17
Ardmore Park
August 28, 8:30 a.m. SGT
Rain pounded the sidewalk while I waited beneath the shelter of a kapok tree for my ride to appear. I dialed Emily. She answered by asking me whether I was still at the hotel and when I was coming into work. I explained I had to take care of a few things and would be in the office that afternoon.
Neither of us mentioned the previous night.
“I need to meet with George Mèng right away,” I told her. “In person.”
“What you ask is not possible. Mr. Mèng is in Shanghai.”
I wouldn’t discuss anything with my client over the phone. “Tell him it’s urgent. It’s a five-hour plane ride. He can fly here for lunch and be home for dinner.”
“Mr. Mèng is a very busy man. He will not be able to—”
“Tell him if he wants his boat, he needs to meet with me tomorrow. Or tonight if he’d prefer.” I ended the call.
Emily dialed back, but I blocked her calls. I was angry, scared, unwilling to be dissuaded from my path of confronting George Mèng. I needed to vent my fury at him for dragging Cass into his activities. And to warn him that Ocean House would not be involved in anything illegal.
My Grab ride pulled to the curb. “Ardmore Park,” I confirmed.
As we pulled into traffic, I watched out the back window for a tail. But in the rain, all the cars looked the same.
“You okay, miss?” asked the driver.
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
But I was shaking so hard that I thought my bones would rattle into pieces.
Cass’s condominium was in the Tanglin district of Singapore, a stone’s throw from the American Club and the members-only facility where I’d met Connor McGrath for dinner—the appropriately named Tanglin. Nearby were the embassies for China, Japan, the US, Australia, and the UK. A short walk in the other direction would get you to Orchard Road, the world-renowned shoppers’ paradise.
I knew all this from the maps app on my phone. Cass had not lived in Ardmore when I visited her two years earlier. Then, she’d been in a reasonably priced flat far north of here, in the residential town of Sembawang.
I directed the Grab driver to turn into the entry for the Ardmore Park condominiums. The driver stopped at the security checkpoint, and a smiling man in a navy rain jacket, hood pulled up, stepped into the downpour to peer into the car. I pushed a button to roll the window partway down, bracing myself to convince this man to let me into Cassandra’s flat.
Rain splashed inside.
The guard leaned closer, and his smile vanished. “You’re Cassandra’s sister,” he said.
“I’m Nadia Brenner.”
“I’m so sorry about Cassandra,” he said. “I assume you want to get into her place.”
“Yes. But I haven’t found her keys.”
“Not a problem, Miss Brenner. I’ll have someone meet you in the lobby—you need a key to access the elevator. Uma will go up with you. Cassandra’s condo is in the second tower on the thirtieth floor.”
I flinched. If you were going to kill yourself, Cass, why not do it here? Thirty floors is high enough.
But she hadn’t killed herself. Or not willingly. I was now convinced of that.
A few minutes later, a petite Tamil woman in a pale-pink suit stood with me in the hallway outside Cassandra’s condo. She unlocked and opened the door.
“The door will lock behind you when you leave,” she said. “Stop by my office, and I will provide you with a key. Cassandra’s lease does not expire for two more years. Will you want to assume the lease? Properties here can be difficult to come by.”
“I don’t know yet.” It was a lie. Even if Ocean House managed to breach the Asian market, none of us would be residing in Ardmore Park.
We stepped into the entryway. Our heels echoed on the wood veneer. The air was pleasantly cool—the air conditioner was on, but not cranked. I set my purse on a nearby table.
“The police have been here?”
“Yes, madam. I let them in myself and waited while they looked around.”
I met her gaze in the mirror that ran the length of the foyer. “Did they take anything?”
She frowned.
“Please. She’s my sister.”
Uma hesitated, then nodded. “The inspector took what looked like a postcard from this table and placed it in an envelope. I also heard them say they needed a DNA sample.”
“Anything else?”
“No, madam. I am sorry.”
After she left, closing the door behind her, I stood for a moment, breathing in the mix of aromas. There came the faint hint of Cass’s favorite perfume. And an unfamiliar muskier scent. A man’s cologne?
“Cass,” I whispered. “What were you and George Mèng doing?”
It was like the old game, where we’d taken turns hiding, then rescuing each other from the depths. Except this time, even as I looked for her, she’d already drowned.
I took a single step forward. My own reflection in the mirror made me jump.
In the glass, I appeared aloof—even bored. My expression was tranquil, my eyes revealed nothing. I stood with my usual upright carriage—a carryover from the years of ballet my mother had insisted on. Sometime this morning I’d lost one of my earrings. I removed the other and dropped it in my pocket.
