White River Burning. John Verdon
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way, amazingly beautiful—with wild purple irises, white anemones, yellow lupines, and shockingly blue grape hyacinths scattered among the delicate greens of the spring grasses. It was enough to make him understand, if not feel as deeply, Madeleine’s enthusiasm for the display of sunlit leaves over his excavation by their pond.
When the GPS on the dashboard of their Outback announced that they would be arriving at their destination in another five hundred feet, Gurney slowly pulled over onto the road’s gravelly shoulder and came to a stop by an antique iron gate in a high drystone wall. A freshly graded dirt-and-gravel driveway proceeded from the open gate in a wide curve up through a gently rising meadow. He took out his phone.
Madeleine gave him a questioning look.
“I need to make a couple of calls before we go in.”
He entered the number of Jack Hardwick, a former New York State Police investigator with whom he’d crossed paths a number of times since they’d met many years earlier pursuing in different jurisdictions a solution to the sensational Peter Piggert murder case. Their unique bond was formed through a kind of grotesque serendipity—when they discovered, separately, thirty miles apart, on the same day, the disconnected halves of Piggert’s last victim. Who happened to be Piggert’s mother.
Gurney and Hardwick’s subsequent relationship had had its ups and downs. The ups were based on an obsession with solving homicides and a shared level of intelligence. The downs were the product of their conflicting personalities—Gurney’s calm, cerebral approach versus Hardwick’s compulsive need to debunk, irritate, and provoke—a habit responsible for his forced transition from the state police to his current role as a private detective. The recording on the man’s phone was, for him, relatively inoffensive:
“Leave a message. Be brief.”
Gurney complied. “Gurney here. Calling about White River. Wondering if you know anyone there who might know something that’s not already in the news.”
His second call was to the cell number Sheridan Kline had given him earlier that day. Kline’s recorded voice was as oleaginously cordial as Hardwick’s was curt. “Hello, this is Sheridan. You’ve reached my personal phone. If you have a legal, business, or political matter to discuss, please call me at the number listed on the county website for the office of the district attorney. If your call is personal in nature, when you hear the beep leave your name, number, and a message. Thank you.”
Gurney got directly to the point. “Regarding your description earlier today of the situation in White River, I came away feeling that some critical factor had been left out. Before I decide whether to get involved, I need to know more. The ball’s in your court.”
Madeleine pointed at the dashboard clock. It was 6:40 PM.
He weighed the pros and cons of making a third call, but making it now in Madeleine’s presence might not be a good idea. He restarted the car, passed through the open gate, and headed up the spotless driveway.
Madeleine spoke without looking at him. “Your security blanket?”
“Excuse me?”
“I got the impression you were touching base with the reassuring world of murder and mayhem before having to face the terrifying unknowns of a cocktail party.”
Half a mile into the Gelters’ property the driveway crested a gentle rise, bringing them suddenly to the edge of a field planted with thousands of daffodils. In the slanting sunlight of early evening the effect was startling—almost as startling as the massive, windowless, cubical house overlooking the field from the top of the hill.
6
The driveway led them to the front of the house. The imposing dark wood facade appeared to be perfectly square, perhaps fifty feet in both height and width.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Madeleine with an amused frown.
“What do you mean?”
“Look closely. The outline of a letter.”
Gurney stared. He could just barely make out the distressed outline of a giant G—like a faded letter on a child’s alphabet block—imprinted on the house.
While they were still gazing at it, a young man with chartreuse hair, wearing a loose white shirt and skinny jeans, came running toward the car. He opened the passenger door and held it while Madeleine got out, then hurried around to the driver’s side.
“You and the lady can go right in, sir.” He handed Gurney a small card bearing the name “Dylan” and a cell number. “When you’re ready to leave, call this number and I’ll bring your car around.” Flashing a smile, he got into the dusty Outback and drove it around the side of the house.
“Nice touch,” said Madeleine as they walked across the patio.
Gurney nodded vaguely. “How do you know Trish Gelter?”
“I’ve told you three times. Vinyasa.”
“Vin . . .”
She sighed. “My yoga class. The one I go to every Sunday morning.”
As they reached the front door, it slid open like the pocket door of an enormous closet, revealing a woman with a mass of wavy blond hair.
“Mahdehlennnne!” she cried, giving the name an exaggerated French inflection that made it sound like a jokey endearment. “Welcome to Skyview!” She grinned, showing off an intriguing Lauren Hutton gap between her front teeth. “You look fabulous! Love the dress! And you brought the famous detective! Wonderful! Come in, come in!” She stood to the side and, with a hand holding a frosted blue cocktail, waved them into a cavernous space unlike any home Gurney had ever seen.
It seemed to consist of a single cube-shaped room—if anything so big could be called a room. Cubical objects of various sizes were being used as tables and chairs on which clusters of guests perched and conversed. Sets of cubes pushed together served as kitchen counters at each end of a restaurant-sized brushed-steel stove. No two cubes were the same color. As Gurney had noted from the outside, the five-story-high walls had no windows, yet the whole interior was suffused with a sunny brightness. The roof was constructed of clear glass panels. The sky above it was a cloudless blue.
Madeleine was smiling. “Trish, this place is amazing!”
“Get yourself a drink and have a good look around. It’s full of surprises. Meanwhile, I’ll introduce your shy husband to some interesting people.”
“Good luck with that,” said Madeleine, heading for a bar that consisted of two four-foot-high cubes, one fire-engine red, one acid green. Trish Gelter turned to Gurney, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I’ve been reading all about you, and now I get to meet the supercop in person.”
He grimaced.
“That’s exactly what New York magazine called you. It said you had the highest homicide arrest and conviction rate in the history of the department.”
“That article ran more than five years ago, and it’s still an embarrassment.”
His NYPD record was a distinction he didn’t mind having, since it occasionally had the practical value of opening a few doors. But he also found it embarrassing. “Magazines like to create superheroes and supervillains. I’m neither.”
“You look like a hero. You look like Daniel Craig.”
He smiled awkwardly, eager to change the subject. “That big letter out there on the front of the house—”
“A postmodern joke.” She winked at him.
“Pardon?”
“How much do you know about postmodern design?”
“Nothing.”
“How much do you want to know about it?”
“Maybe just enough to understand the big G.”