by Nancy Geary
“Don’t feed me crap. Why me unless I’m a suspect? And why’d you bring a cop? I’ve got nothing to say.” With the word nothing, spittle shot between his teeth and landed on Frances’s chin. She reached up and wiped it with her finger. “Go ahead. Arrest me. But you’re wasting your time. None of you ever wanted to understand what was really going on with Hope.”
“Hope is my cousin. I do want to understand. Tell me.” Then a thought came to her, and she added, “Teddy told me you could help.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, given her conversation with her grandmother earlier in the day. Teddy had understood something about the relationship between Hope and Carl, enough that she had sheltered their romance beneath her own roof even while Hope was engaged to the apparent pick of North Shore princes. Perhaps Carl would have sensed her compassion, her empathy.
Instead he snorted a burst of laughter, dropping the wrench down into the cabin. It clanged as it hit the floor. “And what if I could?”
She didn’t know how to answer and looked to Elvis to respond.
“Think of Hope. Don’t let her killer get away,” he said.
Carl didn’t acknowledge the comment and instead began to stack the empty traps in an ordered fashion at one end of the boat. Frances stepped out of his way repeatedly to avoid being hit by a swinging lobster buoy. He had nearly completed his job before he stopped and said, “I know you don’t have the goods on me or we’d be talking at the precinct house instead of here. I’ve never known a cop who settled for a house call if he didn’t have to. But I don’t trust you and I don’t trust your friend here. So, I’ll tell you what. You offer me something and I’ll tell you stuff I couldn’t possibly make up. That’s my deal.” With that, he swung himself back down into the cabin.
Frances pondered what she could say to change his mind, but nothing came to her. He’d obviously had enough experience and perhaps run-ins with the law to know what it could and couldn’t compel him to do. Whether Elvis’s presence had reinforced that experience, she couldn’t say, but she realized that they needed information that either could exert pressure on him or would be of interest to offer. She clearly couldn’t win him over otherwise.
They left him with their telephone numbers, knowing full well he wouldn’t call. With Elvis a few steps behind her, she walked slowly back up the planked walkway, conscious of the squeaking of the wood as the tide flowed underneath. The light had started to fade, and the fog danced on the water as it rolled into shore. The temperature had dropped considerably, and Frances hugged herself as she scanned the pier once again. Seagulls, most with shells held tight in their beaks, paraded around the end of the dock. To an outsider, the scene should have seemed serene, but instead she felt an ache of unease.
“Now what?” she said to Elvis once they were back in the parking lot.
“I’ll find out what I can about our fisherman friend. In the meantime, see if your uncle is willing to press an assault charge. That way we can pick him up. He clearly knows more than he’s saying.”
“You think he’d talk in custody?”
Elvis smiled. “Sometimes our timing’s bad and we can’t find a magistrate to set bail. We end up having to keep a suspect overnight. Then things happen.” He winked. “You know how it is.”
Despite the hour, police cars still lined the driveway at Smith’s Point. Frances pulled onto the lawn to keep her car out of the way and idled the engine, hesitating before entering the house. She looked at the array of official law enforcement vehicles. Some were marked. Others—mostly Crown Victorias—were not, but it hardly mattered. Who else drove them?
She hadn’t expected the team of crime scene personnel to work so late and wondered what they might have found. There had been so many guests, plus all the people hard at work to make a reception; it seemed impossible that anything worthwhile could be salvaged. But that was the magic of police work. A fingerprint, a hair sample, a fabric fiber—the tiniest particle left behind could hold the key to unlocking the mystery. She hoped for her aunt’s sake that it could happen quickly.
She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel.