“Charlie Han told me today that I might be murdered,” I said to Cassandra’s silent condo.
From somewhere in my memory, I caught the trill of her laughter. The two of us standing over a cage holding Cass’s new pet—a tarantula.
Pick it up, she’d said.
I can’t.
It won’t hurt you. I promise. You have to try. Otherwise I’ll think you’re a chicken.
I am a chicken.
I turned away from the mirror. I hung my jacket over a chairback and gave myself the tour.
Cass had spared no expense. Wide-planked floors, marble counters, warm teakwood cabinets. The two-story condo featured a gourmet kitchen, which had probably gone unused during Cass’s stay, since she hated cooking. The dining room boasted a table for ten and a sideboard topped with what looked like ancient ceramics. Quality knockoffs, surely.
On the balcony were pots of bonsai—a surprise since I hadn’t known Cassandra to have a green thumb.
With each step I took through her condo, my sister slid away from me, falling into depths I couldn’t plumb. This was the home of a stranger.
I stopped before the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of the living room. The view presented lush acres of trees and gardens backdropped by condo towers and Singapore’s skyline. How often had Cassandra stood here with a glass of sauvignon blanc—her favorite as well as mine—and contemplated life’s usual questions? Was there a man in her life whom she hadn’t told me about? Was she excited for the future of Ocean House and her eventual position as co-CEO? Did she truly relish her new life in Singapore?
Or was she scared, pressured, facing an abyss only she and George Mèng knew of?
Make that Mèng and Emily Tan. And perhaps Charlie Han. Even Dai Shujun. I suspected all of them knew more about my sister’s life in Singapore than I did.
I went up the stairs to her workplace. A plain black desk and matching chair centered the room; an empty built-in filing cabinet took up half of one wall. Another wall carried shelves filled with nonfiction books on Singapore and China, along with artifacts from Cassandra’s travels to Malaysia and the Philippines. At least this I understood: she had always loved art from other cultures.
An unconnected power cord and a laptop stand indicated where Cass’s computer would normally be. Had it been stolen? Lost?
Open on the desk were a utility bill for the condo and an American Express statement showing more than $5,000 US in charges. I picked it up and scanned the expenses: restaurants, Grab fees, a monthly charge for the Tanglin and American clubs. Several charges to the Singapore Yacht Club. It was a high bill, but there was nothing unusual listed. Membership to the private clubs was a business expense in our line of work. There was no indication of any personal shopping—no clothing or jewelry stores.
I opened the desk’s center drawer.
Inside was an air and hotel itinerary that showed Cass had traveled to Austria in July—in the middle of the installation of freshwater and sewage systems on Red Dragon , a critical time. She’d spent three days in Salzburg at the Hotel Goldener Hirsch, then returned to Singapore. Scrawled at the bottom of the itinerary were the words Salzburger Landesarchiv .
Presumably Cass had gone to meet with a potential client. But she hadn’t reported any business expenses; Isabeth would have mentioned it at our regular meetings.
Late July was also when, according to Emily, Cass had begun disappearing from the office and Red Dragon ’s schedule had slipped. And when she’d become unhappy.
Salzburger Landesarchiv. I looked it up. It was the name of the archives in Salzburg.
The buzzing wasp of Han’s voice sounded in my ear. Didn’t your sister share what she’d learned about your family? Or did she keep that quiet as well?
Our great-grandparents Pop and Nana were from Austria.
I rolled out the desk chair and sat.
Under the paper, inside a cardboard box, I found a beaten-up elongated copper rectangle roughly seven inches long and less than an inch wide. Three embossed Hebrew characters graced the top of the rectangle. Flat decorative triangles at each end suggested nail holes.
From my work with Jewish clients, I recognized the copper piece as a holder for the scroll that Jews hang on their doorposts. I turned the copper box this way and that in the sunlight making its way through the blinds and casting the room gray.
An old memory scratched. Years ago, I’d seen this mezuzah—or one just like it—at our house on Bainbridge Island, even if I hadn’t known what it was. I closed my eyes and probed my memories.
An image flooded in. I’d gone into Pop’s study. I’d been nine or ten, which would have made him a still-robust octogenarian. His book-crammed room, with its musty scents of paper and pipe tobacco, the framed photographs of boats built by Ocean House, the immense globe and forbidden wet bar—Pop’s den was my favorite room in the house.
He’d turned when he heard me bounce in on a quest for the treats he kept in his desk. I’d glimpsed a copper mezuzah in his hand and—shockingly—tears in his eyes.
