The Shadow Box

by Luanne Rice

  “You shame me,” he said. “Instead of accepting my gift, you shove it down my throat. Do you know how much that hurts me?” His face darkened and twisted. He took a step closer to me. I saw his shoulders tense, his hands form fists, but his black eyes were what terrified me.

  “Griffin,” I said, panicking and leaning back because I thought he was going to hit me. And here it came: my first apology. Heartfelt, at the time. “I’m so sorry if I said the wrong thing. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “But you did hurt me.”

  My eyes filled with tears—both because I was scared and because I had obviously touched a tender spot in Griffin. I always thought of him as so tough to do the job he did; he was sensitive to me, to the victims whose cases he prosecuted, but I never thought of him as being so vulnerable. Thin skinned. “I’m sorry,” I whispered again.

  “I don’t want to hit you,” he said. “And because of that, I need you to be out of my sight. I go out or you do. Your choice. I need time alone.”

  I turned into an ice sculpture, frozen in shock. Without waiting for me to reply, he walked out of the house. I heard the car start and drive away. I was stunned. And terrified.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about those gleaming-black raging eyes. How do green eyes turn black? Was it my imagination? A trick of the morning light? I had just seen my husband turn into a monster.

  But the longer he was gone that day, the more my emotions shifted. I told myself I must have been wrong. Eyes could not change color—I had imagined it. And had I heard him correctly? Griffin would never threaten me. Not the man I’d loved so long.

  I found myself thinking of how he had said I’d hurt him. I wondered, What could I have said differently? Was it my tone? I looked at the kitchen plans. He had wanted to surprise me, thought I would be delighted. I began to convince myself that no wonder he was hurt by my reaction: I had not appreciated the gift. I had dismissed his effort, not been thankful that he wanted to spend so much money on a kitchen to make me happy.

  When he came back, he was his old self. He brought me a bouquet of sunflowers from Grey Gables Farm. He wrapped me in his arms and kissed me. I shivered with relief at his touch, at the sight of his green eyes. He tilted his head back and smiled.

  “I never wanted to hurt you,” I said.

  “I believe you,” he said. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

  “If you want a new kitchen, it’s fine. It’s great,” I said.

  “Claire, that means the world to me. I love you to pieces.”

  “I love you too,” I said, and then he led me upstairs, into our bedroom with an entire wall of windows looking out to sea.

  I told myself I was not “the abused woman type”—as if there were such a thing. I was strong, could take care of myself, and I could handle anyone’s pain and carry it for them. But abuse, though it can seem to happen all at once, is cumulative. I was like a lobster in a pot of cold water, the temperature being raised bit by bit before I realized I was in danger. Every apology I made to Griffin chipped away at my soul, brought me closer to being boiled alive, because I gave up a little more of myself. And a little more. And a little more.

  Griffin wound up working very closely with Sallie Benson to create the kitchen we had now. Many people would find it beautiful. It was featured in Luxury Coastline Magazine. As much as Griffin wanted me to love the kitchen, I couldn’t. I hated it. It was all white marble, white tiles, white wainscoting, stainless steel appliances, and cookware fit for a professional chef. Every surface was smooth and sleek—and sterile. And it reminded me of the first time I saw his eyes turn black.

  The funny thing was, in spite of what I considered an ice-cold color scheme, Sallie was warm. When she finished the job and came over to drop off a bouquet of all-white flowers, she beamed at me and gave me a hug.

  “You were wonderful to work for,” she said.

  “I was? I was hardly here. Griffin oversaw everything.”

  “Oh, Claire. You’re a brilliant artist, and I was worried I wouldn’t be up to your standards. But Griffin told me you checked in after I left each day and that you loved the progress. It was so encouraging.”

  “I’m glad,” I said, even though I had mostly removed myself, found it hard to praise a room I couldn’t imagine myself living in.

  “He’s such a sweetheart, and he’s so in love with you. That really, oh gosh, it moves me. I go into a lot of houses and see a lot of marriages, and Claire, yours is inspiring.”

