“I was at Shepherd’s Point the night that Charlotte Sloane was murdered,” Izzie said softly.
“Come again?”
“Padraic—he was my boyfriend then,” Izzie confessed, “Padraic and I were in the playhouse doing something we shouldn’t have been when we heard Miss Charlotte coming. We knew about the tunnel, so we sneaked out that way.”
Grace made no judgment on Izzie’s premarital behavior. But she held her breath as she asked the question, “Who was Charlotte with?”
“I don’t know,” said Izzie. “But I do know that whoever it was didn’t want this to come to light.” She held out the cellophane envelope to Grace. “I’ve stared at this for fourteen years. See if you see something. Paddy and I never did. Be careful not to touch it, though. It’s evidence, Grace. Except for me and Paddy, the last one to handle it was Charlotte’s murderer.”
Holding the photo by the edges, Grace brought it up to the lamplight and stared at it. It was similar in size to the ones she had just seen being posted on the easel at The Elms. The shot was taken from the back of the room, where people in formal attire stood watching a woman speaking from a podium. The faces of the people listening to the speaker weren’t visible, but as Grace studied it more closely, she was fairly certain that the woman at the podium was Charlotte Sloane.
“Why would a murderer be worried about this picture?” she murmured.
“I don’t know,” said Izzie. “But whoever it is blackmailed Paddy and me for all these years. You see, in our hurry to get out of the playhouse, Paddy left his wallet behind. The murderer wrote and told us that we’d be turned in to the police if we came forward with the picture and that the police would think we were the guilty ones. Just today, I opened another letter warning me to keep quiet.” Izzie handed both letters to Grace, one fresh, the other yellowed with age. “And I have something else to give you. I think this is a copy of Charlotte’s diary.”
Grace looked at all the evidence, paying special attention to the last entry in the photocopied journal.
Fool. Why am I so naïve? People lie and cheat all the time. I can’t let this go on one more minute. Tonight’s disappointment at the country club was enough.
“Why are you coming to me with this, Izzie?”
“It’s time to let the chips fall where they may. I’ve lived with this secret for all these years, and as you can see, I’m not well. Even if the police turn around and blame me, I’m not going to rot in jail for long. I don’t have much time left. But when I meet my Maker, I don’t want him asking me why I never came forward with what I knew.”
“But why not go to the police?” Grace asked, still looking at the documents.
“I was hoping that I’d be sort of killing two birds with one stone. Telling the truth but also helping you. Maybe you could use this to impress your bosses. You were kind to me; now I’m repaying the favor.”
“Honestly, Izzie, the police have to have this information.” Grace was adamant. She wasn’t prepared to live with the consequences if she sat on this evidence while the killer struck again.
“That’s up to you, my dear. Do with it as you will. I’m too tired to care anymore.”
Grace glanced at the clock. It was only nine o’clock. Detective Manzorella would still be at The Elms. She could take the photo and the papers to him and tell him Izzie’s story.
“I could take these to the police now, Izzie. I don’t think we should waste any time.”
“Whatever you think is best.”
Grace looked at Lucy sitting on the love seat. Should she bring her daughter with her?
It was as if Izzie had read her mind. “I could stay here with your daughter, if you’d like, and if she doesn’t mind.”
But Lucy had been listening to the conversation instead of the television show, and she was excited at the prospect of reallife suspense. “No way, Mom,” she insisted. “I’m going with you.”
Tonight’s disappointment at the country club was enough.
Grace reread Charlotte Sloane’s last journal entry. What happened at that fund-raiser on the night Charlotte disappeared? Rusty had told her that Charlotte had been upset by the photo. Somehow, the answer must be in the photograph.
Before she and Lucy left the hotel to head back to The Elms, they stopped in the newsroom and searched the file-tape shelves. Finding the dub of the WPRI material shot at the first endangered bird fund-raiser, Grace asked an editor to insert the tape into a playback deck.
The same video that she had hurriedly screened with B.J. Sunday night looked different to her now, just three days later. As Grace studied the footage, she actually recognized some of the faces, younger versions of the people she had met this week. There was Professor Cox with dark hair before it went silver, and Kyle Seaton before he went bald, both in tuxedos. Was that Mickey, the catering guy, waiting tables?
Grace squinted as she watched the rolling tape and smiled at her discovery. She recognized the profile of a youthful Detective Manzorella, holding a walkie-talkie to his mouth. His navy blazer suggested he wasn’t a guest. He must have been working security for the party.
“Come on, Mom. I’m bored,” Lucy interrupted her.
“Cut it out, Luce. This is important. It’ll just take a few more minutes.”
The guests swirled and gyrated on the dance floor. There were Charlotte and Oliver and Elsa Gravell.
“You don’t, by any chance, have a magnifying glass?” Grace asked the editor after she viewed the file tape.
“No, but my eyeglasses are pretty damn strong. Would they work for you?” He offered the glasses to Grace.
She held them over Izzie’s photo and squinted. After viewing the old file tape, Grace recognized two things in the old photograph.
