by Luanne Rice
“Well, we love having you use it,” she said. “Edward and I need to start swimming more.”
“He’s probably too busy for that,” Ford said. I watched him pace nervously from the open door to the table where I’d put the wine. Sloane and I were using two glasses I’d brought down from the house, but Ford grabbed an empty mason jar I used to soak my brushes, filled it with rosé, and gulped half of it at once.
“You’re right about Edward,” Sloane said. “He works too hard, just like your dad. Lawyers, you know? All those billable hours.”
“I didn’t mean busy with work,” Ford said. “I meant with Sallie.”
“Sallie?” Sloane asked. “Do you mean Sallie Benson?”
“Yep, I do.”
“Well, we’re done with the redecoration,” Sloane said. “She was a great help, especially with the boat, that’s for sure, but it’s over now.”
“No, it’s not over,” Ford said. He looked pale. He pushed his dark hair back, and I saw the circles under his eyes. He downed the rest of the wine. Through the north window, I saw Alexander coming down the hill.
“What’s not?” Sloane asked Ford, smiling.
“Your husband and Sallie,” he said.
Alexander walked into the studio, approached his brother.
“Don’t,” Alexander said, his face in Ford’s.
“She needs to know,” Ford said.
The two brothers stared at each other. Alexander reached out to grip his twin’s shoulders, and there was both tenderness and firmness in the way he held Ford at arm’s length, gave a quick shake.
“Know what?” Sloane asked, approaching the boys.
“Ford loves Sallie,” Alexander said, staring at Ford with incredible angst in his eyes. “That’s why he’s doing this. Telling you. It’s not his fault; he’s just really hurt. Please don’t be mad at him.”
“Mad at him—at Ford? For what?” Sloane asked.
“For what I’m about to tell you,” Ford said. “You need to know about Edward.”
“Christ,” Alexander said, hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Ford, stop it, come on . . .”
“Edward? What are you talking about?” Sloane asked.
“Your husband is sleeping with Sallie,” Ford said, wrenching out of Alexander’s grip. “They meet on your boat. On Elysian. They used to meet at your house, when she was decorating it, when you were at yoga or down here with Claire.”
“Ford!” I said, shocked at his drunken idiocy.
“I’m talking to Sloane, not you,” he said.
“I don’t believe you,” Sloane said.
“You do believe me, though,” Ford said. “When you love someone, you see through them, whether you want to admit it or not. That’s how I knew about Sallie. I felt it coming through her skin, that she wanted him. You feel that from Edward, don’t you? That he’s been with someone else? That he wants her?”
I looked at Sloane, saw the flash of despair in her eyes, and realized that Ford’s words were registering with her. Sloane turned too quickly, and she knocked her easel and paints over. The canvas went flying. Ford tried to catch it, but it skittered past, sliding across the floor. He stepped toward Sloane, reached out to touch her. She stood facing the wall. She was shaking.
I took Ford’s hand to pull him away from Sloane. He yanked it away, enraged. He poked me in the chest with two fingers, glared at me with fury I’d previously only seen in his father’s eyes. I felt terrified.
“I’m trying to help,” he yelled at me. His tone was just like Griffin’s. His body tensed, as if he wanted to hit me. I took a step backward and forced myself to stay calm.
“Leave, Ford,” I said. “Now.”
Alexander caught my eyes and nodded. “She’s right, Ford,” he said, with the tone of a peacemaker. “Let’s go.”
“You’re always judging me, Claire,” Ford said. “Just like you judge Dad. I know all those lies you tell yourself about him, about that other bitch.”
“What bitch?” I asked.
“The one in the tide pool,” he said. “You want to ruin his chances in the election?”
“Ford, shut up,” Alexander said.
He was talking about Ellen; my skin crawled. I saw him glance at my worktable, where I kept my notes for each shadow box. Had he gone through them, read what I had written? I wrote in code, lines of poetry to describe my feelings and the meanings of each piece. Was it possible he had deciphered my words about Fingerbone, connected them with Ellen’s death?
