“Do you think they make piña coladas?” she asked.
“Your wish is my command,” said B.J., bowing mockingly. “I’ll make it myself if the bartender won’t.”
As he went to the bar on the dock to retrieve their drinks, Grace leaned against the railing at the water’s edge and people-watched. The crowd was a festive one, dancing and laughing under the stars. Others strolled along the wharf, stopping to look in the windows of the shops that flanked the cobblestones. Everywhere she turned there was a sense of well-being and seeming ease, and Grace felt lucky to be part of it all. Tonight, she was part of a couple enjoying a summer holiday.
She saw a man and woman stepping from a sailboat onto the dock. Grace could make out the word SEAWOLF painted on the stern. As the pair drew closer, she recognized Gordon Cox with a pretty strawberry blonde a good thirty-five years his junior. The couple was almost upon her before the professor noticed Grace and quickly dropped his companion’s hand. Grace pretended she hadn’t seen it.
She raised her own hand in a wave. “Hi, Professor. Nice to see you again.”
“Well, hello there,” the professor said. Grace was fairly certain that he didn’t remember her name, and she decided to let him off the hook.
“Hi, I’m Grace Callahan,” she said turning to the redhead.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Judy Hazel.”
“Judy is one of my history students,” the professor offered a bit too hurriedly.
“I see,” said Grace. “I just wanted to tell you, Professor, you did a great job on the broadcast this morning.”
“Thank you, Grace. But I must say I didn’t appreciate being put on the spot like that. I didn’t like speculating on what might have happened to Madeleine just to provide fodder for that executive producer of yours.”
Grace didn’t offer the fact that she was the one who had suggested Gordon Cox to Linus. Instead, she steered the conversation in a different direction. “What do you think will happen with the tunnel now?”
“I really don’t know.” Gordon shook his head. “Madeleine was Agatha Wagstaff’s only heir, so I suppose, in time, there is a chance that Agatha will turn over Shepherd’s Point to the Preservation Society. For now, Agatha has forbidden any more work to be done on the slave tunnel. But I haven’t given up on convincing her.”
By the time B.J. returned with her piña colada and his Rolling Rock, the professor and his friend had moved along. Sipping her pineapple-flavored drink, Grace felt some of the magic of the evening diminish as she thought of Madeleine and the loved ones the young woman had left behind. Her father and that reclusive aunt of hers must feel devastated.
Grace knew she was one of the last people to have talked with Madeleine before she died. She felt somehow that she should pay her respects and tell Oliver Sloane and Agatha Wagstaff that, on the night she died, Madeleine had talked about how much she loved them.
Grace and B.J. walked hand in hand across Thames Street and then up the hill on Touro Street toward the Viking. As they drew closer to the hotel, Grace felt her heart beating faster, unsure of where the night was going to end up.
They were on the porch when B.J.’s beeper went off. He unclipped it from his belt and squinted to read the message.
“Crap.” B.J. angrily snapped off the beeper.
“What is it?”
“Linus wants me to edit forty-five seconds out of the scrimshaw piece.”
“Now?” asked Grace aware of the disappointment in her voice.
“Now.”
TUESDAY
—— JULY 20 ——
CHAPTER
74
Graced watched as the second KTA broadcast from Newport opened. Constance and Harry stood atop a stone bastion affording them and the viewers at home an exquisite, sweeping view of Narragansett Bay. Harry delivered the introduction.
“Newport’s Fort Adams is the largest coastal fortification in the United States. An engineering and architectural masterpiece, from 1824 until 1950 Fort Adams housed generations of American soldiers, but now it’s the centerpiece of a state park, open for the public’s enjoyment.”
Constance took her turn. “This eighty-acre park is one of the great open spaces of Newport. Every summer the world’s best jazz musicians perform at the Newport Jazz Festival, held on the broad field in front of the fort. We’ll have some of those musicians with us today. We’ll also take you on a tour of where our soldiers lived and the casements where the big guns once roared. Enter with us, if you dare, one of the listening tunnels beneath the walls of the fort. Harry and I are also going to take a little sailing lesson, and we’ll have a primer on the art of scrimshaw. All that and more, this morning, on KEY to America.”
