by Erica Orloff
She knew though she couldn’t see them, Troy and another agent were watching her. She spied a white van and assumed it was them.
At her apartment, the doorman, Jean-Paul, tipped his cap and opened the heavy glass-and-brass door for her. Stepping into the lobby, the nighttime concierge stopped her.
“Ms. Pruitt?”
“Hmm?”
“A package arrived for you this evening.”
“From whom? It’s Sunday.”
“I know. It was hand delivered. By a chauffeur, by the looks of his uniform.”
“Did he say who he was or anything?”
The concierge shook his head. “He just said he was asked to deliver it.”
Madison eyed the box suspiciously but took it. Then she went to the elevator. The Sunday elevator operator, Antonio, pressed the button for the penthouse and she rode in silence to the top, staring down at the box in her hands. It wasn’t too heavy. And it wasn’t ticking. She half smiled to herself. She couldn’t believe how her mind was starting to work. She assumed the box wasn’t a bomb, but she still found the whole thing curious and couldn’t wait to be alone and open it. Then she stopped herself. Maybe it would be better if Troy was there.
She called him and he arrived within ten minutes. She let him into her apartment, and he went over to the box with some equipment similar to the wand used at airport security. He declared the box safe, and sliced into it with a sharp kitchen knife.
Madison peered into the box.
Inside was a strange collection of objects that seemed unrelated to one another, and a letter in a white envelope.
With shaking hands, Madison opened the letter and read it aloud to Troy.
Dear Madison,
This box is from Claire. She made me promise that if anything happened to her, I would have it hand delivered to you.
As you know, her father and I never approved of what she was doing at the end. And I know I will never get over her death. I would have some small measure of peace if I knew that the bastard responsible was in prison…but I am as confused as ever over the whole thing. And this box confused me, too. Did she know she was going to be murdered?
Part of me was tempted not to have it delivered. And I wish with all my heart I knew what these things meant. Maybe you do. If you figure it all out, maybe you can call me someday and tell me. I’d like to know what was on her mind in her final week on earth.
Her father and I were always very, very fond of you, Madison. Do keep in touch.
Sharon Shipley
Madison took out the objects one by one and laid them on the table:
A travel brochure from the Caymans
A key
A photo of the Manhattan skyline
Claire’s passport
A seashell
And finally, a map of New York and New Jersey.
Maddie opened the map, and there was a tiny red dot of ink on a town she had never heard of. Venetian Lake. In the upper corner of New York near the Canadian border.
“Looks like we’ll be taking a road trip,” Maddie muttered.
Then she sat down at the table with Troy and tried to figure out just what Claire was trying to say to her from beyond the grave.
Chapter 11
Venetian Lake turned out to be a tiny hamletpopulation 282in upstate New York. In the center of town stood a cannon in tribute to the three young men from Venetian Lake who had been killed in World War II. Aside from the cannon, there was a firehouse, a single grocery store, a pizza parlor, a gas station and a Laundromat.
Maddie drove herself and Troy in her now-repaired Aston Martin into town. She had taken off Monday afternoon. Frankly, she thought, this undercover agenting was going to be tricky. She was in the middle of hostile board meetings, heated negotiations over a hotel in the now uber-trendy Meatpacking District, and a major construction projectand it certainly wasn’t like her to tell her assistant that she was going to be out for the remainder of the day. But in this case, she had to find out what secrets lay in this lake town. She and Troy headed off on the open highway, and Maddie was enjoying the escape for the day.
The “lake” in question was more of a very large pond, she decided. She couldn’t fathom, for the life of her, how it earned its moniker. But she knew the best way to find out would be to ask at the one place she was sure gossipalbeit masculine gossipwas handed out. The volunteer fire station.
“You sure you haven’t been doing this cloak and dagger stuff your whole life?” Troy teased when he realized where they were headed.
She smiled as she pulled the car into the concrete driveway next to the building. The building was brick with a large bell above its garage door. She imagined it occasionally clanging in the night. They went to the frontthe immense garage door was open, and two firemen were washing the lone red truck. She could smell spaghetti sauce or something simmering in the firehouse kitchen.
The younger guy with the shaved headhot enough for a firemen calendarstood up and wiped his forehead as she and Troy climbed out of the car. “Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry” she batted her eyes “we’re just plain lost. We were heading to Lake Placid for our honeymoon and got the bright idea to take some back roads and drive through some small towns. And…we ended up here. Starvingand the pizza place looks closed right now. I don’t know if there’s someplace else to eat.”
He grinned at them. “Congratulations. I’m married three years now. There’s nothing else around for miles, but you’re more than welcome to join us for dinner.”
“Is that an invitation?”
The older fireman, silver-haired with a barrel chest and big white beard that made him look like Santa in the off-season, said, “That is, if you don’t mind spaghetti and meatballs.”
“I’m so famished, I could eat shoe leather,” Troy joked.
“Come on then,” the younger fireman said. They turned off the hoses they were using to wash the truck. He then dried off his hands on a nearby towel and turned around. “I’m Tommy Malone, and this is Vic Keel.”
