Authors: Margarite St. John
The Art of Death (2 page)
Riptide
July 4, 1990
FOURTH OF JULY TRAGEDY
Chesterton Tribune
July 5, 1990
The Fourth of July is a day for family celebration, but yesterday at the Indiana Dunes State Park tragedy struck for one family.
Just after noon, two eleven year old girls, Madeleine Appledorn and Kimberly Swartz, both from Fort Wayne, reported to their families that their friend, Nicole Whitehead, nine, was missing. The three families were gathered at the dunes for a picnic.
Madeleine said that while the three girls were swimming near a pier, Nicole had suddenly been caught in a riptide and carried far out into Lake Michigan. When Madeleine and Kimberly heard their friend screaming, they immediately got out of the water and ran to the end of the pier, thinking that Nicole would somehow either swim or float back where they could reach her.
When, however, the panicked swimmer disappeared from sight, Madeleine dove into the lake and began swimming toward the spot where she had last seen her friend. Unfortunately, Madeleine got caught in the same rip current. Instead of fighting it, she relaxed, she said, as she’d been instructed to do in her YMCA swimming class. She let the current carry her into quiet waters about a hundred feet east. When she reached shallow water, she waded to shore.
According to their parents, both surviving girls were exhausted and inconsolable. Madeleine sustained scrapes and bruises when she hit a submerged object after diving off the end of the pier. Kimberly had swollen feet, later diagnosed at the emergency room where both girls were taken for treatment as the result of numerous bee stings. She accidentally stepped on a nest of ground bees as the two girls ran back through the dunes to their families. Madeleine was treated and released; Kimberly was kept overnight after suffering from anaphylaxis.
Other swimmers and boaters confirmed there were riptides at about the time Nicole Whitehead disappeared. Riptides are not uncommon in Lake Michigan, occurring with the greatest frequency on the south and east shores, especially when a cold front moves in unexpectedly, as it did yesterday.
Swimmers are advised to stay away from piers, breakwaters, and other shoreline structures. If caught in a riptide, swimmers are counseled not to panic but instead to swim or float with the current, which generally runs parallel to the shore for no more than a hundred and fifty feet. Swimmers who panic exhaust themselves fighting the current and all too frequently drown as a result.
An immediate search of lower Lake Michigan by various government agencies and volunteers found no body, although a bathing suit top the missing girl was reportedly wearing was found washed up on the beach not far from where Madeleine emerged after being caught in the riptide.
Derby Day
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Trent Senser was nervous. Excited too.
He checked himself in a mirror. His spiky brown hair was perfectly moussed, and his dark eyes shone with anticipation. Though he wasn’t quite as handsome as a movie star, he looked pretty damn good, he thought. As always, he was smartly dressed. His navy blue suit had the edgy look only the Italian designer Ermenegildo Zegna could achieve. His shirt and tie were from Turnbull and Asser, the famous British shirtmaker. But he was proudest of his shoes, which were Crockett and Jones Oxfords. As a teenager he once read that Aristotle Onassis said, “If you want to know the measure of a man look at the shoes he wears.” The truth of that never left him.
He turned away from the mirror, intent on his unfamiliar duties.
Last year, as a guest of the Wrights in Louisville for the 138th Kentucky Derby, he had casually suggested that next year they stage a Derby party at the Gretna Green Golf and Tennis Club for people who didn’t want to travel to Louisville. His wish had come true. The adage “Be careful what you wish for” hit him like a boomerang, for the Wrights had put him in charge of the event. Not that he wasn’t flattered. He was. And the fee he was being paid would ensure a lavish Caribbean honeymoon for Cricket, his fiancée, and him in June.
But he wasn’t a party planner, unless you counted the monthly wine-and-cheese tastings he organized for Lucy Bott’s Bourbon Street Charcuterie. He was a fashion stylist. Normally, before an event like this, he would be getting Lexie Wright ready for the limelight, making sure her makeup and hair were perfect and the outfit he recommended was correctly tailored, steamed, and accessorized.
At a little after noon, Trent toured the main dining room, obsessively checking that everything was in order. Mint juleps were ready to be poured, though the lavish bar was stocked with everything any club member could possibly dream up. The buffet included burgoo, a rich meaty stew traditionally served at the Derby, and Kentucky Derby chocolate pecan pie, as well as many other delicacies, including raw oysters on the half shell, cold jumbo shrimp, caviar from Mrs. Wright’s sturgeon farm in Florida, and prime rib. Every bistro table sported a bud vase with a perfect red rose and mint foliage. The walls were hung with huge photos of the 139th Derby contenders and their jockeys, colorful banners displaying each stable’s racing silks, and lavish rose garlands. The Lords of Maumee, dressed like race track touts, were setting up, primed to belt out not just pop classics and dance tunes but also
My Old Kentucky Home
and Dan Fogelberg’s
Run for the Roses
when the time came
.
