by Luanne Rice
Aside from the Chase house, there were three others that shared the private road, and the occupants were being questioned. The old icehouse, next to Lockwood Pond and close to the main road, had been checked, and no sign of Claire had been found. There were some beer cans and bags of fast food refuse in a corner, indicating that someone had used it at one point—possibly a party spot for kids.
Search dogs had been brought in last night, but they lost Claire’s trail on the dirt track just fifteen yards east of the Chases’ house. Someone could have hidden a vehicle there, where Claire wouldn’t have seen it. After ambushing her, the suspect could have loaded her inside and driven away with her.
In fact, there were signs that several vehicles had parked in that spot over time. When told there were tire impressions of trucks and various makes and models of cars, Chase had said it was where workmen parked and also guests from when he and Claire held parties.
Flowers bloomed all around the house. The beds looked well tended. Conor wondered if the Chases had a gardener or whether Claire took care of them herself. He couldn’t imagine Griffin doing it, working in the soil.
Maybe a landscape crew had made the recent tire tracks. Or perhaps it was Claire’s attacker. Had she been abducted? Or had he taken her body away? Although the tire tracks were photographed by investigators and impressions were taken, it was impossible to determine which were most recent. Conor needed a list of all tradespeople known to work on the Chases’ property.
Conor spotted Trooper Peggy McCabe standing by the front door. They waved at each other; he had worked with McCabe before, after Beth Lathrop’s murder, when McCabe was a town cop. She was local, born and raised in Black Hall. He made a mental note to ask her if she knew the Chases.
Last night detectives had questioned the Coffins and Lockwoods. The Hawkes had been out, and Conor intended to drop by to interview them today.
All four families were friendly—in fact, they had all gathered at the Coffin home just two weeks earlier for the annual Catamount Association meeting. Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres had been served. It was also a private campaign rally, with the neighbors toasting Griffin’s run for governor and writing big checks.
All day yesterday, Neil Coffin had been at work in Hartford, where he was an insurance executive; Abigail owned a yoga studio in town and had taught a class that started at three p.m. She hadn’t seen Claire at any point during the day, and she didn’t return home until six thirty, after dropping into Claire’s opening. Like the Chases and Hawkes, Neil Coffin was in his midforties, Abigail a couple of years younger.
Wade and Leonora Lockwood, a couple in their late seventies, had left their house in separate cars but at the same time: five p.m. Wade went to meet some friends at a club he belonged to, and Leonora drove into town to attend Claire’s opening.
They hadn’t seen Claire all day, hadn’t noticed any vehicles other than a FedEx truck driving toward the Chase home—as they were leaving their driveway. Wade reported the time as 5:00 p.m. sharp. He had been in the navy, fought in the Vietnam War, then returned to his family home on Catamount Bluff to settle down. He had inherited land and buildings on the gritty Easterly waterfront. Over time, he had developed many warehouses for commercial use and luxury condos.
Leonora thought she might have seen Claire drive past around noon, but she couldn’t be sure whether Claire was leaving Catamount or returning, and she wasn’t positive it hadn’t actually been the day before. Wade had expressed displeasure over his wife’s inaccuracy.
Conor had not seen a FedEx box outside the house when he had arrived there last night. He had called their dispatcher in Norwich, and she’d told him that nothing had been delivered. A pickup had been scheduled by Claire—she was a frequent customer, often shipping work to collectors—but the driver had not found a package.
As Conor walked down the road to meet with the Hawkes, he heard blues music coming from their house. Catamount Bluff seemed so sedate and buttoned up, Conor welcomed the sound. Two Mercedes sedans and a catering truck were parked in the circular driveway. The house seemed a mirror image of the Chases’: shingled, sprawling, over a century old, worth a fortune. Conor rang the front bell, and a minute later, a man answered the door.