CHAPTER
75
Last night’s combination of wine and rum had left Grace feeling groggy, and the blinding sunlight hurt her eyes. The jazz musicians were no draw for her this morning. The drummer seemed to be banging extra hard just for her benefit.
She went through the motions, appearing to be interested in each segment, dreading the tour she was expected to take with Professor Cox after the broadcast. All she wanted to do was escape to her room for a little nap and, maybe, see if she could catch Lucy for a quick visit.
If she got the job with KTA, getting up extra early would be a way of life and she could kiss late-night socializing during the week good-bye. Not that that would be a problem, since she didn’t exactly have a ripping social life. But if she got a night or early-morning shift, and B.J. continued to work during the day, their time together would be limited.
Look at yourself. Already imagining a rosy future with B.J. Take it easy, girl. One night did not a relationship make.
Grace pulled it together to focus on the piece that she had worked on with B.J., the piece that had ended up cutting their night too short. Watching one of the monitors set up on the parade field, she recognized the various scrimshaw items in Kyle Seaton’s shop. As requested, the scrimshander had brought along several pieces executed on whalebone along with some synthetic pieces for the live segment following the taped package. Grace glanced over at Kyle as he waited at Constance’s side, ready to go on. While watching the monitor, Kyle wiped the perspiration from his forehead, adjusted the collar of his open-necked oxford shirt, and brushed at the lapels of his navy blazer. Grace smiled wryly, remembering his haughtiness at the clambake, his dismissive attitude toward television and television people. This guy wants to look good on TV, she thought, just like everyone else.
Constance’s face smiled from the monitor now as the camera came back to her. “Newport native Kyle Seaton is with us today. He is one of the premier antique scrimshaw dealers in the United States. Thank you for being here.”
“My pleasure.” Kyle smiled, but Grace thought she noticed his upper lip quiver.
Constance picked up a whale’s tooth engraved with a multimasted sailing vessel and held it for the cameraman to get a close-up.
“How do we know if a piece of scrimshaw is authentic?” she asked. “I’ve seen lots of pieces of scrimshaw in the shops around town, but their price tags are so low I assume they’re reproductions. What if I came across a piece at an auction or a tag sale? How would I know if I was buying the real thing?”
“Well, Constance, the existence of fakes in today’s antiques market is all too common. Many owners of fake scrimshaw think that if they put a hot needle to their piece and it doesn’t melt, the piece must be real. Unfortunately, this test renders mixed results at best. The hot needle test can’t always distinguish between ivory, bone, or plastics made with bonemeal. Bonemeal is a main ingredient in many fakes on the market today. It gives the product an authentic look.”
“So if it’s not the hot needle, what is it?” Constance asked.
“A far more effective tool is the common emery board.” Kyle held up a small, round, cream-colored box and removed the lid. Holding the lid in one hand, he pulled a nail file from his pocket with his other hand and stroked it acro
ss the surface. “A simple emery board, Constance, not the metal kind. You should do this on an inconspicuous spot on the piece you are testing. See the tiny deposit of dust particles collecting on the emery board?”
Constance bent to look closer and nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Now smell it,” Kyle instructed.
Constance obeyed. “It smells like plastic.”
“That’s right. But if you did this test on bone, the powder would smell like just that. Burnt bone. The smell you get when you are having your teeth drilled. That smell indicates the material is organic and genuine. But the fact of the matter is, Constance— and I know this might sound self-serving—your best bet for getting authentic scrimshaw is to buy from a reputable dealer.”
Kyle let out a deep sigh when the segment was over. He was relieved that it was finished, but he was angry as well. That damned idea of Grace Callahan’s had set him up in a situation that could lead to his own incrimination.
