‘No. We might disturb her. Let her sleep. Shep is very tired,’ said Rob.
Shelby wasn’t sure why she didn’t go to the door and call out to them. It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to see them or hear about the movie. But when she thought about it, she had to admit that she didn’t want to tear herself away from the website. She wanted to continue poring over every story recounted there. At the same time, she was a little bit reluctant for them to know what she was doing. So she stayed silent.
Their voices grew fainter as Jeremy, distracted from thoughts of his grandmother, enthusiastically recalled his favorite parts of the movie while Rob murmured in response.
Once she could no longer hear them, Shelby resumed her reading. The fascination she felt for these stories was akin to rubbernecking at the sight of an accident. In this case, Shelby felt as if she were both rubbernecker and victim.
If the people who told their stories on the site were planning a lawsuit, it was not evident from the testimonies they gave. Instead, their stories were filled with frustration, grief, and disbelief.
There were a couple of cases where, Shelby thought, people just did not want to face facts about the missing person. There were stories of people who went on cruises to try to alleviate depression, and ended up leaving all their belongings in their cabin in a neat pile topped with a note of farewell. There were other cases that seemed to cry out for a criminal investigation. One victim was a middle-aged woman who did not approve of her son’s wealthy, dissolute admirer. She accepted an invitation to go on the cruise with them, at the expense of said admirer, and disappeared from the boat, never to be seen again.
One of the strangest cases was, as it turned out, the disappearance of Elise Pryor. Rejecting the official version of events, Janice Pryor and her husband had updated the account repeatedly as they sought out, and found, answers. There was, indeed, a convicted sex offender working as a steward on Elise’s ship. His history linked him to previous assaults on teenage girls. After Janice’s husband brought this fact to the attention of the cruise line, the steward was eventually dismissed, and his cabin was searched. Wedged between his bunk and the wall they found a bikini swimsuit top that had belonged to Elise Pryor. The police investigated, but finally insisted that this was not enough evidence to bring charges against the man. The steward was fired from his job for lying on his application, and he was put off the ship in Miami. After that, he disappeared.
Reading this account, Shelby felt a mounting fury on the Pryors’ behalf. She also felt guilty for having dismissed the bereaved mother out of hand. No one could understand how the Pryors felt the way that Shelby did. She had suffered the same loss, and been told the same lie. Yes, Shelby thought. The same lie. Now that she thought back on those terrible days in St Thomas, it did seem as if their first concern was to make this problem of Chloe’s disappearance go away. How better to make that happen than to blame it on the victim? To say that she tripped and fell in a drunken stupor. It was possible that Chloe had met with foul play. A cruise line that had hired one sexual predator might have hired others.
Shelby felt adrenalin coursing through her veins. Stunned by the revelation of Chloe’s drinking, she had accepted what the officials told her. Now, she felt ashamed for having agreed, on so little information, to blame her own daughter for her own demise. No, she thought. I need to find out if there was something else going on. But how, she wondered? There was no use in trying to explain this all to the Philadelphia police. The police in St Thomas and the FBI were satisfied with the existing explanation. She couldn’t investigate it herself – she wouldn’t know where to begin. She needed someone else – someone who would know how to proceed.
The thought of trying to hire a private detective filled her with a sense of futility. All she knew about private eyes was what she had seen on television, or read about in mystery novels. In fiction they were always rumpled guys who smoked and had problems with women and were barely able to stay sober long enough to solve the crime. It was almost laughable to imagine paying someone like that to help. In real life she imagined they were much less colorful. But she had no personal experience to go on. What was she supposed to do, pick a name out of the phone book?
And then, feeling a little thrill of hope, another thought occurred to her. She did know a detective. She knew one very well. Perry Wilcox, the head of security for the Markson stores, was a soft-spoken man who had been, for fifteen years, a homicide detective for the city of Philadelphia. But his daughter became ill with severe diabetes and Perry was often needed at home. He was no longer able to put in late and irregular hours on the job. He signed up for a course on computer crimes and surveillance techniques and found that he was interested in these burgeoning areas of security. He decided to opt out of police work and take a job in the private sector. He was hired by Albert Markson and had worked in the Markson stores for eight years, making sure that the security system was state of the art.
