The Good Twin(35)

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s an extraordinary example of American Beaux-Arts design. It’s something to see just by itself, but there’s an exhibit going on now of paintings by the artist Angela Fraleigh. I don’t know if you’ve heard of her?”

I hadn’t, but there were so many talented artists that I was still learning about.

“Well, this exhibit consists of portraits of female heads, seen from behind. From what I understand, there’s not a lot written about the women who lived at Vanderbilt, and these paintings are supposed to reflect their elusiveness. I always see you drawing people, and I thought you’d enjoy it.”

We pulled into the parking lot, and Jake purchased tickets for us.

“I usually come here in the spring and summer to look at the gardens. They’re exquisite,” Jake said.

It seemed that was a word that could be used over and over at this site. Everything was exquisite. The mansion, built between 1896 and 1899 by wealthy industrialist Frederick Vanderbilt on six hundred acres of riverfront property, had fifty-four rooms. He and his wife, Louise, had used it as a vacation home. The paintings, by Ms. Fraleigh, were exquisite in their simplicity—pared down to four elements: background, hair, skin, and clothing. There was no reference to class and no way to discern whether the women were wealthy or servants. Even without the gardens in bloom, the grounds—especially the view of the Catskill Mountains across the Hudson River—were breathtaking.

As I walked through the lavishly furnished rooms of the mansion and strolled the manicured grounds, all purchased by a man with extraordinary wealth, I kept thinking to myself, I wonder if he was happy?



We left the mansion a little after one, then drove up the road a little farther to the Culinary Institute of America.

“Here’s my second surprise,” Jake said.

“You’re going to give me a cooking lesson?”

He laughed. “No, silly. The student chefs here practice in restaurants open to the public. One’s French, one’s Italian, and we’re eating in the one called American Bounty. It’s a farm-to-table restaurant, using locally grown ingredients.” We walked inside, he gave the ma?tre d’ his name, and we were led to our table. We spent the next hour and a half over a leisurely lunch, chatting easily, laughing often.

When Jake dropped me off back home, I felt overcome with a feeling of sadness. In a few days, I would pack my belongings and return to Manhattan. I knew I’d miss this house. I’d come to think of it as my own. Or in my dreamworld, the lovely country cottage where I’d return after my travels abroad. I would hate leaving it, especially so because it meant leaving Jake as well. He’d been so kind to me and had helped make the past few months go by quickly. I would miss him the most.





CHAPTER 25

Ben paced throughout the townhouse all day Saturday. He’d hoped to find the phone under the welcome mat outside his rear entrance by Saturday morning, the afternoon the latest. Now, it was Saturday evening, and still nothing.

Was it possible Mallory’s concerns about Clark had been justified? Had he taken Ben’s money and then . . . and then . . . he couldn’t figure what. Charly was gone, so he must have taken her. Was she negotiating with him for her life? Offering to double, maybe triple, his fee? Or had they both hightailed it to the police, who would show up any moment to arrest him? No, he was being paranoid. Clark needed to make sure her body would never be discovered. He’d probably just driven some distance to ensure it. That must be it. Tomorrow, the pictures would be waiting for him. They had to be.

He fixed himself a double Scotch, downed it in two gulps, then poured another. He turned on the TV and sipped it slowly. Yes, he was just being paranoid.



Sunday morning, there were still no pictures. He was finding it hard to breathe. After pacing back and forth over the living room rug for an hour, he knew he needed to get out of the house. Waiting was making him sick. He called Lisa. “Can I come over?” he asked.

“You’re never here on Sundays. Where’s Charly?”

“At her father’s, going through his papers.”

“I was going to meet a friend for lunch today.”

“Cancel.”

She hesitated then, and with her voice soft, said, “Ben, maybe’s it’s time we moved on from this. You have a wife. You should be with her. She needs you now.”

“NO!” Ben shouted into the phone. “Not now. Don’t do this now. I need you.”

Another hesitation, then a sigh. “Okay. Come over.”



It was dark by the time Ben returned home, and the first thing he did was make a beeline to the back door. He lifted up the doormat and froze. Still nothing. If it didn’t arrive by the morning, he would need to have Mallory call Sandy, Charly’s assistant at the gallery, and beg off coming in. The flu or some such. How could it not be here? Something had to have gone wrong. Did they go to the police? Am I being watched right now? Or did Charly convince him to turn the tables, to kill me instead? Ben thought about calling Jeff Mullin; maybe he knew what Clark was up to. He had his hand on his phone when he stopped. Maybe they’re already tapping my phone? Maybe they’re waiting to hear me admit my involvement? He put his phone away. He took out the good Scotch this time—the Glenlivet—and filled the crystal tumbler, then kept refilling it until he passed out on the couch.