“Mr. Hawke?” Conor asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m just breaking down the party—they’re out back. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Except for art on the walls, the house’s decor was pure white, similar to the Chases’ kitchen: white walls, furniture, rugs on the hardwood floors. In stark contrast, abstract paintings, in shades of red and pink, covered the walls. A tripod by a picture window held a telescope, and Conor noted it was pointed toward the Chases’ house.
Glass doors opened onto a pool, turquoise and sparkling in the sun. Tables and chairs had been set up, and a crew was folding them, packing them onto dollies. A couple stood by the bar, pulling down lengths of red, white, and blue bunting. The woman turned, spotted Conor, and said something to the man. She was thin and blonde, rings on her fingers and bracelets on her wrists, wearing a dress the same raspberry shade as some of the paintings inside. Conor approached the couple.
“Hi, did you call? Are you from the police?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m Detective Reid. Mrs. Hawke?”
“Sloane, please. And this is my husband, Edward.” They all shook hands. Both looked solemn. He was tall with brown hair, muscular but turning soft around the middle; he wore faded red shorts and an untucked starched white dress shirt; the breast pocket bore a small embroidered crest: a dark bird with outstretched wings, talons clutching a banner. He had seen it before.
“We want to help however we can,” Edward said.
“Claire would never run away,” Sloane said, shaking her head. “Never. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why would I think that?” Conor asked.
“All marriages have problems,” she said, looking downward. “Lawyers don’t always appreciate what it’s like to take in the world and turn it into art.”
“She means me,” Edward said.
“You’re a lawyer?” Conor asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, corporate law. My office is in Easterly.”
Conor found his gaze pulled back to the insignia on Edward’s shirt pocket. He was pretty sure he’d seen the same one on Griffin Chase’s shirts.
“And in case you haven’t guessed, Sloane’s an artist,” Edward said. “She painted those masterpieces in the living room.”
“What happened to Claire?” Sloane asked, brushing off her husband’s compliment. “I can’t stand not knowing.”
“Two tragedies on the same day,” Edward said.
“He means Sallie Benson. The boat explosion,” Sloane said.
Conor’s antenna went up. The Benson case belonged to Conor’s old partner, and Jen had told him what Dan Benson had said: “They got her.” Hours later, when the anesthesia had worn off, he claimed not to remember saying that and said Sallie had been upset and maybe her carelessness had caused the explosion.
Two local women affected by violence on the same day seemed like an awfully big coincidence. Could there be a connection between whatever had happened to both women?
“Do you know Sallie Benson?” he asked.
Sloane didn’t reply. Edward stared at the ground.
“Yes,” Sloane said. “We know her.”
“Are you close friends with both women?” Conor asked.
“Ironically, Claire and Griffin introduced us to Sallie,” Edward said. “She did some decorating work for us.” His eyes were red rimmed, and Conor sensed him holding back emotion. “But Claire, yes—we are very good friends with both her and Griffin.”
“Is that right, Mrs. Hawke?” Conor asked.
“Definitely,” Sloane said, her eyes filling with tears. “I hardly know Sallie, but Claire is one of my closest friends. We support each other’s work. When things are bad, we’re always there for each other.” She broke down, c
ouldn’t go on.
“Can you tell me what you mean, ‘when things are bad’?” Conor asked.
Sloane stared down, her shoulders shaking hard, clearly trying not to let him see her cry.
Edward put his arm around Sloane. “Claire’s had a rough time with Griffin’s boys. Well, Ford anyway. He resents having a stepmother, and he can be a real prick to her. To everyone, frankly. He moved out. Alexander, too, although he and Claire get along much better.”
“Well, they were too old to be living at home anyway,” Sloane said, sniffling. “At least they’re being productive now.”
“If house-sitting can be considered ‘productive,’” Edward said. “Well, I suppose they get paid for it.”
“What does Ford do that bothers Claire?” Conor asked.
“He’s confrontational,” Sloane said. “He came down to her studio two days ago while I was there with her and said awful things. He’d been drinking.”
“What did he say?”
“I barely remember,” Sloane said.
“Anything would help,” Conor said.
