by Luanne Rice
Ever since my father’s death, we have stayed connected in spirit, through the myth of a mountain lion said to live deep in the woods nearby. Perhaps that big cat is a ghost, just like my father, just like members of the Nehantic and Pequot tribes who lived here before us. But I have seen and tracked large paw prints, collected tufts of coarse yellow fur for my work, and I have seen his shadow. Could that have been the caterwaul I heard just as I was supposed to die?
The smell of the mixture will throw off the dogs. They will be intrigued by the possibility of a wild animal; they will sniff along the boundary line I will create. They will not cross it, and they will forget about their quarry—me. My father’s lessons along with years of loving the forest, observing the behavior of its inhabitants, will help me escape.
I find a beach towel in the cupboard and use it to put pressure on my head wound. The blood soaks through—I am shocked by the amount because there is already a pool on the floor. How much have I lost?
I feel weak, and I bobble the tin. Some urine powder falls to the floor. I try to wipe it up, but the putrid stench nearly makes me vomit. When the search dogs get here, they will growl and back away from this corner; they will be on guard before they even begin.
I start to walk and trip on the rope around my neck. If I can’t untie the knot, I can at least cut through it. I look around the Range Rover for the knife my attacker used, but it’s not here. He must have taken it.
Garden clippers hang on a rusty nail; I use them for pruning roses and hydrangeas. The handles fit my hand, but it hurts to maneuver them. Do I have the dexterity to snip the line instead of my artery? I nick the skin, but victory—the rope falls to the floor. This effort has taken all my energy, so I sit down and hope I’ll be able to stand again before the police arrive.
Griffin’s police departments throughout eastern Connecticut will investigate my disappearance with the full force of his office behind them. Suspicion will fall on violent criminals he sent to prison—he will make sure of that. People will assume someone wanted revenge. Detectives will investigate every recently released convict. They will question the families of prisoners still incarcerated.
My husband will hold a news conference and say that the police will catch whoever harmed me, abducted me, or killed me and removed my body, and he very personally will prosecute that person, get justice for me. The tragedy will burnish his image: public servant, grieving husband. I will become a hashtag: #JusticeForClaire.
But he, someone on his force, or one of his political backers with too much to lose will find and murder me first.
Terrified and half-dead, I choke on a sob. I had loved my husband more than anyone, this man who now wanted me dead. I am dizzy, can barely stand. I think, for half a minute, of going to my studio behind the house, grabbing the letter. But why? I ignored it when it mattered most, when it could have saved me. Let it stay in its hiding place. If I die, if I never return, it will be a record of what happened.
It is time for me to set off on a journey that will be short in distance, endless in effort. Maybe I’m delirious, just coming back from having been deprived of oxygen, but I sense that big cat padding silently in the woods ahead of me—my destination—and I walk cautiously. Fear is the gift.
It’s how I will stay alert and alive.
2
CONOR
Conor Reid arrived at the Woodward-Lathrop Gallery at four forty-five, fifteen minutes before Claire Beaudry Chase’s opening was scheduled to start. His girlfriend, Kate Woodward, owned the gallery in the center of Black Hall, and his sister-in-law, Jackie Reid, managed it. Kate was flying a private charter and wouldn’t be back in time. Conor had promised he would show up to celebrate their friend Claire.
Conor was a detective with the Connecticut State Police and had just finished interviewing witnesses to a hit-and-run on the Baldwin Bridge. A speeding black pickup had clipped a Subaru, smashing it into the guardrail. There were no fatalities, but the car’s driver had gone to the hospital with a head injury. No one had gotten the truck’s license number.
It was the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, and the madhouse of summer on the shoreline was just starting.
“Hey, you made it,” Jackie said, walking over to give Conor a hug. She was married to his older brother, Tom—his first marriage, her second. Conor had liked Jackie and her two daughters right away. Tom was a coast guard officer, often at sea on patrol, and Conor saw how happy Tom was to come home to her.
