Page 88 of Old Money
“I have to ask you some questions about the July Fourth party in 1999,” I continue, spilling it all out in one breath. “The night my cousin Caitlin died.”
I let it hang in the air, taking in Mr. Brody’s placid gaze. He doesn’t move. He just looks back.
“Ms. Wiley,” he begins, inserting one of his performativeahems.“You are neither a member of this club, nor a full-time employee. As such—”
“Sorry, no,” I cut him off. “I know you withheld information from the police. I’d like you to give it to me.”
Mr. Brody’s face doesn’t change. But his head does. He tiltsit forward slightly, his eyes fixed on mine. It’s so quiet that I can hear the faint wheeze in Jamie’s nose with every rapid breath. I didn’t think I had more adrenaline in me, but every inch of my body is wide-awake and rattling.
“Pardon?” Mr. Brody says.
“You were standing in the gallery, outside the pink room,” I say flatly. “Not in it.”
Mr. Brody remains still, head bent. Silence swells in the room.
“Come on,” I press, slipping for a moment, getting loud instead of firm. “I’m not saying you lied outright.”
“I should hope not,” Mr. Brody interjects, quiet and clipped.
“You just didn’t correct the assumption,” I continue. “You were by the back stairs when he left the party. You would’ve seen him leave,andwhich way he went.”
Mr. Brody holds steady, taking his time to reply. First, he just lifts a finger.
“Couldhave,” he corrects. “You’ve made an assumption too.”
I seize up again. He’s right. I’m assuming Mr. Brody looked to see which way Patrick went. But I think it’s an accurate assumption.
“You’re telling me that Patrick Yates walks out of the party, and you don’t even turn your head?”
Mr. Brody breaks into a polite smile. “My dear, whatever you’ve gone a-hunting for, it’s not hidden in my cupboard.”
I ignore his fairy-tale riddle-speak and hold my face neutral and unreactive. I can do that trick too.
“That was indeed a terrible night in our history.”
Brody puts a hand to his chest.Our history, it seems to say.Not yours.
“But it was many years ago. I mean no disrespect to that unfortunate young woman.” He nods soberly. “Or to you. But again, you assume too much of me.”
I run his answer through my head again. Is it me or did he have it just a bit too handy? The little nod, that pat on thechest—and how smoothly it slid right out. This from the man who snapped over a screw-up with the punch yesterday.
“What’s that then?” I ask. “My assumption.”
I’m stalling—playing for time while I suss out the bullshit.
“Well,” Mr. Brody begins, all too happy to expound. “Firstly, that I can recall the details of a party hosted twenty years ago, the very moment you barge into my office. Secondly, that I can track the whereabouts of each member in attendance on a given night. Sadly, my dear, I am not omnipotent. More’s the pity.”
It’s coming to me in glimpses, the way it did when I read the text of Brody’s interview—the truth glinting between the lines. I just can’t quite make out its shape.
“Fine. You didn’t see where Patrick went,” I say, still stalling. Another minute and it’ll click. “He passed you on the way out and you—you were just looking in the wrong direction.”
Mr. Brody’s smug smile curls into a sneer.
“Are you under the impression that is what a butler does? Simply stands beside the party like a house cat?” he snarls. “That is indeed what the officers thought—why they asked such inane questions. I imagined you knew better, but perhaps I overestimate you. Are you so ignorant, Ms. Wiley, that you assume my work extends only to the parts you see with your own two eyes?”
Mr. Brody waits, daring me to answer. I couldn’t if I wanted to. Jamie remains dead silent.
“I wasn’t in the gallery at that very moment, Alice,” Mr. Brody continues, his voice raised and rapid. “I’ve no idea where I was, in fact, because there are countless tasks with which I am charged during a party. Perhaps I was orchestrating dessert service in the kitchen, or reassuring the bandleader that there’d be no further disruptions by silly girls with silly song requests—quite a few that night, I recall. I do remember making a trip to the subbasement for an extra case of gin. True, that sort of errand usually falls to the barmen, but I’m certainly not abovehelping when staff is overburdened. Regardless, I assure you, I spent very little time in the corridor, ‘just looking’ at the guests.”
