Page 25 of Old Money
“Oh wait!” Jamie exclaimed, grabbing Caitlin’s wrist as she passed. “I need to give you a token!”
“Ow!” Caitlin yelped suddenly. “You’re hurting me!”
She yanked her arm back, rolling her wrist and giving Jamie a wide-eyed stare.
“What thehell, Jamie,” I hissed.
He sputtered wordlessly, looking back at her with abject alarm.
“I didn’t—” Jamie’s voice came out raspy. “I’m sorry.”
He inhaled sharply and I realized he was on the verge of tears. And then the tears appeared, shimmering in his eyes.
“All good,” Caitlin said in a cool tone. “We’ve got to get back.”
She put an arm around my shoulders, pulling me along.
“Alice,” she said in a stage whisper. “That’s not your little boyfriend, is it?”
“What?” I spit back, glancing over my shoulder where Jamie stood, still well within earshot.
Then I realized—that was the point.
“God,” I answered, projecting with all my might. “Noway.”
Caitlin squeezed my shoulder, suppressing a laugh as I shouted in her face.
“Good.”
The crowd was moving now, the party migrating into the yellow ballroom for cocktail hour.
“I can’tbelievehim,” I said, speaking normally again. “Is your wrist okay?”
“Hmm?” She looked at her arm, then smiled. “Oh no, that’s just my little trick. Some guys can’t take a hint, you know?”
I had no idea. A hint about what?
“Totally,” I said.
Caitlin side-eyed me, amused. She dropped her hand from my shoulder and gave me another confidential little pinch above the elbow.
“Just remember,” she said. “They scare easy.”
Chapter Twelve
Ipull up to the police station ten minutes into my lunch break, pleased to find the visitor’s lot empty (Quel surprise, says Caitlin’s voice in my head). Theo and Jules have loaned me their beat-up Volkswagen for the summer. The “grocery-store car” they call it—not because it’s the color of a hothouse tomato, but because it can’t be trusted for more than local errands. It brings a smile to my face, parking this red, rumbly eyesore outside village PD. I must admit, I’m smiling a lot more than I expected today.
Mr. Brody sulked in silence all morning, scribbling and shuffling papers on his desk while I sorted through two rows of ledgers on his shelves. He’ll answer direct questions, but as far as his “system” goes, it seems I’m on my own to figure it out. Three hours in, I started to worry I’d been wrong about him keeping secrets. All I’d found were a dozen old address books, a wine inventory and some mail that had fallen behind the books. I dropped the Discover card offer on his desk and told him I’d be back after lunch.
Walking away from the office, it dawned on me that he hadn’t left it once. Mr. Brody is usually everywhere—a constant presence in the clubhouse, gliding from room to room like a specter. He’d left the members unattended all morning—unheard of—just to keep an eye on me.
I still don’t know what he has, but clearly it’s in there, and it’s worth guarding. All this, and it’s only my first day.
***
The police department is not exempt from the village’s strict aesthetic codes. From the outside it looks like a woodland cottage. Gabled roof, white dormer windows, an oil lamppost. No garish floodlights here, thank you, and no security cameras on the facade—in the lobby, if you must.
I breeze into the station, greeting the young officer at the desk with a “hello” so cheery that I startle myself. I pause in the doorway, about to apologize for startlingher, when the officer breaks into a wide smile and replies in an even brighter voice.
