* * *
Already hiding her vulnerability, Meredith recently discovered some of her family’s financial pressures after a paralegal at a Washington law firm left a message on the home voice mail. It was often said that the level of wealth the Bartholomews locked up was nearly impossible to reach even by a lawsuit, blocked by settlements and payoffs. But when 2016 hit, the ability to get closer to someone’s personal records in the age of waning privacy was becoming an increasingly apparent threat. Google somebody’s name, and websites such as mylife.com, nuwber.com, and whitepages.com will release the date of birth, home address, and the names of relatives of anyone. Meredith was beginning to worry. And with the murder of the Banks family, about what it might suggest: Will there be another?
* * *
The arborist drills a hole in the trunk of the tree. He stops, takes out another gadget to peer inside of it, when the sound of the ringing landline echoes through the Victorian stained-glass front door that’s been blown open by the wind. Meredith breaks her distressed trance and walks inside, immediately engulfed by red toile wallpaper depicting the image of a family outdoors having a picnic in colonial America. A portrait of Bunny, age three, wearing a smock dress and sitting in a Chippendale dining chair, hangs above the china bowl of potpourri. Meredith enters the kitchen and picks up the cordless phone, reads the caller ID: Phyllis Van Buren.
“Hi, Phyllis,” Meredith answers as if she’s already spoken to Phyllis several times today. Phyllis Van Buren and her husband have been the Bartholomews’ friends and neighbors for nearly twenty years. Her husband is president of the Atomic Heritage Foundation, the organization preserving the legacy of the Manhattan Project and the atomic bomb that addresses the scientific, technical, political, and social/ethical issues of the twenty-first century, working with the government and, most important, the Department of Energy. All those years ago when they discovered the coincidence, it brought the families close.
“Did you hear the news?” Phyllis asks, her tone less concerned than riveted.
As Phyllis relays everything Meredith has already gone over within her inner circle, she yanks open the junk drawer, pushing papers and receipts and takeout menus out of the way before she finds her emergency pack of Carlton cigarettes. She holds the phone against her shoulder, banging the pack in the palm of her hand before opening the lid. Meredith notices as she pulls out the cigarette and puts it in her mouth that her hand is shaking. She lights it as fast as she can, takes a deep drag, the end lit like a summer firefly, then raises her right hand to the steel fan above the kitchen stove. She presses the On button, leans over, and exhales into the vent, a vacuum of smoke now circulating through the entire house. Phyllis is still talking. Speculating.
“Meredith, are you there?… The police just came by, so I wanted to let you know. They’re looking for information in the neighborhood, they think they have a suspect but he’s not been arrested yet.…”
Meredith does not reply.
“Meredith? Honey?”
“Jesus, Phyllis.” Meredith, back in her trance.
“I’m so sorry, honey, I know.… There will be a service at the National Cathedral next week, I’m sure you will get the details.”
“Phyllis,” Meredith says, “who did you say the suspect was?”
“Well, everything is just speculation at this point.…”
“Is he”—Meredith winces—“African American? Don’t tell me.…” She winces again, this time in pseudo pain: the cliché, the stereotype, if true, does not look good for her newfound liberal politics. She waits for Phyllis’s answer.
“He is, honey. Well, that’s the rumor anyway.”
Meredith cringes as if she’s just witnessed a missed serve at Wimbledon. She rinses her cigarette under the faucet and shoves it down the garbage disposal. “How could something like this happen?”
“I know, honey, I think—I think they wanted information, they don’t know anything yet, but, Jesus Christ, to tie up and torture someone’s child.… I can only think that they wanted something—money or, I don’t know, information.…” Phyllis suddenly seems distracted, “Oh, honey, that’s the doorbell—the decorator is here to look at the house. We’re on the Christmas homes tour. They start early. You should buy tickets, bring Bunny, it will be a nice mother-daughter day and she’s old enough to attend this year.”
“Oh, congratulations, sounds lovely, we will,” Meredith replies, bleak to be switching gears to Christmas celebrations so soon.
