The Golden Girl (8 page)

V
enetian Lake turned out to be a tiny hamlet—population 282—in upstate New York. In the center of town stood a cannon in tribute to the three young men from Venetian Lake who had been killed in World War II. Aside from the cannon, there was a firehouse, a single grocery store, a pizza parlor, a gas station and a Laundromat.

Maddie drove herself and Troy in her now-repaired Aston Martin into town. She had taken off Monday afternoon. Frankly, she thought, this undercover agenting was going to be tricky. She was in the middle of hostile board meetings, heated negotiations over a hotel in the now uber-trendy Meatpacking District, and a major construction project—and it certainly wasn’t like her to tell her assistant that she was going to be out for the remainder of the day. But in this case, she had to find out what secrets lay in this lake town. She and Troy headed off on the open highway, and Maddie was enjoying the escape for the day.

The “lake” in question was more of a very large pond, she decided. She couldn’t fathom, for the life of her, how it earned its moniker. But she knew the best way to find out would be to ask at the one place she was sure gossip—albeit masculine gossip—was handed out. The volunteer fire station.

“You sure you haven’t been doing this cloak and dagger stuff your whole life?” Troy teased when he realized where they were headed.

She smiled as she pulled the car into the concrete driveway next to the building. The building was brick with a large bell above its garage door. She imagined it occasionally clanging in the night. They went to the front—the immense garage door was open, and two firemen were washing the lone red truck. She could smell spaghetti sauce or something simmering in the firehouse kitchen.

The younger guy with the shaved head—hot enough for a firemen calendar—stood up and wiped his forehead as she and Troy climbed out of the car. “Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry—” she batted her eyes “—we’re just plain lost. We were heading to Lake Placid for our honeymoon and got the bright idea to take some back roads and drive through some small towns. And…we ended up here. Starving—and the pizza place looks closed right now. I don’t know if there’s someplace else to eat.”

He grinned at them. “Congratulations. I’m married three years now. There’s nothing else around for miles, but you’re more than welcome to join us for dinner.”

“Is that an invitation?”

The older fireman, silver-haired with a barrel chest and big white beard that made him look like Santa in the off-season, said, “That is, if you don’t mind spaghetti and meatballs.”

“I’m so famished, I could eat shoe leather,” Troy joked.

“Come on then,” the younger fireman said. They turned off the hoses they were using to wash the truck. He then dried off his hands on a nearby towel and turned around. “I’m Tommy Malone, and this is Vic Keel.”

Maddie smiled at them both and shook their hands. “Madison Taylor,” she said, “and my husband, Troy.”

They followed the men into the firehouse kitchen. It was homey, with blue-and-white-gingham curtains on the windows of the living area. Madison guessed someone’s wife had sewn them.

The firemen set the table, and after stirring the pot a couple of times, Vic came over with four heaping bowls full of spaghetti and topped with huge meatballs and red sauce. Maddie’s mouth watered, though she knew there was little chance she’d even come close to finishing hers.

The men dug in heartily, after pouring sodas for each of them, and she cut into one of her meatballs with her fork and tasted it. “This is fantastic! And whoever said men can’t cook,” she said and smiled playfully.

Troy ate like he’d never been fed before. “Awesome.”

“Man, Vic is the best,” Tommy said. “Everyone loves when it’s his turn to cook. With me, everyone gets hot dogs or chili.”

“You know,” Madison said, twirling her spaghetti, “this is such a pretty little town—lots of cottages on your lake and so on. Why is it called Venetian Lake, though?”

Tommy looked at Vic. “He’s the resident historian.”

Vic put down his fork and sipped a Coke. “Well, you see a bunch of cottages, but at one time, there was a big ol’ house on the hill in back of the Episcopal church. Some rich guy aimed to make this a summer playground for the wealthy. He bought up all the land and wanted it to be like a small European town, or someplace classy. Picked Nice as a name—though of course everyone in these parts pronounced it
nice,
not
niece
as in the popular city on the French Riviera
.
He owned the damn town lock, stock, and barrel. He could have named it whatever he damn well pleased.”

