by L. T. Vargus
“How many bedrooms in the house?” Charlie asked.
“Ten bedrooms, twelve bathrooms,” Wesley answered. “Including the basement, the house is a smidge under ten thousand square feet.”
“Damn. Lot of toilets to clean,” Allie said.
Charlie was starting to get a sense of why Gloria had hired her. Itemizing this huge of an estate was going to be a massive undertaking, let alone trying to work the murder angle.
Dutch’s suite occupied the west wing of the second floor. They passed a four-poster mahogany bed and entered the study. Books lined floor-to-ceiling shelves, complete with a library ladder to reach the volumes at the very top. It smelled like wood and leather, and the rug underfoot felt like walking on a cloud. There was a large antique safe in the corner, its door hanging open.
The tiger maple desk was free of clutter, which made it seem unused. Like a showpiece in a museum.
Charlie pointed at one of the drawers.
“May I?”
Wesley shrugged.
“I figure that’s what Gloria hired you for.”
She slid the top drawer open and found a collection of fancy-looking pens, a box of paper clips, and a sterling-silver letter opener. Charlie checked the other drawers and discovered nothing of note. She hadn’t expected anything to turn up someplace so obvious, but she still found herself disappointed.
“Gloria mentioned that your father’s computer seems to have gone missing.”
“I heard that, yes.”
“If you had to guess, who do you think might have taken it?”
“Oh, I’m not sure anyone did. I think it’s equally likely—perhaps even more so—that he has some secret hiding spot for it.”
“Any idea where that secret hiding spot might be?”
“No. And I’m not sure it’d do us much good even if we had it.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, my dad was a nut about privacy. You’ll notice there are no cameras in the house? My sister, Marjory, lives just up the road. They had a break-in a while back. The intruder trashed her husband’s office and stole an extremely valuable coin collection. They installed a state-of-the-art home security system after that and tried to convince Dad to do the same thing, given he was so close and was a much more prominent figure. But he was adamantly opposed to the idea. Said he didn’t need eyes watching him in his own damn house. Anyway, I’ve gotten off track. My point was really that he had the computer on lockdown anytime he was away from it. Password-protected. I sincerely doubt we’d be able to get into it even if we had it.”
A phone trilled, and Wesley slid a hand into his suit jacket. He glanced at the screen and then held it in the air.
“Would you mind if I take this?”
“Sure,” Charlie said. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” He tapped the screen and brought the phone to his ear. “Wesley Carmichael.”
His voice receded as he exited the study, and Charlie turned around to face the empty office again. She went back to the desk, doing a more thorough job this time of searching the drawers. Moving things aside and checking for hidden compartments. When she satisfied her curiosity there, she moved to the bookshelves. The bottom half of the units on the back wall were cabinets which revealed a set of office appliances—printer, scanner, even an ancient fax machine. Charlie closed the doors and focused on the books themselves. Pulling out an atlas here and a legal reference there, riffling through the pages. Tugging at a few random volumes of a large world almanac collection.
“You’re yanking on those almanacs like you think one of them might open a secret passageway,” Allie said.
“I’m being thorough.”
Allie laughed.
“Oh my God. I was joking, but you really are, aren’t you? This isn’t Clue, you know.”
After sifting through the office and finding nothing, Charlie slipped into the bedroom, checking for signs of Wesley in the hallway. It was deserted. Might as well have a quick peek at the old man’s bedroom while she was here.
She slid open the drawers of the matching nightstands, peered into the wardrobe, squatted down and looked under the bed. She didn’t figure anyone would have a problem with her searching in here, but poking through bedrooms always made her feel like she was violating something. Even the most spartan bedroom was an intimate space. Someone’s sanctuary.
Finding nothing, she went back out into the hallway, listening for Wesley. The quiet in the corridor made her uncomfortable, the odd charm of the Carmichael house veering back toward that unsettling murder scene she’d walked into downstairs, all the extravagant features turning sinister and strange, the air seeming to thicken around her. Goosebumps plumped on her arms as she walked through it.
She hurried down the staircase to the main floor, trying to will her heart into slowing. The light refracted through the crystals of the chandelier, a cold glow that decorated the floor with shimmering spikes.
At the bottom of the steps, she finally heard Wesley’s muffled voice coming from behind the dining room door. She moved closer to it until his words came clear.
“No, of course I didn’t tell her. I’m not an idiot.” Wesley sighed. “Regardless, I think she knew what I was up to. And I’m not exactly alone, if you catch my meaning.”
There was a brief pause, and then Wesley’s voice went lower. Charlie leaned in and closed her eyes, as if it might help her hear better.
“I can try, but…”
Charlie held her breath, straining to make out the words.
“OK. I’ll have to wait for a moment when no one else is around, but I’ll call you when it’s done.”
Footsteps approached. Wesley was heading for the door.
Charlie dashed away, scrambling up the first few steps of the staircase, then turning back so it would appear as if she were just now coming down.
Wesley was still glaring down at the phone in his hand when he strode out from the dining room, brow furrowed. He caught sight of her on the stairway.
“Find what you were looking for?”
“What I was looking for?” Charlie asked. Had he heard her lurking outside the door?
