Chapter 4
Vanessa Vanderpool
Six weeks prior to the murder of Molly Green
Vanessa let the warm water run over her hands, rinsing the soap from her fingers – watching as the suds washed over her gold wedding band, and the diamond engagement ring.
She told herself she was clean now.
She had a thing about cleanliness. Some nights, her hands would sting from her moisturizer. Her skin raw, sometimes her knuckles cracked and bleeding. It was a combination of the excessive, maybe compulsive handwashing and the cold this time of year.
Every time she washed her hands it felt like a reset. That she was clean.
She turned off the faucet, braced her hands either side of her sink and leaned over it, head down, breathing in and out, willing her mind and body to slow down.
Everything was going to be alright.
A sharp pain at her temple. Advil or Tylenol would take the edge off.
She had a lot to do today. Final preparations for her anniversary party.
She moved away from her sink, to her husband’s. Opened his medicine cabinet.
He had old bottles of shower gel, unused bottles of cologne and several toothbrushes in jars, and of course his meds. Vanessa took a bottle of Tylenol from her pants pocket, opened it and took out one capsule, which she carefully placed on the curved rim of the sink basin.
She returned her attention to her husband’s medicine cabinet, found the bottle of Vicodin. That would do nicely. As she reached for it, she saw something hiding behind a bottle of mouthwash on the middle shelf.
She moved the mouthwash aside and saw a small, silver gift bag. She lifted it clear, opened it and gazed inside, then removed the slim jewelry box.
The name of the maker was engraved on the slim box.
Seinfeld, NY, Est 1948
She had seen this name before, on the box that had contained her engagement ring.
She couldn’t help but glance at that ring now, still as breathtaking as the day when she’d first laid eyes on it.
Seven carats, oval diamond cut by Seinfeld’s to enhance its brilliance.
She knew that Patrick would propose to her when he took her to Seinfeld’s on a shopping trip.
It was in the diamond district of Manhattan, as you might expect, but it didn’t have a store front.
This was a place that only took customers by appointment, up a flight of stairs to a nondescript steel door, security cameras everywhere, and into a room displaying some of the world’s finest jewelry.
Presidents and Saudi princes alike bought their diamonds from Seinfeld’s, each piece bespoke and handcrafted, with the maker’s mark engraved upon the exclusive white gold, which was their trademark.
Her left and right ring fingers had been measured that day, and she knew why, even as she tried on some of their plain white-gold pieces, and pretended that she hadn’t figured out his plans.
She knew now, standing in her bathroom, before she even opened this rectangular box, that something special was inside.
Opening it, she stared.
A delicate white-gold bracelet.
Studded in diamonds.
Easily a six-figure piece of jewelry.
At least he’d remembered it was their anniversary next week.
No, she was being unfair. This was a gorgeous gift.
She had known him for two and a half years.
In the early days, a beautiful gift like this would have stunned her.
Now, despite the glorious nature of the jewelry, she was no longer stunned.
It brought a strange sense of comfort. Or calm, perhaps. A reassurance that he still loved her.
She quickly closed the box, put it back in the gift bag, and placed the mouthwash in front of it. Then she took his bottle of Vicodin, opened it and poured a couple of the capsules into her hand.
Only one, she thought.
She swallowed the white capsule, then examined the Tylenol she’d left by the sink. Same shape, same color. Only if you closely examined it would you notice the difference.
She popped it into the bottle of Vicodin, then closed it and returned it to the cabinet. She didn’t want Patrick to know.
‘I might have to cancel that Hamptons thing,’ said Patrick, from the bedroom.
Her breath caught in her chest. The callous way he had thrown out that statement. No regard. No thought for anyone but himself.
She looked again at the gift bag, just visible behind the mouthwash.
‘By thing, you mean our anniversary party?’ she said, eventually. ‘I’m going to the house this morning to check out the new décor. Let me know,’ she said.
‘Mel, I might have to cancel the party at the house,’ said Vanessa.
She was kneeling on the tiled floor of the upstairs main bathroom in the Hamptons house. The phone was on the floor, on speaker beside cleaning products, cloths and two other items.
‘Is there something wrong? Are you okay?’ asked Mel.
Melissa managed the house in East Hampton.