Girls, come back! she remembered her father’s voice calling from the beach. She and her sister had been diving off the dock, swimming out into the harbor, and returning to repeat the exercise again. Hope had stayed behind, smiling and laughing as her cousins floundered in the black water, jumping up and down each time they returned. She’d been four, five at the most, and by the end of the summer, her blond hair had a greenish tint from hours spent in the heavily chlorinated swimming pool at the Field and Hunt Club. Seeing her father’s waving arms, Frances and Blair had turned around. As Frances had pulled herself up onto the float and wrapped herself in a towel, Hope had extended her arms. “A piggy, pleeeease,” she’d said in her little voice. Frances had knelt down to let her cousin climb on her back. She could still feel Hope’s pudgy hands around her neck, the warmth of her skin as she held her thighs, and she could hear the giggles as they’d trotted back along the dock to the beach. “Go Fanny! Go!” Hope had exclaimed. Twenty years later, her death seemed impossible. Frances almost expected to see her scampering up the steps from the beach. More than anything, she wanted to hear the soft pad of little feet on the wood floors of the expansive house.
Tears welled. How could this have happened? The fleeting moment between great joy about the wedding and sorrow at Hope’s shocking death reemphasized the fragility of life. Frances knew all too well that nothing could be taken for granted, because it could disappear in an instant, that just when the world seemed ordered and peaceful, chaos returned. She rubbed her eyes. She couldn’t let herself mourn, or at least not yet.
“I’ve told you twice now, we don’t know anything about that,” Bill said. He and Adelaide stood in the entrance foyer with Detective Fleming, who held a thick envelope in his latex-covered hand.
“Fanny!” her aunt exclaimed. “Thank God you’re here.”
Frances nodded in recognition to the detective as she approached her aunt and uncle.
“There was ten thousand dollars in an envelope underneath this table,” she said, indicating a round skirted one close to the door. “I can’t imagine where it came from, or when.”
“We’re going to take it to the lab,” Detective Fleming said. As if its existence needed to be confirmed, he extended the envelope toward her. “Maybe a print will tell us who it came from.”
“I was the one who picked it up. Ask Officer What’s-his-name. I turned it over. So what’s that going to tell you?” Bill’s raised voice was just shy of a yell, and several officers finishing up in the adjoining room moved quickly into the foyer. “My daughter’s dead, and I’m sick and tired of the police turning our lives inside out. We’re private people. Leave us alone!” He turned and headed up the stairs.
Adelaide’s lip quivered, and her voice cracked as she spoke softly. “I apologize for my husband.”
“No need, ma’am,” Detective Fleming said as he put the envelope into a clear plastic bag. “We’ll be in touch.”
Frances wanted an opportunity to talk with him alone, to find out what, if anything, they’d found, but she didn’t want to abandon her aunt. They stood together, watching the police carry the last of their boxes and equipment out to the awaiting van. It seemed an endless procession.
Where had that money come from? What was it for? Frances wondered. Had Bill inadvertently destroyed whatever clues the police might have found? Removing anything once the crime scene unit had begun its search was reckless. Even in his distraught state, he should have recognized that. Unless… Could he have meant to alter the condition of the envelope? She pushed the thought from her mind.
19
Frances sat in the breakfast room drinking her second cup of coffee. Sun poured through the windows, and she repositioned herself so that her back cast a shadow and she could read the papers in front of her, pink sheets from a triplicate pad. They were the crime scene’s lengthy inventory, the
list of items removed from Hope’s bedroom. Her eyes scanned the scrawl. At the bottom of the second page, she paused at item number 47—"key attached to wine cork by wire.” Was that a homemade key chain? What did it open? She wondered what forensic significance it held.
There had been no trace of Bill or Adelaide when Frances had awoken that morning, and the house seemed eerily quiet. Although it had been only six days since she’d left Orient Point, Sam and home felt miles and years away. She leaned against the down cushion and rubbed her temples.
Hearing a nearby knock, she looked up. Father Whitney stood in the doorway. “Morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” she mumbled, getting up.
“Please…” He gestured for her to stay. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was looking for Adelaide.”
“I’m not sure where she is. I haven’t seen her or Bill this morning. Can I offer you anything?”
“No. Thank you,” he said, coming into the room. He perched on the edge of the chair next to her and placed a small leather book on the table. “There’s something I need to tell you, to give you. This is very awkward.”