“In my dad’s office,” he said, going on with a dry smile, “No smoking guns?”
“Oh,” Charlie chuckled. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Well, I suppose you ought to see the basement. I doubt there’s much of importance down there, but I figure I might as well give the full tour. Leave no stone unturned and all that,” he said with a wink.
SIX
When Wesley hit the bottom step, automatic lights flicked on, illuminating the basement. There was a full bar with swivel stools at one end and a rec room area at the other, complete with a pool table, air hockey, and two bowling lanes.
“No ping-pong?” Allie said. “This place is a joke.”
Charlie followed Wesley down a hall, where he pointed out the indoor sauna and a home cinema with a digital projector and theater seating.
“I’m assuming Gloria already asked if you know where your father kept his will,” Charlie said as they walked.
Wesley sighed.
“Yes, well, I have my doubts about that as well, to be honest. He was a practical man in many ways, and in others, not so much.”
“Meaning?”
He paused, thinking. She remembered him making the same face during his senatorial career when a reporter asked a hardball question. A philosophical look, something he must have practiced but which came off as natural.
“This is going to sound strange, but… I don’t think my father believed he would die.”
Charlie shrugged. “Death catches many people unaware, I think.”
“That’s true, but I mean it quite literally. The concept of a will was brought up a few times over the years, in an offhand way. He always brushed it off. One time, when I was much younger, I even recall him saying something along the lines of, ‘What do I need a will for?’”
“Could he have meant that as a joke
?”
“I thought so at the time. But now…”
They’d finished their circuit of the basement, returning to the large room near the stairs with the bar and bowling alley. Wesley moved behind the bar, grabbed a crystal decanter by its thin neck and poured himself a generous serving of Scotch.
“Can I fix you a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“It’s not even noon,” Allie said. “Dude knows how to party.”
“What I think now is that Dad thought of himself as, well… immortal. I’ve encountered it a few times with other very wealthy, very successful men. It’s almost as if they believe their money and power protect them. And they do, from a great many things. They grow so accustomed to that protective bubble, though, that they start to believe it applies to all things. Even life and death. The world so rarely said ‘no’ to my dad—I think he thought it would keep on going that way.”
Watching him guzzle down the Scotch in two swallows, Charlie thought again of the tawdry headlines. The unflattering mugshot. Those purple pouches of flesh sagging beneath Wesley’s bloodshot eyes.
“You sure you don’t want a drink?” he asked, snapping her out of the montage of memories.
“Tell him you’re all set since you finished off that pint of Jack on the drive over,” Allie said.
Instead, Charlie said, “I’m good.”
Wesley nodded, unperturbed, and poured himself another.
“What can you tell me about Vivien Marley?”
Wesley smirked.
“Ah, yes, the mistress. I know Gloria and Marjory tend to see her as an evil-minded gold digger, but she strikes me as fairly benign. The way I see it, she’s no more than a run-of-the-mill trophy wife. They’re a dime a dozen in our circle. The only difference is that Vivien didn’t actually get a ring out of the deal. I think that’s where the distrust comes from ultimately. Gloria’s too pragmatic and Marjory’s too shallow to understand that there’s a very real possibility that Vivien was with Dad out of love.”
Wesley smiled again. Charlie wanted to dislike him after overhearing his phone call, but she couldn’t quite pull it off. Despite that and the messy history of his political career, she couldn’t help but find him charming.
Polishing off the last of his drink, he slammed the glass on the bar. Then he dabbed his fingers at his chin as if he was about to say something.
But then a strident voice cut through from the bottom of the basement stairway, startling Charlie. Loud. Obnoxious.
“Day-drinking again, Wes? Shocker of the decade.”
Charlie turned.
The approaching man was in his early thirties, and he looked much like every other middle-aged hipster she’d ever met. Square-framed glasses. Black jeans cut so slim they looked painted on. A short-sleeved chambray shirt unbuttoned just far enough to reveal the topmost edge of a large chest tattoo. Even suspenders.
Wesley’s jaw tightened.
“What do you want, Jude?”
So this was Jude. The youngest of the Carmichael brood.
He marched over to where Wesley stood behind the bar and stuck his finger in his brother’s face.
“I know you told Gloria it was me who took the Picasso. That’s a lie, and you know it. If you keep slandering me, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
Wesley snorted.
“Good God, Jude. Is that really supposed to frighten me?”
Without another word, Jude picked up the empty tumbler and threw it, narrowly missing Wesley’s head. The crash of the glass shattering against the wall made Charlie flinch.
“Stop lying about me!” Jude shouted before turning on his heel and storming away.
When he’d gone from the basement, Wesley sighed.
“The irony is, if Jude had even an inkling of the truth…”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, nothing. A petty family squabble.” Wesley’s grimace transformed suddenly into his best senatorial smile. “I haven’t shown you the pool yet, have I?”
“Lead the way,” Charlie said, though she didn’t think his comment about Jude had been nothing.
If Jude had even an inkling of the truth.
Wesley was hiding something, and she wouldn’t be in any hurry to forget about that.