Perry can tell me what to do, Shelby thought. If he can’t do it for me, he can tell me about someone who could. Someone I could trust. She quickly scanned her own list of contacts and found Perry’s email address. It took her a while to compose what she wanted to say in her message. No more than a few moments after she pressed ‘Send’, she had a reply and an appointment to meet Perry at his office on Monday morning. ‘I’m not sure if I can help you,’ he wrote, and Shelby could picture his grave, dignified expression, ‘but I will certainly try.’ It was enough for now, she thought, as she returned to the Overboard website, and began to surf its grim, hopeless pages. It was a start.
The next morning, Shelby was having coffee and reading the Philadelphia Inquirer at the dining room table when Rob and Jeremy returned home from church. Jeremy ran to her and buried his face against her side.
Shelby looked up at Rob, alarmed.
‘Lot of questions about his mom. People don’t mean to be rude,’ he said.
Shelby rubbed Jeremy’s back and murmured soothingly. ‘How was the movie last night?’ she asked, hoping to distract him.
Jeremy mumbled something unintelligible, his face buried in Shelby’s sweatshirt.
Rob poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘The kids enjoyed it. Molly was wishing she could come back home with us and stay over but I dropped them off at Sara’s house after the movie.’
Shelby heard the implication in his words; with her continued presence here she was getting in the way. Jeremy had pushed off from her and now interrupted her thoughts in loud voice. ‘We saw a kitten,’ he announced.
‘Really?’ Shelby asked. ‘Where?’
Jeremy nodded. ‘He ran between the houses. Out to the back.’
‘Maybe he’s out in the garden,’ Shelby says. ‘Why don’t you have a look?’
‘I’m gonna go have a look, Dad,’ Jeremy said to Rob.
‘OK. But stay in the garden.’
Jeremy headed to the back door, reached up and opened it. Shelby watched him head out into their tiny backyard. With Jeremy outside, it seemed an opportunity to mention her plans. ‘I’m going home to my apartment tonight. I have to go into work tomorrow,’ she said casually.
‘Really?’ he said, making no effort to conceal the fact that he welcomed this news. ‘Great.’
‘It’s just for tomorrow,’ said Shelby, carefully folding the paper. ‘Then I’m coming back. Can you find someone to watch Jeremy after school tomorrow?’
His face fell visibly, but he quickly recovered. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask his teacher, Darcie. She offered to help any way she could.’
‘Good,’ said Shelby.
She studied him for a moment. She had no intention of telling him about her plans to have Perry Wilcox investigate Chloe’s disappearance. She didn’t want to think too hard about why she was avoiding that conversation. But she did feel that she had to mention the uneasiness between them. ‘Look, I know I’m probably wearing out my welcome here,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think Jeremy is quite ready for me to leave ye
t.’
Rob shrugged. ‘Whatever you think.’ He put down his coffee mug and picked up the paper.
Shelby stood up. ‘I think I’ll stay a while longer. I’d better go out and explain to him about tomorrow.’
Rob did not lower his paper. ‘If you say so,’ he said.
TWELVE
Shelby had not been home to her condo since she went to Chloe’s house to fill in while they were on the cruise. She was blindsided by the desolation she felt when she walked in. Everything was in order. Her friend Jen, as promised, had collected her mail and watered her plants. The apartment, with its river view twinkling in the night, was neat and elegant as ever. But as she entered the front hall, she wondered automatically if there would be a message on her machine from Chloe. And it was then that it hit her – there would be no message. Not now. Not ever.
As she walked around, turning on the lights, she thought that no one but the doorman knew that she had returned, or cared. She felt ashamed of her own loneliness, as if she had failed to make herself a meaningful life. She went to her computer and checked her mail. There was a message from Chief Giroux and her heart leapt with hope until she read his words. ‘There is no point in continuing the search. All hope is gone.’ Shelby read it several times, tears running down her face, before she replied. Then, she poured herself a glass of wine, sat on her sleek gray sofa and looked out at the swags of lights on the Ben Franklin Bridge.