Maddie smiled at them both and shook their hands. “Madison Taylor,” she said, “and my husband, Troy.”
They followed the men into the firehouse kitchen. It was homey, with blue-and-white-gingham curtains on the windows of the living area. Madison guessed someone’s wife had sewn them.
The firemen set the table, and after stirring the pot a couple of times, Vic came over with four heaping bowls full of spaghetti and topped with huge meatballs and red sauce. Maddie’s mouth watered, though she knew there was little chance she’d even come close to finishing hers.
The men dug in heartily, after pouring sodas for each of them, and she cut into one of her meatballs with her fork and tasted it. “This is fantastic! And whoever said men can’t cook,” she said and smiled playfully.
Troy ate like he’d never been fed before. “Awesome.”
“Man, Vic is the best,” Tommy said. “Everyone loves when it’s his turn to cook. With me, everyone gets hot dogs or chili.”
“You know,” Madison said, twirling her spaghetti, “this is such a pretty little townlots of cottages on your lake and so on. Why is it called Venetian Lake, though?”
Tommy looked at Vic. “He’s the resident historian.”
Vic put down his fork and sipped a Coke. “Well, you see a bunch of cottages, but at one time, there was a big ol’ house on the hill in back of the Episcopal church. Some rich guy aimed to make this a summer playground for the wealthy. He bought up all the land and wanted it to be like a small European town, or someplace classy. Picked Nice as a namethough of course everyone in these parts pronounced it nice, not niece as in the popular city on the French Riviera. He owned the damn town lock, stock, and barrel. He could have named it whatever he damn well pleased.”
Maddie smiled. Then she felt a small chill pass over her. “Nice…that sounds so familiar. I mean other than the French Riviera.” It couldn’t be.
“Sure. It
was kind of famous. ’Cause a not-so-nice thing happened here. ’Course, you’re way too young to remember, but there was a kidnapping hereas famous as the Lindbergh caseat the time at least.”
“Sure,” Madison whispered. “The Pruitt baby.”
“Yup. But see, after that poor child turned up dead, God, fifty-five years ago or so, Mrs. Pruitt had a breakdown. So her husband sold the town to one of his best friends, a guy by the name of Rockefeller. He demolished the old house and planned on putting in some new, fancy modern house, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. But then his wife decided she didn’t like the socializing hereas in there was no socializing. So they in turn sold the town. When they did, they sold it to a developer who put in all these cottages, and the developer didn’t want people remembering the kidnapping. So he renamed the town Venetian Lake. Now, no one remembers its old nameand most especially, no one remembers what happened here.”
“Since then, I don’t even think there’s been a single homicide,” said Tommy.
“Amazing,” Madison said, exchanging meaningful looks with Troy. She knew the baby died in Nice. How had Claire come to discover the change of name? And what did this place’s tragic history have to do with the present day?
“Yeah. And if you go by the church, there’s the mausoleum for that poor family. But only the baby is in it.”
“Hmm.” Madison nodded. “You ever know them?”
“Nah. Been too long.”
“Does anyone ever come to visit the baby’s grave?”
Madison herself had never been there, and the topic was taboo in the family.
“Nope. Nobody. Sometimes the minister’s wife puts fresh flowers there. She tends to the cemetery a bit. Lovely woman.”
Troy asked, “Any curiosity seekers come here?”
Vic shook his head. “Wait, though,” he furrowed his brow. “I remember one woman. Said she was a friend of the family’s. This was a while back. Pretty gal. Dark haired. But, that was it.”
Convinced there was no more to be told, Maddie said, “Tell us more about the fire station.” She had learned, from her years in business, that the best way to avoid talking about herself was to ask people about themselvesmost were only too happy to oblige. However, she found the firemen modest and patriotic. They regaled her and Troy with tales from their small town, then walked the two outside to her car and waved goodbye. Madison made a mental note to send an anonymous donation to the firehouse.
Madison and Troy pulled away and drove around the lake, glimpsing the dark blue water through the trees. Maddie spotted the white spire of the church she thought the firemen had referred to, and she drove in that direction, eventually finding the Episcopal church and its cemetery. Behind the church, up on the hill where, she now knew, the family home once rose, stood three smaller homes with white picket fences and sweeping lawns. Fall leaves blanketed the grass, and in the yard of one house, a golden retriever bounded, chasing falling leaves.
She parked the car next to the cemetery. Troy climbed out and said, “I’m going to go check out the church, see if maybe the minister or his wife is there.”
“Okay, I’m going to find the baby’s grave.”
Maddie walked through the wrought-iron gatesunlocked and openand began strolling down the rows of graves. Most were neat and tidy, but near the edge of the cemetery, along a row of trees, the graves were more haphazard and dated from the turn of the century. The dates were nearly faded in the stone by years of weathering and wear.
She saw, also near several trees, a very large mausoleum. Maddie walked over to it, her feet crunching in the dead autumn leaves.