She cleared her throat. “Dumb stuff about her not belonging here, that the property had been in his family. That she’d married his father right after his mother went away because she wanted the money. As if she ever . . .”
“So what can we do for you?” Edward asked abruptly, interrupting his wife. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that we’re very upset. We always have a Memorial Day party. This year it was going to double as a fundraiser for Griffin, but with Claire missing, we decided to cancel.”
“Did either of you see Claire yesterday?” Conor asked, and he watched them shake their heads in unison.
“No,” Edward said, sliding a glance at his wife. “I was at the office, and Sloane was running around, shopping for the party.”
“All day?” Conor asked.
“Lots to do for the party,” she said, glancing at Edward. “Got to keep up appearances, you know?”
“Appearances?” Conor asked. She didn’t reply. “When were you home?” he asked.
“Well, I left here midmorning, came back for lunch and a swim, then headed out again. I went to Claire’s opening with Leonora and Abigail. I spotted you at the gallery. I actually saw you leave with Griffin. I guess that’s when you came here and found . . . she was gone, right?”
“Did you see Claire at any time while you were home?” Conor asked, leaving her question unanswered.
“No,” she said. “And it breaks my heart. I thought about running over after lunch, just to give her a hug and moral support for her show. But I figured she might be busy getting ready or with some last-minute touches on this one particular piece. It had special meaning to her, and she wanted to hold on to it longer than the others.”
“Which piece was it?” Conor asked.
“Fingerbone,” Sloane said. “Kind of disturbing.”
Conor nodded, picturing the skeleton hand. “Do you know why it meant so much to her?”
“She said it was inspired by something she saw when she was young.”
“Okay,” Conor said, remembering what Claire had asked him at dinner Monday night.
“Anyway,” Sloane said, frowning. “I didn’t go to her house. Everything might have been different if I had.”
“Yeah, you might have been bludgeoned or stabbed and strung up too,” Edward said. He looked at Conor. “I know, you’re wondering how I know, none of that is public knowledge. Griffin told me what you found in the garage. All the blood. It’s horrific.”
“She has to be alive,” Sloane said, her eyes filling with tears.
“Yes, we have to hope,” Edward said. Again, Conor was struck by the emotion in his face. “Is there anything else?”
“That’s all for now,” Conor said. He started to turn away, then stopped. “Just one more thing, completely separate. That insignia,” he said, pointing at Edward’s shirt pocket.
“Oh, that,” Sloane said. “It’s his secret society.”
Edward’s arm tightened around her shoulders. “It’s the crest for a men’s club I belong to. Sloane thinks women should be allowed to join.”
“The Last Monday Club. Actually, Claire and I just think it’s silly,” Sloane said.
“So Griffin’s a member too?” Conor asked.
Edward gave Sloane an angry glance and didn’t reply; chastened, Sloane stood stiffly and gave a single, brisk nod.
“How about Dan Benson?”
Neither of them replied. Conor thanked them and walked away. It had struck him when Sloane had mentioned the small-world connections all around that Edward had interrupted her, effectively cutting her off. Even more noteworthy had been the way Edward had clearly not wanted Sloane to tell him that Griffin belonged to the same men’s club. The secret society.
He would look into the Last Monday Club, including whether Dan Benson was a member. And he would talk to Ford Chase, find out how badly he resented Claire for moving into his family home at Catamount Bluff.
10
TOM
The USCG search for survivors of the Sallie B had been going on for fourteen hours. No one had been found, and no debris had been sighted since yesterday. Tom had been up all night. He felt himself flagging, but all he had to do was think of Gwen, nine, and Charlie, seven, to sharpen up. He stood on the bridge of Nehantic and drank black coffee.
Sallie Benson’s body had been recovered from the wreck. She had been trapped in the galley and badly burned in the blast. Divers had searched for the children, found no sign of them. They did, however, discover a large hole blown through the floorboards, indicating the explosion had come from the bilge.
