Page 94 of Old Money
Chapter Forty-Two
Iwake up early on Friday morning, my eyes snapping open at the unfamiliar sound of Jamie’s quiet, humming snore. I look over my shoulder at him, sound asleep with an arm slung over his eyes. I hold still and watch him for a long moment, part of me still astonished by the sight of Jamie Burger’s bare arm and bedsheets, let alone the fact that I am waking up in them. Surprised in a good way—a giggly way. I smirk at the ceiling, imagining the look Susannah would give me.You what?!
That brings me back to earth. I blink away the image, angry at my own careless subconscious. I sit up and ease out of the bed, properly awake now. I gather my things from the floor and dresser as I make my way out of the bedroom. I back out slowly, one hand on the doorknob, watching Jamie’s still, sleeping form.Later, I think.He’ll understand. My gaze drops to the mottled cast of bruising on his ribs, visible even in the dim room. I pull the door shut silently. He knows I have things to do.
I take a hasty shower in Jamie’s cramped bathroom, put on yesterday’s outfit and twist my hair into a wet bun. The apartment is still quiet when I step out and sit at the little round dining table to put on my shoes. There’s a small pile of mail on the glass tabletop, and I grab one of the envelopes and scribble out a quick note:
Went to knock on G.F.’s door. Text me when you’re up, and I’ll come back to help with rental car, etc. —A
I hover over the page, wondering if it reads too businesslike. Maybe I should scratch out the “etc.” and throw in an exclamation mark? Then I drop the pen on the table and force myself to leave it. Things to do, bigger fish to fry, etc.
***
Gordon Fairchild is indeed a big fish, this summer at least. He was big in the summer of 2002 too, whenA Death on the Hudsonfirst came out, but his star never rose further in the intervening years. He’d succeeded in profiting on Caitlin’s death, but evidently bungled the chance to capitalize on his own successful book—the first and last he ever published.
Caitlin’s death was always going to be a story, and afterVanity Fair’s “Blue-Blooded Killing” piece and the initial blast of news coverage, it became a big story. But it was Gordon’s book that ensured itstayeda story—the kind that ebbs and flows in the zeitgeist, fading into the background for years then having a comeback, but never actually ending. It was always right there in the bookstore—rarely on display, but always available somewhere betweenHelter SkelterandIn Cold Blood. I’ve only skimmed two chapters, but I’m confident in saying it has no business hanging out with either of those books.
I picked it up in River Road Books last week, and hid out in YA, thumbing through it for an hour. They’d placed the new edition proudly in the front window, with other “Summer Crime Classics.”
“Classic” is debatable, but there’s no denying it was a hit—in part simply due to good timing. Murder scandals were knocked out of the news in September 2001, but by the timeA Death on the Hudsondebuted in July 2002, they were having a comeback. Americans were evidently eager to escape the horrors of terrorism and invasions, and kick back with a good old-fashioned,homegrown tragedy—something simple, with blonde girls and bad boys. And that’s just what they got:
To the outside world, Patrick was a handsome young man with a bright future. But in his own family, Patrick was always a bad seed. In elementary school, he was suspended for a playground attack on a fellow classmate (unprovoked, I’m told), during which he elbowed the little boy so hard in the face that he broke the poor child’s nose. He discovered girls at an early age, but his father—always consumed with his own political career—never bothered to teach him how to treat them right. Before setting his sights on Caitlin, Patrick had blown through half of his high school’s female students, and he was not opposed to flirting with their little sisters or even their mothers. But after the ugly business of his highly publicized DUI on Martha’s Vineyard in 1998, Patrick was under strict orders from the patriarch to straighten up and quit messing around. And Caitlin Dale, with her straight-A grades and pristine reputation, was not the kind of girl you messed around with. She was, as everyone said, “the kind of girl you married.”
