Guilty Minds

“Worked with the Spanish-American War, right?” She knew what I was talking about, how at the end of the nineteenth century a couple of newspaper moguls, William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer, had their correspondents invent sensational, fictional stories about atrocities in Cuba, which eventually provoked the United States into going to war with Spain. Because Hearst and Pulitzer had their own war going on-over circulation. They did it to sell newspapers.

“Okay,” she said, “but killing Kayla…?”

“My gut says Ellen Wiley ordered up a scandal. Not a homicide. I think the thugs she hired just took things one lethal step further-killing the girl so she couldn’t compromise them. At the end of the day, everyone saves his own ass first. Law of human nature.”

“You think she knows her people did it?”

I nodded. “And maybe, just maybe, she’ll feel a pang of guilt and come clean. Or at least open the door a crack. But I need to see her face-to-face so I know what she knows.”

There was a long pause, and then she said, “Thanks for including me.”

“In what?”

She waved a hand. “In all this. I need to put things right. As much as I can.”

“I understand.” I felt roughly the same way.

It wasn’t until we’d been on Route 50 for a while and passed a sign for the Upperville Baptist Church that we realized we’d arrived.

“But where’s the town?” Mandy said.

“Good question.”

Upperville wasn’t even a town; it was an unincorporated community, an assortment of old stone and brick buildings, most of them lined up along Route 50. There was a sandstone Episcopal church, a post office, a fire department. An inn once owned by George Washington, or so the Internet had told us. And horse farms. A lot of horse farms. A sign announced that this was the site of the annual Upperville Colt and Horse Show.

We stopped at a general store, and Mandy ran in to ask directions. Past the cemetery and then continue on for a couple of miles, she was told. On either side of the road were horse fences. There was a break in the fence and an unmarked road. We turned left there, as instructed. Soon we came to a stone fence. Inset in one of the pillars at the opening was a granite block inscribed ELM SPRING FARMS. Entering ahead of us were a Bentley and a Range Rover. We were obviously in the right place.

The road went on for a long while, jigging to the left and then to the right and then straight, lined with gracefully pruned elm trees and pin oaks. Just beyond the trees, on the right, was a clearing. In the gaps between the trees I could glimpse a long straight lane of asphalt paving, which I soon realized was an airstrip. It seemed to be about a mile long. The road continued another half mile or so. Finally it broadened out and the trees ended. Parked on either side of the wider road were a lot of cars.

Expensive cars, too. Mercedes-Benzes and BMWs and Range Rovers, Bentleys and Jaguars and Lamborghinis and Ferraris. And then there were the retro vehicles, the woody-sided station wagons, and the pickup trucks that probably belonged to the real hands-on horse-farm owners who had so much money they didn’t need to impress you. A young guy in a valet uniform was guiding the cars into their slots.

We’d timed this well, in the middle of the arrival rush. We parked the Suburban and joined the parade of party guests walking down the driveway toward the extremely large redbrick Georgian house. I knew it was at least ten thousand square feet, on a two-thousand-acre plot of land that also included a private airstrip and stables and paddocks.

But when we got to the front door, there was a problem. A couple of pretty blond young women were sitting at a table just inside, handing out name badges and checking names off a list.

We were not on any list, of course.

“James and Lisa Grant,” I said pleasantly.

Mandy glanced at me quickly. We hadn’t discussed whether we’d pretend to be a married couple; I’d just improvised it, last minute, forgetting that neither of us wore wedding bands.

“Grant,” one of the girls murmured, running her finger down a column. “Um, how do you spell that?”

“Like it sounds.” Behind them was a painting of a white barn that I was pretty sure was by Georgia O’Keeffe.

“Um, I don’t see a Grant here.” She turned to the blonde sitting next to her. “Do you have James Grant?” They probably each had half the alphabet. The second blonde scanned her list, running an index finger down her list. She shook her head.

Then Mandy stepped forward. “I’ll just write out our name badges if you give me a couple of blanks.” As if the real problem was that we didn’t have any badges. Not that we weren’t on the list of invited guests.

The two blondes looked at each other, and the first one shrugged. You could see the conflicting instincts battling it out in their heads-Only admit guests on the list! versus Never insult the guests!