The Pact by Jennifer Sturman Page A

want to talk to everyone. Matthew’s helping to arrange everything.”
    “Where’s Jacob?” Mrs. Furlong’s voice took on a sharp edge, and behind her glasses her eyes seemed unusually bright.
    “Um, I think he went back to his studio.”
    “You’re kidding.” Her tone was flat, but her expression had hardened.
    “Uh, no,” I answered.
    She swore under her breath and her hands gripped the edge of her desk, their knuckles white. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. That bastard. We have a body in the backyard and all he can do is…” She didn’t finish her sentence, and her words met our embarrassed silence. I had the slightly guilty sense of seeing something I shouldn’t have seen. Never before had Mrs. Furlong deviated in any way from her usual flawless decorum in my presence, but this morning, in the space of a few short hours, I’d seen more emotions, including shock and fury, than I’d seen in all of the years I’d known her.
    She recovered herself after a moment, embarrassed as well. She slowly straightened up, removed her glasses, and carefully put them back in a leather case.
    She handed a neat pile of folders to Jane. “All of the information is here, Jane,” she said, her voice back to normal. “The caterers, the florists, the band, the minister, the guests—all of the details and contact information should be in these files. You all should just try to reach whomever you can. You can use the phone in Jacob’s study down the hall and the one in the third-floor den. You know where it is, don’t you? Perhaps you could all split up and—what is it that you business people say, Rachel? Parallel process, right? We had a new phone system put in a few months ago—it’s all very high tech. There are three lines, but we should probably keep one free for the police. So two of you can use the land lines. And if any of you have your cell phones, sometimes you can get them to work up here. The reception’s not great, but it will do in a pinch.”
    We promised her we’d take care of everything and she thanked us politely for our help. Then she smoothed a hand over her hair and pulled her white terry robe around her a bit more tightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should check on Emma and get dressed.”
    “Of course,” said Jane. We all moved toward the door.
    In the hallway we agreed to go back to our rooms to change clothes and then to meet in Mr. Furlong’s study to divvy up the call lists. I hurried to Emma’s room and took a quick shower. Between my hangover, the smell of Luisa’s cigarette smoke in my hair and the scene this morning, I felt more than a little grimy. I lingered a few extra minutes under the stream of water, lathering my hair with a liberal dose of Emma’s favorite shampoo and rinsing with her favorite conditioner. I reluctantly shut off the water and wrapped myself in a towel, then searched my suitcase for something appropriate to wear.
    I had packed for a wedding weekend, not for finding a groom’s body, undoing the logistics for a wedding and being questioned by the police. Somehow, the strappy sundress I’d intended for the bridesmaids’ lunch seemed a little inappropriate given the change of events, but I put it on since my only other alternatives were the shorts I’d been wearing, an ancient pair of Levi’s 501s, or a seafoam-green bridesmaid’s dress. I ran a comb through my wet hair and pulled it into a hasty knot. Then I slipped on some sandals and was almost out the door before I remembered the rumpled beds—if we were quarantined, it was unlikely that any of the household help would be allowed in to make beds or care for any other domestic details, and I knew enough about being a houseguest to realize that leaving the beds unmade would be a faux pas. I did a haphazard job of smoothing the duvets and plumping the pillows before heading toward Mr. Furlong’s study, clean if not fortified.
    I thought for sure that I’d be the last person to