The Shadow Box

by Luanne Rice

  “Well, you do have a great view,” Conor said.

  “Thank you,” Lockwood said. “I grew up with it. My grandfather had his office right here—it looked a little different, as you can imagine. I used to visit him and my father after that. I’d look out at the sea, and all I wanted to do was sail away on it. I joined the navy, wanting to see the world and leave the grime of Easterly behind, and guess what? This place pulled me back like a magnet.”

  “I can see why,” Conor said. “Now, you mentioned Claire.”

  “Yes,” Lockwood said. “What is the status of the case?”

  “We’re following leads,” Conor said.

  “Another way of saying you have no idea where she is.”

  “Where do you think she is, Mr. Lockwood?”

  “I’m worried,” he said. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “About her and about the rest of the family.”

  “You’re close to them?” Conor asked.

  “Yes. Griffin’s the son I never had. The boys are like my own grandchildren. Losing Claire has devastated them. Griffin has a good poker face—has to for his job. But he’s beside himself.”

  “How is their marriage?” Conor asked.

  “No marriage is perfect,” Lockwood said. “From the outside, those two are very different. Griffin is a hard-driving prosecutor, and Claire is a sensitive artist, the soul of nature. Seemingly opposite ends of the political spectrum—he’s conservative; she’s liberal. But I’ll tell you, I never saw two people more in love. He was wild for her—Leonora and I tried to get him to slow down back when they first got together . . .”

  “Why was that?” Conor asked.

  “His money,” Lockwood said, his tone flat. “That might sound crass, but it’s reality. There were plenty of women along the way who saw the big house, the boats, the address. We wanted him to have a life like ours—real love, equal footing.”

  “But he was wild for Claire,” Conor said.

  Lockwood nodded. “Yes. He’d lost his college girlfriend—another tragedy. Ellen Fielding.”

  “Claire found her body,” Conor said.

  “Yes, she and Griffin were together on the beach. Horrible for both of them. That was really what sealed it for Leonora and me—the way Claire was there for him. He had been through so much already; we were worried about him. She shored him up.”

  “Since you knew him so well, and you and your wife were like parents to him, you must have known Ellen too.”

  “We absolutely did.”

  “And . . .”

  “Unstable. People said she might have committed suicide. That didn’t seem far fetched to us.”

  “What makes you say she was unstable?”

  “Oh, she was unhappy. Overly sensitive. She was clingy with Griffin until suddenly she decided she wanted to break up, right after graduation. We asked him why, and he had no idea. Poor kid.”

  “Sounds tough,” Conor said.

  “Well, yes,” Lockwood said. “And her drowning, just awful. I was in the navy, and I know how terrible accidents on the water can happen in an instant—a slip on a wet deck or, in Ellen’s case, on the rocks. Horrible accident.”

  Conor’s antenna went up. Terrible accident, horrible accident. The old man was driving home his point.

  “There was a silver lining, though—he got together with Claire,” Lockwood said.

  Conor stared at Lockwood, wondering why he’d been summoned to his office. The rich really were different; this old man looked at women and saw gold diggers. He liked Claire because she had shored up Griffin—as if that were her purpose on earth, to heal a wounded man. And he had called Conor and asked for a meeting—why? To give helpful information or try to learn what the police knew?

  “Do you think Griffin would have hurt Claire?” Conor asked, staring at him hard.

  “Good Lord, no!” Lockwood said. “Haven’t you heard what I’ve been saying? He is devastated.”

  “Is that why you called me here? To make sure I understand that?”

  “I thought you’d be smart enough to figure that out on your own,” Lockwood said. “I merely wanted to let you know Leonora and I want to help your investigation the best we can. We want this case solved.”

  “Okay,” Conor said. “Now I have a question. How does Claire’s disappearance affect Griffin’s run for office? You’re a big supporter of his, aren’t you?”

  “I resent that tone, but yes. I support him. I donate to his campaign. And nothing changes; to Griffin, a life of public service comes second only to family. I can’t tell you how much I admire that trait of his.”

  “Another question,” Conor said. “Back to Ellen for a minute. You said she was clingy.”

  “Yes. Hanging all over him.”

  “Where did you see her do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s ancient history,” Lockwood said, scowling.

  Conor could see he regretted having brought it up. He thought about a fact he’d seen in the Ellen Fielding file; Griffin had been questioned by none other than Tuck Morgan, the police commissioner—a very unusual circumstance—in the presence of a family friend. And the investigation had been shut down before it even began. Could that friend have been Lockwood?

  “Tell me, Mr. Lockwood. Are you still in touch with former Commissioner Morgan?” Conor asked.

  “Tuck? Yes, of course,” Lockwood said. “Great guy, a longtime friend . . .” Then he stopped himself and narrowed his eyes, staring at Conor as if he’d just figured out he’d been tricked.

  Lockwood’s phone buzzed, and he answered. He listened a moment, then stood and offered Conor his hand, dismissing him.