The dust in here is bad, he’d said as he placed the mezuzah in a drawer. Now what are you here for, Naughty? A Mozart-Bonbon, I’ll wager.
I snapped back into the present. Maybe Cass had taken the mezuzah case from our home because of her fondness for old relics. But its presence with an Austrian trip itinerary suggested something more complex.
A fragment of a conversation echoed in my mind. Cass saying, Hey, Naughty, maybe the good Catholic Brenners are actually Christ killers. I’d been appalled by her language and tried to hush her, but Cass’s eyes had glinted with mischief. Did you think of that? Plenty of Jews converted—at least outwardly—when they fled Europe. She’d puffed up her chest in imitation of Josef. Maybe Pop wasn’t a bank robber. Maybe he was a rabbi.
Her suggestion had shocked me—we’d grown up in a devout Catholic family who attended services and Mass and honored the saints. What if our real identity was something else entirely? But for all the momentary fission I’d experienced, I’d soon forgotten about it. I thought she had, too.
The presence of the mezuzah and the last lines on the postcard she’d left me suggested otherwise:
The only thing our parents got right is that family is the most important thing, and for that reason we owe ourselves the truth.
I slid the mezuzah in a canvas tote hooked over the back of the chair and continued my search. I found nothing else of note. And nowhere on the desk or in the drawer or in the filing cabinet was there any mention of Charlie Han.
The only other item on the desk was a gold letter opener. Chinese characters marched down one side; on the other was written Red Dragon in English. I tested the point and found it razor sharp.
It wasn’t uncommon for wealthy yacht owners to create tokens like this for guests to take with them. But this letter opener—with its sharp point and solid heft—felt like a weapon. I dropped it next to the mezuzah in the canvas tote.
Finding nothing more in the study, I went into her bedroom and searched through her closet and the dresser. Finally, there were all Cass’s familiar things—linen shirts, crop pants, several suits. A simple black dress and a handful of flashy scarves. Her worn Louis Vuitton purse, a close twin to mine. Nothing over-the-top extravagant. And no jewelry.
If George Mèng had been buying her “baubles,” as Charlie Han had put it, where were they?
I walked through the rest of the two-thousand-square-foot place. A well-stocked bar, an empty fridge, neutral decor that looked nothing like Cass—perhaps she’d hired a designer. The trash cans were almost empty, and the sinks devoid of water spots. Her condo was more like a place to entertain guests than a real home.
Now it felt like her tomb.
I returned to the bedroom and looked in the medicine cabinet. There were birth control pills. A bottle of Ambien, half-full. Band-Aids, an inexpensive face cream, cotton balls, and a nail file. Toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss. A nearly empty bottle of her perfume. In a drawer I found a hairbrush and comb and a hair dryer. A few cosmetics. Cass’s natural beauty had needed nothing else.
I walked back through the condo, looking for places where she might stash drugs: the freezer, the toilet tank, behind furniture and inside cabinets. I peered inside a ceramic jar labeled “Rice” and found what was clearly rice. Dutifully I dug through and found only more rice.
But my sense of relief felt false; if she were helping Mèng smuggle drugs, she wouldn’t hide them here.
I returned to the windows and watched a phalanx of gardeners descend on the grounds.
“I’m scared, Cass,” I said. “Talk to me.”
The carpets and plush furnishings swallowed my voice.
An image rose of Cass standing in our shared room. As teens, we’d often hidden things from our parents behind the headboards of our twin beds. Initially we’d stashed love notes and photo booth snapshots. Later, a wine opener. Then birth control. We’d felt clever with our choice of hiding spots, although I don’t think Guy or Isabeth ever bothered to search our rooms. They had trusted us. More than that, they’d fallen into the comfortable trap of many parents—if you figured your child was behaving herself, you didn’t need to spend time monitoring her. There were plenty of other things needing your attention.
But if Cass wanted me and only me to find something ...
I hurried back into the bedroom. I pulled aside the nightstand, with its iPhone charger and yet another book on Singapore, and slid my hand between the king-size headboard and the wall. I felt only smooth wood. I pulled back my hand, removed my suit jacket, and reached in again, almost up to my shoulder.
My fingers brushed something soft and smooth like paper, held in place by tape. Gently, I tugged the item free.
It was a padded manila envelope, five by seven, sealed shut.
I reached behind the headboard again but found nothing else. I sat on the bed and used the letter opener from Cassandra’s desk to open the envelope. I shook the contents out on the bed.
There were three photos. I laid them out in a row, then picked up the first one, a family picture.