Maddie smiled. Then she felt a small chill pass over her. “Nice…that sounds so familiar. I mean other than the French Riviera.” It couldn’t be.

“Sure. It was kind of famous. ’Cause a not-so-nice thing happened here. ’Course, you’re way too young to remember, but there was a kidnapping here—as famous as the Lindbergh case—at the time at least.”

“Sure,” Madison whispered. “The Pruitt baby.”

“Yup. But see, after that poor child turned up dead, God, fifty-five years ago or so, Mrs. Pruitt had a breakdown. So her husband sold the town to one of his best friends, a guy by the name of Rockefeller. He demolished the old house and planned on putting in some new, fancy modern house, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. But then his wife decided she didn’t like the socializing here—as in there was no socializing. So they in turn sold the town. When they did, they sold it to a developer who put in all these cottages, and the developer didn’t want people remembering the kidnapping. So he renamed the town Venetian Lake. Now, no one remembers its old name—and most especially, no one remembers what happened here.”

“Since then, I don’t even think there’s been a single homicide,” said Tommy.

“Amazing,” Madison said, exchanging meaningful looks with Troy. She knew the baby died in
Nice.
How had Claire come to discover the change of name? And what did this place’s tragic history have to do with the present day?

“Yeah. And if you go by the church, there’s the mausoleum for that poor family. But only the baby is in it.”

“Hmm.” Madison nodded. “You ever know them?”

“Nah. Been too long.”

“Does anyone ever come to visit the baby’s grave?”

Madison herself had never been there, and the topic was taboo in the family.

“Nope. Nobody. Sometimes the minister’s wife puts fresh flowers there. She tends to the cemetery a bit. Lovely woman.”

Troy asked, “Any curiosity seekers come here?”

Vic shook his head. “Wait, though,” he furrowed his brow. “I remember one woman. Said she was a friend of the family’s. This was a while back. Pretty gal. Dark haired. But, that was it.”

Convinced there was no more to be told, Maddie said, “Tell us more about the fire station.” She had learned, from her years in business, that the best way to avoid talking about herself was to ask people about themselves—most were only too happy to oblige. However, she found the firemen modest and patriotic. They regaled her and Troy with tales from their small town, then walked the two outside to her car and waved goodbye. Madison made a mental note to send an anonymous donation to the firehouse.

Madison and Troy pulled away and drove around the lake, glimpsing the dark blue water through the trees. Maddie spotted the white spire of the church she thought the firemen had referred to, and she drove in that direction, eventually finding the Episcopal church and its cemetery. Behind the church, up on the hill where, she now knew, the family home once rose, stood three smaller homes with white picket fences and sweeping lawns. Fall leaves blanketed the grass, and in the yard of one house, a golden retriever bounded, chasing falling leaves.

She parked the car next to the cemetery. Troy climbed out and said, “I’m going to go check out the church, see if maybe the minister or his wife is there.”

“Okay, I’m going to find the baby’s grave.”

Maddie walked through the wrought-iron gates—unlocked and open—and began strolling down the rows of graves. Most were neat and tidy, but near the edge of the cemetery, along a row of trees, the graves were more haphazard and dated from the turn of the century. The dates were nearly faded in the stone by years of weathering and wear.

She saw, also near several trees, a very large mausoleum. Maddie walked over to it, her feet crunching in the dead autumn leaves.

She read the inscription carved in white marble: Angels and Saints of the Pruitt Family. An enormous wrought-iron gate, about fourteen feet high, stood in front. She pressed on the gate, and it opened easily. Five marble steps led down into a tunnel-like entrance to the mausoleum. Maddie walked down, and allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Inside the mausoleum it was about ten or fifteen degrees cooler than the already-brisk fall air, and she shivered slightly. In the pale light that seeped in from the entrance, she saw a single tile in a wall engraved: William Charles Pruitt III, beloved son and brother, 1947–1948. Maddie’s eyes welled for a moment, thinking of how her poor grandmother must have been crushed by the crime. She ran her fingertips along the engraved marble, its feel icy to the touch. She shook her head ever so slightly. What could this poor baby’s death have to do with Claire’s murder? Little William was murdered, too. But how could the two murders many decades apart have anything to do with each other?