“Looks like you’re expecting a big crowd,” Conor said, glancing at the bar and catering table, loaded with bottles of wine and platters of cheese and bread and smoked salmon.
“We are,” she said. “Everyone’s excited to see Claire’s new installation, but I think we’ll also get a lot of people curious to meet the candidate. Judging from the calls I’ve gotten, I expect more political than arts reporters. Do you think Griffin will win? Be our next governor?”
“Seems he has a good chance,” Conor said. He had worked with Griffin Chase on many cases. Chase played hard and knew what it took to come out on top.
People began streaming through the door. From being with Kate, Conor knew that there were three types of people who attended art openings in Black Hall: true collectors who intended to buy, serious art lovers who were there to appreciate the work, and people who came for the free food and wine.
On the bar table were plastic glasses and bottles of red and white wine, both from southeastern Connecticut vineyards. Someone had calligraphed a card for the wine: Courtesy of Griffin Chase. Smart, Conor thought: showing that he supported Connecticut businesses.
“Come on,” Jackie said. “Take a walk around with me; check out the work.”
“Sure,” Conor said. He had never been that interested in art; Kate had taught him pretty much everything he knew. Kate was a huge fan of Claire. What she did couldn’t exactly be called paintings, collages, or sculptures, but it had aspects of each. She made shadow boxes, driftwood frames filled with objects from nature, especially the beach.
“Who buys these?” Conor asked.
“Claire has devoted collectors,” Jackie said. “One actually commissioned her to do a private piece for him and his wife.”
“Which one is that?” Conor asked.
“She’s not putting it in the show. It’s back in her studio,” Jackie said. “She told me it’s ‘guarding her secrets.’”
“What secrets?” Conor asked, but Jackie just shook her head. He felt a ripple that sometimes signaled the start of a case, but he figured he was overreacting.
He saw Jackie glance at her watch.
“It’s nearly five, and she’s still not here,” Jackie said.
“Maybe she wants to make an entrance,” he said.
“No, she said she was coming early, to autograph a few catalogs for clients who can’t make it. Let me check on her.”
Jackie stepped away and made a call from her cell phone. Conor took the opportunity to grab some cheese and crackers and survey the room. He would never enter this gallery without thinking of Beth Lathrop, Kate’s sister. He and Kate had gotten close while he was investigating Beth’s murder.
Beth used to run the place; after her murder, Kate had hired Jackie. Conor knew it was hard for Kate to come here; it wasn’t easy for him, either: the building was haunted by violence and tragedy, but it had been in the Woodward family for three generations, and Kate would never let it go. Conor couldn’t help feeling that Jackie was helping Kate keep it in the family, partly for Beth’s daughter, Samantha.
“No luck,” Jackie said, walking over to him.
Conor didn’t reply, distracted by one of Claire’s shadow boxes. It was about twelve-by-sixteen inches, bordered by a driftwood frame, and filled with mussel- and clamshells, moonstones, exoskeletons, sea glass, crab claws, and carapaces. It also contained what looked like the skeleton of a human hand and was titled Fingerbone.
“That hand,” Conor said.
“I know, creepy, right?”
Jackie said. He felt the ripple again and sensed her watching for his reaction.
“Reminds me of something,” he said, not wanting to say too much, wondering whether she had heard what Claire told him at dinner on Monday.
“Ellen?” Jackie asked—proving to Conor that she had heard enough. She was referring to Ellen Fielding, a school friend of Jackie, Claire, and Griffin’s, who had died twenty-five years ago.
Griffin’s official state car pulled up in front of the gallery. He stepped out, projecting the confidence and power that everyone in the court system was so familiar with. He wore custom-made suits and Hermès ties, and Conor had heard one corrections officer say he could put his kid through college on Griffin’s tie budget alone.
“Look who’s here,” Jackie said and headed for the door.
