The Hand on the Wall(56)

“Jim is busy,” David replied. “Jim isn’t here to do your bidding.”

“David,” she said, wheeling around in front of him. “Please. Look. I know. You’re pissed at me. But this is important.”

“Why?”

“Because if there is a codicil, it means there is a motive. It means there is money. I need to see it.”

“I mean, why is this important to me,” he clarified. “I know you said not everything is about me, but . . .”

“Seriously?” Stevie replied.

“And if I find something? What if I said I would do it for you if you left me alone?”

“What?”

“I’ll do what you want,” he said. “I’ll reply. I’ll help you get your information. But you and I, that’s it. We don’t talk anymore.”

“What kind of a weird request is that?” she said, her throat tightening.

“It’s not weird. It’s really straightforward. My dad gave you something you wanted in order for you to come back and watch over me. So I’m giving you something similar. I want to know which is more important. Me, or what I can do for you?”

It felt like the Great House was tilting to the side.

“Taking a long time to decide,” he said.

“I don’t think it’s fair.”

“Fair?” he replied.

“You’re saying this while you are, right now, having other people go through your dad’s stuff. Which you stole.”

“To stop him from getting more powerful.”

“And I’m trying to find out what happened to Hayes, to Ellie, to Fenton.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Yes,” Stevie snapped. “It is.”

“Because it sort of looks like you want more dirt for your pet project.”

It was the words pet project that did it. A kind of blue-white rage came up behind her eyes.

“I want the information,” she said.

David smiled that long, slow smile—the smile that said, “I told you this is how the world works.”

“Okay,” he said chirpily. “Let’s write a nice note.”

The note poured forth with surprising speed. David spoke under his breath as he typed. Perhaps this was what it had been like when Francis and Eddie composed their Truly Devious note, head to head:

The senator regards anything involving his son as his business. This is why the senator donated a private security system to assist you after your recent issues. I need not remind you that two students have died at the school and the senator’s son ran off while under your supervision. The senator would like to know of any potential issues that may arise due to your negligence; this includes any publicity having to do with the historical issues of the school. We felt this was a polite way of getting information, but if you wish for us to take more legal action, we will do so.

Regards,

J. Malloy

“There,” he said. “I knew all the years I spent around these choads would pay off. Your note. And now, we’re done.”

He hit send, then he turned and walked back toward their camping room.





April 13, 1937


MONTGOMERY, THE BUTLER, PRESIDED OVER THE MORNING’S SIDEBOARD with his usual taciturn efficiency. The house still turned out a good and ample breakfast, with great lashings of the famous Vermont syrup gently warmed by a spirit lamp. There was enough food to feed twenty guests, but the four people at the table wanted very little of it. Flora Robinson sipped at a cup of coffee from the delicate fairy rose pattern that Iris had chosen. Robert Mackenzie was going through the morning mail. George Marsh hid behind a newspaper. Leonard Holmes Nair made a few stabs at his half of a grapefruit, none of them fatal.

“Do you think he’ll come down this morning?” he asked the group.

“I think so,” Flora replied. “We need to act as normal as possible.”

Leo was polite enough not to laugh at this suggestion.

It had been exactly one year since the kidnapping. One year of searching and waiting and pain . . . one year of denial, violence, and some acceptance. There was an unspoken agreement that the word anniversary would never be spoken.

The door to the breakfast room swung open, and Albert Ellingham came in, dressed in a light gray suit, looking strangely well rested.

“Good morning,” he said. “I apologize for my lateness. I was on the telephone. I thought we might . . .”

He eyed the breakfast suspiciously, as if he had forgotten what food was for. He often had to be reminded to eat.

“. . . I thought we might all go for a trip today.”

“A trip?” Flora said. “Where?”

“To Burlington. We’ll take the boat out. We’ll stay in Burlington for the night. I’ve had the house there made ready. Could you be ready to go in an hour?”

There was only one answer to give.

As they stepped out to the waiting car, Leo saw four trucks rumbling up the drive, two full of men, and two full of dirt and rocks.

“What’s going on, Albert?” Flora asked.

“Just a bit of work,” Albert said. “The tunnel under the lake is . . . unnecessary. There is no lake. Best to have it filled in.”