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On the drive to The Elms, Grace tried to rein in Lucy’s enthusiasm. “This is no game, honey. We’re not playing cops and robbers here. People have really died.”
“I know, Mom, but it’s totally cool to be in the middle of something, just like on TV.”
“It’s not cool, Luce. It’s dangerous.” Grace was adamant. “When we get there, you are going to stay where I tell you to stay. No fooling around. There’s too much at stake here. I don’t want you getting involved in this.”
“Can I at least see that tunnel? We’re going to the mansion with the tunnel, right?” Lucy was determined to squeeze some fun out of this.
“If there’s time, Lucy, but don’t count on anything tonight.”
Grace searched for a spot to leave Lucy, a place where she would be not only safe but not in anyone’s way. Her daughter couldn’t be left to wander around the party; nor was it right to have Lucy accompanying her as she talked with Detective Manzorella. Grace thought about leaving her at the satellite truck but rejected that as an option. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask Scott Huffman to babysit.
“Maybe I could hang out with Daddy and Jan,” Lucy suggested.
Grace didn’t love the idea but, as she quickly thought about it, decided to go along. Frank was supposed to be responsible for their daughter tonight anyway. He wouldn’t dare let Lucy out of his sight now that Grace had the goods on him.
“All right, Luce. I see Daddy and Jan down there.” Grace pointed down the sloping lawn. “I’ll wait here and watch until you get to them.”
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Grace walked to the blue tent and searched the faces there. The revelers danced beneath the swirling white birds that were projected on the ceiling, but Detective Manzorella was not among them. Nor was he anywhere else on the grounds that she could see.
Concluding that the detective had left already, Grace decided to call him. She was about to go find B.J. to borrow his cell phone when she noticed Kyle Seaton standing by himself on the lawn. It figured the scrimshander would be here, Grace reasoned; these people were probably some of his best customers. She walked over to him and opened the conversation.
“I tried your scrimshaw test today
,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“You know, the one with the emery board that you talked about on the show yesterday morning?”
“Oh.” He sniffed dismissively. “What did you do? Try it on one of those pieces of garbage you can get at a souvenir shop?”
“Actually, no,” she said. “I tried it on a handsome piece, a paperweight that was given to me by Oliver Sloane from his personal collection.” Grace studied the scrimshander’s face in the torchlight as she dropped her bomb. “Funny thing, though; it smelled of plastic instead of bone.”
Kyle said absolutely nothing as Grace excused herself to go find that phone.
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It was interesting, from an anthropological point of view, thought Professor Cox, as he danced with his newest coed. Females of the human species didn’t seem to care if their partners were much older than they were. In fact, sometimes they went out of their way to find older men; human males were, for the most part, just the opposite. Gordon was glad for this fact as he danced, trying to ignore the pain in his knee, with Susie Gonzalez, another redhead he had met in his academic world. Judy didn’t know about Susie, and Susie didn’t know about Judy. As long as he could keep things that way, his summer was going to be a great one.
This week with KEY News, though, hadn’t turned out to be as enjoyable as he had hoped. He’d be glad to collect his fat paycheck and say good-bye when the week was over. If KEY did call him back when they went to Williamsburg in the fall, he wasn’t sure if he was going to say yes. Money was important, but so was the pursuit of his dreams.
Gordon had devoted years of his life to getting that slave tunnel opened. He would never give up on the quest.
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B.J.’s face lit up when he saw her. “You came back?”
“Yes.” Grace nodded. “I had to.” She pulled out the papers from her purse. “Let’s go somewhere where the light is better.” She grabbed his hand. “I’ve got to show you something.”
They went into the mansion through the service entrance that led to the Preservation Society’s gift shop and on to the kitchen. Grace found an unused table in the corner of the spacious, busy room and spread out the photograph, the letters, and the diary. She explained to B.J. about her visit from Izzie and the story the chambermaid had told her.
“There’s not much to see in this photo, Grace,” said B.J., as he studied it.
“Look closer,” Grace instructed. “See that man’s hand? The one that’s caressing the woman’s rear end?”
“Yeah. Big deal.”
“Well, if you had a magnifying glass, you’d see the man’s cuff link is in the shape of a sundial. That’s the same sundial design that sits in the garden at Shepherd’s Point, the same sundial design of Charlotte Sloane’s earrings. Those are the same cuff links that Oliver Sloane is wearing tonight.”
“And you know all this how?” B.J. asked.
“It’s a long story, B.J.,” Grace hurried on. “But you can go outside and see the cuff links on Oliver yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you, Grace. Of course, I believe you.” B.J. looked at the photo again. “Fine, this is Oliver’s Sloane’s cuff link I’m looking at. It doesn’t mean he killed his wife.”
“Yes,” said Grace, “but that’s his wife at the front of the room at the podium. So his hand is on another woman’s backside.”
B.J. smiled. “Okay, so Oliver fooled around. That doesn’t make him a killer, either. It’s too easy to divorce your wife—he wouldn’t have had to murder Charlotte.”
“I know who the other woman is, B.J.”
He looked at Grace expectantly. “Well?”
