The Pact by Jennifer Sturman

night. Almost unconsciously, I started putting together a mental chronology of the early morning’s events.
    “Did the other guys go to bed when you did?” I asked.
    “No,” Sean said with another shake of his head. “I was the first to go. Jane and I were going to take advantage of being up in the country to take a long run before all of the wedding action began.” Some people, myself included, exercised for normal reasons like wanting to look cute in one’s clothes. Jane and Sean, however, actually thought exercise was fun. I’d always prided myself on being able to stay friends with people who enjoyed marathons but didn’t find them sufficiently challenging.
    “Still,” Sean went on, “everybody was getting tired. I don’t think they lasted that much longer.” Especially not Richard, I couldn’t help but think with morbid humor.
    “So, let me get this straight,” I summarized, “you all were drinking by the pool while we were out on the dock, you then came in before two, we all came in around two, and you’re not quite sure when the rest of the guys went to bed but you think it was pretty soon after that.” That meant that whatever happened took place sometime between two and six, which was a big window for foul play.
    He gave me a quizzical look and then grinned again, more fully this time. “What’s going on, here, Rach? You thinking of tossing in your banking gig to become a private investigator?”
    I gave him a sheepish smile. “I don’t know. Do you think I’d be any good?”
    “Good or not, I don’t think it pays enough to keep you in the style you’d like. You might want to stick with Wall Street.”
    “Thanks for the tip,” I said.
    “Any time. Now, assuming you have no more questions, Madame Detective, I’m going to go make myself useful.”
    “That’s Mademoiselle, to you. And you’re dismissed.” He gave me a mock salute and I waved him out the door.

CHAPTER 8
    I found my friends upstairs in Mrs. Furlong’s sitting room, where the air seemed infused with palpable relief. Or perhaps I was just projecting my own emotions. Mrs. Furlong was bent over her desk, sorting though piles of papers, while everyone else looked on expectantly, still dressed as they’d been when we’d discovered Richard’s body.
    “Hi,” I said to announce my presence.
    Mrs. Furlong looked up at me, a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses perched on her nose. Her usual air of gracious composure appeared to be firmly back in place, as if the woman who’d emitted the bloodcurdling shriek at the pool had been someone entirely different. I wondered if she’d learned how to deal with situations like this one in finishing school along with French and needlepoint.
    “Hello, Rachel, dear,” she said. “The girls and I realized that it’s going to be a scramble to cancel all of the arrangements for this afternoon. I’m trying to get everything together so that we can get on the phone and start calling the various tradespeople and the guests. It’s nearly eight, and I think it would be all right to start making calls around eight-thirty or so.”
    “Where’s Emma?” I asked. “How is she doing?”
    “This is such a shock for her, poor thing,” said Mrs. Furlong. “We gave her a sedative and put her to bed in my room. It seemed like the best thing to do.”
    “I just checked on her again and she’s asleep,” added Jane. “It’s probably better this way than making her deal with everything right away.”
    “Wow,” I said, at a loss for any but the most banal words. “I can’t imagine what she must be feeling right now.”
    Hilary rolled her eyes. She was standing behind Mrs. Furlong and safely out of her line of sight. Fortunately, she omitted the snort that usually accompanied this familiar expression of impatient disgust.
    “What did the police say?” asked Luisa, flashing Hilary a warning glance.
    “Nothing much. They’re still looking around by the pool. But they’re going to