Page 89 of Old Money
The air goes rigid in the silence that follows. The tiny muscles around my mouth begin to quiver, and I can’t stop them. I would rather set my hair on fire than cry in front of Mr. Brody—this vile, poisoned, pathetic man—but already, the tears are trembling in my vision, one blink away from spilling. And Mr. Brody sits there waiting like a proud conjurer.
“But—” Jamie says beside me, cracking the quiet. “But then you did lie.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Or else you’re lying now,” Jamie says. “You’re saying you were somewhere else—in the subbasement, the kitchen, far away from the party. But when the police asked—”
“No.” I grasp Jamie’s forearm, my head whipping back to Brody. “Not lying. You’re just not telling the truth again.”
It really is an elegant trick: scolding us for making assumptions he wants us to make. Answering the questions exactly as asked. I easily could have missed it. But I’ve seen this trick before.
Mr. Brody shuts his eyes heavily, in a great show of exhaustion, before launching into a half-hearted rebuttal that I don’t even hear.
“They asked if you saw Patrick leave,” I interject—softly, patiently, knowing he knows what’s coming. “You said yes.”
Chapter Forty
Mr. Brody stops talking, but he doesn’t look up. His eyes stay downcast as he gives a stagy laugh, feigning incredulity.
“You said yes,” I repeat, waiting.
“Ms. Wiley,” Brody begins. But then—nothing. His sentence stalls out.
“ ‘I may have been in the kitchen,’ ” I say, repeating his line back to him. “But you weren’t, were you? You were somewhere else.”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps his eyes down—as though I can’t tell from the rest of his body. He’s caught and cornered, no choices left but one: Will he surrender, or go down fighting?
“You did see Patrick,” I say, prompting him. “Just not in the gallery. You saw him somewhere else.”
Mr. Brody doesn’t speak. Instead, his chin drops to his chest.
“Brody,” Jamie murmurs softly, as stunned as I am.
I walked in half-expecting to be outmatched by Mr. Brody. Even as an adult, I couldn’t quite shake the childish belief in his all-seeing, all-knowing power. But now I get it. He’s just a petty fake, clinging to his sense of superiority. He withholds answers because you don’t deserve them—you didn’t ask the questions right. He’s no mighty ruler; he’s the man behind the curtain. It’s about time someone rips it clean off.
“Were you in the locker room?” Jamie asks, taking a step forward. “Or on the grounds somewhere? It was eight thirty, right?”
I nod silently. Patrick left the ballroom around 8:30 p.m. That timing is certain, based on what I saw, what Theo saw and even the statements taken on the scene, from the otherwise tight-lipped members. I read through the notes on Jessie’s drive, appalled by how similar their vague “recollections” were phrased:He was there when the band began playing, but all the young folks had vanished by the time they took their break. Teenagers.Never a dull moment.
“You were on the terrace,” I say, my gaze refocusing. “It’s got to be that.”
“The terrace,” Jamie murmurs to himself. “I didn’t even think.”
I never would’ve put it together either, were it not for those bland, scattered statements on Jessie’s drive. It was one of those invisible, unacknowledged tasks that brought Brody out onto terrace—the kind of thing no one thinks of when they picture an aging butler.
While Mr. Brody shifts alongside the party as it progresses, the waitstaff follows behind it. With the first three ballrooms emptied out, they shut the interior doors for cleanup. Since the ballrooms are visible from the terrace, they need to be tidy before the party moves out there for fireworks. It’s always struck me as such a silly, draconian rule that I know it must be Mr. Brody’s.
“You stepped out to check their progress, right?” I demand. “To watch the cleanup from the terrace?”
“That is my role, Ms. Wiley,” Brody says, his jaw so tight it sounds like he’s speaking through a mask. “Supervision.”
“Right.” I think of Aunt Barbara’s words. “You keep everyone on their p’s and q’s.”
I see the club in my mind’s eye again, lighting up like a dollhouse: Mr. Brody stands watching at the terrace railing. The staff hurries to tidy the ballrooms. The sky darkens from duskto full dark, and down in the basement, Patrick leaves the clubhouse through the north exit.
And then what?I think.Which way did he go?
I move the figure of Patrick around, trying to place him within Brody’s sight line. He couldn’t have taken the slate steps down the hill—he’d have been virtually invisible, especially in a black suit.
