by Luanne Rice
It warmed my heart to think of Wade giving Griffin something so important—not just a fishing trip but the chance to spend time with a mentor who really cared. Something he had obviously lacked at home.
“He must have loved it,” I said, trying to remember Griffin going—it must have been earlier that summer, before he and I got together, and he had never mentioned a trip with the Lockwoods to me.
“Yes, he did,” Leonora said. “Wade chartered a sixty-foot sportfishing yacht, and springtime in that latitude that time of year was just perfect. There were still sailfish around, with blue marlin just showing up. Wade and Griffin caught a couple of each, along with bluefin tuna and bonitos.”
“Sounds amazing,” I said.
“It was, for all of us. I stayed ashore at the resort along with dear friends—my tennis partner, Jenny, and her stepson, Danny, and Griffin’s little friend. We’d go to the beach and play tennis all day while Wade and Griffin were out on the boat.”
“‘Little friend’?” I asked.
“It was very much about Wade and Griffin,” Leonora said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “He felt very strongly that Griffin needed his full attention—to get him on track for life. Of course, we felt bad that Danny didn’t get to go fishing with the men, but we tried to make it up to him. We rented him a dirt bike. He took up windsurfing, had lots of adventures.”
“That sounds like a good compromise,” I said.
“I think so. At night we’d all have dinner together. The kids would stay out late dancing, and Wade, Jenny, and I would stay in playing backgammon. Nothing like treating three teenagers to a lovely spring break—their last before having to enter the real world and get jobs—and having loads of fun ourselves.”
“Spring break?” I asked.
“Yes, right before graduation,” Leonora said.
“Where did you take them for spring break, Leonora? Where was the resort and the fishing?” I asked, the back of my neck prickling.
“Mexico. The Caribbean. Wade chartered the boat out of Puerto Juárez.”
“Not Cancún?” I asked, feeling relieved.
“Well, just north of there. My husband knows fishing, and he wasn’t going to charter through the resort for top dollar. He went to the ferry dock and paid cash.”
“So you stayed in Puerto Juárez?” I asked.
“Oh, God no,” she said. “It was very, shall we say, ‘rustic’ back then. We stayed in Cancún.”
“Who was Griffin’s ‘little friend’?” I asked. “The one you mentioned a minute ago?”
“Ellen,” she said. “His college girlfriend.”
I couldn’t move or even breathe.
“That poor girl who died,” Leonora said. “You know as well as I—terrible for you, finding her body like that. It nearly destroyed Griffin, dear. He took her death so hard, and I think that is the reason he wasn’t ready to settle down with you back then. It tore him up.”
“I didn’t know he went to Cancún,” I said, barely hearing anything she had said after that. “I only knew that Ellen did.”
“Dear, it’s better to leave some things in the past.”
“Did anything bad happen down there, in Mexico?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Everyone said Ellen got depressed after she got back.”
She looked away. “We were all rattled that last day at the resort.”
“Why?” I asked.
“A girl drowned,” she said. “She worked at the hotel—a chambermaid, I think. An American girl, only about twenty years old. We’d all seen her around; she was very friendly. Ellen took it hard—we all did.”
My hands were shaking; I had to clasp them under the table so Leonora wouldn’t see.
“How did she drown?” I asked.
“I don’t know, darling. She went swimming after dark. A riptide, I suppose,” Leonora said. “Now, listen to me.”
“What is it, Leonora?” I asked.
“These are family secrets,” she said. “Griffin told Wade that he has never discussed them with you. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I said.
“But did you learn about Cancún from someone else?” she asked.
“Only that Ellen went,” I said. “Not Griffin. I’m very surprised to hear it now.”
“Griffin has told us that you’ve been saying things about Ellen’s death. That it might not have been an accident.”
“It might not have been,” I said.
“Two things,” she said. “Very important. First, you must stop saying that. It hurts Griffin. Second, do you realize what trouble you could be stirring up for him politically? Wade is very concerned that you might talk about it to outsiders.”
“Leonora, why wasn’t Ellen’s death investigated?” I asked, remembering how Griffin told me he’d been questioned by Police Commissioner Morgan, a friend of the Lockwoods’, with Wade present.
“Because we protect our own,” she said. She grabbed my hand. At first it felt like a loving gesture, but then she began squeezing harder, until it hurt. I looked into her eyes and saw pure ice. “We are a family, whether related by blood or not. Every family has its secrets. And I expect you to keep ours. Your husband is going to be governor.”
I tried to yank my hand away, but she squeezed it tighter.
“Many people have invested in Griffin. He is going to win.”
“Leonora, you’re hurting me . . .”
She continued, ignoring me. “There is too much at stake for you to be throwing ridiculous accusations about. You have no idea—this movement to elect your husband is so much bigger than you. The boys are on board one hundred percent. We are going to protect Griffin from anyone who threatens this campaign. I need you to understand that.”
Tires crunched on the driveway, and I heard the garage door creaking up. Leonora heard it too and smiled. She dropped my hand.
“The boys are back home,” she said. Her face was suddenly pleasant again, her tone warm, as if those poisonous words had not just fallen from her mouth.