Centered in the photo was an Asian man I recognized as George Mèng. He stood with his wife and two children, a girl and boy, aged around ten and twelve. The family was at the seashore, the girl holding up a large conch shell with open delight. Mèng had his arms around her, while his wife hugged their son. Nearby was a heap of wet suits and fins. Everyone looked thrilled to be there, to be together. Perhaps unfairly, a burn filled my chest that this man should have what Cass was forever denied: a family. A life.
The second photo was of Mèng by himself, unposed and candid, perhaps unaware someone had taken his picture.
He stood in a park or forest. Behind him rose an immense tree with multiple trunks and a roped barrier. Unlike the family picture, in this shot Mèng looked melancholy. More than that, he appeared haunted.
“What are you up to, Mr. Mèng?” I asked, the anger simmering. “Is that a look of guilt? What would your beautiful wife and children think of you, if what Charlie Han said is true?”
Finally, I picked up the third picture. This one I studied for a long time.
It was Cass and Emily Tan standing in front of a fish tank at a sea aquarium. They wore shorts and tank tops, their arms around each other. Their smiles were huge. Cass was tanned, her hair tousled, her sunglasses propped on her head.
Emily’s head rested on Cass’s shoulder.
It was a gesture I recognized from a thousand photos of Cass and me throughout our girlhood and teens. Besties, fellow adventurers, goofy pranksters. Joyous to be with each other and sure that life—and our love for each other—would last forever.
And here was Emily, standing in my place, her head nestled against Cass’s shoulder in a way I so often had. Someone who didn’t know Cass might think she and Emily were lovers. But they weren’t. They were friends. Besties.
Tears sprang to my eyes. Had Emily betrayed their friendship? Had she helped lead Cass astray? Emily worked for George Mèng. She was his liaison with Cass. If Mèng had asked Cass to do things that led to her death, it seemed likely Emily knew about it. Perhaps, even, had facilitated it.
Do not trust anyone.
I dropped the photo as the weight of grief crashed down on me with a fist of cold iron. I stood and ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. I vomited until nothing was left but bile. Then I vomited that. When my heaving stopped, I sank to the floor and curled against the wall and—finally—let loose the great sobbing cries I’d been holding back since I’d seen Cass’s lifeless body at the morgue.
After, I rinsed my mouth at Cass’s marble sink, splashed water on my face, and used her brush to smooth my hair. I returned to her bed and slid the items back into the envelope, then went out to the foyer and put the envelope, the mezuzah, and the letter opener in my purse, leaving the tote. I retrieved my phone. Still not wanting to talk to Emily, I calmly checked in with the broker, Andrew Declough. He and I reviewed some key items for the day, and I told him I’d be in the office before long.
After we hung up, I returned to the bedroom. I kicked off my shoes and lay down in Cass’s unmade bed, gathering the silken warmth of the covers around me and curling into a ball. I breathed in her scent, knowing this was all I would have for the rest of my life. A fading fragrance and memories.
And questions. So many questions.
An hour later, downstairs in the administration building, I collected a key to Cassandra’s front door and copies of the paperwork she’d signed when she leased the condo.
I showed Uma, the woman who’d unlocked Cass’s door, the photo of George Mèng standing in front of the immense tree.
“Do you know where this is?” I asked her. “Is it a park?”
Her face lit. “Of course! The barrier fence gives it away. That is the fig tree at the summit of Bukit Timah Nature Reserve. I have been there many times. It is our country’s highest peak.” She studied the photo. “He’s a handsome man, isn’t he?”
“Did you ever see him here?”
But now her face closed. “It is not my business to watch our guests.”
“Of course. I understand. It’s just that I’m afraid I haven’t met any of my sister’s friends here. I want to hear their stories.” I let my pain shine in my eyes. “With her gone, these stories are all I have.”
Her face softened. She glanced over her shoulder at the other woman in the office, then ushered me into the hallway.
“I don’t know his name, but I have seen that man twice,” she admitted. “Both times in the evening. He was carrying a bottle of wine. And once flowers.”
I pictured George Mèng at the seashore with his family. Then in my sister’s bed. I shook the image away. Emily had been certain that Cass wasn’t seeing anyone. And if she was Cass’s new bestie, she would know.
Then again, Emily was prominent on the long list of people I couldn’t trust.
“Wine and flowers, how lovely,” I heard myself say. “Did he stay long?”
She flushed. “Both times he was still here when I left for the evening. You might check with the guard at the front, but I very much doubt Desi will tell you anything. He and the other guards feel strongly about protecting the privacy of our tenants.”
I thanked her and walked outside. The rain had stopped, and the sun was dazzling.
The light was a mockery.