Girl Under Water: An absolutely unputdownable and gripping crime thriller

by L. T. Vargus

  Brandon even looked a bit like Wesley, though he was younger. Her age, maybe a few years older. But his hair was darker than Wesley’s, and he was more relaxed. A touch of slouch in his posture. Then there was the blooming beard. She tried to picture Wesley with facial hair. Couldn’t be done. It was much too “common,” as Gloria would probably put it.

  “What did Wesley mean before, when he made the comment about gambling your father’s money away?”

  Brandon ran his fingers through his hair and groaned softly.

  “Pure exaggeration. Dad lent me some money when I was in college. I thought I’d try my hand at playing the market, you know. Walk in the old man’s footsteps. It didn’t pan out though. So I used the rest of the cash as my bankroll. Got into playing poker. Wes still acts like I’m some Vegas tourist, pissing away my paycheck on the weekends. He refuses to accept that this is how I make a living.”

  “You’re a professional poker player?”

  Brandon cocked his head to one side.

  “I prefer to think of myself as not having a profession. But gambling is what pays the bills, so… yes. Technically it is my job. I do some sports betting as well, but poker is my main source of income. And Wes has no respect for it. He likes to blame his own gambling for all his other troubles. The drugs, the drunk driving, the hookers. He went through a twelve-step program for it and everything. Now he acts like he’s all high and mighty because he gave up his so-called vice. Likes to talk about being ‘clean.’” Brandon put air-quotes around the word and smirked. “The thing is, he still drinks like a fish. He may not gamble anymore, but he’s far from clean. He’s a hypocrite.”

  Charlie watched him closely when she asked the next question.

  “So you haven’t borrowed money from your father anytime recently?”

  “No. It was the one time, like I said. And I paid him back.”

  His response seemed honest enough, though Charlie was careful to remind herself that she didn’t know him well. It could take some time to learn someone’s tells.

  “Well, speaking of your father’s money,” Charlie said, “do you have any idea where the bulk of it went?”

  Brandon shook his head.

  “Dad was always very tight-lipped about that stuff. Secretive even.” He crossed one leg over the other. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but I can’t stop imagining him sneaking around the property at night, burying big jars of coins and whatnot. Gold. Silver. But then I always did like pirate stories when I was a kid. The idea of buried treasure being hidden out here makes me kind of giddy even now. I mean, how great would it be if he pulled a Forrest Fenn?”

  “A what?”

  Brandon slid his sunglasses to the top of his head and leaned in.

  “Forrest Fenn was this rich antiquities dealer who hid a treasure chest in the Rocky Mountains. Filled it with a million dollars in gold and precious gemstones and then wrote a poem about it with clues to help people find it.”

  “When was this?” Charlie asked. “The 1850s?”

  “No, this wasn’t long ago at all,” Brandon said, eyes glittering with amusement. “Actually, someone found the treasure recently. Took them ten years, but they figured it out.”

  “You think your dad would really do something like that?” Charlie asked, thinking that if it took ten years to find Dutch’s hidden riches, she’d be screwed.

  “Probably not,” Brandon admitted. “But like I said, I’m a sucker for stories about buried treasure. And I can almost imagine him doing something kind of crazy like that.”

  “He certainly seemed like a larger-than-life character, your dad,” Charlie said. “I suppose his death was probably quite a shock for all of you.”

  “It really was. When Marjory called to give me the news, I thought it had to be some kind of joke. I couldn’t process it. I was at the MotorCity Casino in Detroit. Wandered the parking garage for almost half an hour, completely unable to remember where I’d parked.”

  A strange, rhythmic pattering sound in the distance interrupted their conversation, and it was a moment before Charlie could identify what it was. Hooves. Sure enough, a chestnut horse galloped by a few seconds later. The rider’s ponytail streamed behind her as she steered the animal toward the stables on the other end of the property.

  “Have you spoken to Dara yet?” Brandon asked, gesturing toward the girl on horseback.