“Call if you need me, dear.”
“Will do.”
* * *
A sharp grating sound juxtaposes the afternoon stillness amidst the clustered town homes of Georgetown. The arborist saws a tiny branch from the trunk as dead leaves swirl around him. He pauses when a district police car bobbles along the cobblestone road, stopping behind the arborist’s white truck.
Officer Gomez steps out of the vehicle and approaches the arborist. “Are the homeowners around?” he asks.
Before the man can respond, Meredith steps out into the light. “I am she.…” she says, a regal figure among these blue-collar men.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you this afternoon, but I’m in the neighborhood to ask a few questions regarding an incident that happened last—”
“I think it qualifies as a little more than an incident, don’t you?”
Officer Gomez glances at the arborist: the all-too-familiar upper-class white woman they’re used to dealing with.
“It was a horrific tragedy that occurred last night, and I can assure you we did everything we could… and we’re hoping to get more information.”
“Well, I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.” Meredith purses her lips, swallowing her emotion, and crosses her arms.
“Were you home last night?”
“Yes, I was—well, we were after dinner… at the club, we were home by about nine thirty p.m.”
“Who else lives in the home, if I may ask?”
“My husband, niece, and daughter were all home.”
“Did you notice anything unusual, any cars, or persons walking by?”
“No, just the maid of our new neighbors, whom I don’t know yet. She was walking their King Charles across the street.”
An old blue Volvo station wagon with academic bumper stickers of privileged educations (St. Patrick’s Episcopal Day School, St. Peter’s Academy, Yale University) pulls into the driveway. Bunny swings open the car door, almost forgetting to turn off the engine, and runs across the front lawn. Rumpled skirt, disheveled hair—a girl who doesn’t know yet how this time in her life will come to haunt her, shape her—the days a person remembers only after they are gone.
“Mom!” She wraps her arms around her mother as if regressing into a little girl.
“I know, honey Bunny, it’s okay.” Meredith rocks her baby girl. She lifts Bunny’s face and places her manicure-free hands around her flushed cheeks. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Why are the police here?” Bunny asks, as if Gomez isn’t standing right beside her.
“They’re here to ask a few questions, everything is fine.”
Bunny turns to Officer Gomez. “Were you there last night?” she asks. “Did you see the bodies? I read online they chopped Audrey’s—”
“Jesus, Bunny, please, go inside, we will talk about this in a minute.”
“Well, no one is saying that! Why do you think someone would do something like that? You’re a cop, what do you think?” Bunny’s entangled curiosity and entitlement project a virtuous victim of this story she’s decided to insert herself inside of without thinking of the repercussions.
“Elizabeth Bartholomew! Inside. Now,” Meredith says.
Bunny’s eyes linger on Officer Gomez a moment longer than would be considered appropriate. “Fine. This is so fucked.”
Gomez clears his throat, calm in the face of Bunny’s outburst. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Meredith closes her eyes, pinches the bridge
of her nose with her pointer finger and thumb while Bunny opens the screen door then slams it shut behind her.
“I’m sorry, this is not a good time.…” Meredith pleads.
The landline rings. Meredith looks over her shoulder, then back to Gomez. “Except… I, uh, do have one question before you go. Do you… or have you or the FBI… have they found a motive yet?” Meredith looks increasingly tense.
“We cannot say at this time.”
“I see…”
Bunny yells down from the top of the front staircase, “Mom! Someone’s calling from Geller and Cromwell? They’re saying they’re an attorney?!”
Meredith, suddenly embarrassed, cuts Bunny off: “Uh, no, honey, hang up! It’s just a sales call. I’ll be right there!”
“But they’re saying it’s not!” Bunny yells back, increasingly distraught.