“See that large bow on the back of the dress in the photograph?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I just looked at the video that was taken at the fund-raiser fourteen years ago. The woman wearing that dress was a young Elsa Gravell.”
“The woman chairing this event tonight?” B.J. asked, already knowing the answer.
“Exactly,” said Grace. “And Charlotte Sloane’s best friend.”
B.J. shrugged. “Okay, so Elsa’s a louse and Oliver’s a cheat, but that still doesn’t mean either one of them killed Charlotte. And it’s certainly hard to believe that Oliver would go on to murder his own daughter—if Madeleine’s death was a murder, that is.”
“I still think I should go to the police with this,” said Grace, undeterred. “Can I borrow your cell phone, please?”
The mansion’s thick limestone walls made a phone connection difficult, so Grace went outside.
Beneath the canopy of leaves, Grace called the police station.
“Detective Manzorella is at another location.”
“But I have something important to tell him.”
“I can take a message for you, ma’am.”
Grace hesitated, but she wanted to get the information off her chest. “All right,” she agreed. “Tell him that Grace Callahan called. Tell him that I have an old photograph that I think could help him identify who killed Charlotte Sloane and the others. Here’s my beeper number.”
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When Detective Manzorella arrived at the hospital, the nurse forewarned him. “He’s quite groggy. He doesn’t remember anything after arriving at The Breakers on Sunday night,” she said. “He doesn’t remember being struck on the head, much less if he saw anyone attack him.”
“Think it’ll come back to him?” the detective asked with impatience.
“It’s hard to say. His mind has blocked it out. Sam is protecting himself.”
The inconclusive answer didn’t satisfy Al. “I want to see him for myself.”
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The lifestyle correspondent had pulled herself away from her flirting and socializing long enough to conduct the interviews they needed for the piece in the morning. B.J. had audio and video of the fund-raiser’s chairwoman, Elsa Gravell, talking about the importance of the effort to save Rhode Island’s endangered seabirds, along with shots of the caterers serving the sumptuous feast and sound bites from their boss, Mickey Hager, the proud owner of Seasons Catering.
Several party guests had been interviewed as well, but B.J. thought it a good idea to get one or two more before they headed back to the Viking to cut the piece. As luck would have it, he approached a couple named Frank and Jan Callahan and asked if they would be willing to be interviewed by Lauren Adams. They readily agreed.
“This will be on tomorrow morning?” Jan asked with enthusiasm as the interview was completed.
“Yes. I can’t promise that your sound bites will be picked, though,” said B.J.
“Oh, I hope you’ll use us.” Jan pouted.
Her husband intervened. “You know, my ex-wife works on your show,” he boasted. “Grace Callahan. Does she hold any sway?”
B.J. instantly paid more attention to this interview subject, sweeping Frank’s muscular physique with his eyes. So this was the man Grace had chosen to marry and have a child with. Physically impressive but instantly unlikable as far as B.J. was concerned. And that was Grace’s daughter standing to the side watching, thought B.J., recognizing the girl who had come into the newsroom to greet Grace the other day. Cute kid. She looked a lot like her mother, though B.J. could see the father’s genes there, too.
“Grace holds more sway than you can imagine,” B.J. answered.
As the newsman asked Frank and Jan to spell their names for the identifying supers that would be flashed beneath their pictures if their images were chosen, the girl grew bored. With the adults engrossed in their tasks, it was easy for Lucy to slip away.
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“Elsa, can we go home now? I’ve had enough.”
“But I’m the chair of the event, Oliver. I really should stay until the very end.”
“Well, I’m leaving.” He was firm. “I’ll send the driver back for you.�
�
Elsa looked at her beloved’s strained face. He had been brave to come here tonight. She mustn’t let him down.
“No, dear, don’t do that. I’ll leave with you in a few minutes. You just go ahead to the car. I’ll finish saying my good nights and be right behind you.”
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Detective Manzorella cursed the dispatcher for not getting Grace Callahan’s message to him sooner. He beeped Grace from his cell phone as he raced back to The Elms. If she had evidence that could solve the Charlotte Sloane case, he wasn’t going to wait until morning to get it.
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The party was breaking up. Grace gazed from the top of the lawn as the guests strolled up the gentle slope to the mansion and the cars waiting for them out front. B.J. was having a last exchange with the satellite operator about tomorrow morning’s broadcast. Lauren was engrossed in conversation with a handsome male. It was time to call it a night.
As she turned to find Lucy, she heard the faint beeping coming from her clutch bag. She took out the beeper and checked the number but didn’t recognize it.
Grace still had B.J.’s cell phone. She flipped it open and tapped the numbers on the keypad.
The deep voice answered. “Manzorella.”
“Oh, great, it’s you, Detective. I wasn’t sure about the number on my beeper.”
“I’m using the phone in my wife’s car,” he explained. “What’s up? The dispatcher gave me your message. Something about a photograph?”
“Yes. It was taken at the country club the night Charlotte Sloane disappeared. I’ve compared it to some old videotape of the fund-raising event, and between the two, I think it will help identify Charlotte’s murderer.”
“Where are you?” Grace heard the urgency in the detective’s voice.
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