“What has your father been saying to you?” I asked Ford.
“That elections are lost on rumors,” he said.
“What did he tell you about the tide pool?” I asked.
“Nothing! Because there’s nothing to tell. See? You’re so focused on a lie, something that didn’t even happen. My brother and I are working our asses off on his campaign. You should be too. He’s a great man, Claire.”
“She knows that, Ford,” Alexander said with a glance at me. “She wants him to win, just like we do. We’re all on the same team.”
He started easing Ford toward the door. Ford’s gaze was on me, full of hatred, as if all his fury needed a single object. He was out of control, drunk on wine and his wild emotions. But he finally gave in to Alexander, let him lead him out of the studio. I was shaking. I couldn’t imagine Griffin discussing Ellen with Ford, but maybe I was wrong. I had seen, just now, how alike they were.
When the boys had left, I went to Sloane. I tried to put my arm around her shoulders, but she backed away.
“Sloane, I’m sorry,” I said.
“Did you know about Edward and Sallie?” she asked.
“No, I had no idea. It might not even be true.”
She turned to me, a blink of hope in her bleary eyes. “Would Ford make it up?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Griffin was cruel. Although I hadn’t seen that explicit tendency in Ford before, his behavior just now showed he was his father’s son.
“Maybe he did,” she said. “He wasn’t making any sense, all that stuff about his father and a tide pool and the election. He sounded insane.”
“He did,” I said, and I hugged her.
We stood together for a minute, each of us lost in the pain of wondering about truth and lies and love and hurt. And I stared at the sheaf of notes beside Fingerbone and realized that Ford had probably read them.
23
SALLIE
Sallie sat at the desk in her home office, listening to sprinklers through her open window. She loved the sound of water—whether at the beach, on the boat, or in the garden—and as sunlight streamed in, she closed her eyes and felt at peace for the first time in weeks. Swimming with her children, making the decision to stop seeing Edward had given her a fresh start.
It was late afternoon. Dan had taken Gwen and Charlie to the tennis court. Many days after work he would play with them—teaching them how to swing the racket, wait for the ball, toss it straight up, and hit through for a strong serve. They enjoyed learning how to keep score, and Charlie thought it was hilarious to keep saying love. “Love–fifteen, love–thirty, love–forty!” he’d say to Sallie, running in from the court, sweaty and laughing.
The smell of flowers and freshly mown grass filled her with the joy that summer was about to start. A week away from June, the roses were in bloom. She loved old varieties, English roses from the David Austin catalog. She found their names to be romantic, inspiring: Munstead Wood, Gentle Hermione, Golden Celebration, Scepter’d Isle, and Susan Williams-Ellis.
She had wanted to name Gwen Susan, after the beautiful white rose, but instead she had let Dan talk her into naming their daughter after his mother, Gwendolyn. It wasn’t that Sallie hadn’t liked her mother-in-law—she had, very much. It’s just that it was the beginning of her giving in to Dan, just to mollify him—keep him happy and prevent his mood from turning dark for too long.
Her bookcases were full of design books from the Victoria and Albert Museum, Tasche
n, Rizzoli, stacks of Architectural Digest and Martha Stewart Living going back fifteen years, and photo albums of every design job she had ever done. She had surrounded herself with beauty—her house, her garden, her books, but especially her children.
Gwen and Charlie reminded her of everything that mattered in life. Watching them play in the waves with Maggie had made her happier than she had been all spring, all winter. She was actually looking forward to the family trip to Block Island. She had phoned the kids’ school to let them know they wouldn’t be there on Friday.
She would make a bigger effort to enjoy being with Dan. She would try to find love for him again.
Her cell phone rang. It brought her back to reality, away from the dreams of all she planned to do to make life better for her family. A glance at the screen was a punch in the heart: it was Edward’s number. He would want to know when they could meet again; she would have to be firm, let him know it was over.
