In her mind, Elsa was already Mrs. Oliver Sloane. After some more time passed, Oliver would come around and marry her. He just didn’t know it yet.
She thought of the swans, so graceful on the water, so awkward on land. Swans, it was said, mated for life. Just like swans, Oliver and she were meant to be united forever, sailing placidly through the rest of their lives together.
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His eyes burned after a sleepless night. Rusty stood under the shower spray, hoping the rushing water would relieve the tightness in his neck. He stood there for a long time, but the tension did not lessen.
That rich girl, Joss, the one whose parents had hosted the clambake, had recognized the tattoo design he had copied from Charlotte’s earring. He was almost sure of it. He could tell Joss hadn’t bought his lame explanation last night.
Idiot. You shouldn’t have had it in the design book for anyone to see. What were you thinking?
Joss, and those other two with her, were with the news. They’d gone rushing out when they heard that the kid had been found in the tunnel but, when Joss had time to think about it, she could tell them about the design. They might come back, they might tell the police. Who knew what they might do?
Rusty’s mind raced. He had to get rid of the earring. A design on paper was one thing. Having the real McCoy, the earring that Charlotte Sloane had been wearing on the last night anyone had seen her alive, was another. It would incriminate him, big time.
He knew he should have disposed of the earring earlier, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to part with it. It was so beautiful, unlike anything he had ever seen before. The earrings he used to buy his mother in the jewelry departments at the discount stores looked like the cheap imitations they were next to the richness and textures of Charlotte’s earring. The gold more lustrous but less shiny. The diamonds exquisitely fine.
Exquisite. Just like the lady who wore it that warm summer evening. The damsel in distress, desperate to escape the country club and what had upset her inside its walls. The classy creature who’d had no idea, as she accepted his offer of a ride, that the night would be her last.
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Before she did anything else, Grace wanted to call Lucy. She needed to hear her daughter’s voice. B.J. offered his cell phone, and she stepped away from the satellite truck to make the call. Hearing her own voice message on the cell phone she’d lent her daughter, Grace called the room directly.
Frank answered on the third ring.
“Hi, it’s me. Grace.”
“Hello.”
“I’d like to talk with Lucy.”
“She’s not here. Jan just took her down to breakfast.”
Grace’s heart sank. “Is she all right, Frank?”
“Do you mean is she upset with all this craziness on your news show this morning, Grace? The answer to that question is yes.”
“I’d hoped you would have kept Lucy from watching.”
“That would have been impossible, Grace. Lucy has made it a point to watch KEY to America every morning this week. She wants to see what her mother is working on. So, no. I didn’t keep her from watching. And frankly, I don’t see why I should have. Lucy is old enough to see what her mother is choosing to get herself into.”
“Getting myself into? What am I getting myself into, Frank?” Grace made a concerted effort not to raise her voice, mindful that B.J. could overhear.
“I don’t know, Grace. You tell me. It seems to me that those interns you pal around with are dropping like flies.”
And you’d love to see me drop, too, wouldn’t you, Frank? Grace wanted to yell it into the tiny phone, but she held herself in check.
“Just tell Lucy that I called, will you please? Tell her that I’m fine and that I love her and I’ll see her later. Tell her there is nothing to worry about.”
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From The Elms’ rooftop, Newport Harbor could be seen in the distance. Mickey stood on the third-floor balustrade and looked out at the huge pale blue tent set up on the lush, green lawn. Several hundred guests would be dancing in the tent tonight, all of them expecting flowing liquor and fine food, all of them having the potential to be future clients.
He was exhausted but determined to summon the energy to ensure that the Ball Bleu was a resounding success. He had paid attention to every detail. The robin’s egg-colored table linens, the flower centerpiece arrangements of anemones, bluebonnets, and forget-me-nots, the menu that began with Blue Point oysters and ended with blueberry cobbler. He’d even assembled a gaggle of blue toy swans to float in the bronze fountain. The guests would surely be impressed.
Thank God, it’s going to be a beautiful day, thought Mickey, looking up at the crystal clear sky. A beautiful day and a gorgeous, memorable night. The night that would put Seasons Catering on Newport society’s radar screen.
He’d come a long way from the days when he’d waited tables. But even then he’d known that he would be a success. All he’d needed was a boost to get started. It was easy to justify his actions. Those fat cats at the club had so much and he’d had so little. As far as Mickey knew, the members had never even noticed that the funds were gone.
Except for Charlotte Sloane. Somehow she had figured it out. She had pulled him aside that night at the club and confronted him, upset that he had cheated and lied to her husband. Telling him that, if he put the money back and resigned, she wouldn’t tell anyone what he had done.
But Mickey couldn’t do that.
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Once the broadcast was over and the updates for the West Coast were completed, Grace checked one more time on Sam’s status before heading back to the Viking. Nothing had changed.
Driving to the hotel, Grace and B.J. didn’t talk much. Both were shell-shocked and spent. B.J. waited for the valet to take his car while Grace went directly to the newsroom. The work space was unusually quiet.