  “I have another meeting,” he said. “Please don’t hesitate to call if I can help. And I would appreciate your letting me know if there’s progress on the case.”

  “We don’t discuss open investigations, Mr. Lockwood,” Conor said.

  “Know this,” Lockwood said, his tone suddenly sharp and cold. “I will do anything I can to help Griffin. If you go after him, you’ll be making a mistake.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Conor said, staring the old man down.

  Lockwood stared back, his features immobile: a block of granite who had just threatened a detective.

  In the lobby Conor saw three men standing by the window. Two from Catamount Bluff—Edward Hawke and Neil Coffin. The other was someone Conor knew only from news stories and from seeing him around the courthouse during his trial: Maxwell Coffin, Neil’s brother.

  All were political supporters of Griffin Chase. And, like Chase and Lockwood, members of the Last Monday Club. Neil Coffin nodded to Conor as he walked past, but Hawke and Maxwell Coffin turned away.

  42

  JACKIE

  The burial ground.

  Jackie’s mind raced, turning over everything she had seen on her own desk, in her own house: Claire’s handwriting, the Facebook page for Anne Crawford. That name alone told her so much. It brought back memories of childhood, of all the times she and Claire had wandered the woods at the end of the beach. Claire had been so close to her dad; he had taught them about the sachem Tantummaheag, and Jackie thought she knew where Claire would hide.

  The Pequots had lived on this eastern part of the Connecticut shoreline, Mr. Beaudry had told them. In summer, the Algonquian-speaking tribe would fish in Long Island Sound, find crabs and shellfish in the marsh, and raise corn and squash in the fields. Each winter they would move into longhouses in the dense forest north of Black Hall, sheltered from storms and the cold sea wind.

  By the 1740s, English settlements were growing, and the colonists pressured the Pequots to give up their land and ways of life. Many tribal members were driven away. Those who stayed found it more difficult to maintain their traditions; even their graveyards were destroyed by development. The bodies of Pequots buried at Half-Moon Beach, east of Black Hall, were moved to a town cemetery. Throughout the region, many Pequot graves were bulldozed and not even acknowledged.

&nb
sp; Claire’s dad talked about the tragedy of what had been done to the tribes. In 1637, the English captain, John Mason, led a massacre on a Pequot village in Mystic, killing over five hundred men, women, and children.

  Archeological digs uncovered grave shafts pointing southwest, where bodies were buried in the fetal position, on their right sides. Their bones told a story, Mr. Beaudry had told Claire and Jackie. When the skeletons were examined, they discovered ribs scarred by tuberculosis and evidence of other diseases brought across the Atlantic by the English settlers.

  “This is the cemetery of Tantummaheag’s tribe,” Mr. Beaudry had said to the girls, pointing at the hilltop clearing.

  “Crawford,” Claire had said. “Why did the settlers call him that?”

  “They called him ‘Uncle Crawford.’ It was disrespectful,” Mr. Beaudry said. “Erasing his culture.”

  “Will anyone ever disturb the graves?” Jackie asked, heartbroken at the very idea.

  “No,” he said. “Never. People did—other cemeteries at other times—it was sacrilegious and evil. But it will never happen here. I’d die before I let it.”

  It was late afternoon, and the sun was moving across the sky. He’d told the girls to look over the treetops toward the Sound, where the sun was getting ready to set, creating a path of gold on the water’s surface.

  “The grave shafts point that way,” he said. “Because Tantummaheag believed that the spirit travels southwest when it left the body.”

  Anne Crawford, Jackie thought, running along the beach. She felt her own spirit rise, heading toward the sacred place. She passed friends and neighbors with umbrellas and blankets set up along the water’s edge, barely seeing them. She hurried as if life depended on it—because maybe Claire’s life did. Claire, who had taken the name bestowed on a great man by people who wanted to control him. Jackie thought of Griffin, how he had dominated Claire, and she saw the dark humor in her friend’s choice.

  The sun glinted off the wide blue bay. She squinted, wishing she’d worn a cap to shade her eyes. The brightness nearly blinded her, and she slowed down. The hill path was just up ahead. Once she skirted the marsh and ducked into the trees, she’d be okay. She saw two women walking fast from the stone bench toward the parking lot.

  One of them was tall and glamorous looking, striding along with a purpose. The other was familiar and beloved, petite but strong looking, and she was wearing Tom’s blue salt-stained coast guard cap. Jackie would know her anywhere, and she lost her breath.

  They had a head start, and by the time Jackie caught up, the other woman was unlocking a silver Renault. Jackie nearly threw herself into Claire’s arms, but she stopped when Claire’s eyes met hers: their expression was just this side of terrified. Her face and neck were bruised, and her hands were covered with cuts.

  “Claire?” Jackie said.

  “Quick, get in the car,” Claire said, sounding panicked, and Jackie scrambled into the back seat.

  “What’s going on?” Jackie asked, watching Claire, up front, duck down as the other woman drove them through Hubbard’s Point, under the trestle, and onto Shore Road.

  “You didn’t say you were bringing someone,” the woman said, glancing down at Claire.

