Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money

by Linda L. Richards

  “And then … well… what was I to you — Madison or whatever the hell your name really is? — just a roll in the hay and a possible way into Langton?”

  And I started to tell him no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all, except, it was, wasn’t it? He’d hit it pretty much right on, if viewed from a certain angle. We’d shared a wonderful evening, and I’d hadn’t thought of him all day, except this morning when I was relieved to get out of his room without waking him. And, when I met him outside of Langton the day before, what had I been thinking of when I knew he was flirting with me? I’d been thinking about how to get into the building and get away from him before he asked me out. And I had been thinking about a way to use him as cover to get into the building: which I’d done. He was right. That was cold.

  “Madeline,” was the only thing I said.

  “What?”

  “My name. It’s Madeline.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Honestly. I’m sorry, Steve. Truly. It’s just… well, like I said, it’s complicated. And nothing is what it seems, I guess,” I held out my hand to him as though to someone I was meeting for the first time. “I really do like you, Steve. And I wish you’d give me the chance to explain.” It was only as I said it that I realized this was true. I did like him. He was sweet and sincere and… nice.

  He seemed to soften at my words — I could see it in his eyes — as though he wanted to believe but was still nursing his injury. “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  It surprised me when he ignored the hand and came to me, pulled me to my feet and embraced me: a big, puppyish hug. And then, through the hug, came the heat and the hug turned into a kiss — deep and long and right there on the patio, me with my head tilted way up to accommodate the extra inches his rollerblades added to his height. When he pulled back and looked down into my eyes, I realized for the first time that they were this really amazing shade of green. They were smiling at me, now. The smile was nice. It warmed me.

  He took the seat he’d abandoned, took my hand and looked at me intently.

  “So… go ahead,” he said gently when we’d sat down. “Explain.”

  I could feel the air slide out of me in a “whoosh.” A sigh too long kept inside; a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. There was a part of me that wanted to unburden to him, right then and there. But, right that second, it all just seemed — as I’d told him — incredibly complicated, like one of those Russian dolls you open to find another and then another and then another still. (Though the only one I had when I was a kid only had three Russian dolls. How complicated is that?)

  To be honest, I didn’t even know where to begin. Not now, sitting at an outside restaurant while oblivious, self-centered Santa Monica rushed past us and the time when I was to meet Arianna Billings rushing to where I was.

  “I can’t, Steve. Not right now,” he didn’t seem to even try to hide the disappointment he felt. I suspected, also, that I’d failed some sort of test. “No, really, I have some things to do in Beverly Hills and Brentwood. But can we meet later?” He brightened instantly and I liked him even better for it. He was like water, sweet and clear.

  “Sure. Where? When?”

  “I don’t know. Brentwood OK? What about the Hamlet?” I named one of the few restaurants in that I could think of. “On San Vincente?”

  “Sure,” he agreed. “Say five o’clock?”

  “Maybe make it five-thirty,” I replied, checking my watch. “Just to be on the safe side.”

  He gave me a big, winning grin and a quick kiss that was as casual and comfortable as if we’d been seeing each other for a long time. Well, I reminded myself as I watched him blade away, lithe on his wheels, not so long: high school can only have been a few years ago. I chided myself for the thought as I found my way back to my car. And then I was concentrating on finding my way to Jennifer’s school and thinking about meeting Arianna and, unexpectedly, I forgot all about Steve. Again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Finding the Hestman School was as difficult as anything I’d attempted since arriving in L.A. The school is so exclusive, it’s practically invisible. You get the feeling that this is not an accident.

  Located on an early 20th century estate in the most exclusive part of Bel Air, driving through the wrought-iron gates and down the long, winding driveway it felt more like visiting the home of some foreign dignitary than a high school. The only visible clue was where, in spots, what had once likely been well-tended gardens had been skillfully converted to well-tended sports fields. That and the parking area behind the building that housed the school. It was stuffed with enough twenty-first century horse power to replace the gross national export of most small to medium-sized countries.

  None of it was what I’d expected. I’d anticipated the type of building that I’d grown up thinking of as a high school: big, utilitarian, easily penetrated. I’d figured I’d pull up and maybe talk to lurking teenagers, ask if they’d seen Jennifer. One look at the Hestman School made me realize why Tyler had said he’d call the school and let them know I was coming. Anything else would have been like dropping by unannounced at the White House.

  Nor was it the kind of school where you’d expect to find kids hanging around in clumps outside the building. The only teenagers I saw outside looked very purposeful and directed. Hanging was clearly not encouraged.

  I parked in the shadow of the largest Mercedes Benz I’d ever seen and pointed myself at the front door.

  The school was as well appointed inside as out. Clearly, whatever astronomical tuition fees Tyler and other parents were paying was being well spent. The maintenance on the masoleum-proportioned old mansion-turned-school alone would have cost a fortune. Obviously, it was important that the studio moguls of tomorrow be surrounded by large quantities of Carerra marble, period furniture and art they couldn’t possibly have any intention of understanding. I found the office easily and thought again of the White House: everything looked rare, expensive and slightly larger than life.