“Hey, Grace. Your father called a couple of times,” the assignment editor said when he saw her. “He wants you to call him back.”
Grace went straight to a phone.
“Dad?”
“Gracie.” She could almost hear the relief in her father’s voice. “How are you, kiddo?”
“I don’t know how I am, Dad. It’s pretty sad up here. I guess you watched the show this morning?”
“Yes, I did. Do you think you should pull out and come home, honey?”
“Would you, Dad?”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Finally, her father answered. “I don’t know, Gracie. I don’t have all the facts. I don’t know what I’d do.”
“I’d feel like a quitter if I left, Dad. There are only a few more days up here.”
“Well, if you decide to stick it out, Gracie, please, be careful. A lot can happen in a few days.”
A lot can happen in a few seconds, thought Grace as images of Madeleine, Sam, and Zoe flashed through her mind.
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Camera crews from all the local outlets were at the news conference, ready to record their images and rush them back to their stations for the noon broadcasts. The assistant Rhode Island medical examiner strode to the podium and stood in front of the bank of microphones to announce the results of the autopsy. The notoriety this case was garnering had forced him to fasttrack the process.
“Madeleine Sloane died from a fall resulting in a broken neck. Because of Ms. Sloane’s elevated blood alcohol level and because there were no conclusive signs of a struggle, at this time we find her death to be a tragic accident.”
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The phone conversation with her own dad reminded Grace that she wanted to see Madeleine Sloane’s father. No matter what was going on, she didn’t want to neglect paying that condolence call. If something happened to her, Grace knew that her own father would greatly appreciate having someone tell him the kind things his daugh
ter had said about him. Oliver Sloane would most likely feel the same way.
But before visiting Mr. Sloane, she had to call Detective Manzorella and tell him about the car that had almost run Zoe down Sunday night near The Breakers. Was the car with the S-E-A tag the same car that had killed Zoe this morning?
Grace went up to her room to make the call.
“Detective Manzorella is not in at the moment. Would you care to leave a message for him?”
“Please, just have him call me when he gets back. I don’t have a cell phone, but he can beep me and I’ll call him right back.” Grace found her beeper in her stuffed tote bag, checked the still unmemorized number, and recited it back to the dispatcher.
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Joss watched the WPRI noon news on the television set in her hotel room, skeptical of the medical examiner’s findings. It was hard to believe that Madeleine Sloane’s death had been an accident. Madeleine’s fall down the Forty Steps, followed by the attack on Sam, who said he’d witnessed Madeleine’s attack, and now Zoe’s death—it all added up to more than coincidence.
Her parents might be right for once, Joss thought as she packed her bags. She didn’t need this internship. It wasn’t worth her life. If she decided she wanted to make a career for herself in broadcast journalism, she still could. It didn’t have to be with KEY News. No other network news division need ever know that she had dropped out of her internship with KEY. And who cared if she lost the chance for the three measly academic credits? She’d easily pick up another course next semester or the one after that.
Tossing the copy of Charlotte Sloane’s journal into the wastepaper basket next to the desk, Joss gave up her quest.
Let Grace Callahan win the competition. Let Grace be the only one left.
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It wasn’t as grand as many of the mansions she had seen this week, but Oliver Sloane’s home was impressive just the same, thought Grace as she walked up the gravel driveway. The sprawling white clapboard colonial with dark green shutters was set well back from the road. Grace climbed the steps to the front door and pushed the doorbell that was affixed beneath a small brass plaque engraved with a single word, SEAVIEW.
Oliver Sloane himself answered. His face looked strained and tired.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, Mr. Sloane. My name is Grace Callahan, and I wanted to come and speak with you about Madeleine.”
Oliver’s head recoiled slightly.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sloane. I didn’t come here to upset you. But I was with your daughter the night she died. We spoke at some length, and I thought that it might be of some comfort to you to know what she said.”
Oliver studied Grace as if trying to make up his mind. Then he pulled the door wide open.
“Won’t you come in? A friend and I were just having some iced tea in my study.”
Grace followed him, unprepared to have such a personal conversation with another person present. But there was no going back now.
The study was a beautiful, comfortable room lined with mahogany bookshelves stacked with leather-bound volumes. Along the front of the shelves, pieces of scrimshaw were interspersed. Based on the price tags she’d seen at Kyle Seaton’s shop, Grace knew she was looking at a very valuable collection.
A middle-aged woman sat in a wing chair beside the fireplace. Grace searched her memory bank, knowing that the woman who was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief looked familiar but not being able to quite place her.
“Elsa Gravell, this is Grace Callahan.”
Elsa did not rise from her chair, waiting, instead, for Grace to come to her. As Grace extended her hand, Elsa shook it limply. “Yes, Grace. I think we’ve met before. At the clambake. Madeleine introduced us.”
It came back to Grace now. “Oh yes,” she said, “you’re Madeleine’s godmother.”
“That’s right,” Elsa said, her expression downcast. Grace had the distinct feeling that she was interrupting something, that Elsa would have preferred to be alone with Oliver. But Grace could understand that. By now, they had undoubtedly heard the autopsy findings.
