Someone else had gotten to it first.
Panic had been followed with some measure of relief, as the man’s billfold was discovered alongside the playhouse daybed. As long as the foolishly forgotten wallet served as blackmail, incriminating its guiltless owner, there was a degree of confidence that the photograph would never come to light.
Fourteen years ago, a letter had been sent, warning the trespasser that the wallet could be used to place him at the playhouse that fateful night. He had been too stupid or scared to realize that the photograph could prove much worse to Charlotte’s killer.
They had reached a stalemate. The murderer possessing the wallet. The trespassing owner of the wallet holding on to the photo. Both sides had remained silent, neither wanting any trouble. It was crucial that things stay that way.
In a courtroom, that photograph could supply a direct link to Charlotte’s killer.
CHAPTER
17
The landscaper could take care of it, but Elsa preferred to do it herself. She enjoyed providing the food that beckoned the songbirds and occasional ring-necked pheasant to her backyard. She was pouring seed into the feeder for her beloved birds when she heard the telephone. Hurrying across the manicured lawn to the flagstone patio, she snatched the cordless phone from the wrought-iron table next to the chaise longue.
“Hello?” she answered, a bit out of breath.
“Elsa, it’s Oliver.”
Her heart leapt, as it had for years, at the sound of his voice. Most of her adult life had been spent loving Oliver Sloane.
“I have news, Elsa. The remains were definitely Charlotte’s. The dental records confirm it.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Oliver dear. I know this has been an excruciating nightmare for you, and for Madeleine, for all of us really. But at least now we know, Oliver. It was the not knowing what happened to our Charlotte that was the hardest part.”
“That and having this whole damned town thinking I killed her.”
Elsa could hear the depression and cynicism in his polished baritone. She ached at the agony he had been forced to endure.
“I have never, not for one single moment, Oliver, thought that you had anything to do with Charlotte’s disappearance. I have believed in your innocence with all my heart and soul. You know that.”
“Well, you are the only one, Elsa. You and Madeleine. Charlotte’s best friend and Charlotte’s daughter are the only ones who have stood by me. Everyone else in Newport has treated me like a criminal.”
“That might be different now, Oliver.”
“Why? Why will it be any different now, Elsa? They only have a body, or what’s left of one. They don’t have the killer.”
Elsa knew he was right. What a horrible ordeal this all had been. And it would never be over for Oliver, unless they found out who murdered Charlotte.
Elsa loved Oliver with a depth only intensified by the long years that she had watched him suffer, wanting to help him but unable to. As the time since Charlotte’s disappearance lengthened, Elsa had hoped that Oliver would forget his wife, or at least move on emotionally from her and they could move forward as a couple. But he was racked with guilt over the lack of attentiveness he had shown Charlotte in the months before she disappeared and over the argument he and Charlotte had the last night he saw her. He had confided as much to Elsa over and over again in Scotch-soaked confessions these last fourteen years.
“If only I had been more discreet,” he was repeating now. “What could I have been thinking of? Did I really think Charlotte wouldn’t find out that I was unfaithful? What a fool I was. I would do anything to do it all over again.”
Elsa tried to soothe him, tried to be patient. “That’s all over now, darling. You have to move forward. Enough of your life has been consumed by this. You have to live what’s left of it. There are still good years ahead—for you, for us.”
“Please, Elsa. Don’t start with all that now. You more than anyone know how long I have prayed that Charlotte would somehow come back to me. It was a miracle that I ever had her. If Agatha hadn’t intervened, I never would have had her at all. I haven’t led you on, Elsa. I may have slipped up along the way, but my heart has always really belonged to Charlotte.”
“But Charlotte isn’t coming back, Oliver. We can be together now. We can get married. You’re officially a widower.” The second the words were out of her mouth, Elsa regretted them. Oliver may have been without a wife for fourteen years, but this was not the time to pounce on him about another marriage. It was just that she wanted to be Mrs. Oliver Sloane so very much. Though none of the other middle-aged women in town would want that honor, Elsa Gravell had given up the prospect of any other husband or children of her own, believing without a doubt that her happiness was bound to Oliver Sloane’s.
