Page 36 of Old Money
I stop, cringing at the floor. Fake plans? We never did that bullshit. It fills me with such aching sadness that I want to sit and weep on the spot. Instead, I turn around and lie politely back to her, because that’s the normal thing to do.
“That would be great.”
***
Mr. Brody greets me from behind his newspaper.
“Good morning, Ms. Wiley. I’d invite you in, but you don’t typically require an invitation.”
I’m never actually “due” at Mr. Brody’s. I make a point of showing up at random, in the hopes of catching him away from his desk—so I can finally have it. Thus far, it’s been a wildly unsuccessful tactic. I always arrive the moment he happens to be taking a break with his paper or catching up on bookkeeping. I then huddle in the corner with my scanner and laptop, converting his useless papers into useless PDFs, while he sits at his desk, contentedly guarding it like a mother hen.
This morning though, I have a better idea.
“I’d like to finish these menus today,” I tell him, surveying the shelves in question. “Then move on to table seatings.”
“I daresay you won’t have time.”
“Daresay I might, if I devote the day to it.”
Jamie wants me out of sight. What better place to tuck myself away?
Mr. Brody lowers the newspaper, a look of unmasked annoyance on his face.
“I’m afraid not, Ms. Wiley. I’ve allowed this invasion, but I can’t have you loitering all day.”
I shrug.
“The sooner I’m through these, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”
He launches into some retort, but I cut him off.
“Anyway, it’s busy upstairs today, what with the walk-through.”
Mr. Brody’s mouth freezes, then shuts.
“The wedding walk-through?” I say. “Patrick and Susannah arrived at nine.”
“At nine o’clock this morning?” Mr. Brody says, springing to his feet.
“Yes, I assumed you knew,” I say, maintaining a tone of mild confusion. “The Yateses should’ve joined by now.”
He folds his newspaper with an exasperated sigh, his decorum slipping in his irritation.
“Strange that I’m the one in need of ‘organizing,’ ” he scoffs, straightening his vest and examining himself in the small mirror beside his desk. “Your old friend Jamie can’t seem to schedule an appointment without informing all relevant parties. Perhaps if he actually wrote things down.”
With that, Mr. Brody storms out to go barge into the walk-through—to which I’m sure he was deliberatelynotinvited.
Alone at last with his desk, I jump into action, pulling out drawers. I’m being sloppy—he’ll know I was rummaging—but I can’t risk taking time to be careful. He could come back at any moment, and if he catches me in the act then the club will actually have a good reason to fire me. The desk is a heavy old oak piece, big as a ship and full of compartments. I tear through the smaller ones at the top, finding nothing but old golf pencils,paper clips and dust. I lean down and pull out a slightly larger drawer, which is full of blank printer paper, dry and crinkled at the edges.
A pair of voices approach in the hallway, and I freeze. The conversation passes, and then I hear the distant clunk of the north exit door swinging shut. I pivot in Brody’s squeaking chair and reach for the largest drawer—my hand pausing as I notice the keyhole at the top. My heart sinks. I kick myself for being disappointed over something I should have anticipated. There’s only one key for this lock, I’m sure, and it’s upstairs in Mr. Brody’s pocket. Just for the hell of it, I reach down and yank the handle.
The drawer flies open with a heavy clang. I clap my hand to my mouth, looking down at the row of leatherbound books, the slim spines face-up in a neat line. No dust on these ones.
I lift one out slowly. My heart beats in my ears as I open it. It’s a diary, and it’s not new. The first entry is dated March 10, 2001.
G.A.’s dinner guests included H.W. and D.T. Charlie informed me of the latter’s late arrival, approximately 8:40 p.m., and I—
I skim the rest of the page: a dry but specific play-by-play of a private dinner party, beginning with cocktails in the bar and ending with cigars in the library, before the guests left shortly before midnight, in various makes and models of cars. I have no idea whose initials these are, or why their dinner was relevant, let alone their cars. I flip ahead, scanning the next entry and the one after that. There has to be something. Whatever’s in these books must have been important enough for Mr. Brody to keep them in his desk for eighteen years.But not important enough to lock?