In the Grill Room downstairs, two 50-inch monitors had been set up so people who preferred virtual experience to real life could play a Sega-AM3 horse racing simulation arcade game called Derby Owners Club. Trent thought it was absurd, if not obscene, but Dover Pitt, the Club’s golf and tennis pro, predicted it would be a big attraction for the Millennials, the generation that had memory cards for brains. Trent dutifully checked with the technician to ensure that he had all the chairs and tables he needed. When the technician began to mumble something about the electronics using words foreign to Trent and which he had no desire to learn, he turned on his heel to take a look at the banquet room across the hall.
Horse racing, of course, is nothing without betting. Steve Wright had had to pull some strings to set up a room to function like an off-line betting facility. Trent had been assured that a lot of money would change hands that day, and as with all such endeavors, the house would not lose. Understanding nothing about odds and bored by everything associated with gambling, Trent’s walk-through the off-line facility was cursory. Like the game room, the betting facility was Dover’s bailiwick and he was welcome to it.
Returning upstairs, he opened the French doors to the colonnaded terrace with its new striped awning and stepped out. Because the weather was perfect -- 73° and sunny -- gigantic TV screens had been set up in the shadiest corners so that guests could view the Derby from wherever they preferred. Like the main dining room, the terrace was festooned with rose garlands and little pots of live mint.
In the entrance gallery, Trent ensured that Lexie Wright’s junior assistant, Kate Deel, and her equally pretty sister Bridget -- both wearing the required Derby hats -- were ready to check members’ reservations and answer questions. Goody bags jostled each other on a long table behind them. At 500, the guest list far exceeded expectations. Non-members could attend if accompanied or sponsored by a member, and the event had been heavily promoted. The response was enthusiastic. People were driving in from Michigan and Ohio, as expected, but in addition members had contacted far-flung relatives and friends, some of whom were flying in from as faraway as Florida.
After looking up from the guest list, Trent caught a frown on Kate’s face. “What’s that look? Somebody die?”
“Somebody might before the day is over. Take a look at page two,” she said, pointing to a name.
Trent read aloud, “Dr. Anthony Beltrami.” He looked up. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s a new member, a psychiatrist. Not married. He joined as soon as the Derby party was announced.”
“If he’s a member -- .”
Kate cut him off. “He’s welcome. I know, I know. He’s fully paid up, a real gentlemen, so he has every right to be here. But look who he’s bringing.”
“Dr. Anthony Beltrami and guest, Ms. Madeleine Harrod.” Trent cocked his head quizzically. “Something wrong with Madeleine Harrod?”
“Nothing except she was Mr. Wright’s first wife.”
“His first wife!”
“You didn’t know he’d been married before?”
“No. . . . But lots of men have first wives, don’t they? So what’s the problem?”
“After the divorce she became rich and famous. Not as rich and famous as Mrs. Wright, of course.”
“Rich and famous how?”
“She works in forensics and owns a big toy company. She’s also a pretty famous artist, sells big paintings in Indianapolis.”
“Sounds like she’s an accomplished woman. She’ll fit in just fine so long as she follows the rule about wearing a Derby hat.”
“Oh, Trent. Isn’t there some ex-girlfriend who stalks you on Facebook or tweets you incessantly or leaves suggestive voice mail messages? Everybody’s got somebody like that, some crazy ex who wants to reignite a romance.”
Trent composed his face. “No, I don’t have anybody like that in my life.” He hadn’t dated in high school or college. His one and only girlfriend, Cricket, was first his BFF, then his roommate, only recently his fiancée, and soon to be his wife. The troubles Kate was describing simply weren’t part of his very limited experience with women. “Are you saying that Ms. Harrod is stalking Mr. Wright?”
“Not exactly.”
“Is she ugly or loud or vulgar or something?”
“No.”
“Well, then. If she’s coming with Dr. Beltrami, she can’t be
that
interested in Mr. Wright and probably won’t make a scene.”
“Jean says Ms. Harrod made Steve’s life a nightmare while they were married. The divorce was even worse. Everything is always all about her. Now she’s trying to make Mrs. Wright jealous.”
