Under Water

by Casey Barrett

  It was after seven by the time I crossed the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge and consulted Google Maps for the final leg of my journey. The McKay mansion was three miles outside the tony town of Rhinebeck, on a winding country road with the old estates set up on green hills well back from the roads. This was where city wealth used to summer, in the Edith Wharton days, before the Hamptons took over as the sun-drenched playground of rich lemmings. I gave the McKays points for taste, in choosing this as their second home, as I slowed at each stone archway and sought their address.

  It was known as Owl View Farm. I turned through the open wrought-iron gates and drove up a long driveway lined with white birch trees like pale-suited soldiers. The temperature had dropped leaving the city. I breathed in the cool, clean country air and felt something closer to normal. The sun was low in the sky, with magic hour light, and the dusk colors gave the property a crisp, still sense of posing for its portrait. The main house was a stately Georgian affair with long, white Corinthian columns across the front. It was the kind of place that fulfilled a man’s image of himself before ever setting foot inside. Off to the side, there was a low white brick guesthouse, and down a gentle hill, a pool house that looked modernized and enlarged by its present owners.

  I pulled the Benz past a shining black Range Rover and parked directly in front of the main house. As if on cue, the high front door opened and out stepped Teddy Marks and Margaret McKay like the perfect gentry couple.

  Marks smiled broadly beneath his well-kept mustache, and Margaret held his arm with mannered grace. She was wearing tan riding pants, black boots, and a white blouse that billowed out in the evening breeze. Her hair flickered across that surgically stretched face like the wind was in on the scene. Marks was dressed in white linen pants and a light blue oxford, with no socks on his loafered feet. I felt embarrassed for him. They could have been posing for the cover of Town & Country.

  “Welcome,” said Marks.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  He shrugged, gave me a wink, and Margaret gave me a tight smile as I walked up the wide white steps.

  “We appreciate you making the drive,” said Margaret. “Was traffic very bad?”

  “Horrible. Two hours up the FDR.”

  Marks looked me up and down, processed my appearance. “Late night last night, Duck?”

  “Not too bad,” I lied.

  Margaret turned her eyes up at her lover, her sharp profile set off in the twilight. He held her look for a beat, communicating something between them, before turning back to me.

  “You’ll stay the night, won’t you, Lawrence?” asked Margaret. “We’ve made the guesthouse up for you.”

  “You’re the boss,” I said. “Sounds good to me.”

  “Wonderful.” She squeezed his arm and turned him back toward the house. “Do come in,” she said. “We have dinner waiting.”

  Chapter 19

  We were seated in a tall, dark dining room full of fresh cut flowers, Hudson River School landscapes, and a big stuffed buffalo head over a stone fireplace. The eyes of the buffalo looked like translucent cue balls. They looked down over the long oak table with clear-eyed disdain. Three places had been set at the far end of the table, with Margaret seated at the head, Marks and me on either side. A chandelier of stained glass offered a low amber light over the table, keeping the rest of the room in shadows.

  Marks was making a show of pouring the wine. A Barolo of some sort, full-bodied, earthy tone, long finish, the man presented it with insufferable enthusiasm. Margaret sat still with hands in her lap, eyeing both of us with a look of blank regard. Reminded me to get Botox and a facelift the next time I went to Vegas; she had a flawless cosmetic poker face. When Marks filled her glass she nodded with grace and sat back in her chair. We made a silent toast as a sturdy gray-haired woman set out bowls of butternut squash soup.

  “Thank you, Nina,” said Margaret. Then, to me: “You’re in for a treat, Lawrence. Nina is a fabulous chef.”

  She was right. The soup was insane. With the first spoonful I almost forgot how bad I was feeling. I was informed that Nina and her husband, Ernest, lived at Owl View in a converted stone barn. The couple took care of the property in the McKays’ absence, with Nina keeping the main house and Ernest tending the grounds.