In the darkness, beneath the Ben Franklin, the Delaware River flowed to the Bay. And the Bay, she knew, emptied, at the tip of New Jersey, into the Atlantic. And the Atlantic, far away to the south, merged with the Caribbean. And in the Caribbean, on its white sand floor, Chloe. The shell that was Chloe’s living body, now drowned, was somewhere snagged on a reef or entangled in the sea grass. All the water is connected, she thought. Merged and connected. She stared at the sparkling onyx surface of the river, and felt a glacial chill trickling through her veins.
She slept badly and the next morning Shelby was up early and dressed long before it was time for her to leave. She arrived at the Markson’s Store about half an hour before her appointment with Perry, rode the elevator to the fifth floor and entered her old office. Her assistant, Rosellen, a brown-skinned Wharton grad with shoulder-length cornrows in her hair, was hunched over her computer entering figures into a program. She looked up from her work and, to Shelby’s relief, a look of genuine pleasure and surprise crossed the girl’s face as she recognized her boss.
‘Shelby,’ she cried. ‘I didn’t know you were coming in.’ Rosellen got up from her desk, came around and gave her boss an unrestrained hug. ‘I am so sorry about Chloe,’ she said.
Shelby thanked her.
‘You should have let me know you were coming in,’ Rosellen chided her. ‘I’ve got a list a mile long of people who want to see you.’
Shelby had not realized, until that moment, how unready she was to get back to work. She glanced into her office and saw piles of folders and photos on her desk and racks of clothing, tags dangling from the sleeves, hanging against the wall. Normally, the sight of those unfinished tasks filled her with energy and determination. Today, she just wanted to avert her eyes. ‘As far as those people are concerned, I’m not here,’ said Shelby. ‘I’m only in because I have an appointment with Perry Wilcox.’
Rosellen frowned. ‘The security guy?’
Shelby nodded and decided not to explain. ‘How’s it going around here? Managing all right without me?’
‘It’s a madhouse,’ Rosellen admitted, sitting down beside Shelby on the low sofa that took up one wall of the office. The coffee table in front of it was piled high with fashion magazines. ‘Elliott Markson has been . . . hands on, shall we say.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shelby.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Rosellen said stoutly. ‘I can handle him. You don’t need to be worrying about anything around here. Not until you’re ready.’
Shelby stood up. ‘Thanks. I’d better get over to Perry’s office.’ She waved and went out into the hallway and down the corridor to the security office. Perry Wilcox was waiting for her, looking calm and well-groomed as usual. Perry was not yet sixty, but he had an avuncular air, and the bearing of an older man. His thinning hair was neatly combed back, and he wore silver-rimmed glasses. Perry offered her a chair in the inner office and closed the door.
‘I have not been idle,’ Perry said, ‘since I received your email, Shelby. I don’t personally have a lot of experience with this area of investigation, but I made some phone calls and talked to several colleagues who were helpful.’
‘What did they suggest?’ she asked.
Perry sat down behind his desk and folded his hands on his immaculate blotter. ‘First of all, I want to do a background check on all the staff of the ship.’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ said Shelby.
‘And I’ll request copies of the security tapes.’
‘I saw them,’ Shelby said. ‘The police showed them to me in St Thomas.’
‘With all due respect, you were in no condition to know what to look for. I’m also going to ask the cruise line for a copy of Chloe’s charge card and that of her husband. These will show what they bought, where they went on board, and when they came and went from their room.’
‘OK,’ said Shelby.
‘One investigator whom I spoke to suggested that you may want to post a reward for information.’
‘But the police talked to everyone on the ship. I mean, if anyone had had information, wouldn’t they have said so?’
‘Shelby, these ships can have upwards of 2500 passengers,’ Perry said patiently. ‘It is not possible that they talked to everyone on the ship. And nothing loosens the tongue like the opportunity for a little financial gain.’
Shelby nodded grimly. ‘I’m sure that’s true. Where do we post it?’
‘Well, ideally we would want to email every passenger on the ship’s manifest,’ he said.
‘Manifest?’
