Chapter 10
TEN
The laptop screen flickered before the search results populated one by one in rapid succession.
Marlowe scanned each link and snippet before pushing the laptop toward her father, sitting next to her at the kitchen table.
Marlowe was tired and peckish after her long walk and wanted to rest in her room until dinner was ready, but Frank had asked her to do an online search for background information on the detectives after they’d called to say they would be stopping by on Monday to discuss Harmon’s threats in more detail.
Ariel Mintz and Ben Vance had both attended the police academy and served in uniform.
Judging from the dates she could find, they were promoted quickly.
Other than their basic credentials as homicide detectives, that was all Marlowe could find.
She recalled Ariel’s sharp gaze, her no-nonsense attitude.
Marlowe wondered what it would be like to take in the world and make definitive judgments about it so easily.
The harder Marlowe looked at people and places, the more confused she became.
“I wonder why Poughkeepsie,” Marlowe mused. “You would think if they were good enough to be promoted so young, they would perhaps go to a bigger city.”
“Never assume your own ambitions exist in others,” Frank said, folding his hands together and resting them on his stomach.
“You should call that judge upstate. You know, Lydia Freeman’s husband. Bill. See if he’s crossed paths with them before and has anything useful to share,” Glory said without looking up from the salad spinner.
“Good idea,” Frank said.
Frank and Glory believed in research. They never so much as attended a dinner without discovering the crucial details about the guests.
Who had accomplished what. Who was useful or interesting or well connected.
Marlowe wondered what kind of value they would assign her if she weren’t their daughter and they were to research her.
“Did you speak to the Hopewells or any of the other neighbors yet?” Marlowe asked. “I’m curious what the detectives have been asking.”
“Yes, Todd Hopewell and I spoke briefly. They asked him about the brothers, the land, dates of purchase,” Frank said. “As if that poor young man, Harmon, had anything to do with what was between me and Tom. Not that the Hopewells would know—they’re still new around here.”
Frank had always maintained that he and Tom, the oldest and most approachable of the brothers, had an agreement of sorts: Frank never hassled the farmer, but Tom was aware that Frank would make a fair offer to whoever inherited the property.
“Marlowe, are you going back to the city before Christmas?” Glory asked, changing the subject as she rounded the counter with a pitcher of water. “For Paige’s party?”
Marlowe’s friend Paige from college and her husband threw an annual holiday party in their Cobble Hill brownstone.
Marlowe had fond memories from her twenties, before Paige had kids, when she and Marlowe used to invent special cocktails laden with gin and cranberry juice and decorated with sprigs of thyme.
They liked to get tipsy and gossip about other guests at the parties they attended together.
They’d lived in the same dorm and become friends chatting in each other’s rooms late at night, Marlowe’s shyness eased by Paige’s reliable supply of cheap alcohol.
After Nora, it hadn’t been easy for Marlowe to connect, and she never had a bevy of girlfriends.
She still appreciated Paige, but Marlowe wasn’t looking forward to the holiday party this year.
Paige would likely retire early to put her toddler to bed.
The year before, Marlowe was left on her own to make small talk with Paige’s husband’s friends, all of them couples with high-flying careers and children starting school at Packer or Chapin.
Everyone in the room had a partner and plans.
She had retreated to a corner, feeling stilted and untethered.
“I’m not sure.” Marlowe glanced away from Glory. “Maybe.”
“You need to let me know so I can plan out groceries and meals,” Glory said. “And get the house cleaner in while you’re gone.”
Marlowe nodded. She was too used to Glory’s ways to point out that the amount Marlowe ate couldn’t possibly put a dent in the well-stocked kitchen. Nor did she balk at having to run her comings and goings by her mother. Dancing to Glory’s tune was part of staying at the Gray House.
In fact, Marlowe had come to take comfort in the assurance that Glory would take care of everything.
If Marlowe got caught up in a project and didn’t have time to do laundry, Glory would get it done.
If Marlowe forgot to buy a new dress for a family wedding, Glory acquired options.
When Marlowe was traveling and a flight got canceled at the last minute, Glory was her first call.
She oversaw Marlowe’s move into her apartment and read Marlowe’s contracts with her keen eye.
Her mother was so confident and capable that Marlowe had grown to accept her control.
“Dad.” Marlowe leaned toward her father, pulling him out of his reverie on old law contacts. “Did Todd say if they asked him about Nora? They asked me, and Henry mentioned they went to Damen.”
Frank furrowed his brow and shook his head. “He didn’t say. Why would they? What would Todd know, anyway?”
The Hopewells were recent additions to the area.
But Marlowe had the sense that Ariel was thorough.
If she was going to ask about Nora, she would ask everyone, if only to hear about the rumors.
Obviously, Harmon had been aware of the rumors himself; he’d referenced them in his threats.
Marlowe was suddenly mad with curiosity: What did Harmon think he knew?
Could his information, gleaned from his own relatives perhaps, have a fragment of truth?
And would the detectives bother to find out?
“Marlowe, go up and see if Enzo wants to come down for dinner,” Glory said. “And then set the table.”
Marlowe rose and drifted up the staircase. It had been two days. Ariel and Ben would have more information on Harmon and his family than she did by now. If Marlowe cooperated with them, they might share what they’d found out with her.
Twenty years ago, the detective in charge of Nora’s case, John Brierley, had told her nothing.
He was short and balding, and it was clear he took no enjoyment from the long hikes over uneven terrain that the search required.
He was in no shape for it, but he never complained; Marlowe could give him that.
Despite his bulbous nose, sweaty appearance, and blunt manner of speech, Brierley managed to put Nora’s parents at ease.
Marlowe, too, felt tremendous faith in him at one point.
She’d last seen Brierley in the fall of her junior year of high school.
Marlowe was with the Millers in their living room when Brierley arrived to give them yet another hollow update.
When he left, Marlowe followed him out, with the intention of walking home before the sun set.
Her eyes were cast down, scanning the ground as she walked, forever looking for traces of her friend.
A piece of her shirt. The imprint of her shoe.
A strand of blond hair. Hoping that maybe Nora herself would pop out from behind a tree, laughing and explaining it was all an elaborate trick.
Brierley had paused by his car door and called out to her.
“Miss Fisher, you should know that at this point, we’re assuming that she ran away.” Brierley always called her Miss Fisher.
“She didn’t run away.” Marlowe had been repeating that same phrase for months, as Brierley dug up every negative comment or passing grievance against Nora he could find, trying to piece together a possible reason for her to flee.
When Brierley asked if Nora’s father ever hit her, she’d answered through heaving sobs.
Nora wasn’t abused; she would have told Marlowe something like that.
They’d changed together a thousand times, and Marlowe had never seen any marks.
There was simply no reason for her to run.
He looked at her more pointedly then. “Miss Fisher,” he said. “The only way you’re going to survive this is if you start telling yourself she ran away.”
Then he got into his car and left.
Marlowe decided, however, that Ariel Mintz was no Brierley.
As she returned downstairs to report that Enzo was dozing, and began circling the table, placing the plates and glasses, she thought of Ariel’s somber face and direct manner, her rough edges and sharp teeth.
She pictured Ariel at work, grinding through the long days in uniform, eager to be moved up to detective status.
Marlowe didn’t possess that kind of grit or confidence, but she didn’t begrudge it in Ariel, or in Ben, for that matter.
They were hungry, whereas Brierley had been tired, his energy drained by a case that simply didn’t make sense.
They would be back tomorrow. Frank and Glory would brace themselves behind all the intel they could hoard. But what armor did Marlowe have to guard against the memories of Nora, once carefully contained, now flooding back to her?