You've Been Warned

Michael steps out and straps Sean into his booster seat while Dakota climbs in on her own. Penley meanwhile opens a compact and applies some lipstick, blindly gesturing to Louis to load everything in the back of the wagon.

It should be me getting in that car, not Penley. That’s all I can think as I stare at them. I should be the fourth in that particular foursome.

They may look like the picture-perfect family—all smiles as they pull away from the curb, heading for “the country”—but I know better.

Pictures lie.

Chapter 38

MICHAEL DRIVES LIKE a speed demon, hardly a surprise. It dawns on me that I’ve never seen him behind the wheel of a car before. I drove him somewhere once in Bob. Other than that, we’re always either in his limo or taking cabs.

He’s definitely a little reckless today, especially with the kids in the car. A couple of times I almost lose them, first by the George Washington Bridge and then later on I-95 through Stamford, where one of the lanes is closed for construction.

I tailgate other cars, trying to stay hidden in Michael’s rearview mirror. For my first time following someone, I think I’m doing a pretty good job.

Next exit, Westport.

It’s only an hour’s drive from the city, but it might as well be a million miles away. So many trees, so much space, it’s a whole other world. A very rich one, at that.

And the closer we get to the water, the richer it gets.

The homes looking out on Long Island Sound all seem to share this majestic, otherworldly quality. Beyond their manicured front lawns and perfectly aligned shutters, there’s a certain grandness to them that goes beyond size. It’s not mere money, it’s wealth.

Michael turns into a driveway.

Fittingly, it belongs to the most impressive home of them all, a cedar shake Nantucket colonial that looks like a page out of Architectural Digest. Actually, make that two pages. The huge house rolls across the property like a wave, seemingly endless.

So this is where Penley grew up.

I park by the far end of the house behind a low hedge. I’m mostly shielded while still having a decent view of the grounds, including the large infinity pool and the tennis court. What I expect to see, I don’t know.

What I’m even doing here is a much better question. We’ll find out, won’t we?

I watch as Michael and the rest of the Turnbull family spill out of their Mercedes wagon.

An older couple—Penley’s mother and father, for sure—are quick to greet them with hugs and kisses, the majority going to Dakota and Sean. Penley’s father kind of reminds me of a retired Gordon Gekko.

Sitting inside Bob and taking it all in, I imagine the conversation. Does Michael begin his ass-kissing right away with the old man or does he wait a bit?

They all disappear inside, though not for long. Dakota and Sean come racing out the French doors on the side of the house, heading straight for the pool. A woman wearing a uniform that screams “maid” isn’t far behind. It seems that she’s on lifeguard duty. She’s sort of the day-in-the-country me.

Meanwhile, Michael, Penley, and her parents settle into the whiter-than-white wicker furniture on the porch. Yet another maid appears with a silver tray. The Norman Rockwell image is slightly blown by the martini pitcher taking the place of lemonade.

Fiendish ideas dance in my head. What if I were to make a grand entrance? The emerging bitch in me imagines what a scene that would be. “What are you doing here?” Penley would ask, as I walk up to the porch.

“Why don’t you ask Michael,” I’d answer calmly.

Go on, wiggle your way out of this one, stud.

But I remain with Bob and instead reach for my camera. I snap shots of the kids splashing around in the pool. It was only last summer that Sean still needed his floaties. Dakota, on the other hand, is very graceful in the water, a baby swan.

Out of nowhere, Penley marches into frame. She barks at the kids, probably something about eating lunch, because when she turns to leave, Dakota and Sean reluctantly climb out of the pool and towel off. They are adorable! And Penley is just awful.

As the kids amble back toward the house with the maid in tow, my attention wanders. I’m gazing around, admiring the neighborhood. Everything is so clean, the air blowing in from the water so crisp. A few cars drive by, all but one a convertible. And why not? All this fresh country air to suck in.

I watch a woman in Nike everything jog by. Then I spot a man in the distance, walking toward me. He’s wearing a light Windbreaker and a gray baseball cap, his pace nice and slow. No hurry—like everything else around here.

I’m about to look away when my eyes stop.

There’s something strange about him.

Familiar.

My God, it’s that detective from the Fálcon.

Frank Delmonico’s here in Connecticut.

That just isn’t possible, but there he is.

Chapter 39