CHAPTER
76
After another interminable night with barely any sleep, Oliver lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, unwilling to get up. The house was quiet, the silence an excruciating reminder that Madeleine was gone.
He must, somehow, get on with it. But how could he? He couldn’t even have her funeral since the medical examiner hadn’t released Madeleine’s body yet. The police didn’t bother to appear sympathetic, snarling at Oliver when he called, telling him that he would get the body when they were good and ready. Oliver presumed they were angry over looking so inept in not having found Charlotte’s body sooner. And he also presumed that he was still their prime suspect in that old case. He supposed the police were considering him as a suspect in Madeleine’s death as well.
He didn’t really care anymore what the police thought, what anyone thought. Somehow he had survived losing his wife. He couldn’t possibly survive losing his daughter, too.
The grandfather clock that had been in Oliver’s family for five generations chimed from the downstairs hallway, a reminder that time was passing. Other people were getting up, having breakfast, dressing for work or packing a cooler to take to the beach. Life was going on for them.
He lay there, for how long he wasn’t sure. Lying in the silence until he couldn’t take it anymore. Oliver picked up the remote control, pointed it at the television in the armoire, and clicked on some noise.
There was Kyle Seaton talking about authenticating scrimshaw, Oliver observed with no particular enthusiasm. He watched the man’s demonstration with a surreal feeling. Once, in that other life, Oliver had spent many hours in Kyle’s shop. Kyle had been endlessly patient and solicitous, helping plan the acquisitions for Oliver’s scrimshaw collection. But Kyle had dropped Oliver, just like everyone else had, after Charlotte disappeared.
Oliver had tried to maintain the relationship, making it a point to drop into Kyle’s shop a few months after Charlotte’s disappearance and tell him how much he treasured the paperweight Kyle had helped Charlotte select as a gift for what turned out to be their last Christmas together. But the scrimshander had been cool and aloof. Oliver had taken the none-too-subtle hint and had never gone to the store again.
He switched off the set, not wanting to think any more about that painful time. He had lived all these years snubbed and reviled, trying to keep his head up. For Madeleine’s sake, he had managed to go on. He had no other choice. At first, his little daughter needed him. Later, he depended more and more on her for emotional support. The spitting image of her mother, Madeleine was the only person he truly loved.
Though Elsa adored him and tried to fill in the gaps in his adult life, Oliver knew that it could never work out between them. He felt too guilty about the way he had treated Charlotte. He didn’t deserve another wife and anything resembling a normal married life. All these years, Oliver had used the excuse that Charlotte had not been pronounced dead and he was still a married man, but that was just an excuse. Oliver didn’t want to marry Elsa.
No, it had been just Madeleine and him. Daughter and father. And that had been enough.
He ached to have his child with him again. Oliver threw back the coverlet and pulled himself into an upright position, swiveling his legs over the side of the bed. As he stood, he felt shaky. He grabbed the bedpost to steady himself. After a few moments, the light-headedness passed and he shuffled out into the hallway and down to Madeleine’s room.
It smelled like her. The fragrance of her cologne and shampoo invaded his nostrils, striking heavily with each breath he took. Oliver sat down on Madeleine’s bed and lifted the pillow from it. Holding the down cushion against his face, he wept, for how long he couldn’t be certain.
Finally, he heard the mellow chimes again in the distance. He had to stop crying and call the police again. Before he did anything else, he had to see about laying his little girl to rest. Once he fulfilled that duty, he didn’t care what happened.
Oliver got up from the bed, walked to Madeleine’s bathroom, and splashed cold water on his face. He pulled his hand back as it instinctively reached for a towel on the rod on the wall. He couldn’t use a towel that Madeleine had used just days before. That would only start him weeping again. Instead, he opened the linen closet door and pulled a freshly laundered one from the shelf.
