TMonaghan 12 - Hush Hush Page 4
“I forget sometimes what a dog you were before you got married,” Tess said.
“I was a single man. I dated. Not a lot of hard feelings out there on either end, but if you want to call that being a dog, so be it. I knew Melisandre when she was in her twenties, before she married Stephen. I was there when they met. That’s why she called me—and that’s why you landed a pretty lucrative gig. So—you’re welcome.”
“Then I guess I’ll enjoy myself, too.” She started to reach for a chocolate croissant, only to catch the look on Tyner’s face. “What? Are we not allowed to touch the food until Lady Bountiful arrives? You didn’t give Sandy a dirty look when he had a cruller.”
Tyner’s pause gave her pause. “Are you in training?”
“It’s been a little cold to be out on the water,” Tess said, knowing she wasn’t answering the question.
“But you’ve been erging over the winter, I assume?”
“I don’t compete, so I don’t need to erg in the off-season. I row for my own pleasure.”
“There’s a word for self-pleasure, and it isn’t very nice.”
“Who says?” Tess countered. “At least masturbation is always consensual.”
Tyner let the subject drop, and that was more disturbing than anything he had said or implied. Tyner would normally have no problem telling Tess that she was going soft, literally and figuratively. And while Tess had never been one to worry about the numbers on the scale, which were more or less—okay, more—where they had always been, there was a slackness to her body these days. Still, if Tyner wanted to tell her how to find time to get on the water when she had to be on kid duty five mornings a week, she’d love to hear it. She could find forty minutes to head out for a run, maybe put in an hour at the gym at lunchtime. But rowing was time-intensive, once you counted up the drive to the boathouse, getting her shell out and on the water, cleaning and storing it properly at the end of a workout. And it could be done only in the daylight hours. Tess had never known how short a day was until she had a child. The old saying was that the days were long and the years short when raising a child. But the hours she had to herself certainly zipped by.
Maybe some fruit for breakfast was all she needed. Go figure; there was a selection of fruit, too, and even a box of tea set out. With sugar cubes. Sugar cubes! White and brown.
“So where is the guest of honor?”
“Running late,” Tyner said. “There were photographers outside her hotel this morning.”
“And she had to figure out a way to get out without being seen?”
“No, she waded right into them, as I understand it.”
“With camera crew following. Well, that creates a scene for the documentary, right? Melisandre Dawes—does she still go by Dawes?—besieged by the paparazzi. Probably called them on herself.”
“She’s using Melisandre Harris Dawes. And she’s not like that, Tess.”
“No, she’s just a very rich lady who has decided that her life’s mission is to educate people about criminal insanity by thrusting herself back into public view after a decade abroad. Toward that end she has hired a film crew to make a documentary about her, even though her case couldn’t be more anomalous. Why not focus on the women without money who didn’t get the help they needed? By the way—you did tell her that I’m not going to allow her to film this meeting, right?”
“Technically, as her lawyer, that’s my call—”
“No, it’s not, Tyner. I’m not going to consent to be filmed for this, and if that’s part of the package, she can take her big hourly fee and stuff it up—”
The announcement, over the intercom, that their client had arrived, kept Tess from completing her directions. Tyner had barely said, “Send her in,” when Melisandre Harris Dawes strode through the door.
And strode—strided? Tess’s inner grammarian queried—was really the only word. Melisandre walked with her head up, long tendrils of hair bouncing like some shampoo commercial. Tess initially had a sense of lights, but the “crew” that followed her was one small, thin young woman, pulling a wheeled suitcase and carrying a digital camcorder with one hand. A man in a dark suit was behind her.
“No filming,” Tess said before anyone else could speak. “Sorry, but I don’t want to have our interactions filmed. I don’t even want to be in the same room as a camera. My work methods are confidential and proprietary, meant only for the paying customer.”
“I’m not really up for being filmed, either,” Sandy said. He managed to sound polite.
