The Shadow Box

by Luanne Rice

  FOUR DAYS LATER

  20

  CLAIRE

  That night, I saw the mountain lion. Hungry and tired of being in the cabin, I set out for the tidal pool earlier than usual. Blue hazy dusk had given way to darkness, and I had no cell phone, no communication with the world beyond the woods and beach, so I had no way of knowing where Griffin was directing the search. It occurred to me that law enforcement might bring back the dogs I had heard the first day, so I should reinforce my perimeter with the big cat/fox mixture. I spread it on the far side of my usual trail.

  I traced a large circle with my cabin at the center, sprinkling the concoction as I went. Once my eyes got used to the dark, the stars shone bright enough to light my way. As long as I stepped carefully, I had no worry about walking in the woods at night. My father and I had done it so often. I kept glancing north, and guided by Polaris, I felt as if I were creating a magic circle that would protect me.

  After the perimeter was set, I went swimming in the Sound to wash the smell off me and to soothe my wounds. My bruises were already turning from purple to yellow, the cuts on my hands forming scabs. When I emerged from my swim, I climbed the hill again. I stood at the edge of the burial ground and shivered. I felt as if someone were watching me. I glanced to the southwest—the direction in which the Pequots believed their spirits left their bodies—and thought I saw a glint of light.

  I had made my way toward the spring to rinse off and get drinking water when the back of my neck tingled. I felt danger; that most ancient part of the brain that registers sounds and smells we would otherwise ignore lit up. I knew I was being tracked and froze, listening hard. Even on high alert, I heard nothing but normal night sounds: tree frogs peeping in the marsh, a slight breeze ruffling the new leaves.

  I slowly turned. I wondered whether I would see Griffin with his knife or one of his police officers with a gun drawn. Instead, not twenty yards away, I saw glowing yellow eyes, the shimmer of a tawny coat. The cougar kept to the thicket that bordered the Pequot cemetery. He was a shadow, liquid gold in the starlight. I stood perfectly still.

  “Claire, never turn your back on a big cat,” my father had said. “They’re stealthy; you’ll never hear them coming. And once they decide you’re prey, they’ll close the distance so swiftly you’ll never have time to react.”

  He told me to make myself look bigger, braver than the cat itself, but for some reason that night in the woods, I forgot everything my father had said—not because I panicked but because the cougar was inside the circle I had made. He was part of my world, part of the magic. Maybe I was still delirious from the attack, but I didn’t feel scared.

  I stared into the lion’s eyes. I knew that he could take me down so easily. He’d swipe me with his curved claws, clamp his fangs around my throat or my skull, kill me in an instant. Was it because I knew what humans could do, what my husband had done, that I felt no fear? Attracted by the potion, he must have smelled his own kind; perhaps he was looking for a mate, or maybe he wanted to claim his territory, fight another male to the death. All I knew was that I was in the presence of the animal that had fed my imagination for so many years.

  He knew I wasn’t a threat. His gaze held mine for a long minute, then two, then three. My breathing was steady. I knew I should back away, very slowly, but I didn’t. I blinked, and in that single second, he was gone. I didn’t hear him, but I felt a whisper of air as he left, and I saw the slightest shadow of gold shimmer in the southwest, on the path of the spirits.

  After that encounter, I skipped going to the spring that night. I knew he would go there to drink, and I didn’t want to test my luck. I had no food in my cabin, no smells to tempt him. I told myself he was a protector sent by my father—he wouldn’t attack me, but he might maul anyone who came to harm me. My thinking was probably skewed, but I couldn’t let myself admit to even more danger than I already was in.

  I climbed into my sleeping bag, but I couldn’t close my eyes. The mountain lion had reminded me I had to be vigilant. I had to come up with a plan. I was getting stronger, and I had to get help. The only problem was, I still had no idea whom I could trust.

