by Luanne Rice
“When?” Tom asked.
“This morning.”
“I thought she was supposed to be here at least a few more days,” Tom said.
“That I’m not at liberty to discuss,” the nurse said. “You’ll have to speak to her father or get his permission to talk to her doctor.”
“Did her father pick her up?” Tom asked.
“Again,” the nurse said. “You’ll have to—”
“We get it,” Conor said. “Come on, Tom.”
They walked out of the hospital, and Tom felt his heart sinking. “I have a bad feeling about the whole thing,” he said. “They told me Gwen cried when her father entered the room. Maybe just because seeing him reminded her of what happened but Con—I don’t think so. I think she was scared. I half expect to hear that a guy covered in black scales took her away.”
Conor called his old partner, Jen Miano, and asked her about Gwen. He spoke for a minute, hung up, and turned to Tom.
“She’s at home. Her father picked her up. She’s resting in bed,” Conor said.
“Jen just took his word for it?”
“No. She was there earlier—went over to continue questioning. He had just arrived home with Gwen; she saw him walk her to her room.”
“Okay,” Tom said, still feeling uneasy. “I guess I’d better get Maggie over to her soon.”
“Yeah,” Conor said. “Man, I would like to see that book. I’d say let’s go now, but Jen said Gwen’s been through enough for today.”
The two brothers stood in the hospital parking lot, deep in thought. Tom wouldn’t have been surprised to know his brother’s thoughts mirrored his own: a little girl in a yellow boat, her brother spirited away by mermen, and a boat that followed vessels about to sink.
EIGHT DAYS LATER
35
CLAIRE
I woke at dawn, a week and a day after the attack, clear light coming through the window of my cabin. Filtered by the trees, it bathed the pine walls, turned them golden rose, made me feel calm. Nature always did that for me—no matter how tough or confusing life could be, sunrise and the smell of salt air lifted my spirits. I had brought a lot to read from my studio, and I had a busy day ahead of me, but for just then, I lay still, trying to remember a dream.
No, not a dream, a memory, and the quality of light had brought it on: our honeymoon in Italy. We stayed in an ancient villa in Gaiole in Chianti, overlooking the valley to Montegrossi Castle at the top of the hill. Our villa was a thousand years old, with a tower built in 1021 of foot-thick stone, and being there made me feel we could last forever too.
Every morning we’d wake up to rose-gold sunlight slanting through narrow windows. I can feel Griffin’s arms around me now. We lay on rumpled white sheets, holding each other, feeling the bliss of finally being married. We packed our days full of hikes, the occasional visit to medieval churches and small museums, but mostly we ate and drank wine and returned to our bed in the tower.
The villa was surrounded by vineyards and olive orchards, and one moonlit night we walked downhill to Badia a Coltibuono, an eleventh-century monastery turned hotel and restaurant that produced its own wine and olive oil. The road was dusty and the olive leaves silver green in the moonlight. We held hands the whole way, ate a Tuscan feast of lemon risotto and dolceforte wild boar in the refurbished stables, and ordered a case of their extraordinary Chianti Classico Riserva to be shipped back to Catamount Bluff.
But in the mornings, we would lie together in the early light, hearing sounds of the countryside, with nothing on our minds but each other, and that was what I remembered most. That was what I thought our marriage would be.
When I finally felt able to get up and move around the cabin, I wolfed down food I had brought from my studio and got to work. I had a makeshift desk of two apple crates my dad and I had used to transport food and books from home, and I spread out journals, clippings, and documents I had brought from my studio.
I had saved years’ worth of newspaper articles about Griffin’s cases and about a month’s worth of pieces and editorial letters regarding his campaign for governor. He would be running as an independent, but he was supported by Republicans and Democrats alike. People cited his caring, the compassion he showed to victims and their families, his desire for true justice—not the trumped-up kind designed merely to win convictions.
“State’s Attorney Chase is the people’s lawyer,” wrote Virgil Richards in the Connecticut Journal. “He champions the truth rather than prosecuting for headlines. He wants justice for the victims, not personal glory.”
