She gave her hair one last primp. “How do I look?” she asked, coming back into the bedroom.
B.J. looked at her with appreciation. “Dynamite. You look great, Grace.”
Too bad Lauren Adams was going with them in the car.
Grace knew that they would be working tonight, but it felt like she and B.J. were going out on a date. Fake scrimshaw and sundial earrings were forgotten for a while as she slipped on her new sandals and gathered up her clutch bag. “Shall we go?”
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Izzie lit the candle next to the tiny holy statue perched on the tub’s edge and eased herself into the warm water.
“Ahhhh,” she moaned in relief. She was going to have to give her notice at the Viking. She’d clean those rooms until the end of the week and then no more.
Izzie stared at the statue of the young maiden dressed in blue and pink robes. Her expression was so serene, though Izzie knew she had endured the tortures of the damned. Young, beautiful, and rich, she had lived a life consecrated to God and had been beaten, imprisoned, and tortured by her enemies, her breasts crushed and cut off before she was finally dragged on burning coals until she died.
“Saint Agatha,” Izzie prayed, “please help me.” The patron saint of nurses, firefighters, and women suffering from breast cancer silently stared back at the chambermaid. Izzie knew the Christian faith taught that the pain and affliction of this world would be surpassed by the spiritual bliss of the next. She was counting on that and was eager to be with her Padraic again. It shouldn’t be too long now, Paddy, my love.
Dipping a washcloth in the water, Izzie gently rubbed it across her scarred chest, all the while staring at the statue. How strange it was that her adult life had started out with one Agatha and was ending with another. She had learned the skills of making a bed the way Miss Agatha liked it and polishing porcelain tubs and basins until they shone under Finola’s strict tutelage at Shepherd’s Point. She might have worked there still had she and Paddy not been in the playhouse the night Miss Charlotte was murdered. After that terrifying time in the old slave tunnel, crouched beside Miss Charlotte’s lifeless body, and the threatening letter that had come afterward, Izzie had wanted to escape from Shepherd’s Point and the horrific memories.
She struggled to lift herself from the tub. She dried herself off, patting at the pink V-shaped scars on her chest, and took her thin cotton nightgown from the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Then she padded to the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil, and steeled herself to tackle the pile of mail that had been accumulating, unexamined, all week.
Bill. Bill. Junk mail. Bill. The next envelope caused Izzie to take a deep, troubled breath. She recognized the exaggerated handwriting that she had studied hundreds of times before. Another letter from the same person who had threatened Paddy so effectively all those years ago, threatening to place him at Charlotte Sloane’s murder scene. But this time, the letter was addressed to her.
The kettle whistled, making her jump. Izzie turned off the stove but didn’t bother to pour the water over the tea bag. She went back to the table, her hands quivering as she opened the letter.
I WARNED YOUR HUSBAND FOURTEEN YEARS AGO AND I’M WARNING YOU NOW. DON’T THINK BECAUSE THE BONES IN THE SLAVE TUNNEL WERE FOUND THAT THIS IS AN OPPORTUNITY TO REVEAL WHAT YOU KNOW OR WHAT YOU THINK YOU KNOW.
I STILL HAVE THE WALLET LEFT BEHIND IN THE PLAYHOUSE THE NIGHT CHARLOTTE SLOANE DIED. IF YOU GO TO THE POLICE WITH THE PHOTO, I’LL PRODUCE THE WALLET. WHO DO YOU THINK THE POLICE WILL BELIEVE? YOU OR ME?
As Izzie read the letter over again, the fear she felt began to turn to anger. She had done nothing wrong except to love Paddy in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet they had worried themselves sick over the years that they would be accused of murdering Charlotte should her body, and Padraic’s wallet, ever turn up. Izzie had wept many nights, wanting to do the right thing and tell the police what had happened that night. But as she and Paddy had studied the photograph that had come spiraling down from the playhouse to rest on Charlotte Sloane’s body, they agreed over and over again that there was nothing in it that could really incriminate anybody. They were never quite sure what the murderer was so worried about, but they were certain that they would look guilty if the story of Padraic’s wallet being found in the playhouse were ever told.
Izzie stood and opened the cupboard door, pulled out the cookbooks at the front, and felt for the cellophane envelope. Her hands still shook, but now with rage, as she carefully slid out the contents. Enough was enough.
She had little time left in this world, but she was going to go to the next one with a guiltless conscience. And if, in the process, she helped another hardworking young woman who could use a boost, so much the better. She had this old photograph and Miss Charlotte’s photocopied diary she had pulled from the wastebasket today. She was going to give them both to that kind Grace Callahan and maybe help her with that career of hers.
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The chauffeured town car waited in the driveway as Oliver, dressed in a dinner jacket, got out and knocked on Elsa’s door. A golden cuff link glistened against his bright white shirt cuff as he impatiently lifted the seagull door knocker. The last time he’d worn the sundial cuff links was at the country club party the night Charlotte disappeared. For all these years, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to use the last anniversary gift from his missing wife. But now, knowing Charlotte was truly gone, it seemed appropriate to wear the links in her memory.
