineglass between her hands so tightly that I feared it would crack.
She sure sucked that down fast, I thought, as Julie leapt to her feet and stalked over to the draped desk to pour another glass.But of course they’re all tense, like me. Sitting in a room with a possible murderer will do that to a person.
And the killer is probably doubly afraid, fearing detection.I glanced over at Todd Rowley, who appeared calm. But only if I ignored the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped his chair arms.
“You mean if Brat had been trying to fool people who weren’t emotionally invested in his story being true, it would’ve been a lot harder?” Sandy asked, before unclenching her fingers and smoothing out the bottom of her T-shirt.
“Well, sure.” Scott sat back and stretched out his long legs. “As Kelly observed, the family wanted to believe, so they were more receptive to lies.”
As I side-eyed him, I registered the rigidity of his normally mobile face.Even he might be a murderer.I hated the thought, especially since I still had hopes that his interest in Julie might offer her a better boyfriend option than Lincoln Delamont, married or not.
Or perhaps, like the family inBrat Farrar, I was just seeing what I wanted to see. Desperately hoping to prove that Julie was not the killer, I was probably looking at all the other guests with more suspicion than necessary. I absently ran my fingers through my hair, spiking it before smoothing it down again when I realized what I was doing. “Lies and deception are at the core of most mystery novels, aren’t they? Interesting how they get handled by different authors. Tey seems to want to make Brat likable, despite his deception. In her case, I think it works, don’t you?”
“Oh, definitely,” Ophelia jutted out her chin.
I suppressed a nervous giggle. With her long neck and slightly beaky nose, she looked like an ostrich.
“Maybe that says something more about the readers than the characters. I mean, most people root for Ripley in the Highsmith books, and he’s a sociopath. Or psychopath.” Pete shrugged. “I always get those mixed up.”
“But a clever one,” Scott observed dryly. “I think that’s part of the attraction to that type of character—someone can be despicable, but if they’re clever enough, and implement intricate plans that entertain us, we forgive them, and maybe even cheer them on.”
Todd unclenched his hands and glanced around the room. “Confess it, we all feel that way. I think it’s our strange attraction to morally gray characters. Perhaps because they are more psychologically compelling than someone who is simply good or evil?”
I nodded. “Ruth Rendell was a master at creating that sort of character. Flawed, yet fascinating.”
“Didn’t she also write under a pen name?” Sandy asked. “I think we read one of her novels for book club a while back, but it was under a different name.”
“Barbara Vine,” Todd said, with a glance at his wife. “One of Kelly’s favorites, isn’t she, dear?”