  The constellations moved across the sky; the hours passed by. I drifted off, then heard the cries of an animal, death in the woods. Had the cougar made a kill? Or was I dreaming about the sound of my own voice, screaming for help four days earlier? Or was it a dream of the future, of what Griffin would do if he found me?

  I didn’t know, and I couldn’t go back to sleep.

  21

  CONOR

  Conor and Jen Miano decided to question Dan Benson together. Conor still wondered about a possible connection between the two cases. A word that might have been Ford had appeared twice in the note written by Sallie, and he made a note to ask Dan if the family drove one.

  It occurred to Conor that he still hadn’t questioned Ford Chase. He was Claire’s stepson. If Sallie had been referring to him, and not a car, could he be the link between her and Claire?

  They arrived at Easterly Hospital in separate cars, and Conor followed Jen through the revolving door. Benson was on the mend and had been moved to a different floor. They spoke to the nurse in charge and went to his room. He lay in bed, upright and watching a talk show on TV.

  “Mr. Benson,” Jen said. “This is Detective Reid.”

  “Hello,” Benson said. His skin was sallow. He was small and muscular with short graying brown hair. His eyes were open very wide, and Conor thought he looked scared, like a deer in the headlights. He had a gauze bandage above his left eye.

  “How are you doing, Mr. Benson?” Conor asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “You don’t look fine. I know you were badly injured.”

  “Yeah. They say I’m lucky the metal didn’t hit my heart,” he said. “But it’s nothing compared to what Gwen’s been through.” He swallowed hard, looked toward the window. “And my Charlie, my boy. Where is he?”

  “We don’t know,” Jen said gently.

  “We’re very sorry that he’s still missing,” Conor said.

  Benson nodded without looking up.

  “Can you tell us what happened on Friday?” Conor asked.

  “I already told her,” Benson said, gesturing at Jen and seeming to slash away tears—but his eyes were dry. He hadn’t mentioned Sallie.

  “Take us through that day,” Conor said. “It was a weekday. Why weren’t the kids in school?”

  “We wanted to get a jump on Memorial Day weekend,” Benson said. “Get out to Block Island before the crowds. Get a good slip at the marina.”

  “So you planned this early departure?” Jen asked. “Or was it spur of the moment?”

  “We planned it. We even wanted to provision the night before.”

  “Provision? Tell me more,” Jen asked. “I’m not a boater.”

  “You know, buy food, soda, snacks, stuff like that. Head down to the boat and load everything up first thing so we could take off, leave the marina early. Right after breakfast, we thought.”

  “Who did the grocery shopping?” Conor asked.

  “I did. That part I did after work Thursday.”

  “Where?” Conor asked.

  “Black Hall Grocer’s,” Benson said.

  “And who did the loading, down at the boat?” Jen asked.

  “Me. But not Thursday night. It didn’t quite work out that way.”

  “Then when did you do it?” Jen asked.

  “Friday morning. The day we left.”

  “Mr. Benson, what kind of car do you drive?” Conor asked.

  “A BMW.”

  “Do you have a Ford?”

  “No, why?”

  “Did Sallie?”

  “No, she had a Suburban.”

  Conor nodded. So if that spidery handwriting in Sallie’s letter did say Ford, it wasn’t about a family car.

  “All right,” Conor said. “What time did you load the provisions onto your boat?”

  “Nine
a.m.”

  “Friday morning, right?”

  “Yes, I already said that.”

  “Did you call the school and tell them the kids wouldn’t be there?” Jen asked.

  Benson shrugged, winced as if he’d moved the wrong muscle. “Sallie took care of things like that. But, yes, she probably called.”

  “So you left the dock that morning?” Conor asked.

  “No,” he said, letting out a big exhale. “It wound up being early afternoon.”

  “Why is that?” Jen asked. “What was the holdup?”

  “Sallie,” he said, looking stone faced.

  “Why?” Jen asked.

  “It started the night before. She said she didn’t want to go.”

  “Did she say why?” Jen asked.