A cover story in the Sunday magazine section was titled “The Prince of Caring,” with a photo of Griffin standing in front of the imposing granite courthouse, feet spread, arms folded across his chest, jaw jutting out, as if he were guarding the court, marking it as his domain. I looked at that photo and saw arrogance, but I know it was widely thought to portray him as the guardian of righteousness, a protector of victims, determined to bring punishment to the bad guys.
Buried amid the press full of glowing accolades was one editorial by Sean Murphy in the Easterly Times, published April 12:
Follow the Money That Leads to Chase
State’s Attorney Griffin Chase is enjoying a meteoric rise in the world of Connecticut politics. After nearly two decades of prosecuting cases in Easterly County, his decision to run for governor is not surprising. Talk to anyone around the courthouse and you hear praise and accolades. His charm is legendary; even members of the defense bar speak highly of him.
So why am I hearing whisperings around town about Chase’s backers? Chase refuses to accept corporate-PAC money. He can fund his own campaign with his family wealth and that of his friends. He was raised in the exclusive gated shoreline compound of Catamount Bluff. In fact, he still lives there among equally wealthy neighbors Wade Lockwood, Neil Coffin, and Edward Hawke. All are outspoken supporters of Chase.
Wade Lockwood’s holdings include approximately 30 percent of the Easterly waterfront. Last year he donated the section known as Lockwood’s Harborfront to the city, for use as a public park. He and his wife, Leonora, have funded gardens, a playground, a boathouse, and the planting of one hundred trees.
While sections of Lockwood’s waterfront property have been improved, several abandoned warehouses and an unused pier remain. Lockwood’s Maritime Gateway project, a mixed-use proposal of condos and a marina, has been perpetually stalled by state environmental and land-use regulations.
Edward Hawke is an attorney with law offices in Lockwood’s renovated warehouse complex. In 2018, Hawke successfully defended Maxwell Coffin of the Coffin Group, a family-held company with extensive holdings in the western United States, following an oil spill in Alaska’s William Twigg Bay. Maxwell Coffin and his brother, Neil, as well as Edward Hawke, are investors in Maritime Gateway.
An anonymous source informs me that Griffin Chase, Wade Lockwood, Edward Hawke, Maxwell Coffin, and Neil Coffin are members of the Last Monday Club. The all-male club is exclusive; the membership list is secret.
Lockwood, Hawke, and both Coffins have each made substantial donations to the Chase for Governor campaign. Each has something to gain from a friend being elected to the state’s highest office. The multimillion-dollar Maritime Gateway project may be at stake. Additionally, the Coffin Group has begun lobbying to resurrect a long-rejected proposal for a natural gas pipeline beneath Long Island Sound. A friendly governor could benefit those plans.
Sean Murphy, the reporter, had a reputation for muckraking, trying to find trouble where there was none. I’d cut out the editorial because I was surprised he would even know of the Last Monday Club’s existence and I wondered who the “anonymous source” had been. I’d planned on sharing the piece with Leonora and Sloane but had never gotten around to it.
I turned to the social media printouts. Total strangers had created Facebook groups dedicated to my case; I scanned pages of comments on WHERE IS CLAIRE BEAUDRY CHASE? I recognized a few names of
acquaintances from town and the past: a girl from my class at RISD, my hairdresser in Black Hall, a student of my father’s. But most were unknown to me, amateur sleuths trying to solve my disappearance.
Kiley M: In an effort to learn more about Claire, I am thinking of starting a podcast. Could interview people who know her and possibly gain clues to what happened.
Lexie Wein: Podcast GREAT idea! Would Claire have staged a scene, throw her own blood around. Maybe need to secretly disappear.
Josh Crandall: This is a valid theory.
SuzanneBR: Do NOT say she would stage this herself! This is a Claire support group!
Lexie Wein: This is a discussion group. We should be able to express ideas!
Kiley M: As administrator of this group I have to weigh in. Yes, we are supporting Claire, but to do so, we have to consider all possibilities.
Lexie Wein: She is an artist. Creative. Could have figured out a way to escape her life.
