Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (20 page)

“Madeline,” was the only thing I said.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Madeline.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Honestly. I’m sorry, Steve. Truly.
It’s just... well, like I said, it’s complicated. And nothing is
what it seems, I guess,” I held out my hand to him as though to
someone I was meeting for the first time. “I really do like you,
Steve. And I wish you’d give me the chance to explain.” It was only
as I said it that I realized this was true. I
did
like him.
He was sweet and sincere and... nice.

He seemed to soften at my words — I could
see it in his eyes — as though he wanted to believe but was still
nursing his injury. “You do?”

“Yes.”

It surprised me when he ignored the hand and
came to me, pulled me to my feet and embraced me: a big, puppyish
hug. And then, through the hug, came the heat and the hug turned
into a kiss — deep and long and right there on the patio, me with
my head tilted way up to accommodate the extra inches his
rollerblades added to his height. When he pulled back and looked
down into my eyes, I realized for the first time that they were
this really amazing shade of green. They were smiling at me, now.
The smile was nice. It warmed me.

He took the seat he’d abandoned, took my
hand and looked at me intently.

“So... go ahead,” he said gently when we’d
sat down. “Explain.”

I could feel the air slide out of me in a
“whoosh.” A sigh too long kept inside; a breath I hadn’t realized I
was holding. There was a part of me that wanted to unburden to him,
right then and there. But, right that second, it all just seemed —
as I’d told him — incredibly complicated, like one of those Russian
dolls you open to find another and then another and then another
still. (Though the only one I had when I was a kid only had three
Russian dolls. How complicated is that?)

To be honest, I didn’t even know where to
begin. Not now, sitting at an outside restaurant while oblivious,
self-centered Santa Monica rushed past us and the time when I was
to meet Arianna Billings rushing to where I was.

“I can’t, Steve. Not right now,” he didn’t
seem to even try to hide the disappointment he felt. I suspected,
also, that I’d failed some sort of test. “No, really, I have some
things to do in Beverly Hills and Brentwood. But can we meet
later?” He brightened instantly and I liked him even better for it.
He was like water, sweet and clear.

“Sure. Where? When?”

“I don’t know. Brentwood OK? What about the
Hamlet?” I named one of the few restaurants in that I could think
of. “On San Vincente?”

“Sure,” he agreed. “Say five o’clock?”

“Maybe make it five-thirty,” I replied,
checking my watch. “Just to be on the safe side.”

He gave me a big, winning grin and a quick
kiss that was as casual and comfortable as if we’d been seeing each
other for a long time. Well, I reminded myself as I watched him
blade away, lithe on his wheels, not
so
long: high school
can only have been a few years ago. I chided myself for the thought
as I found my way back to my car. And then I was concentrating on
finding my way to Jennifer’s school and thinking about meeting
Arianna and, unexpectedly, I forgot all about Steve. Again.

Chapter Eleven

Finding the Hestman School was as difficult
as anything I’d attempted since arriving in L.A. The school is so
exclusive, it’s practically invisible. You get the feeling that
this is not an accident.

Located on an early 20th century estate in
the most exclusive part of Bel Air, driving through the
wrought-iron gates and down the long, winding driveway it felt more
like visiting the home of some foreign dignitary than a high
school. The only visible clue was where, in spots, what had once
likely been well-tended gardens had been skillfully converted to
well-tended sports fields. That and the parking area behind the
building that housed the school. It was stuffed with enough
twenty-first century horse power to replace the gross national
export of most small to medium-sized countries.

None of it was what I’d expected. I’d
anticipated the type of building that I’d grown up thinking of as a
high school: big, utilitarian, easily penetrated. I’d figured I’d
pull up and maybe talk to lurking teenagers, ask if they’d seen
Jennifer. One look at the Hestman School made me realize why Tyler
had said he’d call the school and let them know I was coming.
Anything else would have been like dropping by unannounced at the
White House.

Nor was it the kind of school where you’d
expect to find kids hanging around in clumps outside the building.
The only teenagers I saw outside looked very purposeful and
directed. Hanging was clearly not encouraged.

