“I’m going to need specific directions pretty soon,” I said, relieved to have something normal to say.
“Oh,” Marlinchen said. Her voice was wet, but she seemed more composed as she straightened in her seat and began to direct me.
The Hennessys lived on a little peninsula that ran out into the lake, at the end of an unmarked dirt road. I’d expected a writer to live in something opulent, but the Hennessy house, while big, was unpretentious. It was two stories, with an exterior of weather-beaten wood. Tall lilac trees, still in bloom, crowded the front door, and dark purple irises irregularly cropped up around a crooked stone path. The grass in front clearly hadn’t been mowed recently. A smaller building stood off to the side, perhaps a carriage house in the home’s early-twentieth-century life. A willow fountained over its far side.
The dirt driveway ran alongside the house, and as I pulled up in the Nova, I realized the back of the house, facing the lake, was its true “front.” Here was a broad, covered back porch, with French double doors. A high window on the second story looked out over the lake, with a trellis of ornamental grapevines crawling up alongside it. A wide, grassy slope led down to the lake, where an apron of rocks ran along the water’s edge, holding off the erosion process. A single tree stood halfway to the water’s edge, several creamy blossoms among its dark, glossy leaves.
I killed the Nova’s engine. I could leave now, but it would undermine everything I’d done since calling Marlinchen over to get in my car. Her willingness to lie was well established. If I put off this conversation until tomorrow, she’d have time to massage the facts to her liking, in readiness for our next meeting.
“So,” I said. “Tell me.”
“Where should I start?”
“With your father’s stroke,” I said. “That was three weeks ago, is that right?”
She nodded.
“Why cover it up?” I asked.
“Dad’s a writer,” she said. “He’s famous. It would have gotten into the news.”
“Is that a problem?” I said. “He’s sick. It’s not a scandal.”
Marlinchen pressed her lips together, thinking. “I wanted to protect his privacy,” she said.
“You told me he was up north finishing a novel, Marlinchen,” I pointed out. “I’m not a member of the media, and you were asking for my help, and you still lied to me. That’s a little more than protecting your dad’s privacy.”
She dropped her head. “I don’t want my brothers to go to foster homes,” she said softly. “In a few weeks I’ll be 18, and then I can be their guardian. But if Family Services finds out about Dad before then, they’d split us up.”
“That’s a pretty drastic expectation,” I told her. “Social workers don’t go around looking for families to break up. They take the whole situation into account. It’s very possible that if you’re getting along okay with the younger kids, they’d probably just want you to have a temporary guardian until you turn 18.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I assured her. “You’ll call on an adult relative to step in until your dad’s better.”
“There isn’t anyone,” she said. Reading the skepticism on my face, she went on. “My mother had a sister, but she’s dead. All my grandparents are dead except for my grandmother on my mother’s side. She’s in an assisted-living facility in Berlin. She speaks mostly German.”
“Okay, I’d rule her out,” I agreed, pausing to think. “Listen, can I come in?”
Marlinchen led me up the back steps, onto the porch, and in through a pair of French doors. The Hennessy home was as graceful inside as out: good pine wood, a rough-beamed ceiling, and eclectic touches everywhere. We were in a family room, the modernity of a wide-screen TV offsetting the shabby-elegant furniture, a nubby throw blanket thrown over a velvety couch. Beyond, I could see the kitchen. There was plenty of space to work; pots and pans overhung a center-island butcher block.
“Would you like something to drink?” Marlinchen led me toward the kitchen, moving with the assurance people have in their longtime homes.
“Ice water is fine.”
Marlinchen fixed me a tall glass, and iced tea for herself. I wandered into the kitchen behind her and looked around. My request to come inside hadn’t been an idle one; as a social worker would have, I’d wanted to see evidence of how the kids were living, whether the house was clean, what they were eating. From my perspective, they were keeping better house than a lot of bachelor cops I knew. The kitchen was as clean as the family room we’d come through. A faint smell of cooking hung in the air, and there were vegetable peelings in the drain trap, suggesting a healthy diet. The houseplants I’d seen were green and healthy; they were being watered.
Marlinchen said, “Detective Pribek, can we talk about Aidan?”
“Sure,” I said. “But Aidan’s nearly 18, and on the road by choice. When he does turn 18, which you’ve said is a few weeks away, it’ll be no one’s business but his own where he is. If he doesn’t want his family to know his whereabouts, well, you may not like it, but that’s his choice.”
Marlinchen slipped into one of the chairs against the kitchen counter. “He’s my brother,” she said. “I have to know that he’s all right.”
I remained standing; I didn’t want to get mired in this situation. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I understand that you’re afraid for him. But with a runaway who’s been gone as long as Aidan has, there’s just not much the police can do. You’re solidly in private-investigator territory here. I can recommend several to you, competent people who, for a fee, will make finding your brother their job.”
“What kind of a fee?” she asked.
“Depends,” I said. “Somebody good will charge you at least a hundred dollars an hour.”
She winced.
“I know it sounds like a lot,” I said. “But I wouldn’t bargain-hunt in this case. If you don’t get somebody good, it’ll take longer to find Aidan. You’ll end up paying one way or another. And,” I added, “it’s not unheard-of for unethical investigators to set their rates low to get people in the door, then drag their heels and pad their hours. You don’t end up saving money at all.”
“I see.” Marlinchen was starting to look lost. “How many hours do you think it would take for them to find him?”
“I really wouldn’t feel comfortable estimating,” I said. “They could find him with three phone calls. Or it could take weeks.”
“I see,” she said again. Obviously, she wasn’t feeling any better about the situation, and it wasn’t hard to guess why.
“It’s money, isn’t it?” I said.
The Hennessys lived in a wealthy enclave on the lake; I’d assumed that not only was Marlinchen capably handling the household affairs but that, in doing so, she was drawing on a comfortable sum of her father’s savings. At least, I had until just now.
“I know we look in good shape financially,” Marlinchen said. “But I only have access to Dad’s checking account; he gave me his ATM number. But for everything else, I need to be his conservator, and I can’t do that until I turn 18. Even then, there might be some delays. He has aphasia; it’s a speech and comprehension disorder. Dad needs to recover enough that an officer of the court can see that he understands what’s being said to him, and that the mark he’s making really represents his desire to make me a conservator.”
She sounded surprisingly knowledgeable. “Does your father have a lawyer who’s helping you with this?” I asked.
Marlinchen nodded. “I don’t know that I’d call Mr. DeRose ‘Dad’s lawyer,’ but he helped with some things when Mother died, and when I called him, he was willing to do the conservatorship work on contingency. I can pay him once I get access to the accounts.”
I hoped DeRose was someone ethical; this slender, tentative 17-year-old with a wealthy father would look like a slot machine on two feet to a lawyer who wasn’t.