Maddie was completely puzzled. And, lost in her own private thoughts, she never heard the attacker sneak up on her and hit her over the head with a metal pipe. She only saw blackness as she collapsed to the ground.

H
ours later, her teeth chattering, Maddie woke up. At least she thought it was hours later. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been a day. All she knew was it was pitch-black. And she was cold, colder than she had ever been. And she had a splitting headache. She could hear two men whispering outside, and she struggled to sit up, the movement sending shattering waves of pain through her temples and neck.

Quietly, she felt at her back. Her gun was still there. No one knew she was an agent, and whoever was after her would have no idea she was carrying a weapon. She guessed they thought she was just a curious heiress looking into her past, or into whatever mystery Claire had stumbled on. Was this how Claire had met her death? Was some of it from snooping into a long-forgotten murder? And where was Troy?

Maddie quietly pulled herself into a standing position and crept closer to the opening to outside. She pulled her gun from its holster. In the darkness, she saw one man’s face slightly illuminated by the glow from a cigarette. She didn’t recognize him. She overheard the other man say, “We wait for the word. I think just getting rid of her fits with the plan anyway.”

She didn’t recognize his voice or his profile in the dark, either. But she was scared.
Getting rid of her?

The two men stood close together, talking in low voices.

“She’ll be out cold for a week. Or dead,” the taller one said, laughing a little.

Maddie knew she had to get them both. If she left one standing, she was as good as dead.

Taking her gun, she aimed at the taller one and fired, hitting him between the shoulder and his chest, and spinning him around. He fell to the ground with a weird sort of grunt, and the other one drew his gun, facing her in the darkness. “What the fuck!” he shouted.

He aimed wildly in the dark, missing her, and she heard the bullet echo inside the mausoleum. He fired again, and she ducked, then took aim from a crouching position and fired. She hit him in the leg, but she guessed it was just a grazing bullet, because though he cursed, he was still standing. She took advantage of his pain, though, to slip out of the mausoleum and dash out into the cemetery.

Over her head another bullet whistled, and she heard him on his cell phone shouting he had “trouble.”

She dived behind a large headstone. If she called 911 or local police, she feared some inexperienced country cop would get killed. She was convinced she had to escape herself—and find Troy. Fear coursed through her. What if they had killed Troy? She was on her own and would have to think and operate like an agent until she found her partner. Screw these bastards. She had been underestimated in the boardroom before, and she didn’t like it. And now these guys had no idea who they were messing with.

From behind the headstone, she fired at her assailant. She missed, and he fired back.

The moon was just a sliver, and it gave off little light. She squinted and dove for a different headstone, one a few yards down and closer to where she’d parked her car. She scrunched down. She only had a single clip in her weapon. Scaring him off wasn’t an option. She had to stop him in his tracks. With her adrenaline pumping, her heart pounding wildly, she forgot her pain just a bit. She knew she had to get out of the cemetery and to her car.

Peering over the headstone, she saw the man limping and leaning on another headstone, crouching slightly. She guessed he was tending to his existing wound, pressing on it, staunching the blood flow. She couldn’t afford to show mercy. As thoughts ran through her mind of little baby William, and Claire, she pointed her gun and fired again. Just as the man crumpled in a heap, she heard Troy call out, “Maddie! Stay down!”

She leaned against a cold headstone. She could see Troy emerge from the shadows, his face bruised, gun drawn.

At least they were both safe. Alive.

It was only now, with the rush of adrenaline slowed, that she began shaking in earnest. It wasn’t the cold. It was the reality that inside of two weeks, her life had been turned upside down. With startling clarity, she realized that she, Madison Taylor-Pruitt, heiress to one of America’s biggest fortunes, may just have killed her first man.