Tess had expected more of a fight, but Melisandre dispatched her entourage immediately, clapping her hands as if she were some magical nanny. “She has a point, Harmony,” she said to the young woman. “Even if this won’t be shown for months, it’s probably not a good idea to provide insight into my security detail. You and Brian can take the plate of Danishes. I don’t want them.”
Did it even occur to Melisandre that others in the room might want them? Did she assume everything in the world was for her? Probably. Money could do that to a person. Money and beauty, and Melisandre Harris Dawes had plenty of both.
“What happened to your famed sweet tooth?” Tyner asked.
“I sometimes think it was overcome by one too many malva puddings in Cape Town. At any rate, I almost never eat sweet things anymore. Maybe it’s the change of life.”
“As if,” Tyner said. “You’re years away.”
Sandy wiped his hands on a napkin and introduced himself with a brisk handshake. Sandy was big on manners, downright lousy with manners. Tess had hired him for his investigative skills and police experience, but it didn’t hurt, having a male partner who could lay on the charm. Not in a smarmy way, but in a genuine, courtly way. Tess followed with the hearty, confident handshake that her father insisted was the key to success in all business ventures. Tyner kissed Melisandre’s proffered cheek, only to have her offer the other one. She had lived overseas for a while and her mother was British. Maybe it wasn’t entirely pretentious.
“So, cameras outside the hotel—and you decided to confront them,” Tyner said. But his tone wasn’t scolding, as it would have been with Tess.
“I decided to act like a human being, if that’s what you mean. I’ll never let anyone take my humanity away from me again. Let them take my photograph. It doesn’t steal one’s soul, quite the opposite.”
It was an interesting assertion, the kind of idea that Tess wanted to dissect, debate. If the public gaze didn’t affect one’s soul, it did transform and might even corrupt. But Melisandre Harris Dawes was paying by the hour—and at twice Tess’s usual rate. Tess had no desire to argue with the client that she and Sandy had privately dubbed the Windfall.
“I’m going to let my partner, Sandy, present the overview. I want to stipulate again that security is not our specialty, and your own bodyguard—I assume that was the man in black?—is probably better suited to some of the tasks you’ve assigned us. I appreciate your business, but there is a learning curve.”
“My bodyguard is too well suited,” Melisandre said. “To be in the security business is to be paranoid. I wanted a more pragmatic overview from someone who understands that I hope to live a somewhat normal life here in Baltimore. I have two daughters. I don’t want them to feel as if they’re shut up in a fortress.”
“Will your daughters be staying with you?”
Melisandre, who had arrived with an enormous Starbucks coffee, took a second to adjust herself—putting her coffee and purse down, arranging her wrap, picking up her coffee, taking a sip. Tess tried to total up the cost of her outfit, including the jewelry. The wrap, almost certainly cashmere, had been layered over a turtleneck and leggings, which were tucked into suede boots with the telltale red soles and five-inch spike heels. Three gold chains of varying lengths and sizes, with complementary drop earrings. Probably $5,000, $10,000 with the jewelry. On her back. There were people driving around Baltimore in cars worth less than what Melisandre was wearing. Tess had been one before
buying the minivan. Which carried a $450-a-month car payment—so, smile, suck it up. By the end of this meeting, she’d have covered most of this month’s payment.
“That remains to be seen,” Melisandre said. “I would like that, of course, but Alanna is a junior in high school, Ruby a freshman. They have lives of their own. Splitting their time between two houses may not suit them. Although my future home is probably more convenient than that strange house Stephen has built in the middle of nowhere.”
“Your ex-husband has sole custody, correct? At least, it’s my understanding that you surrendered your parental rights a decade ago.”
Tess watched Melisandre for her reaction. She pulled on her gold chains, pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, exposing a Patek Philippe watch. Okay, make that another ten thousand. Melisandre said nothing, but now Tess had her tell—the tug at the necklaces, the sleeve. That was what Melisandre Harris Dawes did when she was being evasive. Good to know. It was always good to know when people were being evasive.
