Page 20 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 16

O ur next stop in Hanover is an off-campus student residence, a three-story yellow wood-frame house.

The president of the United States once lived here?

Wow. Which room was hers?

I wonder.

Students in jeans and sweatshirts are lounging on saggy furniture, staring at laptops and cell phone screens, when Garrett and I walk in.

Garrett gently taps a student on his shoulder until he looks up and pulls out his earbuds.

“Yeah?”

“Excuse me,” he says.

“I’m looking for the person who runs this place.”

The young man eyes us both, then jerks his thumb to the right.

“Office on the second floor of the building next door. Her name is Laurie. Blond. Glasses.”

As we leave, I can hear various sounds behind closed doors, from muffled music to a young man’s voice repeating a phrase in French.

Garrett leads the way next door to a Cape-style house turned administrative building.

We walk up a narrow center staircase to the second floor.

A skinny girl with a neck tattoo slips by us on her way downstairs as we reach a door marked OFFICE .

It’s open.

In the tiny space, a small woman in her thirties with straight blond hair and round glasses is tapping on a laptop at a beat-up wooden desk surrounded by shiny metal file cabinets.

Garrett knocks on the door frame.

“Hello? Are you Laurie?”

Laurie doesn’t even look up.

“Help you?”

“I’m Garrett Wilson. This is my partner, Brea Cooke. We’re working on a book about President Wright and the First Gentleman. We hear you manage the building next door where they used to live?”

Laurie reaches out and shakes our hands.

“I’m Laurie Keaton. My dad has a bunch of properties he rents to the school for student housing. I help him out.”

“Do you get a lot of curiosity seekers?” I ask.

“I mean, people who want to know about the education of an American president?”

Laurie rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, now and then people show up here expecting Mount Vernon or Monticello. We’re not exactly on the National Register of Historic Places. But I told my dad we should charge admission. Make a few bucks.” She leans back in her chair.

“So you’re writing a book, you said?”

“That’s right,” says Garrett.

“Investigative journalism.”

“Well, their old rooms are off-limits. Privacy issues with the current residents.”

I take a step closer.

“Understood, Laurie. Do you have a tenant list for when the president and her husband were living there?”

“ Future president,” Garrett clarifies.

“And future First Gentleman.”

“What for?” asks Laurie.

She’s looking at me.

“Background info about what things were like then. Whether Madeline Parson and Cole Wright interacted with the other residents in ways that predicted their great futures. Personal details. Stuff like that.”

Garrett leans in, turning on his best smile.

“So, Laurie, do you have a list like that?”

“I don’t,” she says.

“But my dad might. He’s a real hoarder and he’s doubled down since the break-in.”

Garrett glances at me.

This is new.

“What break-in?” I ask, trying not to sound as interested as I am.

“A few days ago,” says Laurie.

“When you came in just now, I thought you might be cops following up about it.”

“Somebody broke into your office?” asks Garrett.

“Yeah,” says Laurie.

She waves a hand around the tiny room.

“This is the scene of the crime.”

Now I understand why the file cabinets look brand-new.

All metal. Heavy-duty.

With combination locks.

Laurie sees me looking at them.

“Yeah. The old cabinets were wood. Looked like somebody went at them with burglar tools, the cops said.”

“What did they take?” asks Garrett.

I can almost see his reporter’s antennae shooting up.

“That’s the funny thing,” says Laurie.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nope. But they destroyed the cabinets. Good thing our property insurance covered new ones.”

“Interesting,” says Garrett.

“Do you think it was students?”

Laurie shakes her head.

“There’s nothing in here kids would want. No money. No checks. All the financial stuff gets handled out of my dad’s office.”

Garrett taps one of the file cabinets.

“So what is in here?” he asks.

“Maintenance reports. Water bills. Inspection certificates. Pest-control contracts…”

“No resident records?”

“Nope. But like I said, my dad might have that stuff. Somewhere.”