  “I’m Madeline Carter,” I told the man behind the desk in the office, who clearly did not care what my name was. “Jennifer Beckett’s father was going to call and let you know I was coming.”

  “You’re with the family?”

  I nodded, knowing that probably didn’t accurately describe my connection, but since the alternative seemed to be against the family, I let it pass.

  “Fine. Dr. Alder has been expecting you. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.”

  Predictably, Dr. Alder’s office would have shamed the President — that whole White House thing — but she herself was a surprise. A tall and striking brunette in her early 40s, she was as warm and engaging as her receptionist was distant. I wondered if it was deliberate.

  She didn’t bother with small talk. As soon as I was seated across the desk from her, Dr. Alder said, “I got a message from Tyler Beckett that you might be coming to see me. Since I’ve had an impossible time getting him on the telephone myself, I’m glad you’ve stopped by to talk about Jennifer.”

  This was a surprise. “Actually, that wasn’t my intention. I’d hoped to just drop by here today and talk to some of her classmates and see if any of them know where she might be. Her father is quite worried about her, but — you know — she’s seventeen. I’m sure there’s some explanation. Maybe her and another friend — someone else from school — went shopping or something.”

  “Yet her father fears something more dire?”

  “Jennifer didn’t come home last night,” I admitted, knowing this might be putting more of a spotlight on the kid than she’d want, but also wanting Dr. Alder to have a full understanding of the situation.

  “I see,” she pursed her lips slightly, “yet your presence here indicates that this is not a usual occurrence?”

  “That’s right. Tyler — Jennifer’s father, Mr. Beckett — says it’s never happened before.”

  “Hmmmmm. I’m not quite sure what to say to you, Ms. Carter,” she
watched me carefully as she spoke. “From what you’ve told me, I’m not sure you’ve been given all of the necessary information. What did you say your position was with the family?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Alder looked at me sharply. “All right then. That will limit my ability to be candid with you, but have it your way. There are some things that must be said. I’ve been unable to say them to Mr. Beckett directly, I’ll trust you to tell him to call me. I’ve called Mr. Beckett on several occasions over the last few months and asked him to come and see me in order to discuss his daughter. I have never reached the man directly by telephone and my calls have not been returned,” she looked at me piercingly. Clearly, people usually returned her calls. “And now things have gone very far.”

  I was more than curious; I had the sense that, whatever Dr. Alder had to say needed hearing right now. It seemed to be my week for impersonation. “You asked about my connection to the family. I’m… I’m Jennifer’s stepsister.”

  Dr. Alder pursed her lips but didn’t say anything. It’s possible she doubted me. It’s also possible she wanted the matter behind her.

  “Then I can safely tell you that it has saddened me this term to find that Jennifer, formerly a first class member of the Hestman community, has not been — how can I put this? — adequately pulling her oars.”

  I squinted at her, trying to understand.

  “I can see I’ll have to speak more plainly: until the end of last term, Jennifer was a straight-A student. She was well liked, had a lot of friends and it looked as though she would have the ability to map her future wherever she chose. She returned from winter break, however, a changed child,” here Alder began ticking Jennifer’s crimes off on her fingers. “She was surly, disorganized, her grades slipped and she started cutting classes. That is, we thought she was cutting, but since we were unable to speak with her father, we were unable to confirm. I can see from your expression that all of this is a surprise to you, so I’ll cut to the chase: Jennifer has missed an increasing amount of class time this term. As a result her grades have slipped. Last week we didn’t see her at all and, as a result of all of that, we expelled her yesterday.”

  “Expelled?” I repeated stupidly.

  “That’s correct. So while I’m sorry to hear she didn’t come home last night, I also need to tell you that — as cold as this sounds — it is no longer my problem.”

  “Dr. Alder,” I was shocked at everything she’d told me. “I’m not an expert on teenage girls but, from what you’ve said, Jennifer has been crying for help.”

  “The Hestman School is not a rehab center, Ms. Carter,” she spread her hands apologetically. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can say. I had Bruce clean out Jennifer’s locker while we were chatting. He’ll give you her things on the way out.”

  Since our interview was clearly over — and I was cleanly in shock — I took the white plastic bag that Bruce handed me as I went past his desk, tossed it in the trunk and left the Hestman School as quickly as I could.

  I felt so drained from my talk with Dr. Alder that all I felt like doing was driving home and talking to Tyler, but I’d told Arianna I’d meet her at three, and it was close to that time now.

  *

  Brentwood is where Los Angeles tries to be Connecticut and, clearly, where some of the students at the Hestman School would spend part of their adulthood. The quiet shops, the tree-lined boulevards, the careful architecture: Brentwood has an old money feel to it, not to mention a what-passes-for-old-money-in-Southern-California cachet. But Brentwood is pretty and a nice place to visit. It’s super clean, the avenues are very wide and the stores and restaurants quiet and understated.