Tess nodded for Sandy to begin. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and fixed his soulful green eyes on Melisandre. Tess had known from the moment she made eye contact with Sandy fifteen months ago that she would hire him. Those eyes made people want to talk. Getting someone to talk was not as important to a private investigator as it was to a homicide detective, but it couldn’t hurt to have a father confessor type on the payroll.
“I drove by and around your apartment building this morning,” Sandy said. “The building is relatively secure—all visitors are required to sign in. The public areas, such as the gym, are on controlled locks. So even if someone got past the front desk, they couldn’t, say, get into the gym. Okay, so worst-case scenario, someone is willing to, um, do harm to get past the front desk.”
“Do harm?” Melisandre echoed.
“Hurt other people. The elevator is open, but your apartment is the penthouse. No entry without a key card. And given the location, on a point of land with only two routes out of the neighborhood, access is pretty limited. I like that. Anyone who wants to give you trouble will have to calculate that getting away will present certain challenges.”
“Unless they come by boat,” Melisandre said.
Tess understood that she was joking, but a sense of humor was not one of Sandy’s strengths. “There’s really no place to dock nearby, so I’m not too worried about that. The garage does bug me, though. While it has an underground entrance, the public is allowed to use the bottom floor for parking for certain public services —the wine bar, the salon. Someone could definitely get to you in the garage.”
“I’ll have my bodyguard.” Said as carelessly as another person might have said: “I’ll have my umbrella.”
“I was allowed into the apartment after you closed, although there’s still some work being done,” Sandy said. “It is our recommendation that you put an alarm panel in every room. An alarm panel with a panic button.”
“No,” she said. “That would look hideous.”
Tess’s turn. She was the boss, after all. “For liability reasons, we’re going to prepare a written report that outlines every suggestion we make and we’ll ask that you sign a waiver, stating we’re not responsible in the event of a breach.”
Melisandre laughed. “A breach. I thought Tyner said you were a straight talker.”
“I’d forgotten the sound of your laugh,” Tyner said. “It’s still delightful.”
Am I too old to make a vomit noise? Tess wondered at her instant animosity toward this woman. Was it her money? Her relationship with Tyner? Or the fact of what she had done? The story had been legendary around the boathouse. But Tess hadn’t thought about it for years. A child’s death was different now, less abstract to her.
Melisandre kept her attention fixed on Tess. “Are you worried that I—or, more likely, my heirs—will sue you if someone hurts me?”
“It’s not unprecedented,” Tess said. “I cover the bases. For you, for myself. Besides, you seem to like legalities and penalties. I understand you wanted me to sign a nondisclosure clause, which is redundant given that you hired me via Tyner. He’s your lawyer. I work for him.”
“I like to have all the bases covered.”
Their frosty antichemistry seemed to make Tyner nervous. He jumped in.
“As you can see, Missy”—Tess caught the nickname, shot Tyner a look—“Tess has done a thorough job assessing your new home. It is not without risks. I know you’ve closed already. But I’m not sure this is the best place for you. A gated community would have been better.”
“I would never live in such a place. Besides, this is the best of the four-bedrooms I saw. And while my ex-husband may have abandoned the city, I’m still committed to it.”
“Do you really need that much space?” Tess asked. “It’s a gorgeous apartment, but it’s huge for one person.”
“I told you, it’s my hope that the girls will be spending a lot of time with me there, although Stephen and I have no formal agreement. He’s a little nervous about that kind of change.”
Tess’s restraint was hard-won, but she managed not to blurt out: “Hello? You killed one of his kids!” Yet Melisandre seemed to know what she was thinking. She had that way of looking deeply into someone’s eyes, but it didn’t promote the confiding feeling that Sandy’s gaze did. Melisandre’s look was probing, challenging. It put Tess in the mind of someone—or something—in a sci-fi movie, scanning her for weaknesses.
“I think Stephen knows I would never harm Alanna or Ruby. I left them in his care because I convinced myself it was in their best interests. And for ten years, I told myself that lie, every day. In Cape Town, my mother and I became close again, and when she died last year, I realized I had to try, if possible, to have a relationship with my daughters. That’s a profound change. The woman I used to be, the woman to whom Stephen was married, didn’t even like her mother that much. He doesn’t understand why I’ve come back and it unsettles him.”