“I just found out for certain that my wife is dead, Elsa. Allow me to grieve,” Oliver snapped.
Elsa heard the phone line go dead and cursed herself. There was little chance now that Oliver would escort her to the Vickerses’ party tonight, and Elsa knew better than to bring it up. But she was determined that he go with her, as scheduled, to the Ball Bleu at The Elms on Wednesday. Elsa was chairing the event herself this year, and she wanted Oliver at her side, in spite of Charlotte’s identification. In fact, he had to attend because of it—in Charlotte’s memory—just as he had every year since the night she’d disappeared. Charlotte and Elsa had cochaired that first fund-raising event for the Endangered Birds of Rhode Island fourteen years ago. It was gratifying to see how the fundraiser had grown, and Oliver, to his credit, had bravely attended each and every year, making his wife’s cause his own, ignoring the whispers and icy stares.
She mustn’t push Oliver, though. She mustn’t alienate him, especially now, when there was finally a chance that they could be together as man and wife. Yes, she had been Charlotte’s best friend as they grew up and went to school together—Charlotte, popular and outgoing, Elsa, quieter and more studious. She had been the maid of honor at Charlotte’s wedding, and she was the godmother of Charlotte’s daughter. They had shared a special love for birds and traveled far and wide, spending hours on end together, waiting for just a glimpse of some rare specimen. But her allegiance to Charlotte had ended many years ago. It was Oliver she loved, and Elsa was determined to have him, no matter how long it took.
CHAPTER
18
Grace and B.J. returned to the Viking ballroom and reported to the assignment desk. Dominick O’Donnell, KTA’s senior producer, peered at them over his reading glasses as B.J. told him what they had gotten at Shepherd’s Point. Dominick listened and made his judgment call.
“The interview with Charlotte Sloane’s daughter may be an exclusive, but you need more than that to make a piece of national interest. This might be a big local story, but we have to flesh it out before we can hook a network audience. Hold on to the tape and see what else develops.”
B.J. decided to fight for the airtime. “But, Dom, with the identification of Charlotte Sloane’s remains and the video from the old slave tunnel, I think we have enough to put together a good piece.”
Dominick scanned the computer screen on his desk. “Look, Beej, you’ve got stories scheduled for every single day this week, and I’ve yet to see any one of the takeouts you’re responsible for. How are those coming?”
“Don’t worry, Dom. They’re under control.”
“Well, if you can get those done and still find time to come up with something worthwhile on the Sloane case, fine. But, I’m telling you, B.J., we need more. You have to get reactions from other people who knew Charlotte Sloane. Her husband comes immediately to mind. Talk to other people in town who knew her, who remember when she disappeared. And, obviously, you’d want to talk to the police, too.”
B.J. knew when to back off. “All right, Dom, we’ll get back to you when we have more.”
After a quick phone call to Massachusetts to confirm that Lucy had arrived safely, Grace could feel the other int
erns watching her as she stood with B.J. at the assignment desk. She was torn between satisfaction that B.J. was so generously including her as he worked and concern that she was estranging herself from her peers. This competition for the one assistant producer spot was a bad thing. Each of the interns was going to resent it when any of the others got to do something that furthered their experience, believing that it worked against their own chances of winning the staff job.
But Grace’s concern about the feelings of at least one intern dissipated as Joss Vickers approached the assignment desk and made her announcement.
“My parents are having a clambake tonight, and everyone from the KTA staff is invited.”
“Really? That sounds like fun,” said Dominick. “I’ve never been to a clambake.”
“Me neither,” said B.J. “Count me in.”
No, Grace decided as she watched the producers scribble down the Vickerses’ address. It was not Joss Vickers’s feelings that Grace should worry about. Joss knew how to compete just fine.