She read the inscription carved in white marble: Angels and Saints of the Pruitt Family. An enormous wrought-iron gate, about fourteen feet high, stood in front. She pressed on the gate, and it opened easily. Five marble steps led down into a tunnel-like entrance to the mausoleum. Maddie walked down, and allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Inside the mausoleum it was about ten or fifteen degrees cooler than the already-brisk fall air, and she shivered slightly. In the pale light that seeped in from the entrance, she saw a single tile in a wall engraved: William Charles Pruitt III, beloved son and brother, 1947–1948. Maddie’s eyes welled for a moment, thinking of how her poor grandmother must have been crushed by the crime. She ran her fingertips along the engraved marble, its feel icy to the touch. She shook her head ever so slightly. What could this poor baby’s death have to do with Claire’s murder? Little William was murdered, too. But how could the two murders many decades apart have anything to do with each other?
Maddie was completely puzzled. And, lost in her own private thoughts, she never heard the attacker sneak up on her and hit her over the head with a metal pipe. She only saw blackness as she collapsed to the ground.
Chapter 12
Hours later, her teeth chattering, Maddie woke up. At least she thought it was hours later. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been a day. All she knew was it was pitch-black. And she was cold, colder than she had ever been. And she had a splitting headache. She could hear two men whispering outside, and she struggled to sit up, the movement sending shattering waves of pain through her temples and neck.
Quietly, she felt at her back. Her gun was still there. No one knew she was an agent, and whoever was after her would have no idea she was carrying a weapon. She guessed they thought she was just a curious heiress looking into her past, or into whatever mystery Claire had stumbled on. Was this how Claire had met her death? Was some of it from snooping into a long-forgotten murder? And where was Troy?
Maddie quietly pulled herself into a standing position and crept closer to the opening to outside. She pulled her gun from its holster. In the darkness, she saw one man’s face slightly illuminated by the glow from a cigarette. She didn’t recognize him. She overheard the other man say, “We wait for the word. I think just getting rid of her fits with the plan anyway.”
She didn’t recognize his voice or his profile in the dark, either. But she was scared. Getting rid of her?
The two men stood close together, talking in low voices.
“She’ll be out cold for a week. Or dead,” the taller one said, laughing a little.
Maddie knew she had to get them both. If she left one standing, she was as good as dead.
Taking her gun, she aimed at the taller one and fired, hitting him between the shoulder and his chest, and spinning him around. He fell to the ground with a weird sort of grunt, and the other one drew his gun, facing her in the darkness. “What the fuck!” he shouted.
He aimed wildly in the dark, missing her, and she heard the bullet echo inside the mausoleum. He fired again, and she ducked, then took aim from a crouching position and fired. She hit him in the leg, but she guessed it was just a grazing bullet, because though he cursed, he was still standing. She took advantage of his pain, though, to slip out of the mausoleum and dash out into the cemetery.
Over her head another bullet whistled, and she heard him on his cell phone shouting he had “trouble.”
She dived behind a large headstone. If she called 911 or local police, she feared some inexperienced country cop would get killed. She was convinced she had to escape herselfand find Troy. Fear coursed through her. What if they had killed Troy? She was on her own and would have to think and operate like an agent until she found her partner. Screw these bastards. She had been underestimated in the boardroom before, and she didn’t like it. And now these guys had no idea who they were messing with.
From behind the headstone, she fired at her assailant. She missed, and he fired back.
The moon was just a sliver, and it gave off little light. She squinted and dove for a different headstone, one a few yards down and closer to where she’d parked her car. She scrunched down. She only had a single clip in her weapon. Scaring him off wasn’t an option. She had to stop him in his tracks. With her adrenaline pumping, her heart pounding wildly, she forgot her pain just a bit. She knew she had to get out of the ceme
tery and to her car.
Peering over the headstone, she saw the man limping and leaning on another headstone, crouching slightly. She guessed he was tending to his existing wound, pressing on it, staunching the blood flow. She couldn’t afford to show mercy. As thoughts ran through her mind of little baby William, and Claire, she pointed her gun and fired again. Just as the man crumpled in a heap, she heard Troy call out, “Maddie! Stay down!”
She leaned against a cold headstone. She could see Troy emerge from the shadows, his face bruised, gun drawn.
At least they were both safe. Alive.
It was only now, with the rush of adrenaline slowed, that she began shaking in earnest. It wasn’t the cold. It was the reality that inside of two weeks, her life had been turned upside down. With startling clarity, she realized that she, Madison Taylor-Pruitt, heiress to one of America’s biggest fortunes, may just have killed her first man.
Chapter 13
Madison called in sick the next dayand her father was none too pleased.
“Goddamnit, Madison, what the hell is going on with you? Bing is breathing down my neck over the board meeting, the board itself is up in arms, the police have been here yet again with a search warrant for Claire’s office, and meanwhile, you’re goddamn AWOL. How do you think that looks?”
“How does it look? It looks like I’m sick and can’t come in.”
“Don’t give me that.”
Madison couldn’t believe how her normally coolheaded father was losing it.
“Dad, I’ve been working for you for years now, and I came to work with double pneumonia last winter. So it’s not like I take it lightly. I just am really not feeling well. I think it’s stomach flu. Maybe food poisoning.”
“You want me to send over Dr. Halloway?”
“No.”