7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
The Harrington estate was the kind of place that announced itself well in advance.
The shift happened shortly after the GPS pulled us off the highway and onto a private road.
One minute we were passing a forest, the next the trees were organized into neat, provincial rows, with a stone fence running along one side of the path.
We’d gone from wilderness to old money within the space of a blink.
It went on like that for the better part of a mile.
There was no wrought iron gate, no keypad, no tiny cameras blinking at us from the trees or drones following us from a bird’s eye view perspective—that wasn’t the Harrington style.
We could all feel the change. Marcie sat up straighter, her nausea forgotten, while Caroline shook off her half-doze and readied herself for the task ahead.
And then the McLaren reached the next turn, and the house resolved through the trees.
It was everything I’d expected and more.
Tall, gothic, with a wide, sloping lawn and trees pushing in on three sides like supplicants trying to kiss the feet of a saint.
Narrow windows peered down at us like the eyes of someone trying to telegraph their disapproval.
The sole concession to modernity was a small patch of solar panels behind the main building, angled towards the sun.
I had a sneaking suspicion Carl had been behind the installation of those.
Marcie went quiet in the passenger seat. Her hand reached into her bag and felt for her father’s Rolodex, clutching it tight.
“There she is,” she whispered.
I wasn’t sure if she meant the building or Tallulah.
But either way, she was right.
“This is not what I expected,” I muttered, staring up at the windows.
“No?” Caroline asked from the backseat.
I shook my head. “When I imagined the drive out here, I pictured a destination that looked a little more… friendly.” My gaze traveled upwards as the McLaren wound up the narrow path. “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, not Shirley Jackson.”
“It’s imposing,” Caroline agreed. “But so are you two.”
I hoped she was right about that.
The McLaren fit neatly into the driveway. No sooner had the three of us gotten out of the car than the big double doors of the mansion opened on their own. A servant stood in the entranceway, all black suit and gray, thinning hair. He gave a jaunty half-bow as we approached.
“You must be Mr. Avery,” he said, straightening. “And Mr. Ramsey’s daughter.” His gaze traveled past us both to where Caroline stood a few paces behind, one foot on the top step of the stairs. “We weren’t aware there would be a third.”
Caroline’s mouth formed a little ‘o’ of surprise. “I’m…”
She trailed off, unsure of whether to let a lie leave her lips.
Fortunately for her, she’d ridden up here with me. “Caroline Aitchison,” I explained, gesturing behind me. “My wives’ assistant. She’s here to support Marcella.”
He nodded, not even flinching at the use of wives instead of wife. Tallulah must have briefed her people in advance. “Very good, sir.”
He led us inside. The place was as large as it looked from the outside, but there wasn’t a hint of a draft. Carl was an engineer at heart, I told myself, following the officious man through the halls. He would’ve built this place to last.
We were led into a small sitting room. “The lady may complete her preparations here,” the servant explained, giving us another bow. “Mrs. Harrington will be ready to receive you shortly.” He spared Caroline a withering glance. “Your… assistant will remain behind.”
Marcie blinked. “She’s not coming with us?”
“You don’t need me,” Caroline assured her, already sliding her makeup bag from her shoulder. “You and Jack will be fine.” She knelt in front of Marcie, smiling up at her as she reached for her tools. “The makeup girl doesn’t sit at the negotiating table, angel. I’ll be fine.”
Marcie nodded.
“Can I bring you anything?” the butler asked. “Coffee, tea, refreshments?”
Rule Zero back at Ramsey Engineering had always been: never turn down a cup of coffee. I smiled at the memory, thinking of my early days with Daniel. “A coffee would be great,” I told the man.
“Just some tea,” Marcie said, her hand straying almost imperceptibly to her stomach. Nerves, I thought. She’s still trying to stay calm.
The impression remained after the butler left. Caroline worked quickly and efficiently, touching up the bits of Marcie’s face that had been smudged or otherwise set out of place by her tears. We waited.
“You want a tip?” Caroline murmured.
Her tone was so similar to the one she’d taken with Yukiko before her Morning Harbor interview that I was momentarily struck with a sense of deja vu. Marcie gave a little jerk, nearly smearing mascara across her cheek.
“Look at this place,” Caroline said, gesturing at the fireplace. “It’s impressive. It’s imposing.”
Marcie thought about it, then gulped. “The kind of woman who lives here won’t be easily impressed,” she said.