“How do you know that?”
“Office chatter.”
“So you think that’s why she’s coming today -- to make Steve’s second wife jealous?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I have my suspicions.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it, so let’s just hope for the best. Maybe she just wants to have fun.”
“Don’t count on it.” Kate closed her eyes and sighed. “You might want to check all the fire extinguishers.”
“What . . . why . . . what do you mean?”
She gave him a warning look. “Because somebody’s going to flame out. I just know it.”
The Best Revenge
Saturday, May 4, 2013
What Madeleine Harrod liked most in the world was an unidentified skull. It fired her artistic imagination. Reconstructing a face to match the skull brought life out of death. When someone recognized the face and the anonymous victim regained an authentic identity, Madeleine felt herself to have joined the pantheon of powerful goddesses.
And now that she was famous both as a forensic artist and a toy maker, the money rolled in. Even so, her bank account struggled to keep up with her shopping sprees and her private trips to world-famous archaeological digs and museums, where she searched for historically important skulls that didn’t yet have a face.
What Madeleine liked second best was a party, especially one she didn’t pay for. Anthony was paying today. That left her free to buy a designer outfit from head to toe for the Kentucky Derby extravaganza at Gretna Green.
She was checking herself in a three-way mirror when a shadow fell across it, resolving itself into her father’s kindly face. She jumped at the sudden intrusion. Lacking the normal personal boundaries, Chester Appledorn was always appearing where she didn’t expect him. “Daddy,” she gently remonstrated, “you should be resting.” She turned around to face him. “You know you shouldn’t move around without your walker. You’ll fall. A broken hip isn’t going to feel good, you know. Here, take my arm. It won’t be a half hour before Nettie gets here. She’ll bring up your afternoon tea. Do you want those little cream puffs again?”
Once Chester Appledorn had been helped across the hall, had expressed his teatime preferences, and was again settled in his favorite armchair in a little alcove off his bedroom, Madeleine kissed him on the cheek, slipped out of the room, and ran down the stairs to the back parlor, where Anthony was waiting. Fortunately, he was a patient man, for she was often behind schedule.
“Sorry, I had to get Daddy settled. He just won’t use his walker and I’m afraid he’s going to fall down the stairs some day.” She did a little pirouette. “So how do I look?”
Anthony, who was watching the first horse race of the afternoon, turned down the volume on the television and stood up to participate in the ritual of noticing everything about Madeleine. Nothing went well unless he did.
Dr. Anthony Beltrami was an unlikely escort for the stylish woman in front of him. At 52, he was eighteen years her senior. He was still slim and fit, not because he dieted or worked out but because his genes made him so. As an admirer of Sigmund Freud, one of the psychoanalysts he viewed as his professional ancestor, he affected a neatly trimmed goatee and short hair, as well as the Austrian’s occasional use of cocaine for depression. His eyes would have been his best feature had one of them not been brown and the other green; as it was, it was his mismatched eyes that no one forgot. At five nine, he was shorter than Madeleine in her stilettos, but that bothered neither Madeleine nor the good doctor. It was Anthony’s gravitas, his old-world manners and air of superior knowledge, that attracted Madeleine.
The two had met when Madeleine, then known as “Mattie,” was only eleven. After Nicole Whitehead’s disappearance in Lake Michigan during a Fourth of July picnic, Mattie had become mute and depressed. Though the Appledorns were skeptical of psychiatrists, they nevertheless took the pediatrician’s advice to get counseling once their daughter began cutting herself. Despite being very young at the time, Dr. Beltrami came highly recommended, so for the next seven years Mattie was a weekly patient.
The visits ended shortly before Mattie entered the School of the Art Institute of Chicago when she simply declared herself cured and further announced that henceforth she would be known as Madeleine. Realizing that weekly visits would no longer be practical anyway, Dr. Beltrami did not protest. Surprisingly, Madeleine returned as his patient after divorcing Ned Harrod, her third husband, but when some of her anger had burned away and the chemistry between doctor and patient became too obvious to ignore, it was Dr. Beltrami’s turn to end the office visits. Now, as Madeleine and Anthony rather than Mattie and Dr. Beltrami, they were a couple.
Anthony smiled, kissed her cheek, and sat back down. He liked looking at Madeleine. She reminded him of the Seventies -- the dark cropped pixie cut made famous by Vidal Sassoon, the bright red lipstick of a socialite defiantly proud of her thin lips, the mascaraed but natural lashes of a woman whose eyes were a startling turquoise and therefore needed little enhancement. She was slender without being anorexic and had just enough curves to stir a man’s juices.