  We chatted through the soup with the loaded hum of small talk: the brilliant weather this time of year, the Yankees’ latest failures, the sense of relief in crossing the GW and leaving the city. The empty words only added weight to the conversations that loomed. Nina cleared our bowls with a downward gaze and returned with lamb chops and assorted root vegetables as Marks refilled our glasses. When he finished pouring, she lifted the empty bottle from the table and asked Margaret quietly if we would like another of the same. I noticed Nina’s body language; her hip turned away from Marks, making clear she took direction only from the lady of the house.

  “Nice wine,” I said, taking a healthy gulp before cutting into the chop.

  “Is indeed,” said Marks. “There are some truly fantastic vintages down in the cellar.”

  Margaret stiffened at the possessive way he said it. He noticed too. “I’m afraid to touch some of them they’re so good,” he said with a self-conscious laugh. Margaret bowed her head toward him in forgiveness. Then she leveled her gaze at me.

  “So, tell us, Lawrence. What have you discovered over the last few days? I understand it’s been quite eventful.”

  I held up a finger as I chewed a succulent bite of lamb, savoring the juices, wanting to hug Nina in appreciation. I washed it down with another gulp of wine and wiped my mouth. “Eventful, yes.” I nodded. “I’ve been attacked, twice. One win, one loss. Witnessed a murder scene, visited an attempted suicide at the hospital, and heard some troubling details about your daughter and those closest to her.” I looked straight at Marks as I spoke the last line. He did not react.

  “Hell of a week,” he said, cutting into his lamb. “Good to see those bruises on your face are healing. You were a wreck last I saw you.”

  “Poor Lucy,” said Margaret. “She was always such a sensitive girl. I do hope she’s recovering.” She set down her knife and fork and took an imperceptible sip from her glass. “Now, Lawrence, have any of these violent adventures led you any closer to finding my daughter?”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve been informed that your daughter was seen at a party the weekend before last. My partner and I plan to attend that same party tomorrow night. Seems she might be a regular.”

  “Didn’t Charlie see her here, at the house, that weekend?” asked Marks.

  Margaret added nothing, only waited for me to continue.

  “Right, which means she must have come up here the next day. Charlie says he saw her the Sunday before Labor Day?”

  “That’s correct,” said Margaret.

  “And she left almost immediately,” I said. “As if she was troubled by something. Then she sent you that text the next day, and Coach, you missed a call from her.”

  They nodded together.

  “Does Madeline drive?” I asked.

  Margaret shook her head. “She never expressed an interest. She said there was no point, living in the city.”

  “Can I ask how that’s relevant?” asked Marks.

  “Well, Charlie told me that after she left the house she went out by the road and waited for a cab to pick her up. Presumably to go back to the train station?”

  “I suppose,” said Margaret. “It’s only two hours from the Rhinecliff station back to Penn.”

  “Still, it seems like quite a trek, to come up here and leave so quickly, especially after a night of partying. Whatever she had to pick up, it must have been important.”

  When neither chose to reply, I added, “I’m not sure if the police have informed you of this, but there is security footage of Madeline leaving James Fealy’s building the next day.”

  Margaret’s chin fell to her chest, her hands dropped to
her lap, shoulders sagged. She reached for her wineglass and swallowed down the remains. “I did not know that,” she said quietly.

  “This doesn’t imply any guilt,” I added. “Fealy’s parents confirmed that their son was with them in the Hamptons until the following morning. Evidently, Madeline was inside an empty apartment. It’s confirmed that neither Fealy nor his roommate were home.”

  “What else did they see?” asked Marks. “On the security. If they saw Maddie coming and going, they also must have seen the someone else entering the next day?”

  “It appears there was an electrical issue in the building,” I said. “There’s a gap in the lobby’s security footage.” When that failed to elicit a response, I asked, “How much do you know about her relationship with this kid?”

  “We were aware he was a poor influence, almost from the start,” said Margaret. “Charlie introduced them, at a company party of his. James was the son of a senior partner at his firm. I approved at first. He was from a good family, after all. But soon after meeting him, I suspected trouble.”

  “How so?”