  I couldn’t even respond to that. Two months of being married to Griffin and I had started thinking of leaving. It was a tug-of-war, ruled by his moods. When he was loving, I was positive that was the real Griffin and that things between us would get better. But when he was angry, I shut down, became depressed. I’d wonder—is this the real Griffin? And often, on those nights, I would dream of Ellen. I hadn’t yet started thinking he killed her, but if he treated me this way, he may have started with her.

  “I was intimidated by you being an artist,” Sallie had said. “I don’t need to tell you that you can add color touches in here—you’ll make it your own, and it will be beautiful!”

  “Thank you, Sallie,” I said.

  A few days later, Sloane and Edward Hawke came to dinner, and Griffin’s delight in showing off the kitchen seemed to captivate Edward. Within a week, they had signed a contract with Sallie Benson. When the work was done, the Hawkes had all the Catamount Bluff neighbors over for cocktails—Wade and Leonora Lockwood, Neil and Abigail Coffin, and Griffin and me.

  “Here’s to Sallie!” Sloane said, raising her glass.

  “Dan certainly married up,” Neil said, laughing.

  “Sure as hell did,” Wade said. “Never thought he’d wind up with a gal like that.”

  I saw Leonora shoot Wade a sharp look and wondered what it meant.

  “Well, she did a great job and we’re happy,” Edward said, putting his arm around Sloane, and we all clinked glasses.

  I found myself thinking about that toast to Sallie while I cut up the melon for Griffin’s breakfast after our ugly dawn beach encounter. I used an expensive French paring knife, from a set chosen by Sallie because she thought a dark wood knife block would make a stunning contrast to the white marble counter.

  “Are there any articles about the trial?” I asked Griffin. He was still at the table, reading the paper.

  “Of course,” he said. “It’s going to make jury selection tricky. I don’t know who’s leaking what we have for evidence, but someone is. Right here—an unnamed source saying we have a student’s underwear with Jackson’s DNA on them.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  His silence made the sound of my knife slicing through cantaloupe and clicking on the counter sound like it was happening in an echo chamber.

  “Too bad?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I know how closely you guard your facts, and you don’t want the jury pool hearing . . .”

  “It’s a little more than too bad, Claire,” he said. “Do you know what Jackson did to those girls? I could sit here right now and tell you the specifics, you want to hear them? I need an impartial jury. I can’t afford to lose a big case right in the midst of my campaign.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I know.”

  “Of course. You know,” he said in a mimicking voice, pushing his chair back, then slapping the newspaper down on the table. “If you knew the things men do to women, you’d fall apart.”

  “I’m sure I would,” I said. My tone indicated I had something on my mind.

  He stood up and exhaled hard, taking one step toward me.

  “You know, it really bothered me to see you kneeling at the cove. As if you were worshipping Ellen like a goddess.”

  “Far from it,” I said. “She was as human as I am.”

  “Why now? Why are you torturing me with her now? Don’t I have enough on my mind?”

  “I don’t think I’m torturing you,” I said, keeping my voice steady.


  “You act as if I had something to do with her death. And that insults me. Believe me, I know the syndrome. A couple grows apart, and suddenly the husband is vilified. My office receives a hundred calls a year from women saying their husbands committed terrible crimes. They think he’s the Marshfield serial killer or a trucker murdering women on I-95. You’re such a cliché.”

  “I still hear the sound of those crabs eating her flesh,” I said.

  “So do I,” he said. “And the difference between you and me is that I loved her. She was my college girlfriend. Do you know what it was like for me to see her like that? I lost her when she went to Cancún.”

  “Who did she go with?” I asked.

  “What’s the difference?” he asked. “It was half my lifetime ago.”

  And half of what would have been hers, I thought. I caught him gazing at me, almost dispassionately, as if taking my measure.

  “You know, Claire,” he said. “I don’t need this swirling around right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rumors. Innuendo.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “People hinting that I had something to do with what happened to Ellen,” he said.