“Won’t you sit down, Grace?” Oliver indicated the matching wing chair on the other side of the unlit fireplace as he took a seat behind his desk.
“I’ll only stay a few minutes,” said Grace. “I don’t want to bother you at a time like this. But I wanted to let you know, Mr. Sloane, that Madeleine spoke very lovingly of you that last night.”
“She did? What did she say?” Grace read the hope in Oliver’s eyes.
“She said you had done the best you could, under very hard circumstances, to raise her with great love and tenderness. Madeleine said she loved you very much, especially for what you had endured.”
Oliver seemed to hang on every word. “I’m afraid it was Madeleine who had to endure too much, Grace. Losing her mother as a little girl, being left alone with a father who had been ostracized by society. A father who everyone believed had killed her mother.” Oliver’s voice cracked, and he looked down at the scrimshaw paperweight on his desk.
“Madeleine didn’t believe you killed her mother, Mr. Sloane. I know she didn’t.”
Oliver looked up. “She told you that?”
“Yes. And she also told me of a dream she had been having about the night that her mother disappeared. She felt that she might be coming close to recalling something that would lead to your wife’s murderer.”
“Well, we’ll never know now, will we, Grace? Madeleine isn’t going to figure anything out now.”
“I’m so very sorry, Mr. Sloane. I truly am.” Grace rose. “I’ll be going now,” she said. “I don’t want to take any more of your time.”
Oliver Sloane stood up, visibly moved. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that you took the time to come over. With the exception of Elsa here, you are the only one who has bothered to pay their respects.”
He looked down at his desk and picked up the scrimshaw paperweight. He extended it toward Grace. “I would like you to have this.”
Grace shook her head. “Oh, no, Mr. Sloane. I couldn’t take that.”
“Please, take it,” he insisted. “As a memory of Madeleine and a token of my appreciation for your kindness. It will make me feel better if you accept it, Grace.”
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An unscheduled checkout.
“Damn it,” Izzie swore softly. She was in the habit of husbanding her strength, doling it out room by room, stretching it just long enough to finish her assignments. Even one extra room to clean made her despair.
Opening the door to 226 and walking inside, Izzie had all she could do not to weep. The occupant had been a real slob. Fast food and candy wrappers were strewn over the carpeting. The sheets were stained with lip gloss and mascara. In the bathroom, wet towels lay in heaps on the floor. The sink was crusted with globs of toothpaste, and bottles of shampoo and conditioner had been tossed carelessly in the tub, their contents oozing across the porcelain. Long, black hairs clogged the drain.
Taking a deep breath, Izzie began. Just take it one step at a time, she told herself. One step at a time. She stripped the linens from the bed and scooped up the towels from the bathroom floor. She bent to gather the discarded food wrappers from the rug, feeling light-headed as she rose again. Izzie stumbled over to the chair at the desk and sat down to wait for the dizziness to pass.
When she opened her eyes, she spotted the papers in the wastebasket. Funny that the pig who had stayed in this room had bothered to throw anything in the trash. Izzie reached for the basket and was about to dump the contents when she noticed the notation at the top of the cover page. “Original returned to Agatha Wagstaff, sister.”
Izzie pulled the photocopied papers from the trash can and, folding them up, stashed them in the pocket of her uniform.
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She felt guilty going shopping when there was so much pain around her, bu
t Grace had to take advantage of this bit of free time. B.J. had asked her if she wanted to come with him to shoot at the fund-raiser at The Elms, and she had nothing appropriate to wear. She didn’t have to be dressed as formally as the guests, but nothing she had brought with her would do, either. On the way back to the hotel, she stopped at Talbots, encouraged by the sale signs in the window. A half hour later, she emerged with a sleeveless navy blue linen sheath that had been marked down, a black clutch bag, a pair of black patent leather high-heeled sandals, and the khaki slacks she’d been hoping to buy.
Back at the Viking, she avoided the newsroom and went directly to her room with her packages. She placed the scrimshaw paperweight on the night table next to the telephone. As she was hanging her new dress in the closet, her beeper went off. Going to the phone, Grace punched the numbers she read from the tiny beeper screen.
“Detective Manzorella, please. Grace Callahan calling.”
Grace sat on the edge of the bed and waited, staring down at the henna tattoo on her foot. In all the commotion of rushing out of the tattoo parlor last night, she had forgotten, until now, the strange coincidence of the design in Rusty’s book being a duplicate of the sundial in the garden at Shepherd’s Point. He’d told Joss that the idea had just come to him, but Grace doubted that. How had Rusty known about the sundial?
As Grace studied her tattoo, it occurred to her. Agatha had told her that Charlotte had been wearing tiny versions of the sundial as earrings on the night she disappeared. Perhaps Rusty had never seen the sundial. Maybe he had seen Charlotte’s earrings instead. But either scenario seemed unlikely. Rusty didn’t look the type to be spending time at Shepherd’s Point, or with Charlotte Sloane for that matter.
Hide Yourself Away Page 19