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s her on the Arabian.” Brandon took a swig of beer. “You know the animals here are worth somewhere in the ballpark of half a million dollars collectively? Dad paid over sixty grand for one of the stallions. Can you imagine? Buying a horse that costs as much as a luxury car? I mean, they’re spectacular animals, but I don’t have to shovel shit after I park my BMW.”

  “You don’t think he had some sort of emotional bond with them?” Charlie asked.

  Brandon snorted.

  “Sorry. If you knew my dad, you’d know how hilarious that sounds. He was not a particularly sentimental man.” He lowered his sunglasses and rested his head on the back of the lounger. “We had a dog growing up. Molly. An Irish retriever. She was sweet and smart and impeccably trained. He referred to her exclusively as ‘that damn dog.’ Never once called her by her name that I can remember. I don’t recall ever seeing him pet her. She was the equivalent of a footstool that left hair and puddles of drool around the house.”

  An image of Dutch Carmichael was beginning to solidify in Charlie’s mind. Something beyond the staged portraits and fluffy news features. He’d been a stern man. A pragmatist. Perhaps one more interested in increasing his fortunes than bonding with his family.

  “As to your original question, about where Dad’s money might have gone? I don’t know if you’ve done much research on his company, but he built Carmichael Investments into one of the largest hedge funds in the state. It currently manages over eight billion in assets. He had to be pulling fifty million a year, easy, before his retirement. So the one thing I’m sure of is that there’s money somewhere, and a lot of it.”

  Charlie tapped her pen against her notepad.

  “What about his charity? The Lamark Foundation?”

  “You’d have to ask Marjory about that. The foundation is really her domain.”

  Charlie made a quick note of that.

  “One last question, and then I’ll leave you to the very important work you’re doing here, poolside.”

  Brandon grinned.

  “Shoot.”

  “I witnessed an interesting exchange between your brothers earlier. It was more of an argument really.”

  “Oh yeah,” Brandon said, smiling and brushing some imaginary bit of something from his well-toned abs. “They fight all the time. Did Jude throw anything?”

  “Yes, actually. A glass tumbler.”

  Brandon laughed.

  “Classic Jude. So melodramatic. He’s like a toddler sometimes, I swear to God. Quite the temper on that one, and Wes knows exactly how to push his buttons.”

  “Well, after Jude stormed off, Wesley said something along the lines of ‘if Jude had even an inkling of the truth.’” Charlie raised her eyebrows. “Any idea what he meant by that?”

  Brandon’s jovial expression faded.

  “Look. There’s something Jude doesn’t know. Something he can never know. For his own sake.”

  “What is it?”

  “Jude isn’t—” Brandon stopped short, and Charlie waited for him to go on.

  “Isn’t what?” she asked, when he didn’t.

  Hand over his mouth, Brandon shook his head.

  “I can’t. It’s not my place. But trust me when I say it has absolutely no relation to what happened to my dad. It’s… ancient history.”

  “Must be pretty serious if he won’t spill the beans,” Allie whispered.

  Charlie considered this. Brandon had been fairly open and seemingly honest throughout the interview, in her estimation, so the sudden hesitation did come as a bit of a surprise. She supposed
she could respect the instinct to protect the family secrets. On the other hand, she wondered at his ability to judge whether or not it had any bearing on his father’s murder. He was far too close to be impartial, and Charlie preferred to make those assessments herself. But it wouldn’t do any good to badger him about it. Better to find another way to sniff the secret out.

  “Thanks for your time, Brandon. I appreciate it.” Charlie closed her notebook and slid it into her bag. “Do you think Dara would be up for talking with me?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’d walk you over to the stables and do the whole introduction thing, but the path is gravel, and, well…” Brandon lifted his bare feet and wiggled his toes.

  “That’s alright,” Charlie said, getting to her feet. “I’m sure she doesn’t bite.”