Conor hung back, watching. Griffin had grown up as a rich kid in tragic circumstances. He had lost his parents young. His college girlfriend had died just after graduation. His PR spin was that the losses had given him tremendous compassion and that he was devoting himself to justice for others, that as state’s attorney he cared personally about the victims whose cases he prosecuted. A murdered child’s family had said he was “the most caring man in the world,” leading one newspaper to dub him the “Prince of Caring.” The moniker had stuck. It played well politically and was featured in many of his campaign ads.
Conor watched Jackie greet him, usher him into the show.
“The show looks great,” Conor heard Griffin say.
“Roberta Smith from the New York Times came for an early look, and Smithsonian Magazine wants to do a profile on her,” Jackie said.
“Fantastic,” Griffin said. “Have you heard from Mike Bouchard yet?”
“From Connecticut Weekly? Yes,” Jackie said. “We spoke on the phone, and he wants to meet Claire here tonight. I take it someone from your election committee arranged for the interview?”
The room was getting crowded. Conor leaned against the wall and watched Griffin examine Fingerbone: hundreds of fine silver wires attached to the outer edges of the rough wooden frame caught the light, creating the illusion of water. A gold coin that appeared to be ancient and authentic lay at the bottom, beneath the skeletal hand.
Conor stared, watching Griffin’s reaction. Was it his imagination, or was the prosecutor rattled?
“I’m buying this,” Griffin said to Jackie, gesturing at the shadow box.
“It’s very compelling,” Jackie said, “but you don’t have to buy it! I’m sure Claire would give it to you.”
“I insist,” Griffin said, the charm gone from his voice. “I don’t want the gallery to lose its commission.” He took out his checkbook, and Conor watched him scrawl the amount and a signature. Conor wondered if he was thinking about Beth. Griffin had successfully prosecuted her killer; he might be aware that Sam had inherited her mother’s share of the gallery and that profits would help pay for her college education.
“Well, thank you,” Jackie said to Griffin. She put a red dot on Fingerbone to let everyone know it was sold.
“I’m going to call her right now—see where she is and tell her I have a surprise for her,” Griffin said. He pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “Where are you? We’re waiting for you—are you okay?” He disconnected. “Voice mail,” Conor heard him say.
“She must be on her way,” Jackie said. Then, as if noticing the worry in his eyes, “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Griffin said. Then, “She’s been anxious lately.”
“It’s normal,” Jackie said. “Preshow butterflies.”
“Hmm, you might be right,” Griffin said, but he didn’t sound as if he believed it.
The space was packed; Conor watched Griffin take Fingerbone down from the wall. That struck Conor as weird; it was customary to leave works hanging for the entire duration of an exhibition, and being married to an artist, Griffin should have known that.
Griffin was halfway out the door when a throng of people surrounded him. Conor watched the way he smiled, shook hands with them, made easy conversation, spoke of being proud of his wife. One was a reporter and had his notepad out. Conor wondered if that was Mike Bouchard. Griffin was animated, full of passion, looking like someone born to run for governor.
Then Griffin slipped away, the shadow box under his arm. Conor watched him open the trunk of his car, put Fingerbone inside. Conor felt that ripple again.
3
CLAIRE
Griffin and I go back forever. My crush on him began in eighth grade. He was a lanky boy, a graceful athlete, a high-velocity soccer and tennis player who made the crowd gasp as he kicked the goal or nailed the point. He had sharp cheekbones and deep-set green eyes—sensitive eyes that would occasionally catch mine and make me feel he wanted to ask me something. I’d lie awake at night and wonder what the question could possibly be.
He always dated cool girls from the country club or beach club. They went to private schools, drove sports cars, and wore cashmere sweaters tied around their shoulders. Griffin and I would sometimes play in the same round-robin tennis match or see each other at a beach bonfire, but that was about it.
One foggy night, the summer between our junior and senior years in high school, he and a bunch of country club boys showed up at the Hubbard’s Point sandy parking lot. There was a cooler in Jimmy Hale’s trunk, and Griffin and I reached for a beer at the same time. Griffin’s knuckles brushed mine. “Hi,” he said. “Hi,” I said. His eyes had that question in them, but I felt so shy, I looked away. Nothing happened for a long time after that, till after college.