  “Madeline was already . . . struggling. I knew she was using drugs, and she’d had her problems with depression. But her self-destructive behavior escalated when she took up with that boy.”

  “How long were they together?”

  She flipped through the pages of the calendar in her mind. “It was just a few months, I suppose. I recall that party of Charlie’s being in the spring.”

  “Was the relationship serious?”

  “She thought she was in love,” said her mother, sighing. “She told me as much after she introduced me to him in June. I was quite sure they were both high.”

  Marks cleared his throat, set down his knife. “If I may,” he began. “It’s relevant to point out that Madeline’s commitment to her training, while spotty to begin with, took a significant turn for the worse soon after she started dating this boy. By summer, I suspected she was done with the sport for good.”

  When he got no response from either of us, he frowned and drank from his glass.

  Nina appeared with the new bottle, and conversation stopped as we watched her uncork it and pour a splash into Margaret’s glass. She tasted it, and gave a quick nod, and watched her glass fill with the rich red liquid. She drank off half of it before Nina reached our glasses. Then she pushed back her chair and stood before us.

  “Please continue eating,” she said. “I must excuse myself for a moment.”

  We watched her walk across the room and disappear down a dark hallway into the shadows of the house. Her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors until they faded like dying breaths. A heavy silence settled over the dining room.

  “This is killing her,” said Marks. “You have no idea how hard this has been on her.”

  “I can imagine,” I said.

  We ate for a minute or two in quiet. Despite our less than happy circumstances, I was rejoicing in the meal. I let each bite of the lamb sit on my tongue for a few seconds before biting into the perfectly seasoned meat. “Hot damn, that woman can cook,” I said through a mouthful.

  “Huh?” said Marks, looking up, startled.

  “I spoke to Charlie,” I told him.

  “I know, you mentioned that when you came by my apartment. We were hoping he could come up this weekend, but it appears he has to work.”

  “No, I mean I spoke to him again,” I said. “After I saw you. He had a lot more to say.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Sometimes you have to throw it out fast, before the window closes. “He told me about you and Madeline.”

  “How so?”

  I studied his face like a good earnest gambler. Got nothing in return.

  “About your relationship with the younger Ms. McKay.”

  “Duck, I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  There was something rehearsed in his oblivious denial, as if he’d already heard and replied to these lines in a previous take prior to my arrival. He cut into his meat and took a bite. “You’re right,” he said. “That woman sure can cook.”

  “Listen,” I said. “I realize honesty is out of the question at the moment, since Margaret may be back any second, but maybe we can talk after dinner?”

  “As I told you, Margaret and I have no secrets. Whatever it is you heard, you can say in front of her.”

  Okay then. “So you want me to tell your girlfriend that I heard you’re also fucking her daughter?” I asked. “And that I heard this rather troubling accusation from her beloved son?”

  He almost choked on his lamb. Then he lowered his knife and fork and looked at me with the calmness of an assassin. In that look, I saw what the man was capable of. He sipped at his wine, sat back, and crossed his arms.

  “Why would Charlie say such a thing?” he asked.

  “I’m asking you the same question.”

  I watched him trying to compose the words, some reply that could explain away the allegation. His lips were starting to part when Margaret returned to the dining room.

  “My apologies, gentlemen,” she said. “This is all quite overwhelming. I needed a moment to gather myself.” Then, seeing the look on Marks’s face, she gave a curious smile. “What have you two been discussing?”

  Marks turned to her, all love and honor. “Margaret, do you think Charlie will be able to make it up this weekend?” he asked.

  “He says not,” she said, taking her seat. “A black tie with the Sotos, it seems. Did he tell you about his big day this week?” Margaret’s face brightened at the subject of her son.

  “I haven’t spoken to him,” said Marks. “But I’d like to.” He cut into his lamb with a tightened fist, took another bite and chewed like he was grinding bones between his teeth. “Something happen at his work?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Margaret. It appeared she’d temporarily forgotten about her black sheep daughter. “It sounds like he had a day for the ages, one of the most profitable in the firm’s history, he says.” She sipped her wine with a new glow. “He’s always been remarkable under pressure, that boy. As you well know. Indeed, I suppose he has you to thank for that—you trained him to be that way, after all.”