Elsa opened the door, resplendent in a form-fitting, marine blue evening gown, a diamond brooch in the shape of a seabird on her breast. Her hair was piled high on her head, just as she and Charlotte had both been coiffed the night of the first fundraiser. Though never beautiful, Elsa had held up amazingly well, thought Oliver. She didn’t look terribly different in her forties than she had in her twenties.
“You look lovely, Elsa.”
“Thank you, Oliver, dear. Come in and we’ll have a drink.”
Oliver didn’t move from the entryway. “I don’t think I should. I’ve already had a cocktail, and the last thing I want to do is appear inebriated at the party. I’ve no doubt people will be watching me more closely than ever.”
“All right, dear,” Elsa agreed, not wanting to upset him in any way. “I’ll get my purse.”
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Grace watched as the photographer had each arriving couple pose for a picture. Already, the photographer’s assistant was arranging developed photos on a large easel. Apparently, in addition to forking over substantial bucks to attend the Ball Bleu, the guests could shell out a few more for their souvenirs.
The partygoers chatted amiably, almost everyone apparently knowing one another. But as the new couple arrived, the small talk ceased.
Grace felt sorry for Oliver Sloane as she watched him hold his head high and put his arm around Elsa Gravell, his gold cuff link sparkling in the photographer’s flash. Grace inched close enough to see that it had the same design as the Shepherd’s Point sundial and Charlotte’s earrings.
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KEY News is in my way, thought Mickey, as he glared at the satellite truck parked near the canopy of leaves at the service entrance to the mansion. The damned truck was making the path for the waiters going from the kitchen with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres to the guests on the lawn harder than it had to be.
He cursed as he watched one uniformed waiter bump into another. “That’s it.” He spat. “They have to move that truck.”
Mickey stalked over to the truck and knocked persistently on the cab door, getting the attention of the driver who snoozed inside. “You have to move this thing right away.”
Scott Huffman looked at the caterer without concern. “I’m not moving this rig anywhere, buddy, unless one of my bosses tells me to.”
Mickey scanned the beautiful grounds, searching among the carefully clipped ginkgo, maple, an
d linden trees. Between a massed rhododendron and an enormous weeping birch, he spotted the guy with a video camera. Mickey made a beeline to him and got right to the point. “You guys have to move. Your truck’s interfering with my waiters.”
B.J. looked in the direction Mickey indicated. “All right, pal. Calm down. I’ll see what we can do.”
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Her high heels kept sinking into the lawn, the mosquitoes were starting to bite, and now she was left alone while B.J. worked out the satellite truck problem. So far, the evening wasn’t turning out to be the romantic interlude Grace had found herself hoping for. From a professional stance, it wasn’t much better. Lauren seemed more interested in flirting and making connections with Newport’s society men than with shooting interviews for tomorrow morning’s package.
Grace decided to tour the grounds on her own. Trying to avoid dirtying her patent leather heels further, she put her weight on the balls of her feet as she walked to the western edge of the property. Two small marble teahouses with copper roofs marked the entrance to a formal sunken garden with hundreds of pink and white begonias. Grace turned to look back up at the mansion and take in the view of all the partygoers against that impressive backdrop when she heard a giggle.
At the side of the teahouse, away from the sight of the guests but plainly visible to Grace, was her ex-husband. Frank was kissing a dark-haired woman. A brunette, not a blonde.
It wasn’t Jan.
Grace paused, not sure how to proceed. Finally, she cleared her throat, loud enough to make the lip-locked pair look her way. Grace wished she had a camera to capture the expression on her former husband’s face.
“Oh my God! Grace.”
She couldn’t help but smirk. “Nice evening, isn’t it, Frank?”
Frank turned to his companion. “Will you excuse me? I’ll meet up with you a little later.”
The brunette departed, walking across the lawn toward the tent and not looking particularly upset. She might be married, too, thought Grace. This is probably a big game to her.
Grace looked at her former husband and shook her head.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. And I thought you had such a fabulous thing going with Jan.”
“Cut it out, Grace. It’s none of your business.”
“Oh? Isn’t it? You want our daughter to come live with you in that perfect little home of yours and it’s none of my business? Let’s see.” Grace crooked her finger to her chin. “I wonder how a judge will feel about placing a child in a home where the father is a philanderer. In fact, I wonder what Jan would think of all this. Maybe I can go tell her now. After she finds this out, you may not have any home at all.”
Frank touched at the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief and held it out to inspect the lipstick he’d wiped away. She had him and he knew it. “All right, Grace. You win.”
“You’ll drop the custody suit?”
“Yes, as long as you don’t tell Jan.”
“And you’ll get caught up with the child support payments and start paying me on time from now on?”
He looked at her with contempt. “What choice do I have?”
“None, really. And by the way, what are you doing here anyway?”
“Jan had a bee in her bonnet about attending a Newport social event.”
Grace searched the crowd. “I don’t see her. Where is she?”
“I don’t know. I left her talking to some society matrons.”
“And where’s Lucy, Frank?”
“She’s back at the hotel.”
“By herself?” Grace was angry now.
“She’s old enough to be left alone, Grace. After all, we let her travel up to see me on the train all alone.”