Dan was at Easterly Hospital recovering from surgery. A length of the boat’s aluminum trim, turned into an arrow by the blast, had hit his chest. It had just missed his heart, punctured a lung. By all reports, he was frantic about his family. Tom knew that both Conor and Jen considered his changing statements about what happened to be suspicious—first saying “they got her,” then claiming that Sallie’s negligence had blown up the boat. Tom wasn’t sure where the investigation stood, but he assumed that until the explosion was ruled an accident, Dan himself was a suspect.
Computer models showed that if the children had made it into the water in the small yellow life raft, they would be drifting toward or past Block Island. At that point, they would be in the open Atlantic Ocean, a far more treacherous proposition considering that the next landfall was Portugal.
Tom studied the chart. The computer factored in every possible environmental factor and wanted to send him south-southeast—and that rang a huge bell. It had done the same thing on a previous SAR, for two young girls whose voyage had started off roughly five miles from the site where the Sallie B sank.
If he had followed directions, he would have missed the children entirely—they would have been presumed lost at sea. But he had accounted for the possibility that they might somehow have steered themselves to safety, and he had checked unlikely rock outcroppings. That’s when he had found them on Morgan Island.
Tom took a deep breath. He ordered Nehantic’s officer of the deck to change course. The day was so bright and the water so calm that the sea was a mirror. It was time to look at Morgan Island. It had saved two sisters’ lives once—why not Gwen and Charlie now? But the radio squawked, and he heard the Jayhawk pilot calling in, saying they had just spotted a yellow raft on the far side of the Block Island windmills. It appeared that no one was aboard.
Nehantic was the ship closest to that location, so Tom ordered another course change, and they steamed full speed toward the reported position. The helicopter hovered above, at enough altitude to avoid swamping the small craft.
Tom had the same concern about the large wake caused by his 270-foot cutter, so he deployed a rigid inflatable boat. Seaman Ricardo Cardoso steered the RIB toward the yellow raft; Tom stood on the starboard side, ready to lean over and grab a line when they approached. His heart was racing, but it cr
ashed as soon as they came broadside. The pilot was right: the raft was empty.
Tom turned toward Seaman Cardoso and started to shake his head when he heard what sounded like a bird. It squeaked once, twice. He leaned farther over the side of the USCG inflatable and saw her. A little girl was lying on her side in the shadow of the raft’s hull, pressed so tightly against it that she might have been part of the boat. There was no sign of the boy.
The raft was small. Tom was afraid his weight could cause it to capsize, so he balanced himself by holding the inflatable’s rail, lowered himself dead center in the raft. He knelt beside the girl—slight, white-blonde, wearing bright-yellow shorts and an orange PFD over a pale-yellow shirt. At first, he didn’t see her breathing, and he thought the worst, but then he saw the pulse in her neck beating fast.
“Gwen?” he asked. “My name is Tom. I’m a coast guard officer, and I’m here to take you home.”
She didn’t speak or turn toward him, but he heard that bird sound coming from her mouth—tiny peeps. He lifted her into his arms, smelled smoke from the explosion, saw that her eyebrows had been singed and her eyelashes burned off. His chest tightened at the thought of what Hunter had told him: that Dan said Sallie had done this on purpose.
Cardoso leaned over the rail, and Tom handed Gwen into his arms. The raft was barely four feet long and obviously empty. Charlie wasn’t there. Tom would radio the Jayhawk and the rest of the fleet, and he knew they would focus their search for Charlie in this area.
When Tom climbed into the RIB, he went to Gwen and tried to meet her gaze. Her eyes were open, but she seemed to be staring at a point far off in the distance. “Gwen?” he said again. “You’re okay. We’re taking you home. Gwen, can you tell me about your brother? Where’s Charlie?”
A tremor shook her body so hard that he thought she was having a seizure. After a moment it subsided, but she still wouldn’t, or couldn’t, meet Tom’s eyes, and she didn’t answer him. But the squeaks didn’t stop—they kept going over and over, almost as if they were her breath, almost as if they told her she was still alive.
