New England White by Stephen L. Carter Page A

off their ease.
    “I know. I expected you last night.”
    “Expected me?”
    At the curb, mourners were piling into their cars for the wailing trip to the cemetery. Mary Mallard fiddled with her scarf. “I only had time to collect one of the pieces. I need the other three.”
    “Pieces of what?”
    “The surplus.”
    Julia felt like a simpleton at the genius convention, but perhaps it was the sun. “I’m sorry. The surplus what?”
    “I’m a writer, Mrs. Carlyle. I’m a little surprised you haven’t heard of me.” From anyone else this would have been a pouty complaint, but Mary was only stating fact. Her fingers poked at the tangly hair, but it was hopeless. The jutting mouth gave her a comic look that Julia knew to be a deception. Mary Mallard was a very serious woman, whose clear, skeptical eyes knew you were lying before you did. “I do investigative reports.”
    Julia’s tired brain finally drew the name and the face from hundreds of hours of insomnia-fueled late-night talk shows. “You do those scandal books. Who really killed JFK. The plot against Martin Luther King. Things like that. Conspiracy theories.”
    “I like to take a closer look at things that the rest of the media prefers to bury, yes.”
    “I’m afraid I haven’t read any. They’re not exactly my cup of—”
    “Please don’t pull that Ivy League superiority crap.” Tone still calm, as if reporting the weather. Vanessa, over by the side of the church, was sneaking looks at her mother, obviously wishing she could listen in. “Kellen trusted me completely. So should you.”
    “What am I supposed to trust you with?”
    “Come on, Julia. The surplus. Capturing the surplus. That’s what Kellen called it.”
    “I don’t follow.”
    “He said the buyers’ utility functions were interdependent, and that was going to help him capture the surplus. He shared some of the surplus with me. He said you’d have the rest of it.”
    Julia shook her head. “This is news to me. And it isn’t even in English.”
    “Kellen had a scar on his face. About here.” Gentle fingers touched Julia’s cheek beneath the right ear. She shivered, not from the caress, but from the memory. She knew exactly where the scar was, and where it came from: her fingernails. She had been trying, with reason, to gouge Kellen’s eyes out. On television a couple of years ago, busily lying about his childhood, he had called it a souvenir from a gang war. “Just a tiny white circle. You’d hardly notice if you didn’t know it was there. But Kellen showed it to me.”
    “I see.”
    “I’m telling you so that you’ll trust me. I really was close to Kellen, Julia—may I call you Julia?—and we really did work together.”
    “If you say so.”
    “The thing is, he only gave me the photograph.” Shifting her weight, she drew a pack of cigarettes from her handbag, glanced around, then thought better of the urge. “Well, the photograph isn’t enough. It doesn’t prove anything. Kellen knew that. He said it was just a teaser. So he slept on the sofa. So what?”
    Julia wondered whether she was logier than she thought, from rising so early and driving so far, or whether the journalist really was making as little sense as she seemed to. “I’m sorry, Ms. Mallard. Mary. I’m not sure what we’re talking about here.”
    The ducklike mouth turned down. “Really? Well, that’s unfortunate.”
    “What’s unfortunate?”
    “I thought you would have the other three pieces. I’m sure Kellen said so.”
    “If you would tell me what other three pieces you mean—”
    Mary shook her head. “If you’re lying to me, that’s one thing. If you’re not—” She shrugged. “Nice meeting you anyway.”
    “But—”
    The writer had already turned away. Now she swung back. “I’m going to skip the cemetery, Julia. I’ve had as much Kellen as I can take, I think.” Bushy eyebrows drew together. “There’s just one problem. If you don’t have the other pieces of