A little laugh escaped Caroline. “She doesn’t want to be impressed,” she said. “Everything around her is already doing that. She wants to be recognized, angel. Seen.”
I blinked. Seen how?
“Do your whole routine,” she told Marcie, handing the bag with the Rolodex inside to her so she could put it in her lap.
“Wow her with the facts and the depth of your knowledge. But when all else fails, I want you to be real. That’s the thing she’s hungry for.
” She stood up, tucking her brush away, and patted Marcie’s shoulder.
“Don’t make me have to sing. The windows in this place are too nice to get all cracked and broken. ”
Marcie snickered. “Okay.”
The coffee was—God help me for admitting this—even better than Maria’s. I’d just barely managed to finish it, along with a couple of the little macaroons someone had brought on a tray, when the butler reappeared. “Mrs. Harrington will see you now.”
We left Caroline behind. She waved at Marcie, then blew me a kiss and winked. That woman.
This walk was longer than the first. We wound through the halls of the mansion, walking for so long I’d just begun to wonder if we were being led around deliberately when we reached a large foyer.
A staircase large enough for three people to walk up it side-by-side without touching led to the second floor, and the walls were covered in bookshelves and old family portraits.
A woman appeared at the top.
Tallulah.
There she was.
Carl Harrington’s wife had to be seventy years old if she was a day, but she took the stairs the way a woman half her age would: with a knowing, sultry sway that made the whole thing into an event.
Her hair was a shimmering curtain of silver that had once been platinum blonde, draped over the shoulders of a dress the deep red of arterial blood.
I could tell that when she’d been Marcie’s age, she’d probably had men kneeling. Probably when she was my age, too.
She took her time, more than happy to keep her guests waiting. This woman made it clear with every motion that she was the one who owned this house, this company—this legacy. This client we were trying desperately to poach out from underneath of Victoria Ruocchio.
“Holy cow,” Marcie whispered, her eyes as wide as saucers. “She’s like a movie star.”
Tallulah heard. Tallulah smirked.
Marcie was right, though. She reminded me of a film star—not the center-screen, wholesome ones, not Hepburn or Temple.
The dangerous ones, who knew all the old Hollywood dirt.
The kind whose memoirs came out too brash and too close to the truth to ever find a publisher—and who delighted the cocktail circuit with the anecdotes anyway, dispensing them over drinks to anyone lucky enough to find themselves in the range of their voice.
Tallulah Harrington had one of those voices, as I recalled. Even a thirty-second meeting with her ten years ago had been memorable enough for me to remember that.
She reached the bottom of the stairs with a smile that told me she was in complete control of how this evening was going to go. “Jackson Avery,” she said, extending a hand. “It’s been quite a long time, young man.”
I couldn’t remember the last time someone had called me a young man.
I took her hand and kissed the backs of her knuckles. “It has. I was sorry to hear about Carl.”
“Not as sorry as I was,” Tallulah said, looking like she meant it. “You like the dress?”
I nodded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marcie wince like I’d just stepped in dog shit.
“It’s the same color I wore to Carl’s funeral,” Tallulah explained. “Thought I’d show you, since you didn’t get to see it at the time.”
Ouch.
“I am deeply sorry about that,” I said, inclining my head. “Daniel had me in Canada at the time.”
“In Athabasca,” Tallulah corrected. Of course she already knew that. “Oil wells.” She turned to Marcie, her expression softening a touch. “And you were in college at the time, but you weren’t too busy to put in an appearance. Marcella. Daniel’s girl. How are you, dear?”
I watched Marcie swallow down the worst of her nerves. “It’s been a busy year,” she said mildly.
Tallulah laughed at that, loud and long. Yes, she was definitely the kind of woman who told bawdy stories at cocktail parties. “I’ll say. I have so many questions about you and Daniel’s golden boy.” She glanced past us both, towards the hallway. “I’m told you brought a guest?”
Marcie stiffened a touch. “Personal assistant,” she said. “We left her in the sitting room—”
Tallulah jerked a thumb in my direction. “He’s not schtupping her too, is he?”
Marcie froze—then let out a shocked little laugh. “Mrs. Harrington!”
“The papers say the man has three wives,” Tallulah said with a shrug. “And twice as many little nymphs floating around him like he’s just discovered how beautiful his own reflection is.”
Oh God, I thought. How much is this dinner going to hurt?
”My father says hello, by the way,” Marcie insisted. “He called me on the drive over.”