Girl Under Water: An absolutely unputdownable and gripping crime thriller Read online

  Charlie found the number she was looking for and dialed.

  “Marley residence,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “Could I speak to Vivien, please?”

  “I’m afraid Ms. Marley isn’t available at the moment,” the woman said. “Would you like to leave a message?”

  “I would. My name is Charlie Winters. I’m a private investigator, and I just need to ask her a few questions about Dutch Carmichael.”

  “And your phone number?”

  Charlie rattled off the digits, thanked the woman, and hung up. She peered down at Vivien Marley’s name in Gloria’s looping cursive handwriting and drew a line underneath it.

  After her conversation with Gloria, Charlie was more eager than ever to speak with Dutch’s so-called mistress, but apparently that would have to wait.

  As Charlie put the car in gear and rolled down the driveway, Allie perked up for the first time in a while.

  “So, you’re really buying what Gloria’s selling? That Jude being a bastard has nothing to do with Dutch’s murder?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I mean, you said yourself that if Dutch wrote him out of the will, it’d be a hell of a motive.”

  “I know what I said,” Charlie grumbled.

  “Well aren’t you going to press Jude on it? I thought we were going to be blindsiding people left and right. What happened with that plan?”

  “The problem is, I don’t know how to delve into it without tipping Jude off. Which I kind of promised Gloria I wouldn’t do.”

  “And she’s paying the bills,” Allie said.

  “Exactly. Pissing Gloria off would be counterproductive.” When she reached the end of the drive, Charlie merged onto the road but not in the direction that headed back to town. “But I never promised I wouldn’t ask other people about it.”

  “Who are you going to ask? You’ve already talked to everyone.”

  “Not everyone. There’s Vivien Marley, for one,” Charlie said. “But there’s also one last Carmichael who hasn’t weighed in on it. And as it happens, she lives just up the road.”

  THIRTEEN

  Charlie studied Marjory’s house as she wound up the cobblestone driveway. It was done in a similar style to Dutch’s, and while it wasn’t quite as large, it was still a mansion by any definition.

  Parking next to a massive garage, Charlie followed a sweeping brick ramp up to the front door and rang the bell. A young man with white-blond hair whisked the door open a few moments later.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I’d like to speak with Marjory.”

  The kind of overly cheerful smile often deployed by customer service reps appeared on his face.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the man asked.

  “Uh… no. My name is Charlie Winters. I’m a private investigator hired by Marjory’s sister. I was hoping to ask her a few questions, but if she’s busy—”

  The man cut her off with something between a laugh and a scoff.

  “Of course she’s busy. Marjory is always busy. If it weren’t for me, she probably wouldn’t remember to sleep.”

  “And you are… Mr. Steigel?” Charlie guessed, though she’d envisioned someone older. She doubted that this guy was over thirty.

  When he laughed this time, the sound was more genuine.

  “No,” he said, his cheeks coloring. “I’m Killian. Her assistant.”

  If Charlie wasn’t mistaken, he’d been flattered by her assumption. He pulled the door open wider.

  “Come inside, and I’ll see if Marjory can squeeze you in.”

  Charlie moved into the foyer of the house, and Killian disappeared to find Marjory. She took the time to study the space. Just like in Dutch’s house, there was a crystal chandelier and a curved staircase that wound up to the second floor, but the decor here was more feminine than Dutch’s estate, with walls painted in an array of pastel hues—robin’s egg blue, Swiss cream, powder pink.

  A few seconds later, Killian returned.

  “Marjory’s agreed to speak to you.” He was wearing the customer service smile again. “She’ll be out in a moment. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee?”

  “Ugh, this guy is way too peppy,” Allie said. “And check out that hair. I’m getting a total Children of the Corn vibe.”

  “No, thanks,” Charlie said.

  “Or is it Village of the Damned?” Allie continued. “Which one has all the creepy, blond kids?”

  Killian moved into a room off the foyer, returning to the task he must have been working on when Charlie had rung the doorbell. He lifted a table lamp from the floor and began carefully swaddling it in bubble wrap. The entire room was in a state of disarray, with items pulled off the shelves and large cardboard boxes strewn about.

  “Looks like it’s moving day,” Charlie said, wondering where Marjory and her husband might be going. Into Dutch’s estate? Gloria surely would’ve mentioned that.

  Killian glanced up at her and then around at the room.

  “Oh…”

  Was that guilt in his eyes? Surprise? Embarrassment?

  He cleared his throat and found his voice again.

  “Actually—”

  A woman swooped in from the next room and patted Killian’s shoulder.

  “We’re renovating,” she said, fingering one of the charms dangling from her gold bracelet. It was in the shape of the Chanel logo and encrusted with diamonds. “I hope you’ll excuse the mess. This room has to be cleared out before we can start working on it.”

  Charlie recognized Marjory instantly, not because she’d ever met her before but because she looked very much like Gloria. She was a bit younger and her hair was longer, but the family resemblance was obvious.

  The woman stepped forward and extended a hand.

  “Marjory Carmichael-Steigel.”