I parked in the shadow of the largest
Mercedes Benz I’d ever seen and pointed myself at the front
door.

The school was as well appointed inside as
out. Clearly, whatever astronomical tuition fees Tyler and other
parents were paying was being well spent. The maintenance on the
masoleum-proportioned old mansion-turned-school alone would have
cost a fortune. Obviously, it was important that the studio moguls
of tomorrow be surrounded by large quantities of Carerra marble,
period furniture and art they couldn’t possibly have any intention
of understanding. I found the office easily and thought again of
the White House: everything looked rare, expensive and slightly
larger than life.

“I’m Madeline Carter,” I told the man behind
the desk in the office, who clearly did not care what my name was.
“Jennifer Beckett’s father was going to call and let you know I was
coming.”

“You’re with the family?”

I nodded, knowing that probably didn’t
accurately describe my connection, but since the alternative seemed
to be
against
the family, I let it pass.

“Fine. Dr. Alder has been expecting you.
I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.”

Predictably, Dr. Alder’s office would have
shamed the President — that whole White House thing — but she
herself was a surprise. A tall and striking brunette in her early
40s, she was as warm and engaging as her receptionist was distant.
I wondered if it was deliberate.

She didn’t bother with small talk. As soon
as I was seated across the desk from her, Dr. Alder said, “I got a
message from Tyler Beckett that you might be coming to see me.
Since I’ve had an impossible time getting him on the telephone
myself, I’m glad you’ve stopped by to talk about Jennifer.”

This was a surprise. “Actually, that wasn’t
my intention. I’d hoped to just drop by here today and talk to some
of her classmates and see if any of them know where she might be.
Her father is quite worried about her, but — you know — she’s
seventeen. I’m sure there’s some explanation. Maybe her and another
friend — someone else from school — went shopping or
something.”

“Yet her father fears something more
dire?”

“Jennifer didn’t come home last night,” I
admitted, knowing this might be putting more of a spotlight on the
kid than she’d want, but also wanting Dr. Alder to have a full
understanding of the situation.

“I see,” she pursed her lips slightly, “yet
your presence here indicates that this is not a usual
occurrence?”

“That’s right. Tyler — Jennifer’s father,
Mr. Beckett — says it’s never happened before.”

“Hmmmmm. I’m not quite sure what to say to
you, Ms. Carter,” she watched me carefully as she spoke. “From what
you’ve told me, I’m not sure you’ve been given all of the necessary
information. What did you say your position was with the
family?”

“I didn’t.”

Alder looked at me sharply. “All right then.
That will limit my ability to be candid with you, but have it your
way. There are some things that must be said. I’ve been unable to
say them to Mr. Beckett directly, I’ll trust you to tell him to
call me. I’ve called Mr. Beckett on several occasions over the last
few months and asked him to come and see me in order to discuss his
daughter. I have never reached the man directly by telephone and my
calls have not been returned,” she looked at me piercingly.
Clearly, people usually returned her calls. “And now things have
gone very far.”

I was more than curious; I had the sense
that, whatever Dr. Alder had to say needed hearing right now. It
seemed to be my week for impersonation. “You asked about my
connection to the family. I’m... I’m Jennifer’s stepsister.”

Dr. Alder pursed her lips but didn’t say
anything. It’s possible she doubted me. It’s also possible she
wanted the matter behind her.

“Then I can safely tell you that it has
saddened me this term to find that Jennifer, formerly a first class
member of the Hestman community, has not been — how can I put this?
— adequately pulling her oars.”

I squinted at her, trying to understand.

“I can see I’ll have to speak more plainly:
until the end of last term, Jennifer was a straight-A student. She
was well liked, had a lot of friends and it looked as though she
would have the ability to map her future wherever she chose. She
returned from winter break, however, a changed child,” here Alder
began ticking Jennifer’s crimes off on her fingers. “She was surly,
disorganized, her grades slipped and she started cutting classes.
That is, we
thought
she was cutting, but since we were
unable to speak with her father, we were unable to confirm. I can
see from your expression that all of this is a surprise to you, so
I’ll cut to the chase: Jennifer has missed an increasing amount of
class time this term. As a result her grades have slipped. Last
week we didn’t see her at all and, as a result of all of
that,
we expelled her yesterday.”