“What is it?”
He pushed the book at her but didn’t remove his palm from its cover. “I never intended to show this to Hope’s family because it had been her wish that it remain confidential. But now that you tell me about her… death, it didn’t seem right. There may be something of importance to the police.”
“I don’t understand,” Frances said, staring at the book.
“It’s Hope’s diary.”
Why did he have it? The expression on her face must have been revealing, because he immediately offered, “I found it on my desk after her… after her body was discovered. There was a note attached that just said, ‘Please keep this safe.’ I don’t know when it got there. I assumed she left it when she and I met earlier in the afternoon, and that in my haste I hadn’t noticed it before.”
“Have you read it?”
“No. It was given to me in confidence, and I would do anything to preserve that. It’s part of my role. So it never occurred to me to disclose it when I thought she’d committed suicide. I’m sure its contents will be extremely painful for her family, and it didn’t make sense in my view to add to how much they already suffer. But now that the circumstances are different, well, I think I’d be remiss to withhold it.”
What did it contain? Would it reveal Hope’s fears? Did she disclose who had a motive to kill her? Frances couldn’t bear the thought.
“It was Hope’s possession, and her family should decide what to do with it.” He got up to leave. “I should have given it to you earlier, but you have to know the torment I’ve been in over how to handle this. I’ve prayed to God for strength to do the right thing. I hope it’s not too late.”
Frances tried to smile. He looked exhausted. This trauma had wreaked havoc on an entire community, and as its minister, he was supposed to pick up the pieces. But who tended to him? Who cared for the caregiver? She didn’t envy his role. “Thank you. You’ve done the right thing.”
After he’d left, she fingered the cover of the book and then hesitantly opened it. Perhaps she should wait for Adelaide and Bill to return, but she couldn’t. It seemed too important.
The pages had buckled with the pressure of a ballpoint pen on the thin leaves. Some entries were in black, some blue, and as Frances flipped the pages, she noticed that even the handwriting differed. Certain paragraphs were slanted heavily to the right, others more vertical. She glanced at several sentences on the last day and could make out no more than a word, a name, or references to Jack amid illegible scribbles. She turned to the first page, dated August 2.
I can’t be who he wants me to be. And when I tell him so, he threatens me. His whole life, he’s gotten what he wants, what he demands. I hate myself for my inability to satisfy him, but I hate him, too.
She turned the page.
Jack wants a prenuptial agreement. As if I would take his money. Doesn’t he realize that’s the last thing that matters to me? That what I want and need have nothing to do with the materialism he worships. But I also wonder why relinquishing my marital rights is important to him.
She reread the entry and dog-eared the page, remembering her discussion with Teddy.
August 14: I must tell Jack I can’t go through with it. I know he will be upset, but I can’t imagine life as his wife. He makes me feel inadequate. I am the constant disappointment. And even though I’ve tried to protect his feelings, he will be hurt. But it must be either him or me. Am I being too selfish? Should I be sacrificed?
Frances paused. Her own words, the ones she had shouted through the door of Hope’s room just moments before she’d discovered her dead, resonated in her mind. Were their feelings that similar? It seemed a strange coincidence. The entry continued:
I will tell him. If he’s angry, there’s nothing I can do. Perhaps if he hits me or lashes out, it will be easier. Maybe I’ll be raped. His violence is easier, easier than his sorrow.
Frances thought she’d misread and pored over the words several times. That Hope would consider the possibility of rape, that she would even use such language, was shocking.
But then she remembered the conversation she’d had with her cousin less than a day before her murder. At the rehearsal dinner, Hope had seemed eager, almost frantic, to hear stories of domestic abuse. Tell me the worst, her words echoed in Frances’s mind. At the time the conversation seemed odd, inappropriate, but now the memory of it was haunting. You tell me, then, why women stay. Had Hope been seeking an answer for herself? She couldn’t imagine Jack as violent, but her brief time at the Coalition Against Domestic Violence had taught her that looks could be deceiving. The statistical likelihood… is that the killer is Jack. She remembered Meaty’s words. Had they had a conversation? And if so, what had transpired? Had he been hurt enough by Hope’s rejection that he’d lost control? Did he have a history of escalating violence? She hated that phrase—the escalation of violence—as if a fist or knife or gun were riding a moving staircase to some inevitable end. But she also knew that what could seem relatively minor, a shove or a swipe across the arm, could become more serious. Even deadly.