Marisa Albro: Escape from what? She’s got a perfect life. Gorgeous home, great hubby, fame, career.
Kiley M: No one knows what goes on behind closed doors. Let’s brainstorm who I can get for my podcast. We’ll find her!
Lexie Wein: If Claire staged scene she must have intended to throw suspicion on her husband. Trouble in paradise?
Michelle Costas: What about her first husband? Where was he?
Josh Crandall: Worth looking into. Possible lover.
Kiley M: Interesting. So hubby #1 kidnapped/killed her?
Lexie Wein: More like ran away with.
SuzanneBR: I think she is dead, God bless her. Some convict her hubby put away came back to get even. Or fam of convict. Anyone know how to find list of people GC put in prison?
Josh Crandall: Easy to search court records. But still going with idea she staged escape.
Marisa Albro: No way no way no way.
SuzanneBR: Claire’s artwork touches my soul.
Fenwick388: Anyone notice the not-so-slight coincidence that another local woman met tragedy this week?
Marisa Albro: OMG yes—Sallie Benson.
Josh Crandall: A coincidence, so what?
Fenwick388: While you’re searching court records, Josh, why don’t you check out the history between Griffin Chase and Dan Benson.
RaenEC: What are you saying, Fenwick388?
Fenwick388: GC did it. Prince of Caring—BS!! Prince of Darkness more like it. He is a narcissistic sociopath. Trust me, I know a lot about him.
Lexie Wein: Did what?
Fenwick388: Killed Claire. And maybe had something to do with Sallie. He hates women. Including me.
Michelle Costas: WTF? He’s a champion for victims, especially women in DV cases.
Fenwick388: He wears a mask.
Lexie Wein: Never heard anything bad about GC. You’re being very irresponsible, and you’d better hope LE isn’t reading this. You could be in trouble for slander.
SuzanneBR: Who’s “LE”?
Kiley M: Law enforcement. Cops, investigators from Major Crime. They often follow groups like these. Even get clues from us sometimes ha ha. Let’s solve the case for them.
Josh Crandall: GC is in total grief and insane with worry for his wife. And a great prosecutor for the state of Connecticut. Guar-an-fucking-tee she’ll be found safe. Could even be a publicity stunt for her art show.
Fenwick388: He did it.
Josh Crandall: Who the hell are you?
RaenEC: He definitely didn’t do it! I know him personally. He is a great man. So stop lying and spreading BS, Fenwick388.
It brought me up short to see that RaenEC’s profile picture was of Alexander’s girlfriend, Emily Coffin—no doubt the EC part of her screen name. She looked beautiful and yachty, just as she did in real life. I wasn’t surprised that she would be defending Griffin; she was young and naive and no doubt saw what he wanted her to see.
I wished I had my computer and a fake profile, so I could write to Fenwick388. This person was clearly someone with lots of anger toward Griffin—and who had seen his dark side. She said she knew he hated women, including her.
And who was Josh Crandall? The name didn’t sound familiar, but he certainly seemed invested in the idea that I had staged the scene for my own disappearance.
I was amazed at the photos that appeared in various posts—my high school yearbook picture, a candid shot of Griffin and me at our wedding, a photo of me grinning in my rowboat, oars resting on my knees, and several pictures of me walking into the Woodward-Lathrop Gallery.
Those last pictures made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. They were recent: I recognized the jeans and T-shirt I had worn last week, before my show was scheduled to open, when I delivered the last of my work. The photographer had captured me going to and from my car, Jackie greeting me at the door, me entering the gallery. Nothing inside the gallery—the photographer had wanted to stay unseen by me. But he or she had been there, watching.
Every single one of the pictures was posted by Fenwick388.
She had called Griffin a narcissistic sociopath. She knew a lot about him. She had mentioned Griffin’s connection to Dan Benson. And I knew that I had to locate her as soon as possible.
