Page 87 of Old Money

That’s exactly why he stands in the gallery, not the ballroomitself. From there, he can better track the comings and goings. He can spot trouble brewing at the party—or just outside of it.

I turn to Jamie.

“Do you think he could’ve seen all the way to—”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“No question.” Jamie nods. “Standing there, you barely have to turn your head. Just look down and it’s a clear view. You can see the door to the men’s locker room, the supply closet—that whole end of the basement hall. Including... ?”

Jamie grins again, waiting for me to finish the thought.

“Including the north exit,” I say.

The one that leads to the pool.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

July 5 is always quiet. Kids come to the club with au pairs and nannies to play in the pool while their parents sleep it off at home. The clubhouse is vacant, save for the regulars: the library men, napping under their newspapers, and the clutch of widows who camp out at the grill all afternoon, shooing flies away from their fruit salad. Jamie gives most service staff the day off and the club operates on a skeleton crew. But Mr. Brody doesn’t take days off.

“Look, five o’clock and the lounge is empty,” Jamie adds, peering down the hall. “Perfect conditions, I told you.”

But he sounds less certain now.

We went back and forth all afternoon, debating when and how to approach Mr. Brody. In the end we settled on immediately, and guns blazing. No point trying to subtly outwit him—the man who’d so gracefully sidestepped direct police questioning, obstructing justice so politely that no one felt a thing.

Jamie follows as I cross the gallery, pausing at the top of the basement stairs.

“Wait.” I hold a hand in front of him. “I just have to state the obvious. If you come with me, Brody will know you’re involved. He’s probably guessed what I’m doing already, but now he’ll know for sure, and—”

“And he’ll know I’m part of it,” Jamie continues. “And he’ll tell the board, and they’ll want me out.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

My eyes drop to the thin red ridge peeking out beneath his shirt collar—the only visible evidence of last night’s incident. That, and the slightly pouted mouth.

“This is a big call,” I add. “Jamie, you just climbed out of a car wreck.”

“Yeah,” he answers quickly. “So quit bugging me.”

He puts a hand on the brass banister, and heads down the basement steps.

***

“Ms. Wiley, I wasn’t expecting you,” says Mr. Brody as I open the door. “Bit late in the day to darken my doorway.”

He sits behind his desk, half-hidden by a newspaper, his chair turned toward the wall. This is as close as Mr. Brody gets to leisurely.

I step inside and sit in his guest chair, uninvited. No way to do this politely anyway.

“We need a minute of your time.”

Mr. Brody looks up.We?

Jamie shuts the door behind us.