“Hello,” she said, steeling herself.
“What the fuck did you do?” Edward asked.
The question shocked her. She had started an email to him but hadn’t sent it.
“I didn’t do anything,” she said. “But I want to talk to you. We can’t go on, Edward. It’s . . .”
“You’ve done enough talking,” he said. “You told Ford Chase about us, and he told Sloane, and now she wants me to move out.”
“Edward, I didn’t tell him! He spied on us.”
“Bullshit. We were careful.”
“He came to your boat two days ago. You and I were supposed to meet, but you were working. And he showed up. He was drunk, and . . .”
“He came aboard Elysian? What did he say?”
Sallie hesitated. She had wanted to wipe the slate clean, never think of Ford’s words again. “He called me terrible things.” She paused. “And he said he loved me.”
“Loved you? Were you sleeping with him too?”
“Of course not! Edward!”
“I’m going to walk over to the Chases’ house right now, and that kid will be lucky if I don’t kill him. I swear to God, if he tells anyone else or if you do . . .”
“What, you’ll kill me too?”
She waited for him to say no, I could never do that, I love you, but he was silent, and she felt as if he’d stabbed her.
“Ford told Sloane right in front of Claire,” Edward said. “Now Claire can hold that over me. I feel like . . .”
“Like what?” Sallie asked, afraid of how menacing he sounded—as if he meant Claire harm.
But just then she heard the sound of car doors slamming and of voices. Gwen and Charlie, happy and laughing. Dan talking, then the voice of another man. She craned her neck to see around the corner of the house.
There in the driveway were her husband and children. And a black Porsche 911. As she watched, Ford Chase got out of his car and stood face-to-face with Dan.
Sallie hung up on Edward and ran downstairs.
FIVE DAYS LATER
24
CONOR
At ten a.m. the Wednesday after Claire disappeared, Conor drove down the long dirt lane to Catamount Bluff. He noticed that the security guard usually posted at the entrance was not at his post. The trees were leafing out, making the woods on either side even denser, harder to see along the trails. This enclave was completely private, no way for a car to get in or out except this road.
He thought back to Friday, to the timeline he had established. If Griffin was telling the truth and he had said goodbye to Claire right after breakfast—and she wasn’t reported missing until after five thirty—that gave someone nine hours to lie in wait for her, attack her, and take her or her body away. Based on the freshness of the blood, the window had been narrowed to the middle of the afternoon.
He passed the neighbors’ driveways. Coming from the main road, in order, were the Coffins, Lockwoods, Hawkes, and at the dead end atop the bluff, the Chases. They all had security cameras, and police had reviewed the footage, but because of the foliage, nothing more than glimpses of the road were visible. The examiners noted that a FedEx truck had been seen entering and leaving Catamount Bluff.
FedEx had been rolling out a program of installing drive cams in the cab and cargo hold, and both were present, showing no suspicious activity. The truck had been gone over for signs of blood, and none was found. The driver was questioned and cleared. The package he had been sent to pick up had indeed been called in by Claire, and the air bill was stamped with her account number.
Considering no vehicle other than the FedEx truck had been seen—by camera or naked eye—the attacker must have removed Claire one of two ways: either along the trails that ran through conservation land or by boat from the beach. The trails were too narrow to accommodate vehicles, even ATVs.
If Claire was dead, the killer could have dismembered her, scattering body parts through the woods and in the Sound. Or he could have dug a grave prior to Friday, had it ready, and buried Claire somewhere in the forest.
One of Connecticut’s most famous cases, best known as the “Wood Chipper Murder,” concerned Helle Crafts. Her husband, Richard, had murdered her, put her body through a wood chipper that he had rented and installed on a bridge. The trial was nationally groundbreaking in that it was the first time a prosecutor had achieved a conviction without a body—only fragments of teeth and fingernails.