M
adison called in sick the next day—and her father was none too pleased.

“Goddamnit, Madison, what the hell is going on with you? Bing is breathing down my neck over the board meeting, the board itself is up in arms, the police have been here yet again with a search warrant for Claire’s office, and meanwhile, you’re goddamn AWOL. How do you think that looks?”

“How does it look? It looks like I’m sick and can’t come in.”

“Don’t give me that.”

Madison couldn’t believe how her normally coolheaded father was losing it.

“Dad, I’ve been working for you for years now, and I came to work with double pneumonia last winter. So it’s not like I take it lightly. I just am really not feeling well. I think it’s stomach flu. Maybe food poisoning.”

“You want me to send over Dr. Halloway?”

“No.”

“Might as well make him earn his salary.”

“No,” she said more insistently.

“Look…are you pulling this because of Claire? Because your job, Madison, has nothing to do with my personal life. You have—”

“A responsibility to our shareholders.” She said it singsong fashion.

“That’s not funny. You think your position as future CEO here is a joke?”

“No. It’s just that someone I loved, someone you claimed to love, was murdered. And you’re more interested in Wall Street than seeing her killer brought to justice.”

“You act like you’re thirteen years old, Madison. Like you’re some petulant teen, instead of responsible for hundreds of millions of dollars and major shareholder decisions and obligations. I’ve always had to put aside my feelings. And so have you. Now, suddenly, you’re acting completely out of character. I’ll expect you here tomorrow, acting like you support me to the fullest, Madison. I’m counting on you, but if you don’t care about that—and it appears you don’t—then the company is counting on you. If we take a major market dive, then people, employees, who have given their years in dedication and service to us, will be out of jobs. That can be on your conscience.”

“And I wonder what’s on your conscience, Dad.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out,” she snapped and hung up the phone. She soon felt guilty. She could sense her father’s growing desperation as his world—ordinarily so controlled—spun out of his control.

Her cell phone rang. She saw it was John Hernandez, calling from his cell.

“Madison?”

“Hi, John.”

“I’ve been worried about you. You didn’t come to the homework session yesterday. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I was worried, but then I started to wonder if you were just avoiding me.”

Madison cursed herself in her mind. She had meant to call him, but the two thugs at the cemetery had effectively taken care of that.

“How could you think that? What am I saying? I know it was bad form of me not to show or call…and I am so, so sorry. I had a wonderful time. A better than wonderful time. I ran into some work issues, and then I got food poisoning. I’ve been in bed.”

“Do you want me to come over and take care of you? I could whip up a pot of chicken soup.”

“No…I’m really miserable company right now.” She purposely made her voice sound a little weak.

“My bed seems empty without you.”

Madison felt a bolt of warmth sear through her. “You have no idea how much I wish I was there.”

“When can I see you?”

“How about Saturday night?”

“Sounds great. I’ll call you to check on you in a day or so. Feel better. And I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Okay…bye.”

“Bye, angel.”

Madison hung up the phone. For a brief moment, she let herself recall the moment when he slid inside her. It was like her body was made to fit his. Shaking the thought from her mind, she checked her watch. Troy was due over in about fifteen minutes to reconvene a strategy as far as investigating Claire’s murder—and the box of clues.

She padded into her kitchen and started a pot of coffee. She wore a yoga outfit from Christy Turlington’s Nuala line. Madison’s mother was a huge yoga fanatic—for a while. Like most everything, Chantal had eventually grown bored and gave it up. Madison still tried to at least begin each day with some stretches, but this morning, every bit of her hurt. The yoga clothes were a simple nod to comfort.

Fifteen minutes later, her doorman called her and said a Mr. Carter was there. She told him to send him up, and she opened the door when Troy arrived.

“Whew,” he said, letting out a low whistle. “So this is how the heir to the Pruitt fortune lives.” He walked to the bank of windows and gazed out on Central Park. The crisp fall day showed off the colors of the trees.