“Do you think he finds it unsettling that you chose to buy an apartment in one of his buildings?”
“I told you—it’s the only one that meets all my criteria.”
Tess let an awkward silence build. She knew this wouldn’t bother Sandy at all. Sandy was great at silences, expert at using them. Nor did Melisandre seem discomfited by the absence of conversation. It was Tyner who blundered in, like a host at a dinner party that was dying a slow, awkward death.
“Do we need to talk about the notes? The ones you’ve been getting at the hotel?”
“Threatening notes?” This was Sandy. Tess tried to look as if she knew what was going on, but this was the first she had heard of something concrete. Tyner had told her this security overview was primarily to assure Melisandre’s ex that the girls would be safe. Did the ex know about the notes?
“Not exactly,” Melisandre said. “More like taunting ones. The theme, if you could call it that, is that someone is onto me, knows all about me. I didn’t even bother to bring them.”
“Any idea who might be writing them?”
Melisandre shook her head. “Only that it’s someone who knows me, at least a little. Or is very good at research. A few odd facts jump out—my boarding school nickname, Missy, which only a few truly close friends use.”
Yes, Tess thought. Tyner being one of them.
“That was never in the press,” Melisandre said. “But there are literally dozens of people who know it.”
“Could the notes be written by your ex or his wife?” Sandy asked.
“Stephen and I have a decent relationship, all things considered. The new wife— Well, not to be rude, but I’d be surprised if she’s clever enough. She was his physical trainer, I hear. I wasn’t around, but it’s my understanding that she landed her big fish quite expertly. But not, I think, via the power of the written word.”
An old commercial jingle ran through Tess’s head. Meow, meow, meow, meow. Meow, meow, meow, meow.
“Are you sure?” Tess asked.
“Sure that you have a good relationship with your ex?”
Again, that intense, measuring stare. It was like being sized up by a velociraptor. A not very hungry one, because a hungry one would snap you in half, while Melisandre seemed to be deciding whether Tess was even a worthy snack.
“Do you know what I am, Tess?”
“A woman with enough money to make a documentary about herself?”
Tyner looked as if he wanted to bang his head on the table or throttle Tess, but Melisandre was unruffled by her directness.
“I’m every woman’s worst nightmare. Because whenever a woman kills her child, every other mother—at least, every one who’s honest with herself—has a flash of sympathy. Not empathy. They don’t want to have done it, cannot imagine doing it. But they know.”
“I didn’t have a child when you”—Tess faltered, hated herself for showing that chink in her armor, and therefore had to double down on the active voice—“when you killed your child. But I can’t imagine that would ever be my reaction.”
“Wait and see, then,” Melisandre said. “Wait and see. Because it will happen again. It’s never going to stop happening. Filicide has been with us forever.”
“Do you even consider yourself guilty of filicide? You were found not guilty by reason of criminal insanity. You were beyond choices, rational thinking, right?”
Tess thought she had scored a point off Melisandre at last, but the woman’s smile appeared quite genuine. “Now, see? Wouldn’t that have been a lovely exchange to have on film? You’re a marvelous foil, Ms. Monaghan.”
11:15 A.M.
Felicia collapsed at the kitchen table with a glass of green iced tea and her laptop, overwhelmed by how much she needed to do, how little energy she had to do any of it. The house was quiet. At last. Mornings were horrible. Joey was usually up by five, six if Felicia was lucky, and just as he began to calm down, there was the chaos of Stephen and the girls leaving, which seemed to set Joey off. He was still getting up in the middle of the night, too, despite no longer needing to nurse at 2:00 and 4:00 A.M. Nine months old, sixteen pounds, and he still wasn’t sleeping through the night. Felicia had tried following the precepts of The Happiest Baby on the Block, she really had. Irony of ironies, this former personal trainer was a washout at sleep training. Felicia, who had literally made grown men cry for their own good, could not let her son cry it out for even five seconds.