Investigating Claire’s disappearance, police had contacted every heavy equipment rental company in a twenty-five-mile radius around Black Hall. Only two wood chippers had been rented for a period that included that Friday, both by landscapers who had done business with the companies before. The company representatives attributed the small number of rentals to it being a long weekend. Their offices were open just a half day on Saturday and closed both Sunday and Monday. Renters wouldn’t want to incur the extra charges.
When Conor got to the Chases’ house, he parked in the turnaround and got out of the car. He had called Ford and told him they needed to talk. He had offered to drive to wherever Ford lived, but Ford said he was at the Catamount Bluff house. There was a Porsche and a Mercedes SUV parked in front of the barn where Claire had been attacked. Conor wondered which vehicle was Ford’s. He hesitated, glanced toward the woodland trail. He wanted to follow the course the dogs had already searched, look for anything they or the team might have missed. But he wanted to talk to Ford first.
He knocked on the front door and waited. When no one answered, he walked around to the seaward side of the house. He walked up the back steps, peered into the kitchen, rapped on the glass. Still no reply.
Claire’s studio was just down the hill toward the Sound, and Conor walked across the lawn, mown grass sticking to his shoes. A large picture window faced north, in the direction of the house, and as he approached he saw shadows moving within the studio. He headed around the whitewashed building and saw that the double doors facing the beach were closed. He knocked hard. No response.
“Police,” he called. “Please open the door.”
He heard the murmur of voices inside, but then one of the doors slid open on an iron track. A fair-haired young man stood just inside, trying to smile.
“Officer?” he said.
“Detective Reid. Are you Ford?”
“No, his brother, Alexander. We’ve been expecting you.”
“Is Ford here too?”
“Yes, he’s inside.”
“May I come inside?” Conor asked.
“Of course,” Alexander said, casting a nervous look over his shoulder and stepping aside. “Please come in.”
Conor entered the large bright space. He immediately noticed a young man lying on a sofa bed across the room, beyond Claire’s workbench, a tool chest, and an easel. Alexander led him over.
“Ford?” Alexander said.
“Hi, Detective,” Ford said. His hangover was painfully obvious, and he seemed disinclined to move.
“Hi, Ford,” Conor said.
“You might as well know, if y
ou haven’t already heard, which I’m sure you have, that Claire and I didn’t get along,” Ford said.
“That true for both of you?” Conor asked, glancing at Alexander.
“My brother likes everyone,” Ford said. “That’s why you want to talk to me, right? Because you think I’m the bad one and I did it, right?”
“Did you do it?” Conor asked.
“I don’t even know what ‘it’ is,” Ford said.
“That’s fine,” Conor said. “I just want to get an idea about Claire. Why don’t you tell me what you think might have happened to her?”
“We want to know that too,” Alexander said. “Where is she? Why was so much blood in the garage? It’s all over social media that she was probably murdered. But that can’t be true.”
“Why?” Conor asked.
“She’s strong,” Alexander said. “Amazing. She would have fought like hell. And she’s . . . not here. There’s no body. She’s not dead. Those people posting on Facebook don’t even know her. They’re wrong.”
“Dad’s the state’s attorney,” Ford said to Alexander. “You don’t have to go online to know how the investigation’s going. Just ask him.”
“What does your father say?” Conor asked.
“That he’s going crazy, wondering what happened to her,” Ford said. “Wanting her to be okay and come home. That he feels the cops aren’t doing enough.”
Conor ignored the last part. “Does he think she can come home?” he asked.
Ford shrugged. Conor stared at him. The kid was making it sound as if Claire had a choice in the matter.
“What do you think happened to her?” Conor asked again.
“No idea,” Ford said.
“Alexander, you said Claire is strong and would have fought back. What makes you say that?” Conor asked.
“If you saw her work, the art she produces and the message in it—statements about the environment, humanity, abuse, even life and death. She cares, and she’s out there with what she has to say. She’s fierce. She fights against what she considers wrong.”
“She doesn’t know anything about abuse,” Ford said.