And the door between the kitchen and garage opened, and Griffin, Wade, and Alexander walked in. I quietly left the room and walked into the hall. I stared down at Fingerbone—at everything I had gathered from the tidal pool where the tide had taken Ellen, at the skeletal hand I had created from bare twigs. Leonora’s words rang in my ears; the bones in my hand hurt from her grip. I hadn’t realized how badly I was shaking.
Leonora’s attempt to warn me off had the opposite effect. I wanted to shove the truth of what I planned to do into her face, all of theirs. I lifted the shadow box and started back toward the kitchen.
I heard Wade telling Leonora that the EMTs had listened to Alexander’s heart and lungs, and by the time they got to the emergency room, Alexander decided he was completely fine and refused to go inside.
“He decided to just come home,” Griffin said. “So he got into Ben’s squad car, and here we are.”
“You Chase men are too tough,” Leonora said. “Alexander, you should have gotten checked out and had X-rays.”
“I didn’t want to go in the first place,” Alexander said. “Claire’s the one who called.”
“You’re lucky to have such a caring stepmother,” Wade said.
“He is indeed,” Leonora said. “Right, Griffin?”
“Absolutely,” Griffin said.
That was my cue. I entered the kitchen and placed my shadow box down on the white marble counter.
“What’s that?” Wade asked.
“It’s a piece I’m about to deliver to the gallery for my show,” I said. “It’s dedicated to you, Griffin. Come look, everyone.”
They all crossed the room and stared down into the tidal pool I had created. I saw all four of them—Griffin, Alexander, Leonora, and Wade—take in the sight of mussel and crustacean shells. Could Griffin hear the sound of crabs tearing at dead flesh? He stared into the world I had created, at the hand, at the Roman coin I had bought on eBay.
“What an honor to hav
e your wife dedicate a work of art to you!” Wade said. “This is marvelous! Just fantastic.”
“Can’t you see what it is?” Leonora asked through gritted teeth. “I just told her to keep her ideas to herself and now this. Garbage.”
Griffin didn’t reply. I watched his face twist.
“It’s called Fingerbone,” I said to my husband. “Can you guess why?”
I knew, even before he lifted his head to look at me, that his green eyes had turned black.
And they had.
SIX DAYS LATER
30
CONOR
The knife was found by two sixth-grade girls walking down Main Street in Black Hall.
Once Conor got to the scene, he learned that after school lots of kids went to the Starfish Sweet Shop. Janie Farrow and Alison Roberts had bought a bag of strawberry and lime jellybeans to share and were sitting on the curb throwing them up in the air and popping them into their mouths.
One dropped and rolled on the pavement and into a storm drain. The girls had crouched down to look inside. It was dark in there, with a small concrete shelf, then a drop-off into who-knew-where. On the shelf were Alison’s green jellybean, some candy wrappers, dry leaves, a weird buoy-looking thing with a key dangling from a chain, and a knife.
Janie stuck her arm inside the opening and pulled the knife out of the drain. She wasn’t sure why; she just thought it looked cool. At first Alison thought Janie had cut herself because there was blood on the blade.
Other kids gathered to look at it; then Nancy Fairchild, the owner of the Starfish, came outside to see what was going on. She told the kids to step back and not touch it again, and she called the town police, who notified Conor.
“Well, we might have some physical evidence,” Ben Markham said when Conor arrived and led him to the sidewalk in front of the candy store. One look at the Sabatier carving knife and Conor knew it was part of his case.
“Could be from the set on the Chases’ kitchen counter,” Conor said.
“I figured,” Markham said. “Last Friday, walking through the house, you pointed out the knife block, the empty space.”
Conor took photos of the knife. He snapped shots of the storm drain. When the techs arrived, they would lift the grate and get better photographs and video, but he wanted some pictures on his phone. He wanted them from this angle, the way the knife had looked when the girls made their discovery.
“But even if it did come from the Chases’ house, any intruder could have gotten hold of it,” Markham said. “The door between the garage and kitchen is never locked. Say someone was waiting for Claire to open the garage door, overpowered her—he could have easily just walked into the kitchen, grabbed this, and finished attacking her.”
“How do you know that door is never locked?” Conor asked.
“I’ve been moonlighting at the Bluff for twenty years now,” Markham said. “I’ve got keys and alarm codes to all four houses—I check the properties when the families go on vacation. And in that amount of time, you get to know people. Griffin is the best they come. The boys are a little spoiled, but they wouldn’t hurt a soul.”
Conor didn’t reply. Markham was close to Griffin Chase, and he certainly seemed adamant about the perpetrator not being a member of the family. Then he saw Chase’s state-issued Chevy Malibu pull up to the curb, and he glared at Markham.
“Seriously? You called him?” Conor asked.
“Out of courtesy,” Markham said. “He deserves to know—his wife is still missing.”
Griffin got out of the car in his perfectly pressed dark suit and starched white shirt, his red tie. His face looked haggard, as if he had aged five years in these last six days.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, staring down at the knife.
Conor watched him. He thought of Claire’s question, whether it was possible for a person’s green eyes to turn black. Chase’s eyes were green.