  “Not unless you insult the horses. Then she might.” He raised the sunglasses again to look at her. “So that’s really it? We’re done?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That was rather painless.” Brandon frowned, almost looking disappointed. “In the movies, the private eye always has to slap the witnesses around some to get them to cooperate.”

  Charlie shrugged.

  “Next time, don’t be so cooperative.”

  Chuckling, Brandon put out a hand.

  “It was a pleasure. Really,” he said.

  When they shook this time, he hesitated a moment before releasing his grip.

  “And if you need anything else, you can call me. Anytime.”

  With a nod, Charlie said, “I will.”

  NINE

  Gravel crunched under Charlie’s feet as she approached the stables. She got a whiff of barn smell as she closed on the building—the sweet, grassy fragrance of hay, the muskiness of animals, and just a hint of horse shit.

  Stepping through the doorway, she’d expected the odor of manure to be almost overpowering inside, but the door at the opposite end of the stable was open, allowing a light breeze to keep the air circulating and fresh. The floors were concrete and immaculate, not so much as a stray piece of hay.

  “Jesus, Charlie. This barn is cleaner than your apartment,” Allie said.

  Charlie spotted Dara at the far end of the space shoveling some kind of grain into a metal pail. She was dressed for riding in a navy blue polo shirt, black leather boots, and beige breeches with reinforced panels at the knees.

  “Dara?”

  Hoisting the pail, the woman turned and blinked at her.

  “My name is Charlie Winters,” she said, extending a hand. “I don’t know if Gloria’s spoken to you about any of this, but she’s hired me to look into your father’s estate.”

  Dara stared at Charlie’s hand for a few seconds before releasing her grip on the pail’s handle. Her handshake was flimsy and awkward, quite the opposite of the firm grip displayed by her siblings. Her eyelids fluttered, and she didn’t make eye contact.

  Charlie pressed on.

  “Could I ask you a few questions?”

  Dara’s brow twitched in what Charlie interpreted as a gesture in the affirmative, but before she could get her first question out, Dara had whisked past her with the pail of horse feed.

  Charlie blinked then hurried after her. She caught up in front of a stall occupied by a palomino mare with a white diamond in the center of its forehead. Dara dumped some of the feed into a plastic bin anchored to the edge of the stall.

  “You’re the youngest, is that right?”

  “No.” Dara grabbed a coiled hose from a wall mount and filled the horse’s water bucket. “Jude is the youngest.”

  “I see.”

  Charlie was starting to think she’d done something to offend Dara, though she wasn’t certain. She’d interviewed hostile people before, and they were usually more than willing to talk—they were just nasty about it. This girl, by comparison, simply seemed disinterested.

  Dara entered the stall and murmured something Charlie couldn’t make out. She was about to ask Dara to repeat herself when she realized she was talking to the horse.

  “Pretty girl,” she said. “I know you’re grumpy because I didn’t take you out today, but it was Gerdie’s turn. You get to go tomorrow.”

  She went over the horse’s neck and chest with a wide wooden brush. There was a warmth in her tone. A confidence in her movements.

  Charlie was still trying to decide how to get anything from Dara when the horse stretched out its neck and snuffled at Charlie’s arm.

  She remembered visiting a farm once as a kid and being taught to hold her hand out flat, fingers together, when giving a horse a treat. She did that now, extending her flattened hand so the horse could smell her. The quivering nostrils moved closer. The wet, fuzzy mouth nuzzled her flesh, and then the lips curled back and the horse snorted loudly into Charlie’s hand.

  Charlie laughed.

  “Hester, you old greedyguts.” Dara turned to Charlie, smiling for the first time. “She’s mad because there’s no treat.”

  She reached into her back pocket, pulled out a small brown nugget that looked like a dog biscuit.

  “Here,” she said, handing it to Charlie. “These are her favorite.”

  Charlie set the treat in her palm and presented it to the horse. The velvety snout returned in search of the prize. The lips parted and the treat disappeared into the horse’s toothy maw.