I’d braced myself for outrage when I opened the book, but I’d closed it more confused than angry. It was almost too ridiculous to anger me. It read like a lengthier version of the supermarket tabloid pieces they’d run on Patrick years ago—the kind no one took seriously (right?). Aside from the basic facts of the murder, everything in the book seemed trope-ified and formulated to titillate the masses. Gordon’s descriptions of the villainous Yateses seemed both over-the-top and lacking in the subtle details of their true villainy. He’d expounded on Whit Yates’s political ambition in almost sociopathic terms, and likened Liv Yates to Lady Macbeth no less than four times.Patrick came off like some wicked child king, who killed for the sake of killing, simply because he could. Even I thought it was a bit much.
I’ve made a conscious effort to ignore Gordon Fairchild for the last twenty years, so I made sure to do a cursory Google catch-up on him before leaving this morning. But all I discovered was that I needn’t have bothered avoiding his press appearances and interviews, because he hasn’t done any since 2002—not even when the book’s new edition came out. A certain faction of his readers seems to take this as a sign of the great danger he lives in, having betrayed the hallowed Yates family and broken ranks with “the Briar.” (An alarming number of Amazon reviews mention how “brave” he is for this “takedown” of the elite.) But others suggest that Gordon’s silence is an ill-advised attempt at cultivating mystique. “Salinger Syndrome” as one particularly snarky critic put it. “And Salinger, he is not.”
***
Turning my car onto Little Farm Lane—a verdant, sloping street just over the village border—it occurs to me that no one’s considered the third, most obvious option: Gordon Fairchild was already a rich guy when he wrote that book, and then he got richer. He didn’t do press or write anything else because he didn’t have to.
If I had a house on this street, I’d retire early too, I think, winding slowly down the hill.
Despite its proximity to my own childhood street, this one is significantly nicer. High Top Road looked like an unfortunate mistake you’d shake your head at while driving by. (Who put all those ugly duplexes there? No fences or anything—what a shame.) Little Farm Lane still has the whiff of elegant seclusion carried over from Briar’s Green. It’s a notch more rambling and woodsy, which gives it even more charm.
I park a few yards back from Gordon’s property and step out into the stifling humidity. That part’s the same at least. It always feels hotter over here, thanks to the brackish breeze that creepsup through the woods from the river, trapped and earthy beneath the dense canopy of leaves.
I walk along the stone wall that rises out of the road—probably a remnant of the original “Little Farm”—until I reach the driveway I recognize as Gordon’s. At least, I sort of recognize it. I checked the address on Google Street View but Gordon’s made some drastic updates since that image was taken. The latched wooden gate is long gone, as is the weathered iron mailbox embossed with the number 12. There’s no mailbox at all anymore, nor any visible number. And the old gate’s been replaced with a massive slab of steel—clearly new, and so shiny it makes me squint. There’s even a sticker slapped across the front: Hudson Home Security Solutions, with an 800 number below. For all my eye-rolling at the village’s aesthetic laws, I have to admit this looks criminally hideous.
“Andwhy?” I say aloud. Then I think of the girl from my train ride last month, shouting across the aisle about howobsessedshe was. I suppose that could make a shut-in out of anyone.
I approach the small speaker box just left of the gate and press the metal button, already hot to the touch. A minute passes before a crunchy squeak comes through the speaker, followed by a distant voice.
“Yes.”
There’s an audible period at the end—a distinctlackof a question mark.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m looking for—”
“Is that you?”
I step back, startled, looking around. My eye lands on a metal cube on the top left corner of the gate—a small, but not at all hidden camera. The moment I turn toward it, the voice comes back. It sighs.
“Fine then. Come in, Alice.”
I step back as the metal gate swings slowly open. Gordon stands waiting in his front doorway, a shaggy sheepdog at his side. Neither of them seems happy to see me. Gordon looks likean off-duty professor, in belted khaki shorts and leather flip-flops that make a loud shushing sound on the stone floor as he steps aside and lets me into the entryway.
“I don’t have much in the way of refreshments,” he says, turning left and walking down a short hall, leaving me to follow. “But then, you didn’t come for tea.”