  “That’s one quality you can’t teach, I’m afraid,” said Marks. “One of those innate gifts you’re born with. It’s in the genes. So, I suppose it’s you that Charlie has to thank.” He attempted to smile.

  “Yes, well, in any case, it appears Danny Soto has taken a heightened interest in our boy. Tonight, Danny is hosting a benefit for his wildcat conservation society. I hear the Schwarzmans and the Kaplans are going to be there.” She beamed, thrust out her high, firm chest. Then, as an afterthought to me: “The Sotos are one of the world’s biggest benefactors of protecting natural cat habitats—tigers, jaguars, snow leopards. Their numbers are diminishing across the globe.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  She gave me a quizzical look.

  “About the cats, I mean. They’re lucky to have Mr. Soto.”

  “Margaret, do you think Charlie might be persuaded to drive up tomorrow afternoon, after this benefit? It might be helpful for Duck to speak to him at the house, where he last saw her. Something may come back to him, some detail he may have forgot.”

  “I’ll ask him,” said Margaret. “It sounded like a very brief encounter. And he is so busy these days. But if you think it might help.”

  “Duck?” asked Marks with something dangerous in his eye. “Perhaps you could tell Margaret what you told me while she was away?”

  As Sun Tzu would say: “He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot will be victorious.” (The Art of War. If it was good enough for Gordon Gekko and Tony Soprano, I figured I could learn something.) If I were to drop that particular bomb right then at his request, two things would happen: shock and denial. Neither would get me any closer to the truth. Margaret would gasp at the allegation. She would insist I was mistaken or making it up. Privately, she would begin to
doubt her lover. She’d believe her son in her heart. But publically, she would shut things down. Dinner would end abruptly, and she’d insist on hearing it from Charlie. Then she would want to hear the denials in private. I’d be shut out of the equation. No closer to finding Madeline, or the truth.

  So instead I told her, “I was just saying how strange it feels to be back in all of your lives, after all this time.”

  “Yes, a lifetime ago,” she said.

  A happier one at that.

  “I wondered if I might have a look through Madeline’s bedroom?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Margaret. “When we finish, I’ll show you up there.”

  “Thanks, though I have to say, I agree with Coach. Having Charlie walk me through their encounter here could be helpful.”

  Margaret considered that. She looked from Marks back to me. Again I envied her inscrutable frozen face. She gave a small nod. “I’ll speak to him tomorrow, see if he might join us.”

  “It might help,” I said. “Though I’d also like to get back to the city for this party tomorrow night, where Madeline was last seen.”

  “Of course,” she said. “That would seem like an important avenue to explore.” She spoke with a matter-of-factness that I appreciated. Beneath her glossy false shell, there was something sharp and genuine. She looked at me with those ink-colored eyes for a long while, making quiet judgments and quick calculations.

  Marks was looking at me too. Something told me he’d studied The Art of War more than I had.

  Chapter 20

  It was the room of a young girl frozen in development at, say, twelve: all pinks and hearts and bulletin boards full of BFF pictures of fresh-faced girls posing in various states of happy innocence. The bed, a queen covered in a purple spread, still had a few stuffed animals propped among the pillows. At the foot of the bed, there was a locked chest. Atop the dresser, a few framed photos of the McKay family in sunnier days. The largest and most prominent was a picture taken before she would have remembered, from when her father was still alive. Madeline was maybe three. The family was posed on the porch of Owl View, laughing on a fall day. She was sitting on her father’s lap, holding a dripping cup of ice cream, her thrilled face covered in chocolate. Charlie, about nineteen at the time, stood behind them with a shaved head and a smirking smile. His mother stood off to the side, taking in her family with a look of utter contentment. She had not yet begun her plastic journey under the knife, and she looked striking in her natural motherly beauty. The health and wealth and good fortune on display was almost nauseating—if you didn’t know what came next.