SEVEN
Wesley led the way through a set of French doors onto a patio, warmth from the morning sun radiating up from the flagstones underfoot and coiling around Charlie’s ankles. Off to the left, an infinity pool hovered over a hillside view, and Charlie’s eyes snapped to the figure bobbing atop the water.
“Ah, yes,” Wesley said, gesturing that way. “Witness my brother Brandon in his natural habitat.”
Brandon Carmichael floated in a pool chair, sunglasses on, a Budweiser tallboy in a beer floatie next to him. Naked, tanned flesh stretched over his muscles and a pair of tight swimming trunks clung to a small portion of his lean body.
“Holy beefcake alert. He’s like a Greek god,” Allie said. “Charlie, after giving this a lot of thought, I think you should throw yourself at him. Hold nothing back.”
“We all mourn in different ways,” Wesley said, still addressing Charlie. “Brandon grieves his father by getting drunk in the pool like some kind of beach bum.”
He turned toward Brandon, lifting his voice.
“Are you allergic to shirts now, Bran? I don’t think I’ve seen you wear one since the funeral.”
Brandon said nothing. He just floated there, motionless. After a beat, Wesley went on.
“How does that work? You try to put one on and your body just rejects it? Sheds it or something, like you’re molting?”
Brandon still didn’t respond, didn’t move at all, his chair slowly rotating in the water like a dead leaf.
“Is he honestly asleep?” Wesley muttered, and Charlie thought she could hear genuine anger creep into his voice.
He stooped beside the pool, dipped his hand into the water and flung several handfuls, spritzing Brandon in the face pretty good.
Brandon jerked awake. Instinctively, he lurched to grab his beer and cupped a hand over the top, holding it off to the side like he was protecting an infant instead of a macro brew.
“What’s your problem, man? Beverage!”
Wesley stopped splashing and stood, a carnivorous smile spreading over his face.
“You must have dozed off out here,” he said. “I imagine gambling away Father’s money can be quite draining.”
Brandon ripped off his sunglasses and glared at him. When he spoke, it came out through clenched teeth.
“You think you put on a vest and it makes you superior? Last time I checked, you haven’t been gainfully employed in over a decade, Wes. Pretending to be successful might work at the country club, but it doesn’t count for much in the real world.”
Wesley’s lips tightened, his cheeks slowly going red. He said nothing.
Then Brandon’s eyes flicked over to Charlie, and after a few confused blinks, his face brightened into a smile.
“Oh, hey! You must be Gloria’s investigator.”
He tried to paddle his chair over with one hand, the other still clutching the tall boy, but he made no progress. The chair simply turned one way and then the other. Something about the visual struck Charlie as cartoonish—the muscular man excitedly trying to paddle his way over to her, huge smile on his face, big hand flicking at the water—and she had to stifle a laugh.
After a few seconds, Brandon gave up paddling and slid off the chair and into the water. He made sure to hold his beer up over his head like the Statue of Liberty, the red-and-white can the last thing thrusting out of the water after the rest of him went under. It slowly moved her way as he walked over the bottom of the pool, and Charlie laughed again.
“Don’t you have a Phish concert you need to get to or something?” Wesley said as Brandon emerged from the water.
Brandon chuckled and shook his head, his focus still entirely on Charlie.
“I went to one Ph
ish concert—over a decade ago—and this guy brings it up about once a month. Trying to, I don’t know, rub my nose in it or something.”
Wesley grumbled something about how he’d leave her and Brandon to get acquainted and walked off, and Charlie realized that Brandon had gotten under his brother’s skin some—more successfully than Jude, anyway.
“Do you have a minute to answer a few questions?” Charlie said, refocusing on Brandon, who had now climbed out of the pool and wrapped a towel around his waist.
He took a long pull from his beer before he answered, wiped the heel of his hand across his stubbled chin. That roguish smile still beamed on his face.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
EIGHT
Brandon stretched out on the cushions of a teak lounger and dropped his beer in the cupholder built into the armrest. Charlie took the lounger next to him, perching on the side and flipping to a fresh page in her notebook.
“What do you want to know?” Brandon asked, rubbing his palms together like someone sitting down to a feast. “Hit me with it.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow.
“You seem awfully excited about this.”
“Well it’s not every day that a charismatic, young private detective wants to interrogate me.”
“Charismatic?” Allie repeated. “He’s talking about you?”
Charlie ignored that.
“It’s not really an interrogation. That’s more of a police thing.”
He waved her away.
“My point is, I used to read a lot of Dick Tracy comic books when I was a kid. This is a bit of a childhood dream come true. Though with a name like Charlie Winters, I have to admit, I was picturing an old guy in a hat and trench coat.”
“I think Gloria was, too,” Charlie said. “I suspect I was a bit of a disappointment for her.”
“That’s only because she has no imagination. Doesn’t like surprises. Me, on the other hand?” Brandon lowered his sunglasses so he could wink at her. “I love a good surprise.”
Charlie studied him, trying to decide where to start. He had a bit of Wesley’s charm, but it was less polished. Rougher around the edges. Even his handshake was similar to Wesley’s, but without the practiced, measured quality. This was Wesley without the coaching.