The forensic truck arrived, and techs began taking photographs, creating a map of the scene. They bagged the knife to send to the lab for fingerprints and DNA testing. The techs printed the drain’s grill, then removed it to examine what else was down below.
Conor watched as they photographed, removed, and bagged leaves, pebbles, and chocolate bar wrappers and the floatable key holder made of white foam, key dangling from the chain.
The tech hooked the chain, held it up for Conor to see. He spun the foam buoy around; the letters SB had been written in black marker. Sallie B?
Conor looked up and down Main Street. He saw green recycling cans at the curb. If someone had dropped a weapon and the key chain down the drain, he could have disposed of additional evidence in other places. He might have split up incriminating items to lessen the chances of getting caught. Garbage collection usually took place on Mondays, recycling on Thursdays. With the holiday, the pickups were delayed by a day.
He was too late to check garbage cans, but the recycling truck had not yet come by. Because the bins were in the street, he knew he was safe to search without a warrant—once trash was out for collection at the curb, it was considered abandoned and thus fair game for the police.
He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and walked down the street opening the hinged lid of each green barrel. A third of the way down the street was the Woodward-Lathrop Gallery. He opened their recycling can. It was full to the top with wine bottles and plastic glasses—probably from Claire’s opening last Friday, but it stank like rotting garbage—odd for recycling.
Shoved down beneath the glass and plastic was a heavy black trash bag, lumpy with whatever it contained. On the outside was a rust-colored streak that might have been dried blood.
Conor took photos of the can and its contents, then turned toward the candy store, wanting to get the attention of someone from the forensics team. Griffin Chase was staring at him and started walking over. This was predictable. Conor was going to slam Markham for calling Chase.
“What have you got there?” Chase asked.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to let us do our work.”
“You’re investigating my wife’s disappearance, and it’s going to be my case. That’s her gallery,” he said, pointing at the yellow Victorian house. “I want to see what you’ve found.”
Here comes the shitshow, Conor thought. He was about to cause himself as much grief as he’d ever had in his career. “As of now, this is a crime scene,” Conor said. “It’s an open investigation that involves your family.”
“How fucking dare you?” Chase said, brushing against Conor—but hard, as if he wanted to knock him down.
Conor held him firmly by the shoulders, keeping him away from the recycling bin.
“Mr. Chase,” Conor said. “You honestly do not want to interfere with my investigation.”
“You’d arrest me?” Chase asked.
“Yes,” Conor said.
“I’m going to call Steve Langworthy, then Jim Magnus,” Chase said, referring to the state police chief and the chief state’s attorney. “And they’ll talk to the governor. If this is the way you want to play it, you can deal with the consequences.”
“Understood,” Conor said. They had a twenty-second stare-down; then Chase turned and walked away with his minion Markham a step behind.
The moment had been invaluable. Chase had shown his capacity for rage. He nodded for Duncan Jones, a local police officer, to establish a perimeter around the site.
This bag could contain leftover cheese and smoked salmon from Friday’s opening, but from the blood on the bag, he suspected something a lot worse—evidence connected with Claire’s disappearance.
Conor thought of the knife. He ran through his interviews with Ford and Alexander Chase. Alexander had been obsequious, defending and protecting his brother. Ford’s hostility had been glaring and so had Dan Benson’s. Motive was possible in both cases, but in spite of what Markham had said about ease of access to the Chases’ kitchen, would Benson really have had the opportunity—or knowledge—to enter
the kitchen and steal a knife?
If someone from outside the family had wanted to attack Claire, they would have come prepared or known that weapons would be available at the house. Benson had said he stayed away from Sallie’s business life, but could it be possible he’d accompanied her to the Catamount Bluff houses while she was working on them?
When Conor glanced back at Chase, he saw him deep in conversation with Markham, and again he pondered their relationship. He didn’t like not knowing whether Markham was a good cop or too loyal to Chase to be trusted in the investigation.
Conor wanted to tear open the bag, but they needed to dust it first as well as inventory the rest of the garbage can’s contents. He would continue searching other recycling bins along the street. He would tell Markham to call the town and have them stop today’s collection. Then he’d get his guys to start checking footage from security cameras up and down Main Street.
“Hey, Detective,” Jones called, pointing into the can.
Conor looked inside. Wedged beneath where the bottles, glasses, and black trash bag had been was one of Claire’s shadow boxes. Conor had seen it at last Friday’s opening. And he had seen Griffin Chase walk out of the gallery with it under his arm: Fingerbone.
31
TOM
Blue Marine LLC had salvaged the wreck of the Sallie B—the parts of the hull that hadn’t been destroyed by fire—and towed it to the coast guard pier in Easterly. Tom Reid stood silently staring at what remained of the Sallie B.
Conor had sent him a photograph of a floating foam key chain marked SB. It had been found with items connected to Conor’s case, and Tom needed to know how it intersected with his.
Tom’s fellow coast guard investigator, Matthew Hendricks, had been focused on the Sallie B’s fuel system. Tom found him in his office at the head of the dock. A diagram of the factory specifications of a brand-new Loring 42 and a map of the interior of the wreck as she was now were tacked to a board behind his desk.
