It was that question that got him to call Meyer Wolfsheim to let him know he needed some travel funds to go out of state to interview a witness. And that brought him on the long train ride from New York to here: Minnesota, where the Buchanans had been packing to move to long before Jay Gatsby had been murdered. Or so Daisy had claimed. What was it she’d told him? These things take time.
But whether she’d been talking about her move or whatever it was that had happened between her and Jay Gatsby… well, now he wasn’t quite so sure.
* * *
PERHAPS UNSURPRISINGLY, THE Buchanans’ new home outside of Minneapolis was a mansion so large, so massively sprawling, that it made their East Egg house seem somewhat ordinary in comparison. It sat four stories high and was propped up with marble columns that looked like something out of Ancient Greece. The house was next to wooded acres on one side, a sprawling bright blue lake on the other. Frank wondered if the Buchanans owned both the woods and the lake, too. And maybe that was the difference between being wealthy in Minnesota and in New York—even the mansions in New York were smaller and closer together than out here.
A housekeeper let Frank in and led him to a lavishly decorated, tidy parlor. It was well furnished with paintings on the walls, and there was no sign of boxes, or the kind of disarray you might expect from a move halfway across the country that had happened very recently. Maybe Daisy had been telling the truth about the planning for this being long in the works. Or maybe people as rich as the Buchanans never had disarray.
“Detective Charles,” Daisy gushed, walking into the parlor, greeting him as if they were old friends. Her lips were poised in a smile, but her face was pale, and her eyes betrayed her. They were dim, tired. Angry? “Good heavens”—she was still talking, her voice an elevator rising so fast it could give you vertigo—“I could hardly believe it when Marie said you were here. Sit down. Can I get you a whiskey? Or maybe a bourbon? You look like a bourbon man, Detective.”
He felt slightly unnerved. He was a bourbon man. Or he had been, back when it was legal. And truth be told, he still was in the privacy of his own apartment. But not when he was on the job. And at the moment, with the amount of money Wolfsheim had offered him, he was taking this job even more seriously than his real job. He cleared his throat. “No, thank you, Mrs. Buchanan. But I could take some water, if it wouldn’t trouble you too much.”
“Oh.” She laughed. “You’re one of those men, are you? Water?” She rang a bell and then the poor house servant ran in looking anxious and was tasked with bringing him water. He shot the servant an apologetic smile, but she didn’t seem to notice before scurrying out.
He turned his attention back to Daisy. Her smile had momentarily faded and now she just looked tired. “So, Minneapolis, huh?” He forced a smile, trying to be friendly, hoping she’d let her guard down.
“Tom wanted more room for his ponies. There’s more land out here. So much land.” She frowned and leaned in closer, lowering her voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “I hear it’s dreadful in the winter, though.”
“I’m sure,” he said. Even today, mid-September, it was cool enough to feel like a winter’s day in New York. His hands had been cold since he’d stepped off the train, and now he held them in his pockets, running his fingers across the cool diamond hairpin, again and again. “Anyway, Mrs. Buchanan, thanks for seeing me. I had a few more questions for you.”
She laughed and refused to meet his eyes, brushing her hair behind her shoulders with one well-practiced swoop of her hand. “You came all the way out here for a few more questions, Detective? I don’t know whether I should be flattered or alarmed.”
“I like to get out of the city for a few days this time of year anyway. Figured I might as well come in person.” It was a bald-faced lie that he covered up with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It pained him to leave Dolores alone overnight any time of the year, even though she’d insisted she could manage just fine without him. And her sister, Josephine, was two blocks away if she needed anything. Josephine already disliked him and Frank didn’t need to give her more reasons for it. But he was here for Dolores, he reminded himself. Once he got Wolfsheim’s paycheck, he’d be able to afford a nice rental house near the water next summer. They could celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary in style.
“Still,” Daisy was saying now, “you could’ve telephoned, Detective.”