“Give me a break. Renee is hardly living the poor life and you’re there all the time. Around many beautiful agents. A lot of men would kill for your job.”

“A lot of men kill for the fun of it.”

“You know what I mean. Tell me you haven’t gotten used to Renee’s chef’s watercress salad and warm pomegranate vinaigrette. There must be FBI agents in the field just green with envy.”

He nodded, smiling. “Working with Renee and you is a cushy deal, I admit it. Still, that’s like my make-believe life. Agents don’t live like this in the off-hours, Madison.”

No,
she thought looking around her apartment. In one corner stood an armoire from eighteenth-century France in a burled wood and polished to a sheen. She had bid sixty thousand dollars for it at Sotheby’s.
And I suppose teachers don’t live like this either.

Thinking of John made her frown. She turned her head and said, “I’m going to go get us some coffee.”

“Great…I could use it. I’ll help.”

He followed her into her expansive kitchen as she busied herself pulling out china and sugar. She favored raw cane sugar and a tea biscuit or two.

“What’s the matter?” Troy asked her. “Your face clouded up in there a minute or so ago.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Come on. It has to be something.”

“Perceptive of you.”

“Training. I took a profiling course—a bunch of them actually—at Quantico. I was pretty good at it. Then I got too old.”

“What do you mean, too old?”

“The best profilers are under twenty-eight.”

“Why?”

“The older you get, the more you make allowances.”

Madison put the mugs and silver coffeepot and sugar bowl on a teak tray and pulled a carton of cream from the subzero refrigerator. Troy lifted the tray and carried it to the dining room.

“What do you mean, allowances?”

“Well, when you’re eighteen, say, and you meet someone, what’s your typical reaction?…I’ll tell you. A teen makes a snap decision. Dork or cool guy. Nerd or jock. Outcast or cheerleader. They see the world in instantaneous black and white. When we get older, we temper that. We learn there’s more to someone than appearance and body language.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Madison sat down and poured them both coffee. Troy sat opposite her.

“It is. I mean, certainly in a philosophical sense it is. But here’s the thing, that’s still part of how a young person’s brain works. It’s more impulsive. I’ve even seen studies about almost a shearing effect as the brain goes through growth spurts. New, fast, impulsive pathways are born. It’s all very new science. Anyway…the bottom line is the younger a profiler is, usually the more talented. I wasn’t meant to stay a profiler. I ended up with this special assignment.”

“But you still have the skills. You picked up that something was wrong.”

“Yeah.” He held her gaze. “Come on…spill.”

“I was just wondering, I guess, how to balance being an agent with being a…person. I mean, for one thing, I am responsible for so much in my job. I’ve been chained to my desk for so long—because I love it, but also because I always felt I had something I wanted to prove. That my name wasn’t the reason for my success. That my talent was.”

“It’s a balancing act, that’s for sure.”

“But then, I also have this new relationship.” Madison saw a cloud of disappointment skate across Troy’s face.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well…I’m doing an awful lot of lying. To hide my double life. I feel like it’s going to be impossible to be one person with him and another with the Gotham Roses.”

“I won’t lie to you. A lot of marriages and relationships just don’t work once people start with the agency. It’s just too complicated.”

“I thought so,” Madison said, sipping her coffee.

“That’s not to say it
couldn’t
work. It’s just to say that there’s a lot of pressure, and it is hard to explain certain things away. I have two friends in the CIA, and they pretty much have given up on relationships. I mean, how can you be with someone if they can never ask you about your job, where you’re going, what you’re doing for a living, that whole thing.”

“I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed. All this undercover stuff makes a day in the boardroom seem like a picnic. Like last night in Venetian Lake—I mean the adrenaline rush was so intense compared to the boardroom. I’ve known men to throw up before board meetings because it’s so pressurized. But I thrive on it. I love a challenge, which I guess is why I feel cut out for this Gotham Rose thing no matter how intense it gets. Speaking of which, what’s the status on those two guys?”