“Expelled?” I repeated stupidly.

“That’s correct. So while I’m sorry to hear
she didn’t come home last night, I also need to tell you that — as
cold as this sounds — it is no longer my problem.”

“Dr. Alder,” I was shocked at everything
she’d told me. “I’m not an expert on teenage girls but, from what
you’ve said, Jennifer has been crying for help.”

“The Hestman School is not a rehab center,
Ms. Carter,” she spread her hands apologetically. “I’m sorry,
there’s nothing more I can say. I had Bruce clean out Jennifer’s
locker while we were chatting. He’ll give you her things on the way
out.”

Since our interview was clearly over — and I
was cleanly in shock — I took the white plastic bag that Bruce
handed me as I went past his desk, tossed it in the trunk and left
the Hestman School as quickly as I could.

I felt so drained from my talk with Dr.
Alder that all I felt like doing was driving home and talking to
Tyler, but I’d told Arianna I’d meet her at three, and it was close
to that time now.

* * *

Brentwood is where Los Angeles tries to be
Connecticut and, clearly, where some of the students at the Hestman
School would spend part of their adulthood. The quiet shops, the
tree-lined boulevards, the careful architecture: Brentwood has an
old money feel to it, not to mention a
what-passes-for-old-money-in-Southern-California cachet. But
Brentwood is pretty and a nice place to visit. It’s super clean,
the avenues are very wide and the stores and restaurants quiet and
understated.

I got to the café a little early, which was
good because I still had Dr. Alder and all she’d said very much on
my mind. The café was over-the-the-top elegant with ornate gold
framed mirrors and antique furniture set up in casually comfortable
corners. The front opened onto the street: all bright sunshine and
plants. The back of the café, however, was dark enough that
candlelight at mid-afternoon didn’t look at all silly. It looked
quiet and inviting and no one was sitting back there. I ordered a
latté and found a table in the back. It would be a good place to
talk privately.

Disconcertingly, when I went to add sugar to
my coffee, a little heart was staring back at me from the foam. The
barista noticed me notice and smiled. I smiled back, but I was
thinking: At least it isn’t a happy face. And: Sure, you pay more
for your coffee, but the rent must be high and foam hearts don’t
come cheap.

I was having these completely dark thoughts
about baristas who go to the trouble of disturbing perfectly good
latté foam with sappy hearts, when Arianna Billings breezed into
the café. At the front of the shop two young men were drinking
coffee. As Arianna arrived, their heads snapped around in an almost
dangerous fashion, as did that of the male barista. And this was
Brentwood.
Beautiful women fall from trees here — or, at
least, from the offices of extremely talented and well paid plastic
surgeons in this very neighborhood. But Arianna wasn’t just
beautiful, she had this incredible presence. And that breeze.

“Madeline,” she said in her controlled
voice, as she took a seat, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not, actually. You’re right on time.
Sorry to start without you,” I said indicating my cup. “I felt the
need.”

“Not a problem,” she said, then ordered from
the young male barista who was standing next to our table staring
at Arianna almost worshipfully. I noticed this with a sort of
amusement because, though I had had to go to the counter for my
coffee, Arianna apparently merited table service.

I pointed to the Boxster, gleaming out at
the curb: the same one I’d seen on television that morning. “Your
car is an amazing color. I love it. And I don’t usually like
green.”

“Actually, it’s chartreuse. It’s my favorite
shade. It wasn’t one of the factory colors, they painted it to my
specifications.”

What does it mean when you can not only buy
the most expensive car you can think of, you can also have it
tinted to match your personal palette? I’d been around money for a
long time — and Chagall etchings don’t come cheap — but Arianna was
from a different world. One where your wedding shower got written
up in
Town and Country
and summering at the Vineyard wasn’t
something you looked forward to, just something “to be gotten
through, darling.”