Part 20
By the time Evelyn reached the carriage house, three reporters were shouting questions through the estate gates.
Only the sheriff’s office, the district attorney, Evelyn, and attorneys for both Vales had received copies of the video.
Martin found her standing in the middle of her apartment with an empty duffel bag.
“You did not leak it,” he said.
It was phrased as fact, but the need to say it hurt.
“No.”
“I believe you.”
“Does Conrad?”
“He has asked his attorneys to determine the source.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
She began pulling shirts from hangers.
Martin watched her fold one badly and refold it.
“Mrs. Vale’s representatives are suggesting you released it to pressure the family.”
“Of course they are.”
“Mr. Vale has not endorsed that suggestion.”
“He hasn’t rejected it either.”
Martin removed a stack of sweaters from the shelf and placed them beside the bag.
“I can pack my own things.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because you are folding wool as if it insulted you.”
She let him continue.
In the bathroom cabinet, she found a small bottle of hotel shampoo she had kept after her father’s final trip to Boston. He had gone for a clinical consultation and returned with no new treatment options, but he had stolen every miniature toiletry from the room because he said the hospital bill entitled him to the building.
Evelyn put the shampoo in her bag.
On her way out, she passed the main kitchen. The executive chef, Thomas Breen, stood near the walk-in refrigerator with his arms crossed.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
Martin continued toward the door but remained within sight.
Thomas was broad, bald, and usually loud enough to be heard from the herb garden. Now he spoke barely above the refrigerator’s hum.
“Celeste came into the kitchen twice last month when you weren’t here.”
“For what?”
“Said Conrad wanted a digestif in the library.”
“What did you give her?”
“The Armagnac. Same one he always takes.”
“You poured it?”
“The first time. Second time she said she’d do it because I was plating dessert.”
“Did she take the glass or the bottle?”
“The bottle.”
Evelyn felt the room narrow.
“Why didn’t you tell the sheriff?”
“I did this morning.”
“Why this morning?”
Thomas looked toward Martin. “Because I didn’t think it mattered until Elise told me about the other nights.”
“What other nights?”
Elise appeared in the doorway behind them, pale and annoyed to have been mentioned.
She held a folded pillowcase in both hands.
“I changed Mr. Vale’s bedding after two of the episodes,” she said. “There were water glasses on his nightstand with white residue near the bottom. I assumed it was antacid.”
“Did you wash them?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
Thomas rubbed his scalp. “We’re not detectives, Evelyn.”
“No. We’re the people who carry the glasses.”
Elise flinched.
Evelyn regretted the sentence immediately, but not enough to take it back.
The three of them stood among the ordinary sounds of the kitchen: ventilation, refrigeration, a dishwasher draining somewhere beyond the wall. None of those machines understood that the house had changed.
Martin spoke first.
“Both of you need to provide written timelines. Dates if possible. Menus, events, anything that helps establish what Mr. Vale consumed.”
Thomas gave a bitter smile. “You’re still assigning tasks.”
“Yes.”
“What happens when there’s no house left to manage?”
“Then you may ignore me.”
Evelyn left with two bags and a wine notebook she had almost forgotten.
That evening, Conrad came to Martin’s house.
He arrived alone in a dark SUV and sat in the kitchen rather than the formal sitting room, perhaps because the sitting room was occupied by Christmas boxes Martin’s sister had not yet taken to Vermont. Conrad wore a charcoal sweater and no tie. Without the velvet jacket, estate, or staff, he seemed less like the owner of Blackwater Point than a man who had misplaced the instructions for his own life.
Evelyn remained standing.
Conrad looked at the fading mark on her cheek.
“I’m sorry she hit you.”
“Thank you.”
“I should have said it sooner.”
“Yes.”
Martin placed coffee before him.
Conrad did not touch it.
“I did not leak your video,” Evelyn said.
“I know.”
“How?”
“My attorney’s firm did.”
Martin stopped moving.
Conrad stared at the coffee cup. “A junior associate sent the image to a political consultant we use during development disputes. The consultant believed early public sympathy would help prevent speculation about my health.”
Evelyn sat down slowly.
“Your people leaked my evidence to protect your reputation.”
“Yes.”
“And let her accuse me.”
“Yes.”
“Is anyone being fired?”
“The associate has been dismissed. The consultant’s contract has been terminated.”
“That won’t put the image back on my phone.”
“No.”
“Did you tell the press I didn’t leak it?”
“My attorneys advise against further public statements.”
Evelyn laughed without amusement. “Of course they do.”
Conrad raised his eyes. They were bloodshot, and for a moment she saw the man from the pavilion, not the name on the gate.
“I came to tell you directly.”
“That is not the same as fixing it.”
“I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Say the truth.”
“To reporters?”
“To everyone.”
“The truth is not yet established.”
“Your lawyer leaked the image. That truth is established.”
Conrad looked toward Martin, perhaps expecting help.
Martin stirred his coffee though he took it black.
“Evelyn is correct,” he said.
Conrad leaned back.
“I spent the last two days being told that every sentence I speak can damage the investigation, my marriage, my companies, or a future civil case.”
“And which one matters most?” Evelyn asked.
“That is not fair.”
“No. It isn’t.”
May you like
He rubbed his forehead. “There are four hundred employees attached to businesses carrying my name. There are pension funds invested in projects that depend on my signature. If I announce that someone may have been drugging me for months, every contract becomes a question about my capacity.”
“So you’re worried people will think you’re weak.”