  “Gloria doesn’t wear nearly as much makeup,” Allie pointed out. “And she’s classier. More understated. I mean that Balmain T-shirt Marjory’s wearing probably cost about four hundred bucks.”

  Ignoring her sister’s running commentary, Charlie shook Marjory’s hand.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me when you’re in the middle of a project like this.”

  “Honestly, I thought the whole thing would be put on hold after what happened to Daddy, but… the show must go on, I suppose. Anyway, it’s the least I could do.” She brushed her fingers against her assistant’s elbow. “Killian, don’t forget to label that box as fragile. My Tiffany frames are in there. If they get damaged, I’ll throw an absolute fit.”

  “What did I say?” Allie said. “Classic brand whore.”

  “Would you like some coffee?” Marjory asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Charlie said, but Marjory was already turning back to her assistant.

  “Killian, be a darling and fetch us some coffee. Ms. Winters and I will be in the formal living room.”

  “Of course,” Killian said, leaping to his feet like a trained dog.

  Marjory pulled an iPhone from her pocket and strode out of the room, and Charlie had to hurry to keep up as she followed her deeper into the house.

  FOURTEEN

  A small white Pomeranian joined them on their trek through the house, trotting alongside Marjory as she walked.

  “What now?” Marjory said, her tone annoyed.

  Charlie figured she was addressing the dog until she spoke again.

  “No. I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to work.”

  Charlie glanced around.

  “Pardon?”

  Marjory swiveled to face her and gestured at the Bluetooth headset in her ear.

  “Oh,” Charlie said, but Marjory’s attention was already back on her phone conversation.

  “I told him three times already how I wanted it done. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

  They veered right and entered a formal living room with a marble fireplace. Two bouquets of pink roses flanked the ma
ntel.

  “Well, you tell him that if he can’t do it, I’ll find someone else.”

  Marjory perched stiffly on the edge of a sofa upholstered in ivory velvet while her dog climbed onto a pet bed fashioned to look like a miniature version of the couch.

  “Jesus. Everything in this place is adorable with a capital A,” Allie said.

  Charlie tried to sit up straight in the uncomfortable wingback chair she’d chosen.

  “Well?” Marjory said. “Shall we begin?”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t sure if you were finished with your phone call.”

  “Yes, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m in the middle of organizing a big marketing blitz for the foundation.”

  “And that’s the Lamark Foundation? The charity your father founded?” Charlie asked, though she already knew the answer.

  “That’s right.”

  “Can I assume the two of you were close then?”

  “Goodness, that’s a loaded question.” Marjory shook her head and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “What you have to understand about Daddy is that he was a very practical man. He wasn’t particularly affectionate when we were children. Even less so once we were grown.”

  Marjory trembled slightly as she took a breath, and Charlie realized she was far more upset than she was letting on.

  “I don’t mean to imply that he was a cruel man. Not at all. He had a wonderful sense of humor. He could be very charismatic when he wanted to. It sounds like a cliché, but when he was on, he’d light up the room.”

  Charlie thought of Wesley and wondered if he’d learned to charm people by watching his father.

  Marjory blinked.

  “And I say ‘when he was on’ and mean that quite literally. He could turn it on and off like a switch, and when you were the focus of that spotlight, it felt like you could do no wrong. But when it was over, when the switch was turned off, it was like the sun moving behind a cloud. The world seemed a little colder. A little darker.”

  Marjory straightened suddenly and patted her pockets. A look of annoyance crossed her face until she pulled out a piece of candy. The cellophane wrapper crinkled as she wrestled it free from the bright red candy and popped it into her mouth.

  “Was that…” Allie’s voice was tinged with awe. “Was that a Jolly Rancher?”

  Charlie had thought the same thing but was certain she must be mistaken. The idea of Marjory Carmichael-Steigel—in her big fancy house, surrounded by pink roses and white velvet, long nails polished, designer jewelry sparkling—popping candy in her mouth just felt wrong. It was like watching the Queen of England go to town on a corndog at the county fair.

  Marjory caught Charlie staring at her as she wadded the plastic wrapper into a ball.

  “I’m sorry. Would you like one?”

  She reached into her pocket and brought out another Jolly Rancher.

  “No thanks,” Charlie said.

  Marjory shrugged and pocketed the candy.

  “I’m trying to quit smoking. Again. I hadn’t had a cigarette in over a year, but then… with what happened to Daddy…” She trailed off. “I told myself I’d have just the one cigarette at the funeral, but then one turned into two, and that turned into buying a pack, and it’s absolutely astonishing how quickly you can slide right back down that slope.”

  She sighed.

  “Anyway, the candy distracts me when I get a craving. I think it’s the cinnamon flavor. The way it burns and tingles isn’t quite the same sensation of smoking, but it’s close enough that it scratches the itch, you could say.” She clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles stood out white against her tanned skin. “Anyway, you asked about the charity, and I ended up ranting at you about my dad’s distant emotional state as if you were my therapist, which I’m sure isn’t at all what you’re interested in hearing about.”

  “Actually, every little bit helps. Getting a sense of who he was as a person is as important as anything else.”