CHAPTER
19
After the day he’d had, going to the Vickerses’ party was the last thing he wanted to do. With Charlotte Sloane’s case suddenly white hot again, Detective Al Manzorella was both excited and enervated.
Al sighed as he changed his shirt. Now, they had a body. For fourteen years, Al had been certain that Charlotte was dead, but it was only today that the fact had been proven. Still, there wasn’t enough to pin Charlotte’s murder on that miserable husband of hers, or on anyone else for that matter. Other than the fireplace shovel, the only evidence was Charlotte’s diary, the earring, and the remarkably preserved silk handkerchief that had been balled up in the pocket of her evening gown. How, or why, Charlotte had gone to Shepherd’s Point, instead of to her marital home at Seaview, after leaving the country club on the night she disappeared was anyone’s guess.
“Are you ready, honey?” Seanna’s eyes sparkled as she stood in the bedroom doorway, wearing her new outfit. His wife was thrilled about being invited to the clambake hosted by those rich “summer people.” Seanna had met Vanessa Vickers when she came into the antiques shop where Seanna worked part time. They had struck up a conversation, and Vanessa, after dropping a wad of dough, had magnanimously invited Seanna and her husband to the party.
“Be right there,” he called.
Al couldn’t bring himself to let his wife down. Seanna didn’t have much glamour in her life, and he was sorry about that. She deserved more than he was able to give her. She never complained about his long hours or the paycheck that never went quite far enough to allow them to go on a grand vacation or buy a bigger house.
“Want to take your car or mine?” she asked.
“Let’s take yours,” he said, running a comb through his thick, black hair. Maybe the clambake would be fun, though he doubted it. But perhaps it wouldn’t be a total loss. You never knew what kind of information you could pick up at a gathering like this.
CHAPTER
20
The process had begun early in the day, when Mickey sent his crew out to pick fresh rockweed, a dark green seaweed oozing with bubbles filled with salt water. The bubbles were essential to the traditional clambake process, providing the steam for cooking.
The bonfire was built with care, alternating layers of wood and rock. The blazing fire would heat the rocks to very high temperatures, and once the fire settled down, a bed of hot coals and scalding rocks would be left behind. The coals and stones were covered with the mounds of damp rockweed, the saltwater bubbles bursting when heated, emitting the seawater that would steam and season the food.
All of this was done hours before the first guest arrived. Mickey Hager was fastidious in his preparations and took enormous pride in his job as bakemaster. Presiding over the clambake, he took care that the traditional cooking process passed down from the Native Americans to the early New England colonists and on through three centuries was executed to perfection. Mickey was so good at his job that Seasons Clambakes was booked for parties, weddings, class reunions, and corporate functions right through the autumn and already had plenty of commitments for next spring and summer. On the beach, at a private home, or at one of Newport’s many scenic locations, Seasons Clambakes guaranteed a distinctive good time, and customers were willing to pay well for it.
The Vickerses were repeat customers, and Mickey knew their property well. A restored carriage house that had once sheltered the carts and coaches of one of the wealthy Newport summer families had been converted into a home with every possible convenience. While the Vickerses’ house did not have the grand scale of the Bellevue Avenue mansions, it did have many features that the “cottages” did not. Central air-conditioning, satellite television, and a Sub-Zero refrigerator with ice that came on demand from the opening in the door made living in the twenty-first century a lot more comfortable than it was in the Gilded Age.
Mickey worked quickly, nestling layers of lobsters, steamers, mussels, and corn in metal baskets into the rockweed, arranging the racks to guarantee perfect cooking and flavoring. He and his assistant covered the area with canvas, trying to capture as much heat as possible.
Mickey stood back and surveyed his work with satisfaction. Yes, business was real good right now, but Mickey knew he had to stay on top of things. He had busted his hump to get here, and there was no way he was going back to taking orders from other people, working waitstaff at the country club.
“Hiya, Mickey.”