  “She didn’t feel good. She didn’t think she could handle the boat ride and a whole weekend away.”

  “That must have been frustrating,” Conor said.

  “Yeah,” Benson said.

  “She screwed things up?” Conor asked.

  “You could put it that way. I finally convinced her to go. I ran out to load up the boat before we all headed to the dock . . .”

  “Just you?” Conor asked. “I wonder why that is, considering you were all planning to go down there and take off that morning. Couldn’t you have done it all in one trip? The provisioning and getting the family on board the boat?”

  “Trust me, when you have little kids, you want to get as much done as you can before they get there—they get impatient, you know? Waiting around while we stow the food, put ice in the icebox, fill the fuel tanks. Trust me, it’s not fun. So I did it myself, then went back home to pick everyone up.”

  “What time did you get home?” Jen asked.

  “About ten thirty. We had the kids all set, practically in the car, when Sallie broke down again, said she didn’t want to go at all. She started to cry—almost hysterical.”

  “In front of the kids?” Conor asked.

  “No. As usual she had her meltdowns in our bedroom. But they heard, especially Gwen. She knows everything that goes on between us. She gets stomachaches over it, worries we’re going to get divorced. But that didn’t stop Sallie from deciding to ruin a nice family weekend away.”

  Jen and Conor let his words hang in the air. He was exhibiting anger instead of grief, striking for a man whose wife had just died.

  “Did something physical take place between you two?” Jen asked.

  Both Conor and Jen watched his face carefully. He squinted and scratched the bandage on his forehead. It slipped slightly, and Conor saw an incision closed with stitches. Conor knew that Sallie’s body was too badly burned for the medical examiner to find signs of assault.

  “No!” Benson said. “What do you think I am?”

  “We have to ask,” Jen said.

  “Mr. Benson, do you know Claire Beaudry Chase?” Conor asked.

  “Griffin’s wife? No.”

  “But you know Griffin?” Conor already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear what Benson had to say.

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “Family friends from way back. And we’re in the same club.”

  “What club’s that?”

  “Last Monday. But I don’t go anymore. It’s just a bunch of guys drinking scotch and talking about how to get Griffin into the governor’s mansion.”

  “You don’t think he should be governor?” Conor asked.

  Benson snorted. “When you know someone since you were kids and you think of all the stupid shit they did, you have a hard time imagining them leading the state. I used to joke with Sallie about it.” He paused, as if he’d just heard what he’d said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Griffin is all right. A little in love with himself, some people would say.”

  “What kind of stupid kid shit are we talking about?” Jen asked.

  Benson tried to laugh again, but now it sounded nervous. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Dumb stuff. Like playing pranks, sneaking parents’ booze, skipping school. Nothing bad. I’ll vote for him.”

  Conor heard the edge in Benson’s voice. There was emotion there, behind the seemingly lighthearted words. Resentment but also fear.

  “Do you know his kids? Alexander and Ford?” Conor watched for Benson to react to the names. Was that a slight flinch?

  “Not well.”

  “But you do know them?”

  “From around town, seeing them at the boatyard, stuff like that.”

  “Okay. Now, Sallie did some work for the Chase family. Fixed up a kitchen for them, wasn’t it?” Conor asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right. She did. But I stay out of her business.”

  “Did she ever say anything about the Chases?” Conor asked.

  “No. I figured he was probably a prick to work for, but she never said.”

  “When will you be able to go home?” Jen asked.

  “They’re discharging me today,” he said.

  “That seems soon,” Jen said. “Considering what you’ve been through.”

  “I’m going stir-crazy in here,” he said. “And I have to make plans to bury my wife.”

  Conor and Jen thanked him for his time, expressed their sympathy again, and left the room.

  “What do you think?” Conor asked.

  “A lot of anger at Sallie,” Jen said. “He didn’t even try to hide it.”