  “Well, your original question was about our working together at the foundation. The fact is, he was a figurehead more than anything by the time I came on. He was very involved in the beginning, of course. The Lamark Foundation simply wouldn’t exist without him. But once he’d laid the groundwork, his interest waned.” Marjory closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose. “That wasn’t unusual for Daddy. He liked the beginning stages of things. When everything was fresh and new and maybe even there was some possibility of failure that made it feel dangerous. But once things were underway, when things had leveled out, he’d lose interest. It happened with us kids. It happened with my mother. The charity was no different.”

  “Had your father made any large contributions in the past year or so?” Charlie asked.

  She’d been wondering if the missing money could, in part, be the result of Dutch taking a Warren Buffet approach to dispersing his wealth as he got older. Distributing it to nonprofits instead of his heirs.

  “Oh no. There was a yearly allotment given to the foundation for operating expenses, but the majority of our funding comes from donations from the public.”

  “And he couldn’t have, I don’t know, secretly been funneling money into the foundation?”

  “Absolutely not. We’re required by law to keep meticulous records for tax purposes. We know where every cent comes from,” Marjory said. “Of course, I’m expecting that he left a significant endowment to the foundation in his will.”

  “You’re certain there is a will?”

  “Well… of course there is.”

  “Wesley seemed to think otherwise.”

  Marjory rolled her eyes and took another piece of candy from her pocket.

  “Yes, well, I stopped trusting in Wesley’s judgment when he was arrested for possession.” Her face grew cold and hard but softened after depositing the Jolly Rancher into her mouth. “I refuse to believe that Daddy would have left things so ill-prepared. No. There’s a will. And the money is somewhere. Frankly, I’m a bit annoyed about this whole business with Gloria not being able to locate the will. It seems extremely irresponsible of Daddy to not anticipate this and make certain that at least one of us knew where to look.”

  “Any idea where the money could be?”

  Before Marjory could respond, there was a faint rattle of china from the hallway and Killian appeared, balancing a serving tray.

  Marjory’s brow furrowed.

  “Killian, darling, you know I like to serve guests with my Imperial Porcelain set from Saks.”

  Killian’s mouth popped open, and he froze.

  “I’m so sorry. Do you want me to switch it?”

  Marjory rolled her eyes.

  “It’s too late for that.”

  The assistant stood there, looking unsure of what he should do.

  “It’s fine, Killian. Serve the coffee, please.”

  He fussed about, pouring two cups of steaming, molasses-colored liquid and then offering to add cream and sugar. When Marjory finally dismissed him, she took a sip of her coffee and made a face at Charlie.

  “Killian is skilled at many things, but I’m afraid making coffee isn’t among them.” She replaced her cup in the matching saucer. “But you were asking about the money. I’m afraid Daddy and I never discussed money unless it related directly to the foundation. In fact, when he first talked about the whole unbanking thing, I imagined sacks with dollar signs printed on them. I realize how absurd that is now. I know Trevor—that’s my husband—was always encouraging him to start collecting coins, as if Daddy needed another obsession to inevitably lose interest in. First it was art, then the garden, then cars, then horses, which now that I think about it was sort of a logical progression. More and more complicated. More and more effort required to make it work. More to walk away from when he finally grew bored with it.”

  The corners of Marjory’s mouth pulled up into something reminiscent of a smile, but not quite.

  “It’s funny, really. He was quite good at reading other people, bu
t he was absolutely blind to his own foibles.”

  Charlie went back to something she’d said earlier.

  “Your husband encouraged him to invest in coins, even after his own coin collection was stolen?”

  “You heard about that?” Marjory’s hand went to her chest, an almost comical display of surprise. “What an awful scenario. Thankfully they only took a few things. The coin collection, as you mentioned. A few pieces of sports memorabilia. All insured, of course, so it really wasn’t much of a loss.”

  “I heard the thief also trashed your husband’s office?”

  Marjory grimaced.

  “Oh yes. That. Do you know they—” she leaned in to whisper the next word “—urinated on the carpet in there? Listen to me. They? He. Of course it was a man. No woman would stoop that low. Disgusting.”

  “That sounds… personal,” Charlie said.

  “And completely over the top, if you ask me. I mean, if you’re going to break in to steal something, then do it, and be done with it. What’s the point of destroying a perfectly good office like that? Fouling it with bodily fluids? We had to empty the place out and completely redo it. New carpet and the works.”

  “I hope that’s not why you’re redoing the parlor,” Charlie joked.

  Marjory’s expression was flat.

  “What?”

  Charlie gestured over her shoulder with a thumb.

  “The renovation?”

  Marjory’s eyelids fluttered in recognition.

  “Oh! Of course.” She tittered nervously, putting a hand to her mouth. “No. Thank God. And they’d be fools to try it again with the security system Trevor insisted on installing afterward. We’ve got over a dozen cameras, sensors on every door and window. I still think he went a bit overboard, but better safe than sorry, I suppose.”

  It occurred to Charlie that if Trevor Steigel was chummy enough with Dutch to offer investment advice, she should speak with him, too.

  “Is your husband here?”

  “No. I’m afraid not. He’s on business in Denver.”