She had to stop her mind from racing. She pictured Jack pacing in her motel room, the apparent earnestness of his despair. Had that been an act? If so, she was a poor judge of character. None of it made sense. She tucked the diary in her knapsack. She needed to show it to Adelaide as soon as possible, but in the meantime, perhaps Jack himself could provide some answers to the morass of questions that jumbled in her mind.
“Oak Tree Farms” was inlaid in the left stone pillar of the entrance to the Cabot estate, and a small sign with black lettering staked into the ground read “Private.” As Frances turned her rental car into the drive, she realized that the property bore little resemblance to any kind of a farm with which she was familiar. A white split-rail fence outlined the perimeter of what had to be more than a dozen acres. Carefully pruned oaks with massive trunks dotted the well-manicured lawn. Bright orange carp were visible in the clear water of what appeared to be a man-made pond with an elaborate bluestone surround. Wearing green monogrammed blankets, two horses, a chestnut and a bay, grazed. Even the long gravel drive had been recently raked.
The stone house with enormous columns on either side of the front door loomed as she rounded the bend. The structure seemed to stretch forever, and Frances quickly inventoried the thirty windows on the front side alone. Some were partially shrouded in double-sided drapes, the triangles of colored fabric brightening the otherwise ominous facade. She parked in front, approached the house, and rang the bell. Its timbre echoed.
Moments later, a thin woman in a black uniform and white apron opened the door. Wrinkle lines made rivulets in her face, and her thin lips appeared almost blue. “May I help you?” she asked.
“Yes. My name is Frances Pratt. I was hoping to find Jack at home.”
“He’s not,” she replied, offer
ing nothing more.
“When do you expect him?”
“I can’t say.”
Whether the comment meant “couldn’t” or “wouldn’t” was unclear from her tone. “Is Jim or Fiona in?”
“Mrs. Cabot is here.”
“Could I see her?”
“I will have to ask whether she’s receiving guests, as I’m quite sure none were expected,” she said, gesturing for Frances to enter. “You can wait in the drawing room. Follow me.”
Frances walked slightly behind as she was led through the marble-floored foyer to a large set of double doors off to the left, which the housekeeper opened using two hands. “I’ll return momentarily,” she said, and headed up the wide staircase.
The drawing room resembled a decorator’s showcase, so coordinated and filled that it made Frances claustrophobic. A thick wool rug with a trellis pattern covered most of the dark-stained wood floor. Three different seating areas of overstuffed chintz furniture and tufted ottomans made it difficult to navigate. Several oil paintings in gilded frames, including a life-size portrait of Fiona in a chiffon ball gown, hung on the dark green walls. A ginger jar lamp rested on each end table, and stacks of magazines, Limoges pillboxes, and photographs in tortoiseshell frames covered the three coffee tables. Porcelain topiaries stood in a row along the carved marble mantel.
As she waited for Fiona, Frances worked her way around the perimeter of the room. Predictable best-sellers filled the bookshelves, and she scanned the titles, realizing how little popular fiction she’d read since leaving the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office. Moving along, she glanced at the day’s brightness through a set of French doors that opened onto a brick patio. To the left of the doors was an English writing desk, its green leather top covered with a blotter, a sterling letter opener, and a pile of mail, including several small envelopes, the sender’s return address engraved on the back flap. Frances ran her finger along the pile, some of which had already been opened. “Barclay and I cannot tell you how sorry we are about Hope’s passing.” “George and I write to send you our deepest sympathy during this difficult time.” “Hank and I are keeping Jack in our thoughts and prayers.” The ladies of the North Shore were prompt in sending condolence letters.
