Page 132 of Old Money
I pause at the edge of the club’s staff lot (technically off-limits to me now), then pull in and park in my usual spot. There are only a handful of cars here anyway. Even for a holiday, things are sleepy in Briar’s Green. The press is gone, and there’s only a smattering of tourists this year—the village’s historic lore dampened by the smack of current events. And after the full-tilt chaos of August, the villagers themselves have picked up and left in a huff for a nice long weekend of peace and quiet.
“A lot of them were specifically askednotto,” Jessie told me on the phone last night. “I know for a fact there were three no-shows at the station today.”
Jessie and I have kept in semiregular touch this past month,forming a cautious friendship. With Caitlin’s case now officially reopened, we both find ourselves in awkward, uncertain positions. Jessie’s technically on desk duty, though the only thing on her desk is a phone. I’m technically free to leave, though I’ve been asked (not ordered) to stay within the state. We’ve both been questioned by a cadre of investigators, and we’ll both likely face some sort of charge regarding the files she stole and I knowingly accepted. Depending on how things shake out, that could be the least of our worries, but for now, we’re just names on a long list of people who may or may not be important.
“Threeno-shows,” Jessie repeated. “Can you imagine?”
“If they were members? Sure.”
“Seriously? You can be jailed for failing to turn up for a scheduled interview.”
But they won’t be, I thought. It didn’t need to be said.
It doesn’t really bother me—a few entitled members flaking on their interviews. They’ll all go in eventually. They’re doing it right this time, bringing in every potential witness and anyone who can speak to Theo’s affect and behavior as a teenager: teachers, classmates—even our old neighbors.
***
Gordon Fairchild called me himself, two days after Theo surrendered. The cops hadn’t yet contacted him, but he was planning to go the station and volunteer his information.
“What little I have,” he’d added in a stilted voice. “But I felt I should tell you first.”
Gordon hadn’t known the truth in 1999. He’d been certain that Patrick was the killer and his father had covered for him.Thatwas the open secret, he thought, and he had every reason to. Patrick was a reckless little shit who crashed boats and drove around unlicensed and drunk—and at seventeen, he already had an unsavory reputation when it came to women (not just girls, butwomen). Gordon had no trouble believing, and he got all the proof he needed when Whit Yates himself turned up tothreaten him over his tell-all book deal. The Yateses were the ones to fear, as far as Gordon knew, and he’d been consumed by it.
“I was looking over my shoulder, always,” he told me. “Looking forthem, you understand? Never at anyone else.”
By the timeA Death on the Hudsoncame out in the summer of 2002, Gordon was, in his words, “a full-time paranoid drunk.” He’d stopped going to the club long ago, though his wife, Vivian, continued to play doubles every week with her longtime tennis friends—until the day his book came out, and they’d simply not shown up. Both Fairchilds were outcasts in the village now, and estranged from each other at home. Thus, despite his book’s success, Gordon was living in isolated panic, holed up in his office with his liquor most of the day.
“I only left the house because the damn dog made me,” he said. “This was two dogs ago—our first sheepdog, Hal. He was a nuisance about his morning walk. So, that much I’d do.”
Gordon stuck to the neighborhood, never going farther than a few streets past his own. He went out in the early hours, when no one else was out, save for the occasional jogger or bleary-eyed teenager heading to swim practice. At that time of day, there was no risk of conversation or even a wave. If you saw someone more than once, you might exchange a nod. It was safe.
High Top Road was part of his regular route that summer, and Theo—home from college and working at the local garden center—was one of the kids he’d nod at. Gordon barely knew his name, and had no idea of his connection to Caitlin. He only recognized him because of the green T-shirt and khaki shorts Theo wore to work every day.
One day though, Gordon went out even earlier. He’d been up all night, unable to knock himself out, and the dog had started pestering him before the sun was even up. It was just past daybreak when he turned the corner and trudged onto High TopRoad. Gordon had paused at the sight of Theo—the green-shirt kid—standing in his driveway. Except he wasn’t wearing his green shirt. He was still in his boxers. Even stranger, he was holding something in his hands—a suit jacket, all crumpled up.
“It was the strangest thing. He was trying to tear it apart. He had one of the arms out in his fist, trying to pull it off. It was such an odd sight, it stopped me in my tracks. He was out by the trash bins—that’s why, it must’ve been trash day. I couldn’t see his face at first—he was turned sideways—but I suppose he must’ve heard me. He turned all of a sudden and gasped. And his face—I can hardly describe it. I thought he might scream, honest to God.”
Gordon tugged the dog’s leash and walked back home. Vivian was in the kitchen making coffee.
“I said, ‘I saw the strangest thing just now.’ And I told her about it—the suit, his face. Things were cool between us then. We weren’t talking much—just day-to-day business. But she stopped what she was doing and looked right at me and said, ‘The boy on High Top? Wiley?’ I told her yeah. She didn’t say anything—just stood there, holding the box of filters. Then she came over and put her arms around me—she called me ‘honey.’ That stopped me in my tracks too.”
Then Vivian sat Gordon down at the breakfast table, and told him about the rumors she’d heard around the club—back when she was still going to the club.
“It hadn’t come out right away. You know how those people are—all that riddle-speak and ‘pas d’avant.’ But it did emerge, in bits and pieces. So-and-so saw him leave the clubhouse, others saw him coming back from the pool. Vivian told me someone—I don’t know who, but someone had seen him in the powder room, holding his jacket over the sink. Scrubbing at it—a spot of something, I suppose.”
I asked Gordon to stop there. He’d started to apologize, and I said no, it wasn’t that. I wanted every detail, but I had to absorbthese details first. Sometimes you need the truth in bits and pieces.
***
That’s what I’m doing now—gathering the bits and pieces. I have no deadline or agenda anymore, and I admit, it’s a strange feeling to walk around without an axe to grind. It still dawns on me at least once a day—while sitting at a red light or rinsing my hair in the shower—that I’m not the child witness anymore. I’m the adult sister. I’m the one who got it wrong. I suppose I’m the one who finally got it right too. Which of those things matters most? I don’t know yet. I’m between identities.
The whole story is being rewritten now, quite literally. “A Blue-Blooded Killing in Briar’s Green” now has an italicized clause beneath the headline:
This story does not reflect recent developments regarding the death of Caitlin Dale. Certain statements may be factually inaccurate or lacking in relevant detail. Please refer to current coverage on our homepage.
There’s a similar caveat edited into each episode ofThe Club Kid, and the hosts have announced a new season starting next month, featuring new guest interviews and ongoing updates on “this story’s shocking new chapter.” As of now, I will not be one of those interviewed guests. Again, nobody’s told me Ican’tspeak to the press (yet), but I don’t need to be told. The story may be ongoing, and it could be for years—Theo could spend the rest of his life in and out of court—but in terms of the public narrative, it’s pretty clear how things are shaping up. Right now, the general consensus is that it was obvious: Patrick was an easy target—a victim of his family’s name and notoriety—while Theo was the stealthy villain in disguise, who played the underdog for political gain.Hewas the favored son of Briar’s Green all along. He was the one they were protecting.
“Hogwash,” Barbara said when I told her. “They were protecting themselves.”