Vanessa had spent a lot of time and money getting the house ready.
New furniture, new lighting, new appliances.
A refresh. The house would have a new, nautical theme.
Mel had helped oversee the work and organize the anniversary party, including all the invitations.
‘I’m fine, Mel. I’ll let you know. I saw the kitchen is nearly finished.’
‘If we do cancel and the caterers ask why we’re postponing, is there—’
‘Just tell them it’s Patrick’s campaign. Something came up. Thanks, Mel.’
She hung up the call.
Vanessa had already cleaned the sink and toilet, taking time to clean around the back of the toilet cistern.
Now she looked at the other items on the bathroom floor.
A six-inch flathead screwdriver and a roll of duct tape.
Vanessa tore off a strip of tape about five inches long, put the screwdriver handle in the center and then crawled over to the toilet bowl.
Reaching around, she placed the screwdriver on the back of the toilet cistern, then pressed the tape down.
Peeling off another section of tape, she placed this over the first section, to make a cross, ensuring that there was no way the tape would peel away. It had to be secure.
She picked up the tape, got to her feet and gave the bathroom one final look. This would work.
Stepping out of the bathroom into the wide second-floor landing, she put the duct tape back into the bag of supplies she’d picked up from town.
As part of the nautical theme, Mel had ordered decorative ship’s lamps – ornate glass domes with metal handles that traditionally burned kerosene.
They looked like hurricane lamps, with their glass chimneys.
Vanessa filled the four lamps on the landing with the oils she’d bought, then put the bottle back into the bag beside a two-hundred-milliliter bottle of her favorite perfume and a can of engine starting fluid.
Not that there was anything wrong with the engine in her Mercedes.
Before she left the bathroom, she checked the lock.
It was an old-style mortice lock, with a keyhole on either side, and the key kept in the lock on the bathroom side of the door.
She tested the lock from both sides of the door.
Made sure it was working. Sometimes the old handles or latches on the doors became stiff.
She was ready for the party. At last.
She grabbed the bag, went downstairs, picked up her coat and locked up the house. Pressing the car fob, the trunk of her Mercedes opened.
Vanessa placed the brown paper bag inside, next to her gym bag.
It was a Nike bag.
Black.
With a white swoosh.
She got into her Mercedes and switched on the engine.
A text came through as the car connected to Apple CarPlay.
The text was from Molly Green.
Patrick says cancel the Hamptons party.
Vanessa had been planning this party for months. In meticulous detail. The decorations, the catering, the band and the guests, including Patrick’s father, Julian. Nailing that man down to a date that suited him had been hell. The date had to accommodate him, or he wouldn’t show.
She would reschedule.
She had time.
Her plan would work out just fine.
The bracelet was a lifeline she could cling to.
She had suspected Patrick wasn’t happy, but that could have been the stress from his father, who was pushing him into another run for governor.
She wondered if that was all that was wrong.
Even though he’d made her cancel their anniversary celebration, it didn’t mean he wasn’t happy.
He wasn’t planning to leave her. After all, he had bought her something truly beautiful.
Everything would be fine. She just had to hold the marriage together a little longer.
She breathed in and out. Exhaled the anger from her body, letting it steam the window. She sent a text to Melissa to cancel the party.
She swore. And drove home to Manhattan, and Patrick.
Vanessa parked the Mercedes on the street, climbed the steps and entered the house. She stopped and looked into the dining room, now re-christened the war room.
Geoff Gilbert stood in the corner, his arms folded, watching a TV mounted high on the wall, showing a local news channel.
There was a piece about a shooting in Brooklyn that had taken place in broad daylight – an attempted mugging gone horribly wrong.
Gilbert’s thinning hair was badly managed by him discharging some kind of spray onto the top of his scalp every morning.
In terms of disguising his baldness, it worked, from a distance perhaps, in the winter.
In the summer, when it got really hot, Vanessa occasionally noticed a trickle of what looked like black molasses dribbling down the side of his face.
‘We’ve got to pin this on Coleridge,’ said Gilbert.
‘Heidi, I want Patrick prepped on this and on the six o’clock news to call out Coleridge’s soft approach to crime.
Take a hard line when you’re pitching this – we’re not blaming Coleridge for the death, but in reality, it’s a result of his policies. You got it?’