Page 22 of Old Money
“Pretty sure you do know this one.”
And immediately, I do.
Chapter Ten
“Ms. Wiley,” says Mr. Brody. “What a pleasant surprise to see you again, here.”
He sits behind his desk in a high-backed wooden chair, unblinking and still.
“I don’t think I’ve actually been in your office.”
I titter under my breath—a pathetic, mousy sound, but Mr. Brody makes every human nervous. It’s basically his job.
“Not quite what I meant,” he says. “Do come in though.”
I cross the threshold of his dusty lair, the air turning suddenly cooler and damp. Mr. Brody’s office is on the subterranean level—the downstairs hall, most members call it. It’s a long, low-ceilinged corridor running from one end of the clubhouse to the other, mirroring the gallery above (but with shabbier carpeting and fluorescent lights). On the north end is the door to the women’s locker room, and the exit toward the tennis courts. On the south end is the men’s, and the exit toward the pool. Mr. Brody’s office sits tucked discreetly in between them, the door unmarked and painted to match the grove-green walls.
The room appears to have been modeled after the library upstairs, with two floor-to-ceiling walls of bookshelves, and everything painted the same flat, nearly black navy. It looks crisp and sophisticated in the large, tidy library, but down here it just makes it feel more like a cave they’ll find your bones in. Mr. Brody’s office is five decades of messes layered on top of eachother. Every surface is covered with old papers and ledgers, and my throat is already tickling with dust.
“I understand you’re here to ‘streamline’ us,” Mr. Brody says as I sit in his creaky guest chair. “Oh, no need, dear.”
He makes a lifting gesture—which, for some reason, I obey, leaping to my feet and standing silent and appalled. Mr. Brody smiles without teeth, then continues.
“I can’t speak for the rest of the staff,” he says, touching a hand to his chest. “But my system is quite all right as is.”
I seriously beg to differ. Good luck finding anything in this pit.
***
The truth is I had hoped to do just that. I’d been counting on it. I have a list of my own—a running tally of places and people to search for evidence, and Mr. Brody is near the top. He may be a figurehead now, but in 1999, he really did run the show. He approved every new hire, inspected each menu and table-setting, and personally supervised every club party. The Christmas Revel, the Hunter’s Ball, even the annual ice cream social for children twelve and under—Mr. Brody would be there, standing guard outside the ballroom door, surveilling the merriment with a resolute scowl. “Dear Mr. Brody,” my aunt Barbara used to say. “Always keeping us on our p’s and q’s.”
It wasn’t just the staff he kept tabs on, and it wasn’t just at parties. Day or night, Brody was the first to flag a dress-code violation, or catch kids sneaking into shuttered dining rooms to practice Britney Spears choreography (Susannah and I were busted, twice). He could sniff out a disruptive drunk at a dinner before they got out of hand, and swiftly dispatch a server over with a tray of petits fours—the tacit signal that someone at the table had perhaps had enough.
And at the big parties, which started with cocktails and ended in blackouts, he kept the chaos contained. People didn’t roam much during cold-weather gatherings, preferring the fire-warmed ballrooms to the rest of the drafty clubhouse. But at summer parties, with all doors flung wide, Mr. Brody kept aclose eye on comings and goings—especially on guests of particular value and/or concern: A-list members, known troublemakers and teenagers. In July 1999, Patrick Yates was all three. I imagine Mr. Brody had eyes on him all night.
I don’t expect him to tell me anything. He was one of the few staffers the police interviewed about Caitlin’s death, and he clearly didn’t tellthemanything—in fact, I’m almost certain he lied. Brody guards the club members because he worships them. He’s built his life around his role as their most trusted servant. And the members do trust him. About that much I’m certain. Each December there’s a quiet flurry of traffic outside his door as one by one they slip inside to deliver his Christmas card, always visibly thick with cash. Some are thicker than others, but everyone gives him a card. Everyone knows Mr. Brody holds the literal keys to the clubhouse—he’s the only one with a set. Everyone knows he’s the club’s de facto record keeper, and writes everything down. And here’s another thing we all know, though I’ve no idea why: Mr. Brody’s door is the only one that’s ever locked.
I know he’s got something in here—some incriminating record or scrap of evidence. I’d pictured it tidily locked away in a drawer or safe—secure but close at hand, like an insurance policy. I’ll admit, I got the “tidy” partquitewrong.
Mr. Brody clears his throat with a performative littleahem, and I snap back to attention.
“I don’t want to interfere,” I say, hearing myself shift into the formal tense that he prefers. “Perhaps you could walk me through it. Your system.”
“Not necessary,” Mr. Brody shoots back.
“Right, we’ll start with your computer.” I glance at the monitor, unplugged and shunted to the side of the desk. “When did you last update it?”
He shakes his head.
“Computers are for losing things.”
“Mr. Brody,” I say, tilting my head and folding my hands in front of me—a fighter’s stance in Mr. Brody’s world. “I dounderstand your reticence, but we will have to get things a bit more organized.”
I glance at a stack of ledgers beside his desk, the lowest ones buckling, their bindings dry and beginning to crack.
“I’m afraid Jamie’s insisted,” I finish simply.
“Then he’s mistaken,” Mr. Brody replies, standing as he speaks. This is my signal to retreat politely (and quickly), or risk never being allowed through the door again.