36
TOM
Tom told himself that he wasn’t acting under any official capacity, so when it was time to take Maggie over to the Bensons’ house, it seemed just fine to Tom that Jackie came along. She had gotten attached to the little dog—they both had. Tom knew that Conor had tried to make arrangements to see Gwen’s drawings. But so far, the timing hadn’t worked. The fact that Conor wasn’t pushing harder told Tom he thought Gwen’s story was pure fantasy. And it probably was.
Tom called Dan in advance to let them know they were on the way, and he had said that he was meeting with the insurance adjustor, but Gwen was home with her aunt Lydia. Tom parked his truck in the Bensons’ driveway, and he and Jackie—holding the dog—walked up the sidewalk.
“Beautiful gardens,” Jackie murmured, looking at the beds lining the walk, the roses climbing a trellis beside the front door. “And they already miss Sallie.”
Tom saw what she meant—some were wilting and needed to be watered, and weeds had started sprouting up between the bushes. He rang the bell and waited a few minutes before footsteps sounded inside the house.
The woman who answered the door had short white-blonde hair and bright-blue eyes and had to be Sallie’s sister—the resemblance to photos he had seen of Sallie was striking.
“Hi, you must be Tom Reid,” she said, shaking his hand. “Dan said you’d be coming. I’m Lydia Clarke. Gwen’s aunt.”
“Good to meet you,” Tom said. “This is my wife, Jackie.”
The two women smiled at each other and said hello. Clearly recognizing Lydia, Maggie wriggled in Jackie’s arms.
“Thank you for what you did,” Lydia said, stepping toward Tom. “For saving my niece.”
“She’s incredible,” Tom said. “It was her strength and will to live that kept her going.” He remembered how cold the water temperature was that night, how she could have died of hypothermia.
“How is she doing?” Jackie asked.
“You can imagine,” Lydia said. “We’re still in shock, especially Gwen. My sister was my best friend. I don’t have kids—Gwen is the daughter I never had, and I’m trying to do my best for her—and for Sallie.”
“I am so sorry about your sister,” Jackie said. “And your nephew.”
“Thank you,” Lydia said. “Gwen knows her mother died, but she can’t let herself believe that Charlie did too.”
Suddenly the dog began to whimper and squirm in her arms, and Tom saw Gwen coming through the front hallway. Jackie put Maggie down, and she ran straight into Gwen’s arms. The little girl crouched on the marble floor, face buried in Maggie’s fur. Her head and hands were still bandaged, but the gauze wasn’t as thick as it had been in the hospital.
“Thank you for bringing her to me,” Gwen said, finally looking up.
“She missed you,” Jackie said. “But we loved having her with us. It won’t be the same without her.”
“She’s like that,” Gwen said. “She makes everyone happier when she’s around.”
“Would you like to come in?” Lydia asked. “Have some iced tea?”
“That would be wonderful,” Jackie said. She followed Lydia into the kitchen, and Tom hung back in the hallway. He crouched on his heels beside Gwen and Maggie.
“She’s happy to be home,” he said, watching them play together.
“This is the only place she’s ever known,” Gwen said, with an air of tragedy belying her age. “And it won’t feel the same to her at all. Because it doesn’t feel the same to me and Aunt Lydia.”
“It doesn’t?”
Gwen shook her head. “Because they’re gone.”
“Your mother and Charlie. I’m sorry, Gwen.”
“Nothing will ever bring my mom back,” she said. “Aunt Lydia is so sad. I try to help her, and she helps me.” Then she glanced up at Tom. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something. “Have you looked for him? My brother?”
“Gwen,” he began.
“I know he’s somewhere in the world,” she said. “Not lost in the ocean. Remember, the sea castle?”
“I do,” he said.
“Why aren’t you looking there?”
“Well, I don’t know where to find it,” he said. “Do you still draw those pictures you showed me?”
“Yes, and lots more,” she said.
“You know,” he said. “Jackie, my wife, works with artists. She loves seeing paintings and drawings. Do you think you could show her your book?”
“I don’t like to show anybody,” she said.
“But you showed me,” he said. “And it gave me a lot to think about.”
Gwen bowed her head, pressed her face into her Yorkie’s neck for a few seconds. “Jackie took good care of Maggie,” Gwen said, her voice muffled.