“That was different, Frank. That was only for one hour, in broad daylight—not for an entire evening in a hotel room in a city reeling from a wave of murders.”
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Grace’s stomach twisted in knots as she strode away from the teahouse and Frank. It was debatable that Lucy was old enough to be left alone in a hotel room, but as far as Grace was concerned, there was no question that leaving her daughter by herself under the current circumstances was unthinkable. She’d never forgive herself if something were to happen to Lucy.
Grace noticed Detective Manzorella, snappily dressed in a dark suit with a striped tie and matching pocket square, positioned near the northeast corner of the massive blue tent, his dark eyes scanning the crowd, his expression solemn. She didn’t go over to him. She was in a hurry.
She found B.J. standing in the driveway, watching the satellite truck be repositioned.
“B.J., I’m sorry, but I have to go back to the hotel,” she said.
He looked at her with incomprehension. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“No. It’s Lucy. My husband—I mean my former husband— left her alone. I don’t feel good about it, B.J.,” she apologized. “I have to go and make sure she’s all right.”
“Sure, I understand,” said B.J., though his face registered disappointment. He pulled the keys from his pocket. “Take the car. Lauren and I will find a way home. Don’t worry about it, Grace. We’ll be fine here.”
“I know you will be.” That was true enough. B.J. and Lauren could get done what they needed to without her. Grace pushed aside her own disappointment over not spending the evening with B.J., over not being part of covering the extravagant event. Maybe there was a lesson for her here. She was always going to put her child before her career. Yet, these were extraordinary conditions, Grace reasoned. If she knew Lucy was safe and secure, she would feel comfortable leaving her daughter to go to work. It was just that, right now, she couldn’t be sure about Lucy’s safety.
For Grace, there was no question what she had to do.
“Lucy, it’s me. Open up.” Grace rapped on the hotel room door. She could hear the Law & Order theme blaring from the television set inside.
She knocked again, louder this time. “Lucy, it’s Mom. Open the door, honey.”
Where was she? Grace felt her pulse quicken. Don’t panic, she told herself. Maybe Lucy had fallen asleep, maybe she was taking a shower.
Grace walked down the hall and grabbed the house phone from the wall near the elevator, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the receiver. After a dozen rings, Lucy still hadn’t picked up. Grace’s adrenaline pumped. She could wring Frank’s neck for leaving their child alone. Her mind began running through terrifying scenarios.
Just as Grace was trying to figure out what to do next, the elevator doors opened. Lucy strolled out, a package of Twizzlers in her hand.
“Hi, Mom. What are you doing here?”
“Oh God, Lucy.” Grace exhaled, wrapping her arms around her daughter. “I was so worried.”
Lucy looked at Grace, puzzled. “I just went downstairs to get some candy. No big deal.”
The last thing Grace wanted to do was raise a worried, insecure child. There was no use in berating Lucy. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
“What are you doing here?” Lucy asked again.
Grace didn’t want to lie to her daughter either. “A lot’s been going on around here, Luce. I didn’t think you should be left by yourself.”
“Dad said it was all right.” Lucy bit the end off a red licorice stick.
“Well, I don’t.” Grace spoke firmly. “Come on. Let’s go to my room so I can get out of these new shoes. They’re killing me.”
“You look great, Mom,” observed Lucy as they waited for the elevator doors to open again.
“Thanks, honey.”
“How did you know I was by myself anyway?”
“Dad told me.”
“Oh. You saw him at that party him and Jan went to?”
“He and Jan,” Grace corrected her daughter. “Yes. I saw him there.”
Man, did I see him there, Grace thought, smiling to herself and appreciating for the first time that Lucy would be staying with her—full time, forever
.
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Detective Manzorella continued studying the faces of the guests and listening to snippets of conversations. But the call that came through on his cell phone excited him far more than anything the Ball Bleu had offered.
Sam Watkins had regained consciousness.
The detective hurried to his car and headed to Newport Hospital.
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The other chambermaids had long since gone, their morning and afternoon shifts completed. Izzie came in through the rear entrance, hoping she wouldn’t see any of the skeletal evening maintenance staff. She didn’t want to get into a conversation with anyone.
With her envelope tucked inside her handbag, she took the elevator to the second floor and walked down the hallway to Grace Callahan’s room. If she wasn’t there, Izzie planned to slide the envelope under the door and leave her phone number for Grace to call her. But Grace answered right away.
“Yes?” Grace almost didn’t recognize the woman dressed not in a maid’s uniform but in a cotton shirt and slacks. But the short, feathery hair was the reminder.
“Hello. I’m Izzie O’Malley.” Izzie’s voice trailed upward at the end of the statement, making it sound more like a question.
“Of course, Izzie. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Izzie lied.
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Grace, looking at her expectantly. “Can I help you with something?”
“Actually, I was hoping we could help each other,” Izzie answered.
Lucy sat on the love seat, munching on her Twizzlers, her eyes trained on the television set in the Queen Anne-style armoire as Grace stood over Izzie. The chambermaid sat at the desk and spread out the contents of her purse.
Hide Yourself Away Page 21