‘That’s the list of all passengers and their addresses. This would be useful to have for another reason. You could examine it and see if anyone on board that ship might have had a personal connection to your daughter. We need to know if there was anyone on that boat who had a disagreement with her or wished her ill. Other than her husband, of course.’
Shelby stared at him. ‘You suspect him,’ she said flatly.
‘I mean,’ said Perry, ‘obviously her husband was the only person, that we know of, who might have wanted to harm her. That’s why we need the list. To see if there might be anyone else. Any name that rings a bell.’
‘That makes sense,’ Shelby agreed. ‘Can we do that?’
‘Well, it’s difficult. The cruise ship line will probably refuse to give it to us. They’ll cite privacy reasons. One attorney I spoke to told me that, in a similar matter, he was able to get a subpoena, and all the cruise line produced was a list of passengers with no contact information.’
‘That’s so unfair.’
‘It’s bad publicity. They want it to go away,’ Perry said.
‘So you’re saying we can’t get it,’ Shelby said dejectedly.
‘The police in St Thomas may have requested and received the manifest. I’ll check with them.’
Shelby nodded. ‘Chief Giroux was very nice. He tried to be helpful.’ Shelby recalled the words in the chief’s email. ‘All hope is gone,’ he had written. She knew that he was telling her this for her own good. It was time to face it. In her reply, she had sorrowfully, reluctantly agreed to end the search.
Perry unfolded his hands and wrote a note on a pad on his desk. ‘G-I-?’
‘R-O-U-X.’ Shelby finished the spelling. ‘Anything else?’
Perry hesitated. ‘I have to ask. Does your daughter’s husband know that you wish to reopen this investigation?’ Shelby avoided his gaze. ‘I haven’t mentioned it to him,’ she said.
Perry nodded, a knowing expression in his eyes. ‘Are you aware of whether you
r son-in-law took a polygraph test in St Thomas?’
Shelby’s eyes widened. ‘No, I don’t know.’
Perry nodded. ‘I will ask Chief Giroux when I speak to him.’
Part of Shelby wanted to pursue his question. Part of her did not want to hear what he was thinking. ‘Is there any hope at all of finding out what really happened to Chloe?’
Perry nodded. ‘Of course there’s hope. That’s why you got in touch with me, right? Now, try not to worry.’ He stood up. ‘I will let you know as soon as I know anything.’
Shelby reached into her purse and fished out her checkbook. ‘All right. That’s good enough for me. Let me just give you a check now and then, at the end, you can make me out a bill . . .’
Perry raised a hand. ‘No, no,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘No payment necessary. I’m going to treat this as company business. You’re a valued employee here at Markson’s. It’s what Mr Markson would have wanted.’
Albert Markson, Shelby thought. She wasn’t sure at all that Elliott would feel the same way. ‘Are you sure? I’d be glad to pay you, Perry.’
Perry shook his head. ‘I don’t want it to seem like I’m moonlighting,’ he said. ‘Let’s just keep this between us, shall we?’
Shelby stood up. They shook hands.
‘You’ll hear from me, soon,’ he said.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Shelby.
‘You lost your only child,’ Perry said. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
THIRTEEN
The balance of her day passed in a blur. She left Markson’s and did a multitude of errands in Center City. Her last stop of the day was at the office of Dr Cliburn, where Chloe had worked. Shelby had been avoiding the task of picking up Chloe’s belongings and having to come face to face with Chloe’s co-workers. But all of the young women who had worked with Chloe treated Shelby gently, fully aware of the difficulty of her errand. One of them had placed Chloe’s belongings in a shiny, sky-blue shopping bag. Shelby glanced in at the contents and saw a pair of clogs, a coffee mug, a cardigan sweater, and a framed photo all neatly packed. Dr Cliburn, a big, gruff man in his fifties, came out of his office and offered his condolences. Shelby felt claustrophobic under their sympathetic scrutiny. She couldn’t wait to flee the cheery office full of parenting magazines and baby photos on the wall. She felt a headache beginning to form over her eye, and all she wanted was to escape their kind wishes and solicitous glances. A text from Talia arrived just as she was getting back into her car. ‘GLEN HOME,’ it read. ‘CALL.’
Cast into Doubt Page 10