“Very chic. So tell me all about it.”
“My silk sheath dress is Giambattista Valli, very expensive but I won’t tell you how much. It’s white to set off my tan. In case you didn’t notice, everything white is
optic
white this year. I bought it in Indianapolis last week when I inspected the new forensic artist kit. You know, the one for the skull of Richard III.”
Anthony wasn’t in the mood to discuss Richard III. “Best not to tell me the price of anything. I like the red flowers trailing down the side. They look hand-painted. Is that asymmetrical look the thing these days?”
“Yes. It’s this year’s collection. My hat is Rachel Trevor-Morgan. I hope you’re impressed. She makes hats for the Queen of England.”
“But very different from what the Queen wears. I’ve never seen so many feathers in one place before except on a tropical bird. What bird is that precise color of red, I wonder.”
She moved her head so the feathers fluttered seductively. “A very dead one, don’t you think?”
He laughed. “You and dead things! I’ll be far more interesting to you when I’m dead, won’t I?”
“Oh, stop. And my sandals are Jimmy Choo mirrored leather.”
“How in the world can you walk in a heel that high?”
“Easy once you get used to it.”
“I promise not to try. And the earrings?”
“Vintage Chanel, poured glass. Aren’t they fabulous?”
He nodded. “Not a word I use as a man but, yes, they’re attractive. Now I have a serious question. Which horse are you going to bet on for the final race?”
Without a second’s hesitation, she said, “Normandy Invasion. Kimberly told me he’s sure to win.”
At the mention of Kimberly, Anthony’s face darkened, but Madeleine, who was intent on selecting items to transfer from her big purse to a little clutch, didn’t notice.
“Why Normandy Invasion?”
“She says the name signals heroism, facing danger, winning against the odds.”
“Very prescient,” Anthony said, glancing at the television. “It’s raining in Louisville, so a muddy track is going to test those horses for sure. Me, I’m betting on Itsmyluckyday.”
“Of course it’s your lucky day. You’re with me, aren’t you?”
“If you say so,” he said teasingly. “And what persona will you be displaying today at your ex-husband’s club?”
She tilted her head with a little pout. “Grand lady, of course. What’s that saying, the best revenge is . . . .”
“Revenge.”
Madeleine laughed. She loved Antony’s harsh wit, so at odds with what she expected from a psychiatrist. “No. The best revenge is money and beauty. I’m rich and beautiful, so Steve can eat his heart out. Which he’s probably doing anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“A few months ago, he got scammed out of a farm he bought for another residential development. I hear he lost tons of money. Some people say he’s broke.”
Anthony scoffed. “He can’t be broke. I just joined the golf club he owns, which isn’t cheap, and he’s throwing this very fancy party we’re attending, which costs even members a very pretty penny. So if he’s broke, he’ll be back in the money soon.”
She made a dismissive sound. “The club is probably mortgaged to the hilt and I bet he’s living on his wife’s money. I’m glad I divorced him. He was a horse not worth betting on.”
“I thought he divorced you.”
“Not true. He just put that story out to save face. Poor man. I don’t know whether to gloat at his failure or feel sorry for his humiliation.”
Anthony shook his head. “Don’t do either one, Madeleine. Forget him. On second thought, the best revenge is to forget.”
“How original!” She shot him a flirty smile. “Is that my psychiatrist speaking or my boyfriend?”
He took a few seconds to answer. “If I have to choose, it’s your boyfriend speaking, but at my age the word is embarrassing.”
“So what are you?” she said, grasping his hands and kissing the back of each in turn. She loved his hands, so slender and graceful with the long tapered fingers of a prince of the realm.
“Well . . . your suitor.”
“So what does that make me?” she asked, leaning in for a kiss.
He tipped his head in thought. “My lady love.”
“Very romantic,” she giggled, checking her watch. “Just let me run upstairs and make sure Daddy’s okay.”
“Let me go up with you,” Anthony said with a frown. “I haven’t seen Chester in years. I’m growing more and more uncomfortable prescribing medicine for him based on your word alone. I need to see my patient.”
“Daddy’s probably asleep by now, so let’s do that later. I won’t be long. I just need to be sure he’s got a blanket around his knees.”
“We’re late as it is.”
“Not that late, Anthony. We’ll only be an hour late for the party. Which is good, because a late entrance makes for a better scene than an early one.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I promise, that’s the only scene I’ll make today.”