  “Who is hinting about that?” I asked.

  He didn’t quite answer but went on, “I am in the middle of a campaign. I expect my wife and friends to protect my reputation, not cast doubts.”

  “What friends aren’t protecting you?” I asked.

  He stopped talking, just gave me a long curious stare; again, I had the feeling he was assessing me.

  “Breakfast is almost ready,” I said.

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “It’s clear you don’t appreciate me or my work,” he continued. “Nate, the great scientist and environmentalist—you admire him even though you couldn’t wait to leave him and marry me. But your actual, current, working-his-fingers-to-the-bone husband, who only wants justice for two girls Jackson raped with a pipe wrench—you don’t care, it makes no difference to you. You can only think of Ellen.”

  Interesting, his choice of words: fingers-to-the-bone.

  At one time I would have turned myself inside out, saying I was sorry for giving him the wrong idea. By that Sunday morning, I was past apologies. Even so, I had to play my part, at least a little, to get what I wanted out of this week.

  “Griffin, I admire you so much,” I said without inflection, just as if I were reading a script. “You care so deeply about your cases, all the victims. You’re just so amazing, so caring.”

  “Other people think that,” he said. “You don’t.”

  He filled his travel mug with coffee, then turned to look at me. “Maybe while I’m on the boat, you can reflect on what I said.”

  “I thought I was going with you,” I said. “And the boys.”

  “No,” he said. “I really think it would be to your benefit to give some thought about being more protective of your husband, instead of undermining him.”

  Outside, tires crunched on the driveway.

  Griffin checked his watch. “Seven fifteen, and they’re right on time.”

  We both walked to the door, saw his two sons getting out of Ford’s black Porsche. They house-sat in a guest cottage on the estate of one of Griffin’s biggest political donors. It was thirty miles away, so they’d gotten up very early to get here.

  Although they were twins, only Ford looked like Griffin. At twenty-one, he had his father’s height and build, the same cockiness, the same white streak in his dark hair. Alexander was taller but fair like Margot, less athletic, and sensitive. They walked into the kitchen dressed to go out on the boat: khaki shorts, polo shirts, ball caps. Alexander’s was from the Hawthorne Yacht Club; Ford’s was his college baseball team’s, worn backward.

  “Well, you two are up with the sun!” Griffin said, smiling as if we hadn’t been fighting at all. He opened his arms, and both boys hugged him. “Isn’t this great!”

  “You mentioned sailing, Dad,” Ford said. “Are we still on for that? And a photo op for the campaign?”

  “Absolutely, we absolutely are on,” Griffin said.

  “Hi, Claire,” Alexander said.

  “Good morning,” I said. “Looks like a great day to be on the water.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Griffin asked, then gestured toward me and said sweetly, “It’s too bad Claire isn’t feeling up to joining us.”

  “Are you okay?” Alexander asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “She’s just tired out,” Griffin said. “A bundle of nerves, getting ready for her exhibition. She’ll be the toast of the town once everyone sees her latest work. We’re proud of her, aren’t we, guys?”

  Ford gravitated toward the stove. Although I had turned off the burner, the bacon was still sizzling in the skillet.

  “Did you hear me?” Griffin asked. “Are you proud of your stepmother?”

  “Griffin,” I said, “that’s okay.”

  “I asked a question,” Griffin said.

  “Definitely,” Alexander said quickly. “Your stuff is so cool, Claire.”

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling at him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ford use the spatula to take a slice of bacon out of the pan. He blew on it to cool it off, then bit it in half, crunching away. Griffin glared at him.

  “I know the three of you will have a great time sailing,” I said, feeling the air fill with electricity.

  “I never thought I could do it,” Griffin said. “Never.”

  “What, Dad?” Ford asked.

  “Raise a couple of animals.”

  “Griffin—” I said.