He turned in the direction of the voice. It was that hard body, Joss Vickers. She was wearing a tight-fitting black T-shirt and a pair of white shorts that certainly couldn’t pass the country club dress code. Those tanned legs of hers didn’t quit. Man, she was a looker.
She was also a flirt, and Mickey had watched her work her spell on teenage boys as well as the older male friends of her parents. She was an equal-opportunity tease. Joss had the power, and she reveled in seeing what it could do.
Whenever Mickey saw Joss, memories of the first time he had viewed her flashed through his mind. It was Madeleine Sloane’s sixth birthday, and the party was held at the country club pool. Even then, shockingly, Joss had oozed sexuality. The six-year-old had worn a leopard-print, one-piece bathing suit, her little legs already shapely and firm, her expression somehow knowing. As he served her lemonade and chocolate cake, he’d been ashamed of himself, an eighteen-year-old guy having thoughts like that about a little girl. Now, he felt his cheeks grow warm at the memory.
“Hi,” he answered, careful not to address her by name. By extension, she was his employer. He didn’t feel comfortable calling her Joss, yet he wasn’t going to call her Miss Vickers either. Mickey wiped his brow, grateful that the heat from the clambake fire provided an excuse for his blushing face.
“Looks like everything is all set,” said Joss, surveying the clambake bed.
“Yep. We’ve got everything under control. It’s going to be a good party.”
Joss flashed a smile, her eyes narrowing. “That’s great, Mickey, because it’s important to me that everyone here has a really good time tonight. In addition to our Newport friends, there will be a lot of people from KEY News here, and I want to make a fabulous impression.”
CHAPTER
21
The suitcase lay open on the double bed in the hotel room. Grace hunted through the contents, already sickeningly sure that she hadn’t packed correctly. Or more to the point, she hadn’t had the right things to pack.
She had to start paying more attention to her wardrobe now that she was going into the working world. She’d observed that the attire at the KEY News Broadcast Center in New York City wasn’t necessarily business formal, but most people did dress stylishly. Here in Newport, the producers, writers, and directorial types seemed to be favoring the Ralph Lauren look, lots of khaki pants, white blouses or T-shirts, and sweaters tied around the waist or neck. Grace had also spotted quite a few jean jackets draped over the back of the chairs in the ballroo
m workstation.
Grace had packed several pairs of linen slacks that she pulled from her suitcase. They were hopelessly wrinkled. She checked the closet. Great, there was an ironing board inside but no iron.
She wasn’t sure if linen slacks were appropriate for a clambake, and she wished she had time to find a Gap and pick up some khakis, but B.J. had offered her a lift and she was supposed to meet him in the lobby in twenty minutes. Grace walked over to the bedside table and picked up the phone to ask if she could get an iron sent up to the room.
“Izzie, before you leave, can you bring an iron up to two-oh-one?”
What choice did she have? This wasn’t a request, this was an order from the head housekeeper, and Izzie knew that the woman was watching her for any signs of slacking off.
“Of course, Eileen, I’ll do it right away.”
As she waited for the service elevator, Izzie raised her right arm out to her side, using the steam iron as a barbell. She repeated the movement, up and down, up and down. Izzie was still trying to get her strength back. Since the operation, it was so much harder to do her physically demanding job. Making beds, emptying trash, cleaning toilets, and scrubbing bathtubs was not a lot of fun under the best of circumstances. But after breast cancer surgery and treatment it was next to impossible. Izzie wasn’t sure how much longer she could do it. She went home exhausted every day, collapsing in bed as soon as she got into the house.
As she got off the elevator on the second floor, Izzie began to feel light-headed. She talked to herself as she had so often since Padraic passed away. You can do it, Izzie girl. You can do it.
She made it to the hotel room door and knocked.
“Just a minute” came the call from inside.
But by the time the door opened, Izzie had slid to the floor.
“Oh my God, are you all right?” Grace crouched toward the chambermaid. “Hang on. I’ll call for help.”
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