Page 39 of Old Money
J amie hurls himself into our booth at the Martha, his elbows and knees audibly whacking against the wood.
“Hey.” I look up from my phone, surprised. “You made it. How—”
“Here’s my theory,” he begins, incensed. “They moved up the wedding so Susannah can’t testify.”
“Wait, Jamie, just—” I hold up my hands.
“No, listen.” He grabs my beer, chugs half, then continues.
“You know that thing about how spouses can’t incriminate each other, legally?
I think Patrick knows you’re getting close.
I think Alex probably convinced him. See, first Patrick tries to scare you with the notes and shit, but Alex must have—”
“Jamie, stop. Just listen.” I push my beer back to him. “And quiet down.”
Bit by bit, I walk him through my very eventful Tuesday: meeting Alex at the airport, locating Barbara across the river and, finally, hearing Susannah’s big news at the fundraiser.
“It’s nothing to do with me—well, not directly. They moved it up because of the magazine story.”
I watch the wheels turn in Jamie’s head as he absorbs the great heap I’ve dumped on him.
“’Kay,” he says, his words slow and stretchy. “But she didn’t tell me that.”
“Sounds like the story only just got booked.”
“Three weeks out? I don’t think it works that fast.”
“It doesn’t,” I reply sharply. “Jamie, I’ve worked for high-profile people; it takes months for something like that to come together, even when it’s one photo and a five-minute interview.”
I’ve already thought it all through. It won’t be a five-minute interview, and I bet it has been in the works for months—possibly even before the engagement.
In terms of publicity, it’s been a rough year for Patrick and the Yateses, and I’m sure their team’s had all hands on deck, searching for good-press opportunities. And this one’s as good as it gets.
A lush, high-summer wedding at the club.
The club where Caitlin died—that’s how they’ll put it.
No mention of “killing,” alleged or otherwise.
It’ll be “the tragic death of his high-school sweetheart,” or maybe they’ll water her down to “classmate” or “friend.” Patrick will make his long-awaited comment, answering with some brief but poignant statement, crafted and calibrated by a league of publicists and lawyers, ensuring he conveys adequate grief but not responsibility.
And that’s how it’ll happen. Caitlin’s death becomes his tribulation.
The murder becomes a mere paragraph in a bigger, brighter story, starring a sober and reformed Patrick, and his radiant, hometown bride. A blue-blooded redemption.
Jamie considers this for a long moment.
“Unless you blow it up first,” he says carefully. “You were planning to go to the press anyway. Right?”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “But I’m not going to Vanity Fair . At least not now.”
“Why not? Same magazine that ran that ‘Blue-Blooded Killer’ article back in the day.”
“Yes, and now they’re basically running a public apology. Jamie, no matter what quote Patrick gives them, it’s a wedding piece.”
“So they’re flip-floppers,” Jamie counters. “Give them a call. Flop them back.”
“With what ?” I demand. “My creepy note? My useless police records—sorry, stolen useless police records? The only new info I have so far is the fact that Alex lied. And I didn’t even record him saying so.”
“So call him and get him to say it again!” Jamie says. “Bring him in on it. You and Alex contact the magazine together. Maybe you even go in person. I could—”
I shake my head.
“I tried, his phone’s already off. He’s in-patient for a month—a month at least, he said. Besides, you didn’t see him.” I picture Alex: his bloodshot pallor, his slippery, ever-shifting mood. “ I believe him, but he’s— I don’t know, he’s not okay. He’s disturbed.”
“Right.” Jamie shifts in his seat. “Gordon Fairchild then. You’ve got his address now. I know you’re not a fan, and I get it—he cashed in on Caitlin, and it’s gross.”
“Gross?”
“Really gross—sleazy, tacky as fuck—and everyone around here knows it. But everyone else read that book. The guy’s got clout. People know him, and they believe what he has to say.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “He’s the ‘authority’ on the topic.”
Jamie shakes his head.
“You’re the authority. He’s just the name they know.”
Jamie’s right. The fact that I’m the child witness is an open secret in the village, but outside of it, I’m an unknown.
If I go to the press I’d run the risk of being dismissed as an attention seeker.
At the very least, there’d be a lengthy vetting process before anyone trusted me or my evidence enough to publicize it.
Why now? Why didn’t she say something sooner?
As if that question weren’t the answer itself.
“Fine. I’ll give it a shot, Gordon. Might as well knock on his door,” I say. “I’m still betting he’s moved though. Little Farm Lane is barely outside the village—practically shouting distance from the club.”
Jamie grabs our empty beer glasses. “I’m gonna get you a refill,” he says. “And some fries. You want fries?”
He gets up without waiting for my answer.
I check my phone—8:42 p.m. Not long until fireworks. Not long until this day is finally done. I scroll through my texts. Theo messaged me hours ago, and I still haven’t replied.
Ordered the moo shoo in your honor. Jules and the boys say hi. It’s the first year Simon’s watching the T-Zone marathon with us. Too soon? Anyway, we miss you. Happy Wednesday.
His sign-off makes me smile. “Happy Wednesday” is another family tradition.
It was little things that caught me off guard after the murder—like the way people say, “Happy Fourth!” by way of greeting on that day.
The first anniversary, it upset me terribly.
I burst into tears at the grocery store checkout.
The second year, I woke up, shuffled out of my bedroom, bracing for another hideous, panicky day, and saw Theo waiting in the living room.
He held a makeshift sign above his head, with “Happy Monday” printed on it, in a big, goofy font.
“Hooray! Happy Monday!” Theo shouted, waving the sign.
I didn’t get it for a second, and then I did. And then, I laughed. And he did. And then Mom came out of her room, saw the sign, and she laughed too.
He never made another sign, but we’ve maintained the tradition of wishing each other a happy Monday or Wednesday, or whatever day of the week it is. It helps to remember that although today is many other things, it’s also just a day in the week. It will end, and tomorrow there will be another.
Still smiling, I text Theo back:
Happy Wednesday, one and all.
Jamie returns from the bar, stopping beside our booth, a distant look on his face.
“Are you going to sit?”
Jamie nods, but stays put. He frowns and tilts his head, as though puzzling through a math problem.
“Or maybe speak?” I continue.
“Yeah.” A slow smile spreads across his face. “I have a really bad idea.”