  “Right. He wasn’t playing the grieving husband. And he’s got some kind of issue with Chase,” Conor said. “Enough that it made him stop going to the rich-boy secret society.”

  “Enough that he’d do something to Claire?” Jen asked.

  Conor mentally ran through the Friday morning timeline; Chase had said he last saw Claire after breakfast on Friday, around seven forty-five. Benson had gone to the boat at about nine. What if he had encountered Claire, had some sort of altercation?

  “Why’s he in such a hurry to get out of the hospital?” Conor asked. “So he can get home and clean up evidence?”

  “Search warrant,” Jen said. “Coming right up. I need an iced latte. Think they have them in the hospital dining room?”

  “Give it a go,” Conor said. “I’m heading out. Catch you later.”

  They said goodbye, and Conor decided to return to the Chases’ house on Catamount Bluff, walk through the scene of Claire’s disappearance again. And if only to clarify what Sallie might have meant by the word Ford in her note, Conor was going to find Ford Chase and ask him some questions.

  TWO DAYS EARLIER

  22

  CLAIRE

  Some of my favorite moments in the studio were when Sloane Hawke came over. It was late afternoon, and in honor of the fact summer would unofficially start that weekend, we opened a bottle of rosé. I had delivered most of my exhibition pieces the day before, so the studio was nearly bare. Only one shadow box destined for the show was left. I still hadn’t had the chance to show Fingerbone to Griffin.

  It was a warm, sunny day. The forecast for Memorial Day weekend was looking great, and Sloane was excited about the annual party she and Edward always gave. She was trying out a new caterer this year—instead of the lobster boil and clambake they’d had the last few years, they’d be serving Texas-style barbecue.

  “Edward’s got a Stetson, and I bought a pair of Lucchese boots when we went to Dallas in April,” Sloane said. “It was his idea to get the boots. I love how much he’s getting into this party, and he knows I adore it. Usually he doesn’t care about the details, but this year it’s so different. What do you think that’s about?”

  “I’m sure he just wants to make you happy,” I said.

  “That’s how it feels,” she said, smiling.

  “I’m glad,” I said, having completely forgotten what it was like to have a husband who wanted to make me happy. I hadn’t felt that since my earliest days with Griffin. And with Nate . . .

  We sipped our wine and worked in silence. Sloane had stretched and applied gesso to a new canvas, set
it up on her easel, and started painting. I was mulling over my next project—inspired by Nate’s recent research, I thought I might travel to Tadoussac, a town on the Saint Lawrence River in eastern Quebec, where humpback and beluga whales gathered. Each fall, humpbacks migrated south from Canada, along the eastern seaboard, through the Anegada Passage from the Atlantic Ocean into the Caribbean.

  As soon as I moved out, I would be free to follow the whales. My new shadow boxes would reflect migration—the whales’ and my own. The studio doors were wide open to Long Island Sound, and a warm breeze blew in. I sat at my drafting table, doing a watercolor of the view.

  Maybe I’d want to remember it after I left, or perhaps I was just getting into practice painting salt water in preparation for the whales. All I knew was that divorce wouldn’t be a good look for a man running for governor—but Griffin had brought this on himself.

  “Oh, look,” Sloane said, gazing out the big north window toward the house. “The boys are here.”

  I glanced out and saw Ford and Alexander standing on the terrace. They seemed to be having an intense conversation. Then Ford shoved Alexander, and he stumbled backward, knocking over a wicker chair. I felt a shock. I had never seen them argue, much less push each other around. I stood up, but before I could hurry to the house to see what was wrong, Ford was at the door of my studio.

  “Hey, is the bar open?” he asked, spying the wine.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, Alexander’s just being holier than thou, as usual,” Ford said.

  “That sounds boring!” Sloane said, laughing. “Ford, are you going to use our pool today? I know you love it, and it’s all set for the party on Saturday.”

  “Not today, Mrs. Hawke,” he said. “I think my days of swimming in your pool are about to be over.”