  Charlie thought she knew how to get Dara talking now.

  “I remember the first time I got to pet a horse when I was little. It was so strange to be that close to something so huge. And then they’re so gentle. It was magical. I didn’t think it would be the same now that I’m grown, but it is.” Charlie stroked between Hester’s eyes with her fingertips. “They’re incredible creatures.”

  “Aren’t they?” Dara agreed, running her fingers through Hester’s mane. “And they’re so loyal, too. Much more than people.”

  “Do you come here to ride often?”

  “Oh, almost every day. Even on the days I can’t ride, I usually come to feed them. I think they need that. That human connection. They get upset if I don’t. I can sense it. They’re always a little more standoffish if I miss a day. Like when a child pouts.”

  Charlie nodded, trying to find a way to steer the conversation toward Dutch.

  “And what about your father? Did you two ever take rides together?”

  Dara’s head swiveled from side to side.

  “No. He hasn’t ridden since he broke his hip a few years back.” She stooped and began to pick out clods of compacted straw and dirt from Hester’s hooves with a special tool. “But even before that, it was different for him. He doesn’t see them as unique individuals the way I do. As friends. They’ve always been more like objects to him. ‘An investment’ is what he always calls them. And investments are made to be bought and sold. That’s what he says anyway.”

  Charlie noticed Dara’s continued use of present tense. Hasn’t ridden. Doesn’t see them. As if Dutch were still alive.

  “And had he?” Charlie asked. “Sold any of the horses, I mean.”

  Dara dropped the hoof she’d been cleaning and moved around to the other side of the animal.

  “I won’t allow it. But he likes bringing it up. Maybe because it upsets me.” She unscrewed the lid of a plastic container and began painting the waxy goop inside onto Hester’s hooves.

  “That was the last thing we talked about. Argued about, really. A few days before he died. It was probably the only time I ever won a debate against him.”

  “Won?” Charlie said. “How so?”

  “Well, he’s dead, isn’t he? He can’t sell the horses now.”

  Charlie thought most people would be hesitant to bring up an argument they’d had with a murder victim only days before their demise in such a context. But then Dara had a certain innocence about her. A naiveté that made her seem much younger than she really was.

  Charlie wondered if there was a way she might leverage that guileless nature.

  “What do you think
of the whole thing with Jude?” she asked, careful to keep her tone casual.

  Dara blinked.

  “What thing with Jude?”

  “You know,” Charlie said, leaning in as if they were conspiring together. “The big secret.”

  “Jude has a secret?” Dara asked, then lowered her voice. “It’s not some kind of weird sex thing, is it?”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow.

  “What makes you say that?”

  Dara’s cheeks suddenly went bright pink, and she chewed her bottom lip.

  “Well, one time, when we were in high school, I found some really disgusting pornography in his room.”

  “Like what?”

  Dara leaned in, whispering.

  “A Playboy.”

  Allie snorted.

  “Playboy? I was expecting something raunchy. Playboy barely even shows cooter!”

  Charlie wasn’t exactly a connoisseur of dirty magazines, but she had to agree that Playboy seemed the tamest of the bunch.

  “No, I don’t think that’s it,” Charlie said, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice.

  “Well then, what is it?” Dara asked. “What’s the big secret?”

  Charlie waved her hand in the air.

  “You know, I think I probably just misunderstood something Wesley said earlier. Forget it.”

  Dara seemed only too eager to get back to grooming the horses when Charlie thanked her for her time.

  “You’re not really going to let this Jude mystery go, are you?” Allie asked as Charlie exited the barn. “Don’t leave me hanging like that. You know I love digging up a juicy family secret.”

  “Of course I’m not letting it go,” Charlie said. “Dara obviously doesn’t know what it is, and I don’t want her getting curious and poking around on her own.”

  Allie clicked her tongue.

  “Smart. Better to blindside ’em.”

  That gave Charlie an idea, and she nodded.

  “And who better to blindside than the man himself?”