“They’ll both make it, though the one you got in the chest, the bullet pierced his lung and lodged in his back. He’ll be out of commission for a long time yet.”

Madison tried to process the information that she had wounded someone seriously. “Have you questioned them yet?” she asked softly.

“No. They’re both in a morphine haze. One is in intensive care—the one with the pierced lung. It’ll be a while before we get anything substantive out of him.” Troy took a swig of coffee. “Do you have the box from Claire.”

Madison nodded. Troy seemed unfazed by the events at Venetian Lake—even though he was sporting a major welt on his face. She pulled the box out from under the table and laid the contents out for them both to look at.

“First of all,” Madison said, “I think she did it this way to protect me. If she didn’t spell it out completely, then if someone broke in my apartment there’d be nothing for him to find. Her mother would be safe, too. So it’s like a puzzle. A travel brochure from the Caymans. Well, you said it was likely some of this had to do with shell companies if the mob was involved—laundering money. And the seashell—represents the Caymans
and
the shell companies.”

“Okay, I’m with you there.”

“A key. To what? Well, it’s not an apartment key—and to be honest, I have a key to her place—and she had one to mine. We were best friends. So she would know that I would instantly realize this wasn’t to anything obvious there. So, coupled with the other clues, I’m guessing a safe-deposit box at a bank in the Caymans.”

“Makes sense,” Troy said.

“A photo of the Manhattan skyline, well, that’s kind of obvious. She was murdered at the site of our new tower-construction project, so it must have something to do with that. And when she was killed, she wouldn’t have known that she would be found dead there, so this was her clue. Just in case.”

“And her passport.” Troy took the green passport book and opened it. “She went to the Caymans twice in the last three months of her life. Did you know that?’

Madison shook her head. “No.”

“Was that usual? I mean, that she wouldn’t tell you.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have been usual—before our falling-out. But even so, my father didn’t go with her, and they were fairly inseparable. That is odd.”

“And finally, a map with Venetian Lake marked. Like you said last night, what could it all possibly have to do with the old murder of your uncle? An infant kidnapped more than fifty years ago. His kidnapper long dead in prison.”

“I’m no closer to an answer. And the safe-deposit key, there’s no account number, no way to know what it’s to for sure.”

“Let’s think.”

Maddie and Troy, almost as if the items were talismans, each picked them up one at a time. Maddie willed Claire to speak to her, to make it all clear, but she was as confused as ever.

And then, like the sun suddenly breaking through a storm cloud, Maddie grew excited.

“Oh, my God! I get it! At least part of it.”

“Want to clue me in?”

Maddie nodded. “Why would Claire include the seashell?”

“Like you said. Representing shell companies. And the Caymans.”

“Maybe, but—” Madison turned the conch shell over in her hands and pulled it very close to her face. “I was right…” She grinned. “Looks like I am cut out for this work.”

“Okay, 007, let me know what you figured out.”

“Claire knows I used to love doing the
New York Times
Sunday crossword puzzle, and my favorite ones had puns or tricks to them. Well, this shell is nothing more than a trick. A five-letter word for whisperer of ocean secrets.”

“I don’t get it.”

Madison smiled, feeling her excitement grow.

“Claire knew she didn’t have to be obvious with me. Eventually, I would figure it out. I don’t need a clue as obvious as a seashell. I don’t need a clue for the Caymans, since the travel brochure is there. So what else can a big conch shell like this do?”

“Provide shelter for a conch.”

“Right. Shelter. Tax shelter. Okay. And if you hold a conch to your ear, what will it do?”

“It won’t do anything.”

“It will duplicate the ocean’s roar, though. You can hear the sea. It’s as if it can tell you something. A secret.” Maddie handed Troy the shell. “Look inside.”

“Holy shit!” Troy exclaimed.

For there, etched into the soft pink hue of the conch’s interior shell, was engraved the name of a bank in the Caymans, along with a safe-deposit-box number.