  I got to the café a little early, which was good because I still had Dr. Alder and all she’d said very much on my mind. The café was over-the-the-top elegant with ornate gold framed mirrors and antique furniture set up in casually comfortable corners. The front opened onto the street: all bright sunshine and plants. The back of the café, however, was dark enough that candlelight at mid-afternoon didn’t look at all silly. It looked quiet and inviting and no one was sitting back there. I ordered a latté and found a table in the back. It would be a good place to talk privately.

  Disconcertingly, when I went to add sugar to my coffee, a little heart was staring back at me from the foam. The barista noticed me notice and smiled. I smiled back, but I was thinking: At least it isn’t a happy face. And: Sure, you pay more for your coffee, but the rent must be high and foam hearts don’t come cheap.

  I was having these completely dark thoughts about baristas who go to the trouble of disturbing perfectly good latté foam with sappy hearts, when Arianna Billings breezed into the café. At the front of the shop two young men were drinking coffee. As Arianna arrived, their heads snapped around in an almost dangerous fashion, as did that of the male barista. And this was Brentwood. Beautiful women fall from trees here — or, at least, from the offices of extremely talented and well paid plastic surgeons in this very neighborhood. But Arianna wasn’t just beautiful, she had this incredible presence. And that breeze.

  “Madeline,” she said in her controlled voice, as she took a seat, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re not, actually. You’re right on time. Sorry to start without you,” I said indicating my cup. “I felt the need.”

  “Not a problem,” she said, then ordered from the young male barista who was standing next to our table staring at Arianna almost worshipfully. I noticed this with a sort of amusement because, though I had had to go to the counter for my coffee, Arianna apparently merited table service.

  I pointed to the Boxster, gleaming out at the curb: the same one I’d seen on television that morning. “Your car is an amazing color. I love it. And I don’t usually like green.”

  “Actually, it’s chartreuse. It’s my favorite shade. It wasn’t one of the factory colors, they painted it to my specifications.”

  What does it mean when you can not only buy the most expensive car you can think of, you can also have it tinted to match your personal palette? I’d been around money for a long time — and Chagall etchings don’t come cheap — but Arianna was from a different world. One where your wedding shower got written up in Town and Country and summering at the Vineyard wasn’t something you looked forward to, just something “to be gotten through, darling.”

  We made small talk for a few minutes while her coffee was being made. It was a strain, because we didn’t have much in common. And neither of us seemed quite prepared to face what we did have in common straight on. Yet. And so we talked about the success of the luncheon — which, she said, had gone very well and raised a lot of money for a good cause. And we talked about the ineptitude of the press who had, she said, nonetheless given her a good in to plug her mother’s pet charity. When her coffee came (she plowed the foam heart under without even a glance) she seemed to feel it was time to get down to business.

  “Ernest has talked about you, you know.”

  “He has?” Even though she’d said it the other night, I was surprised.

  “That’s why your name was familiar when we met. And your face. I’ve seen pictures of you. In an album.” That surprised me, as well. I wracked my brain.

  “The rowing club parties?” It was the only possibility. Ernie had been a rower in college and I’d accompanied him to a few rowing club functions early in our relationship. These were the only photos I would imagine would still be around of the two of us: he would have had other reasons to keep them.

  “He has special memories of you,” she said, nodding. It was a pretty odd revelation, I thought, coming as it did from the wife of a kidnapped man to one of his ex-girlfriends.

  I didn’t say anything. There was no way I’d tell her I had fond memories of him: I didn’t. Instead, I settled on: “How long have you two been married?”

  “Five years.”

  “Kids?”

  “None,” she cast her eyes down momentarily and I couldn’t r
ead her. “Not yet, but we’ve been discussing it.” Another sign of the void between us: in her world marriage was obligatory — part of the natural progression — and children a matter for negotiation. Me? I’d been married for about a minute about ten years earlier, but stockbrokers make understandably terrible wives. It had been a disaster I didn’t think I’d be repeating. And the idea of children — that is to say my having children — was, if not downright repellant, so absurd an idea I couldn’t even get my mind around it. I mean, where would I put them? I barely had room for a borrowed dog.

  Arianna watched me appraisingly for a while: sipping her coffee, nibbling her biscotti. Then she surprised me: she’d clearly had enough small talk. “Look Madeline,” her voice was as calm and direct as when she’d been talking about her car and the luncheon. “I saw the videotapes on television this morning.”

  Candor continued to strike me as the way to go, despite my sudden terror that police cruisers were, even now, poised to descend on our quiet coffee klatch.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with the kidnapping.”

  “I know,” Arianna said, looking away. “I know you didn’t. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  These two sentences seemed oxymoronic to me: they canceled each other out. First, how did she know I hadn’t had anything to do with it? From her perspective, you’d think I’d look like a pretty good candidate. Second, why would that make her want to talk to me? Then a light dawned. “You know something,” I said. It was a statement, not a question.

  She shrugged. An elegant gesture. “That’s not important. What is important, is what you know.”

  “Me? You already said you know I didn’t kidnap him.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” she looked at me searchingly, as though deciding what she should say. Or how much. “Let’s put it this way, just between the two of us — and honestly — when was the last time you saw Ernest? Besides the other night.”