A yellow leather volume fell to the floor. Oliver picked it up but didn’t open the book. If it was Madeleine’s journal, it would be impossible to read now. It would be just too painful. Should he turn it over to the police, though? If Madeleine had been murdered, perhaps there would be some clue to the killer buried in the pages of her diary.
They said there was satisfaction and a closure of sorts when a killer was brought to justice. But Oliver doubted that. Nothing was going to bring his little girl back to him. What did it matter who killed Madeleine? All Oliver knew with dead-hearted certainty was his daughter was never coming home again.
CHAPTER
77
During the last quarter hour of the broadcast, the camera followed Gordon Cox as he escorted Constance and the audience beneath the walls of the fort. The professor explained as they walked.
“Over the years the designers tried to plan for every contingency, making certain that a land attack on Fort Adams would be extremely difficult. Not only would attackers have to charge up the mounded slopes protecting the fort but they’d also face cannon and musket fire from the exterior ditches. But all that wasn’t enough for the American military here. They also worried about a tunneling attack.”
“You mean the enemy actually digging under the walls?” asked Constance.
Gordon nodded. “Yes. The fort’s builders weren’t about to let that happen. So they constructed listening tunnels, like the one we’re in now. If the sounds of burrowing were ever heard, the Americans would dig their own tunnel in the direction of the noise. When they got close, they would set charges and destroy the enemy’s tunnel.”
“Fascinating,” observed Constance. “You know, Professor, I’m struck by all the tunnels in Newport we’ve learned of this week. These underground listening galleries here at Fort Adams, the heating tunnel at The Breakers you spoke of yesterday, and of course, the Underground Railroad tunnel at Shepherd’s Point, where sadly, the remains of Charlotte Wagstaff Sloane had been buried for years. Are there any other tunnels in Newport?”
“Yes, and I think we’ll be able to show you another one while you’re here, Constance.”
“Good, we’ll look forward to that. Thank you, Dr. Cox, professor of history at Salve Regina University here in Newport.” Constance turned to look directly into the camera lens. “Professor Cox will be with us again tomorrow morning when KEY to America will be coming to you from historic Bowen’s Wharf on Newport Harbor.”
Gordon waited impatiently as a stagehand disconnected him from the microphone paraphernalia. He limped from the darkened listening tunnel out into the sunshine.
“Did you hurt yourself?” Constance asked politely.
“No, the cartil
age is shot in my knee,” Gordon replied. “There’s nothing left at this point. It’s just bone rubbing against bone.”
Constance winced. “Sounds awful.”
“It is,” Gordon said. “One of these days I’m going to have to get a total knee replacement, but I’m not looking forward to it.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Zoe watched Constance and Gordon in conversation and waited for her opportunity. When the cohost shook hands with the professor and walked away, Zoe approached him.
“Professor Cox?”
“Yes?” His expression was stern.
“I’m Zoe Quigley, an intern on the show.”
“Oh, yes. What can I do for you, Zoe?”
“I’m working on a project, a documentary actually, on a female slave who escaped to freedom via the maritime Underground Railroad.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“You’re familiar with the maritime Underground Railroad then?”
Gordon was insulted. “Of course I’m familiar with it. The sea provided a major escape route for slaves seeking their freedom. What most people don’t realize is that slaves who escaped often did so on their own, without the aid of abolitionist organizations. Thousands of black sailors and dockworkers created their own network to freedom, helping other slaves to escape.”
Zoe was relieved. The professor knew exactly what she was referring to. She was encouraged that he might be agreeable to her request. “In fairness,” said Zoe, “I’ve read that some white sailors and captains did their part to help, too.”
Gordon nodded, warming to the intern a bit, enjoying her British accent. “Yes, that’s true. The sea was the primary means of transportation in the United States before the Civil War. If a slave didn’t hitch a ride on a boat, he most likely would have traveled by foot, sometimes for months. The chances of being caught and taken back to a vengeful master were much greater on land.”
Hide Yourself Away Page 15