“Excuse me, I have to go attend to my daughter now.…”
“Thank you for your time, ma’am.” Gomez nods his head, places his hand on his belt, and offers a kind smile before he heads back to the car.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Bartholomew.” The arborist walks over. “I’m so sorry to interrupt”—he’s trying to appear as diplomatic as possible—“I hate to have to tell you this right now, but I found a fracture, which means this poplar is at high risk for developing symptoms of decay, internal rot, and wood-boring pests.…”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Betsy steps out of her Jaguar decorated with gifts from Doug: her twenty-year upgrade, a twelve-carat emerald-cut diamond falling against her pinky from its weight, diamond hoops, and a designer coat that resembles a superhero cape. With her peripheral vision, Betsy attempts to search for Linda’s Audi station wagon without looking too obvious. The only person she sees is a young secret service agent strolling behind the guardrail across the street, the arches of the Taft Bridge visible across the park.
The school is inside an old colonial row house adorned with arched windows and Corinthian columns. ALLIANCE FRANÇAISE DE WASHINGTON, DC is engraved in gold on a sign planted in front of lush boxwood bushes, the French flag neglected and wound tight around its pole, the front windows glowing from the warm yellow light of a dangling chandelier.
Upon entering the foyer, Betsy catches a whiff of a musty odor. It’s old, and smells like mothballs. She clears her throat, breathes out of her mouth. For the love of God, someone light a Diptyque candle.
“Bonjour! Alliance Française, how may I help you?” asks the young bilingual receptionist from behind thick glasses, her hair pulled back with a pink scrunchie.
“Hello.” Betsy places her Versace Sultan purse on the counter; its chain falls, an embarrassing crescendo of gold against drywall. She gathers the chain quickly with both hands, introducing herself: “I’m Betsy Wallace.…”
“Yes, welcome, Mrs. Wallace. I put together this package for you.” The receptionist, probably a PhD student, flips through the pages as evidence. “You have the option of group courses, private courses, Skype classes, and other adult learning experiences here including a grammar boot camp and field trips, as well as drop-in classes.”
“Oh, wonderful, I will take a look,” Betsy says.
“Feel free to have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea? Water?”
“Oh no, I’m fine, thank you.”
Betsy takes a look around the room, walks toward the photographs on the wall showing parties at the French ambassador’s residence, graduating classes, maps of France, special dinners with foreign dignitaries and cultural festivals. Betsy spots a photograph of Linda and her husband with the French ambassador and his wife. A pang of jealousy hits her as the front door opens and a petite redhead in a white Ralph Lauren sweater, skinny jeans, Chanel ballerina flats, diamond studs, and a Louis Vuitton tote breezes in, the wooden floors creaking even though covered by several Persian rugs. Betsy turns around. It’s Linda Williams.
“Linda!” Betsy says with a wide smile. “Too funny seeing you here.”
Linda gives a phony smile, gauging whether she knows who Betsy is, the way a celebrity might fake it if they thought there was a chance this person was important. “Oh, hello!”
“We met briefly at back-to-school night a few weeks ago. I’m Betsy Wallace, Doug Wallace’s wife.” As Betsy is attempting to prove her worth, Linda does a quick once-over: the Versace bag, the coat (cape) she’s wearing…
“My daughter is new at your daughter’s school.”
“Oh yes, hi, good to see you.”
“My daughter, Haley, had wanted me to ask you about having a playdate with Becca,” she says, snowballing, “she was just too shy to ask, so I said that the next time I saw you in the carpool line I would ask.…”
The invitation has unexpectedly touched Linda in a place that often feels guarded. She and her husband have been “famous” for Washington for quite some time, yet her daughter is perpetually bullied at school. Known for being the “horse girl,” she’s painfully shy.
“I’m late, but here, take my number down. Becca would love to have a playdate.”
Betsy eagerly pulls out her cell phone. Linda holds out her palm, gesturing that it will be easier for her to enter the information herself.
“Oh, here.” Betsy hands her the phone.
As Linda focuses on typing her information, she asks, “Did you hear the tragic news today about the St. Peter’s student? The Banks family?”
“I don’t believe so, no,” Betsy says, feigning concern.
“Well, they’re in the Green Book,” Linda whispers, suddenly feeling very open with Betsy, given their exchange about her daughter.