  Griffin crossed the kitchen in two steps and slapped the cap off Ford’s head; it landed in the bacon grease. “Eating straight out of the pan. Wearing caps in the house.” He turned toward Alexander, but he was already holding his yacht club cap in his hands. His face was pure white. The reaction seemed to please Griffin. He clapped Alexander on the shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” Griffin said. “I want to catch the tide.”

  “Should Alexander and I follow you in my car?” Ford asked.

  “Alexander will ride with me. Why don’t you go home and try to get the bacon grease out of your hat? Try soaking it.”

  “But Dad . . . ,” Ford said. Where Alexander had gone pale, Ford’s face had turned crimson.

  “See you later. We’ll all meet at the yacht club for an early dinner,” Griffin said. Then he and Alexander walked into the garage, and I heard the barn doors swing open and Griffin’s car start up.

  “Ford,” I began, walking toward him. He stood with his back to me, trying to fork his cap out of the skillet. “Just leave it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “No, he said I have to,” Ford said. He wouldn’t turn around. I put my hand on his back, and I felt his shoulders quaking. We just stood there for a long time. The sound of Griffin’s car receded. Waves broke on the shore. Gulls cried as they flew over the house. After a while, Ford shook my hand away. I didn’t want to leave him, but I knew he couldn’t stand for me to see his tears.

  I left the house and returned to my studio. I thought about crab claws and those bare twigs, of the shadow box I was about to make, of how it would be titled Fingerbone and dedicated to my husband.

  Looking back, I wonder if Griffin was giving me one last chance by telling me to think about protecting instead of undermining him. Or had he already made up his mind that I was a liability and set his plan in motion?

  Even though he’d pretended not to hear what I’d said at the tidal pool that morning, we both knew I’d been talking to Ellen and that I’d told her I was going to leave. But my leaving might raise too many questions, trigger “rumors and innuendo,” and he couldn’t let that happen.

  ONE DAY LATER

  9

  CONOR

  On Saturday morning, the forensics team was still processing the Chase
house, and Conor Reid drove toward the scene. Everything had changed: they now knew the DNA belonged to Claire. It appeared the rope had been used to hang her from the rafter, that it had snapped under her weight. Blood loss from the fall was possible, but the amount, and the pattern on and around the car, suggested to Conor that she had been beaten, possibly stabbed.

  So far, Griffin Chase was the last person known to have seen Claire on Friday morning, at approximately 7:45. She hadn’t shown up at the dock as planned, and she never arrived at the gallery. The crime scene had been discovered by Conor, Griffin, and Ben Markham at about 5:30 p.m., and the forensic team began their work an hour later. That provided an approximate ten-hour window for when the attack could have taken place.

  From blood in the garage, especially the still-not-fully-coagulated pool beside the right rear tire, the time frame was narrowed to two hours—the medical examiner estimated she had been assaulted no earlier than 3:30 p.m.

  Ralph Perry, another off-duty Black Hall cop, was parked at the head of the private road that led into Catamount Bluff, and he waved as Conor approached. Conor rolled down his window, and Perry did the same.

  “How’s it going?” Conor asked.

  “Busy morning. You know, people wanting to gawk. It’s even juicier for them because it’s a rich family. That plus the usual trespassers trying to sneak onto the private beach. I just tell ’em how to get to the state park.”

  Conor nodded and drove through. He saw the Major Crime Squad van outside the Chases’ house. Investigators walked between the van and garage wearing gloves and protective shoe coverings.

  Catamount Bluff was bordered on one side by Long Island Sound and three sides by marsh and five hundred acres of deep coastal forest. The four families that had founded the Bluff in the late 1800s had decreed that the wildland be preserved from development. One section had been logged in 1906, and the ponds were a source of ice in winter. Period maps showed an abandoned icehouse as well as a series of caves in the rock ledge bordering one of the salt marshes.

  Other than the cart path to the icehouse, the woods were inaccessible to vehicles—and pretty much any human encroachment. Conor would have expected the Bluff residents to create trails for hiking or to reach hunting and fishing grounds, but the deeds stipulated that the land remain forever wild.