Chương 4
Claire waited.
“Hair spray?”
“No. The place you go.”
“I don’t go to a hair place very often.”
He gave her a look of profound six-year-old skepticism.
“Salon?”
“Yes.”
“What did it smell like?”
“Sharp.”
“Bleach?”
“Maybe.”
Claire thought of Margaret’s hair.
Silver, natural, meticulously maintained.
Margaret’s dressing room contained perfume, face cream, powder, hairspray.
Not chemical hair bleach.
“Anything else?”
Ethan touched his own curls.
“Her hair was too big.”
“What does that mean?”
He lifted both hands around his head.
“Like Grandma, but fat.”
“A wig?”
“I don’t know.”
Claire sat back.
She had worked in houses where people were eccentric enough to make ordinary suspicion dangerous. She had once lost a weekend job because a woman in Georgetown believed Claire had stolen a sterling serving spoon that turned up later inside a flower arrangement. She had been nineteen and too embarrassed to ask for the two days of wages she was owed.
She had promised herself afterward that she would not confuse an employer’s confidence with truth.
That promise was easier to remember when rent was not involved.
The breakfast-room door opened.
Luis stepped in.
“Ms. Bennett?”
Claire stood.
“Mr. Hale wants you in the west hall.”
“What about Ethan?”
Luis looked at the boy.
“Both of you.”
Ethan slid out of his chair before Claire could answer.
They found Michael outside the west study.
Margaret stood just inside.
The door was open now.
Claire had only seen the room twice. Once when Margaret asked her to carry in a tray during a meeting, once when a heating vent malfunctioned and every upstairs room smelled faintly of scorched dust.
It was smaller than the grand name suggested. Walnut shelves. A long desk. Two leather chairs. A wall safe concealed behind a framed architectural drawing of the original house.
The drawing was now tilted aside.
The safe door stood open.
Michael looked at Claire.
“Did you come in here at any point this morning?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone ask you to?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone on the west side of the house?”
Claire shook her head.
Margaret stood near the desk with her arms folded.
Something pale lay on the carpet beside her shoe.
Claire looked down.
A short silver hair.
Not Margaret’s.
Too coarse.
Too shiny.
Synthetic.
Ethan saw it too.
“That’s her hair.”
Margaret’s eyes closed.
Only for a moment.
Michael said, “What’s missing?”
Margaret did not answer.
He stepped into the room.
“Mother.”
“Nothing obvious.”
“You know what you keep in the safe.”
“I know what I kept in the safe yesterday.”
“Which is?”
“Documents.”
Michael’s patience thinned.
“Which documents?”
Margaret looked toward Ethan.
Michael followed her gaze.
“You wanted him here.”
“No. I did not.”
“He already knows someone dressed like you came into the room.”
“That does not mean he needs the rest.”
Ethan said, “I’m not a baby.”
Margaret answered, “I am aware.”
“That sounded like a mean thing.”
“It was not intended to be kind.”
Michael rubbed a hand over his face.
Claire said, “Ethan, come stand with me.”
He did, grudgingly.
Margaret walked to the safe.
“There is a blue archival folder missing.”
“What’s in it?”
“Original correspondence and board minutes related to the Hartwell transfer.”
Michael stared.
For the first time since Claire had known him, he looked at his mother without a trace of deference.
“You kept those here?”
“They were safer here.”
“Apparently not.”
Margaret’s head turned.
Michael did not back away from the look.
Claire had heard the name Hartwell only once. Two months earlier, three members of the Hale Foundation board had come to dinner and argued behind a closed library door. At one point Michael had walked into the kitchen for water and muttered something about “Hartwell coming back from the dead every ten years.”
Claire had not asked.
Now Margaret said, “I moved them here after the audit request.”
“What audit request?”
“You were copied.”
“I receive three hundred emails a day.”
“That is not my administrative problem.”
“What audit request?”
Margaret’s mouth tightened.
“The foundation’s independent counsel asked for records concerning a property acquisition from 2009.”
“And those records are now missing.”
“I said the folder is missing.”
“Same thing.”
“No. One is a fact. The other is an accusation.”
Michael turned away, then back.
“Call the police.”
Margaret said nothing.
“Mother.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“When Daniel finishes checking the access log.”
“You’re delaying.”
“I am establishing facts before inviting detectives into a house full of donors’ private material.”
Michael laughed once without humor.
“Your safe is open.”
Ethan tugged Claire’s hand.
She bent down.
He whispered, “The red stuff.”
“What?”
“On the floor.”
He pointed under the desk.
Claire saw a tiny dark-red flake pressed into the carpet.
Daniel was already pulling on gloves.
He crouched.
“What is it?” Michael asked.
Daniel lifted the fragment with tweezers.
It was brittle, glossy and deep wine-red.
Margaret stepped closer.
Her expression changed.
“Sealing wax.”
Michael looked at her.
“For what?”
Margaret walked to the left shelf, reached behind a row of blue binders and removed a small wooden box.
Inside were sticks of dark-red wax and a brass seal.
“One of the old Hartwell documents was sealed with this.”
Michael stared at the fragment.
“So that’s what was on the shoe.”
“Possibly.”
Ethan said, “I told you it wasn’t mud.”
No one corrected him.
Daniel’s radio sounded.
“Daniel, we have an issue in the loading bay.”
He answered immediately. “What issue?”
“One of the contractors is missing.”
Margaret turned.
“Which contractor?”
Daniel listened.
“Temporary wardrobe assistant.”
Claire blinked.
“Wardrobe?”
Margaret’s donor reception included a historical display that evening: dresses, photographs and personal items from three generations of Hale women. A stylist and two assistants had been brought in to prepare mannequins and display cases in the upstairs gallery.
Daniel asked, “Name?”
Static.
Then: “Jenna Cole.”
Margaret shook her head.
“No.”
Everyone looked at her.
“She left yesterday.”
Daniel frowned.
“You’re sure?”
“I dismissed her.”
May you like
“Why?”
“She photographed documents on my dressing-room desk.”
