Randy White - Dead Silence

She said, “I don’t talk about the personal business of my household. It’s a code in the Hamptons.”

“The service class, you mean.”

“Yes, the service class.”

“You protect your employer at all costs.”

“Our households, we protect. It’s different. They are sacred.”

“The household is like family, so you remain loyal.”

“It’s expected of anyone who takes the job seriously.”

“Are you devoted to the house? Or to the Tomlinson family? There’s a difference.”

“Both. We protect each other. And that is all I have to say.”

The woman was afraid. I saw the look she gave Roxanne.

I took a chance. “Greta, which worries you most: that Dr. Tomlinson will find out you have a daughter or that you have a daughter and he will find out he’s not the father?”

Greta got up, saying, “I don’t have to answer that! I’m a domestic, not a slave-” as Roxanne cut her off, saying in a louder voice, “He’s not my father. My father died in the war!”

That silenced the room. Suddenly, I was even more interested.

Roxanne said it again. “My father’s dead, okay? He worked for the Myles family. Then he joined the Army and died. End of story.”

“Which war?”

“Does it matter?”

I said, “It might.”

“I don’t think so, they’re all the same. A bunch of macho guys like you, carrying guns on their belts instead of tools. Is it the sound of metal that gets you off? Like cowboys with spurs. Knights in armor. Grown-ups playing games until… until…” Her voice softened, her attention turning inward. “That’s what men do… play games.”

I said, “What was your father’s name?”

“Billy. Is that a funny name for a man? Billy Sofvia. He was very handsome-smart, too. But not smart enough to realize what a dead end it is working for the Myles family.”

Greta whispered, “Enough, Roxy!”

“Why can’t I talk, Greta? You don’t want them to hear?”

Greta said, “Please, dear.”

Roxanne laughed as she looked around the room, seeing stainless-steel pots hanging above a butcher’s block, the industrial appliances, a double-wide Sub-Zero that cost more than most people made in a month. “You don’t know anything about the service class, Ford. Do you mind if I call you Ford? I’m really not in the mood to call you Doctor.”

Greta was looking at her, asking, “What is wrong with you today?”

Roxanne continued talking, telling me, “The reason the service class keeps secrets is because we have secrets of our own. Isn’t that the truth, Greta? Of course it’s true. My mother and father even dated secretly. When she got pregnant, they kept that a secret, too-”

“Roxanne Sofvia! Be quiet!”

“-because the feudal system didn’t end in the Middle Ages. It moved to the Hamptons, where staff is considered property. They’re expected to remain faithful, particularly attractive females. You would have to grow up in the system, Ford, to understand.”

I said, “As a domestic worker,” to keep her going.

“Or be one of them. Wouldn’t that be more fun?” Roxanne crossed her legs, becoming conversational, as if taunting the older woman. “Becoming one of them, it’s what the daughters of domestics dream of: marrying into the household. Isn’t that the phrase, Greta, marrying in ? Domestics live the wealthy life, Ford. We see it every day. But we’re never more than ornaments or appliances unless we get lucky and marry in. Which never happens, of course. You know the old saying.. . why buy the cow?”

She thought for a moment. “Lucky, hah! That’s a laugh. Domestics grow up knowing the truth about rich families but it doesn’t change the way the families think. They know they’re no smarter than the domestics. They know they’re not as competent, and certainly not as solid, but domestics still hang on to the dream of marrying in. Isn’t that sad? I mean, if you really think about it, how damn sad! Most of them, in fact, are completely crazed fuckups. The Tomlinson family-a classic example-but it doesn’t change anything.”

“That does it, I am leaving!” Greta was getting her purse, looking for her keys.

“No you’re not!” Roxanne said, moving toward the door. “You’ll never leave and you know it. I’m leaving. I’m leaving this house and this sick society and never coming back. I can’t believe I let you talk me into it in the first place.”

Greta’s anger collapsed. “Roxy… why? Did something happen?” “Between me and Prince Charming, you mean? What happened is, I found out it’s true what they say about frogs. I kissed one. You want proof?” Roxanne reached for the lab report but caught herself as she started to hand it across the counter. “Do you mind, Ford? I have something personal I want to share with… my mother.”

I was nodding, unsure how to handle it, then said, “Okay,” and went out the door.

I fixed the phone lines, then paced, slowing time by checking my watch too often. It was almost noon. Will Chaser had been in the ground for at least three hours, if the photo was authentic. Probably already dead, but if he wasn’t-and if the air system worked, as the kidnappers claimed-I still had twenty hours, maybe a little longer, to find him.

As I paced, I battled the ridiculous notion of returning to the road and seeking mystic insights from the rock, if I could find the damn thing. Had the boy been here? Had he been riding the gray stallion when it was shot?

I fixed my thoughts on a more reasonable hope: If I waited, played nice, maybe Roxanne would come out and answer my questions, including Which war?

Half an hour later, Roxanne did come out.

I wasn’t imagining the chill in Barbara’s voice when she said, “Did you happen to read a news story about the football player who washed up on a beach near Sanibel? One of my colleagues brought it to my attention. They think he was murdered.”

I said, “No, I don’t follow football,” then told her I wasn’t being a smart-ass, there were more pressing matters to discuss.

Was there anyone in the country who didn’t know of Bern Heller’s recent landfall? It kept me from asking the name of the woman’s colleague. Only the guilty are interested in their accusers.

Barbara replied, “That’s not true. One of Tomlinson’s friends is a coach with the Jets, so I know you follow football. His name is… well, I’m positive you told me, whatever his name is. Ask the Tin Man, he’ll remember.”

I said, “Mike Westhoff,” in a way to let her know how irritating she could be. I wasn’t going to argue with a woman who argues professionally, although it was grating that Barbara-like almost everyone-was charmed by Tomlinson’s star power and credited the man with virtues that friends and fellow boat bums knew were undeserved. But when people got their asses in a sling, who did they come running to?”

“I stand corrected,” I told her.

I was in my hotel room, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, packing to return to Florida. The dispatcher at Air Transport Services had been even frostier than the senator when I requested a flight to the Gulf Coast. Now here was Barbara going off on tangents rather than cooperating. I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t a coincidence.

Barbara said, “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. I was given the information in confidence.”

I said, “No need to say another word. A secret’s a secret. But back to finding a plane for me-”

“Unfortunately,” she interrupted, “this could have a bearing on our relationship. Doc, just between the two of us-and please stop me if the matter’s already been settled-but police are saying you’re a person of interest. I don’t know the legal definition, but to me when police say someone is ‘a person of interest’ they mean that person had something to do with it.”