Griffin went to Wesleyan, and so did Ellen Fielding, a girl from our town. When they began to date, no one was surprised. She was from Griffin’s old-money world and lived in a sea captain’s house on Main Street. Although she didn’t have to worry about paying for college or buying books, each summer she waitressed with Jackie and me at the Black Hall Inn. Her family thought it would be character building. She worked as hard as we did and made us laugh with her dead-on imitations of the drunken chef and lecherous manager. She always wore a heavy gold bracelet with what looked like an ancient gold coin dangling from it. She told me it had been her grandmother’s.
That summer before senior year, when Griffin picked her up after her shift, I tried not to look at him—I was afraid Ellen, or even worse, Griffin, would see that my attraction to him made me want to explode. But sometimes I couldn’t avoid saying hi when I walked past his car, a vintage MGB, British racing green. He would be sitting there with the top down, engine running, watching me with those serious eyes. And then Ellen would come out, and they’d drive away.
I went to RISD—the Rhode Island School of Design—and fell in love with the world of art and artists. I dated a sculptor who etched transcripts of his therapy sessions into polished steel, then a performance artist who channeled Orpheus and visited the underworld onstage. But I still dreamed of Griffin.
He and Ellen broke up right after graduation. Instead of going to London for July, as planned, she moved back home with her parents. He began showing up at the Inn, after my shift was done, even though she no longer worked there. “Ellen changed, Claire. She went away on spring break, and nothing has been the same,” he said.
“Why?”
“I have no idea. She won’t talk about what happened, and she knows she can tell me anything. Now she doesn’t even want to see me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “The worst part is, I’m positive something bad happened down there. Did she mention anything to you?”
“No, like what?”
“Not sure,” he said. “You sure she didn’t say anything?”
“Positive,” I said.
Jackie and I had gotten to know Ellen at the Inn, and we cared about her. I felt guilty, getting close to Griffin, so Jackie was the one to approach her, to find out how she was doing. She had gone to Cancún with family friends for a beach va
cation, a last blast before college graduation. She asked Jackie, “Do you believe in evil?”
“What was she talking about?” I asked.
“I have no idea. She just stared at me. Claire, her eyes were hollow.”
“God, poor Ellen,” I said.
Griffin was devastated, and I became his confidante. At first that’s all it was—a boy with a broken heart and the girl who consoled him. But that began to change, and I couldn’t believe it. We were from the same town, but from completely different worlds.
I lived at Hubbard’s Point—a magical beach area that time forgot. Small shingled cottages, built in the 1920s and ’30s by working-class families, were perched on a rock ledge at the edge of Long Island Sound. The weather-beaten cottages had window boxes, spilling over with geraniums and petunias, and brightly colored shutters with seahorse and sailboat cutouts.
Hubbard’s Point families had cookouts together. Friends as kids became friends for life, just like Jackie and me. Every Fourth of July there was a clambake and a kids’ bike parade. Movies were shown on Sunday and Thursday nights on the half-moon beach, and everyone would bring beach chairs and watch classics on a screen so wind rippled it might well have been a canvas sail. At the end of the beach was a secret path, winding through the woods to a hidden cove. I could have found my way along it blindfolded.
Griffin grew up at the other end of that narrow trail, in a posh enclave called Catamount Bluff, with only four properties on a private road. The Chases’ house—the one in which we now live—was built on the headland by his paternal great-grandfather, Dexter Chase. He had founded Parthenon Insurance—the biggest insurance company in Hartford—before running for governor and holding that office for two terms. His son, Griffin’s grandfather, had been a three-term senator representing Connecticut. Griffin’s father had been a lawyer—in-house council for Parthenon. They used summer as a verb—they summered at Catamount Bluff. When I asked Griffin about his mother, he said, “You don’t want to know.”