Green Book, Betsy notes in her head; it sounds familiar, but alas, she does not know it, feeling left out once again. “No, what happened?” she asks.
“It’s horrific, just horrific, the couple and their only daughter, a senior at St. Peter’s, were brutally murdered last night in their home. They’re not far from us.”
“Oh my God, you know, I did read about it this morning, but I had no idea they were a St. Peter’s family.…” Betsy places her manicured hand to her chest.
“It’s devastating.”
“I read about that too,” the receptionist interrupts, “so scary and awful.”
“Is there a suspect yet?” Betsy asks.
“They think they have a suspect.” Linda looks around the waiting area, leans into Betsy’s ear, and whispers, “An African American kid.”
“Oh, that’s such a shame,” Betsy replies.
“I know. The whole thing is just horrendous. The funeral is next week at the cathedral. They were very active in the community and very wealthy and it’s just such a tragedy.…” Linda notices the ticking grandfather clock. “Oh dear, I am so late, I have to run to my class! We’ll get the girls together.”
As she begins to leave, the receptionist pipes up, “Mrs. Wallace, if you’d like, you’re more than welcome to audit the class Mrs. Williams is in, there is actually one more space available.”
“Oh?” Betsy glances at Linda, who shrugs her shoulders, indifferent. “Well, I don’t have to pick up the girls from their after-school activities for another two hours.…”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cate stares at her reflection in the mirror as the makeup artist wipes globs of concealer under her eyes and sticky gloss across her lips; she is a budding star beneath the bright lights illuminating the high cheekbones she inherited from her father’s side of the family—the Bartholomews—the side she wants to get closer to and farther away from all at the same time. Tissues are tucked into a smock snapped around her neck like a ruffled Victorian collar.
“Eyes up,” the makeup artist says, holding a mascara wand as Cate tries to review notes on the White House domestic violence probe, refreshing the breaking news from the Post, Politico, Fox, updated photos appearing on her phone of the White House chief of staff’s wife with a swollen black eye and bloody lip. Cate lifts her eyes and thinks about her parents. Flashes of her father running toward her mot
her: she remembers sitting frozen at the kitchen table, preparing for the possible blow to her mother’s left eye socket; but instead of her father hitting her mother, he stepped backward, laughing, Did you think I was going to hit you? And she remembers how he never believed Cate would make it in Washington; he didn’t think she could make it anywhere at all.
“You good?” the makeup artist asks.
“I’m great,” she replies, her A game asserting itself, shoving any nerves to the side. Cate isn’t conscious of the fact that what drives her to succeed is an intense need for vengeance against the men in her life even as she simultaneously romanticizes them, holding on to each one even after he falls off the pedestal where she had placed him—where she likes them. A complex dichotomy living deep inside of her that she’s still too young to understand.
The makeup artist hands her a Kleenex. “Blot,” she says. Cate folds the Kleenex and clamps her lips over its crease. She looks at her face in the mirror, beautiful but not beautiful enough, she thinks. The makeup artist unsnaps the smock, whipping it off like she’s the magician and Cate is the prize.
“I like the suit,” the makeup artist says, “you look powerful.” Cate wears a red Veronica Beard blazer and straight-leg slacks she found on The RealReal for half of this month’s paycheck.
“Powerful.” Cate lets out a nervous laugh. But it is these moments of validation that she lives for, the kind that make her love being in Washington—what she loves about Washington: secrets only few are privy to, the intelligence, the security details and political motorcades, men in uniform holding AK-47s, black town cars like the one that picked her up. And the details—the driver clad in his black suit opening the back passenger-side door for her; being encompassed by black leather seats and wood paneling; a New York Times Magazine stuffed in the back pocket because people are smart in Washington, unopened boxes of tissues and mini water bottles in cup holders—they make her feel important, the kind of treatment she has always longed for, a far cry from night shifts at the local Starbucks after school. Today she got a private taste of it, and she only wants more.
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