  “It wasn’t planned,” Claire said. “But Jackie is my best friend.”

  “Claire,” Jackie said, reaching forward to squeeze her shoulder. “Where have you been? I’ve been out of my mind. We all have been.”

  “There’s a lot to tell you,” Claire said.

  “Where are we going?” Jackie asked. “What’s going on?”

  “This is Fenwick388,” Claire said. “We just met.”

  “Fenwick388 is my screen name. I’m Spencer Graham Fenwick.”

  Jackie glanced at Claire and saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes.

  “We’re going to my place,” Spencer said. “Claire will be safe there, and we can talk.”

  “Claire, why don’t we just call Conor?” Jackie asked. “Let’s do that now, have him meet us somewhere now.”

  “We can’t do that,” Claire said. “Not till I know whose side he’s on.”

  “Whose side he’s on?” Jackie asked. “There’s only one side—yours. He’s searching for you—he’s in charge of your case!”

  “That’s the point,” Spencer said. “Because cops and prosecutors work closely together. He might be feeding information to Griffin.”

  “He’s my brother-in-law!” Jackie said.

  “I know, Jackie,” Claire said. “But I just can’t be sure yet.”

  “Then what about me?” Jackie asked. “Am I on the wrong side too? Why didn’t you call me for help?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Claire said, turning around to look into Jackie’s eyes, reaching back to take her hand. “Jackie, I love you. I’m sorry it’s been this way. But we’re together now. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “So am I,” Jackie said, squeezing her hand hard, not wanting to let go.

  “The point is that Claire is safe, she’s here now, and we have to make a plan,” Spencer said as she drove east.

  “Did Griffin do this to you?” Jackie asked, looking at the bruises on Claire’s face and neck and the cuts on her wrists and hands.

  “I think so,” Claire said. “But he wore a mask. He wouldn’t let me see his face. That’s what’s making me crazy, Jackie. It’s why I’ve stayed hidden, didn’t even call you. I don’t know anything for sure.”

  As Spencer drove them through seaside towns that Jackie had known her whole life, along streets that were as familiar to her as her own road, she felt she had entered a foreign landscape, unknown and unfriendly, a place she had never been before.

  It took a long time, driving on back roads instead of the highway, all the way to Charlestown, Rhode Island. Spencer turned right off Route 1, heading toward the sea, past a sign that said OCEAN STATE SEASIDE HAVEN. A sandy driveway ran through a coastal forest of scrub pines, past a row of identical one-story cottages. She parked the Renault beside the last one, leaned over Claire to take a notebook from the glove compartment, then slammed it shut.

  Jackie and Claire followed her to the front door, and Spencer unlocked it. Inside was a single room containing a double bed, a couch and an armchair, a coffee table, and an efficiency kitchen. Two generic seascapes and the kind of corny signs sold in summer town gift shops—THE BEACH IS THATAWAY! and THE WORST DAY OF FISHING IS BETTER THAN THE BEST DAY OF WORK!—hung on the walls.

  “Have a seat,” Spencer said. “I’ll make some tea. Claire, you must be hungry.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Claire said, sitting beside Jackie on the sofa. Claire stared at Spencer, riveted. “I know who you are,” she said.

  Spencer gazed at Claire with a smile, a compassionate expression. “You do? Most of my work is fairly underground.”

  “I’ve read a lot about domestic violence over the years,” Claire said. “Your clients post on Reddit. On the dark web, too, I suppose. You help victims get away.”

  “I never call them ‘victims,’” Spencer said. “They are so strong. They have gone through hell—a hell they entered out of pure love. Abusers are weak. They trap women who have gigantic hearts, who want to help these poor, sad wounded birds.”

  “That’s what I think too,” Claire said, nodding. “I’ve always believed we have big shoulders.”

  “Absolutely. The abusers know that, and they take pleasure in breaking their partners down. It’s part of their fun. Plus, they get all that love, all that attention.”

  “Spencer,” Jackie said, feeling spun around by the back-and-forth. “Obviously, Claire knows what you do, but I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “I have a foundation,” Spencer said. “I help women escape from abusive relationships.”

  “The Spencer Graham Fenwick Foundation,” Claire said.

  “Yes,” Spencer said. “My name comes from the women in my family. Spencer and Graham were the surnames my mother and her mother were born with. They taught me
so much—both by what they could and could not do in life. I could have named my foundation for Marnie—I thought of that—but I wanted to honor the women in my family.”

  “Marnie?” Claire asked.

  “Yes,” Spencer said, gazing at Claire with eyes full of sorrow. “She was my best friend.”

  “I want to know about her,” Claire said. “And please tell me what you know about Griffin.”

  Spencer nodded. “First, I never expected it would be you—I thought I was meeting someone named Anne. I thought ‘Anne’ and I would pool our knowledge about Claire’s case—you going missing, all that blood in your garage, Griffin’s involvement. See, I have a story about Griffin too. But it’s really a story about Marnie.” She set the notebook down on the low table in front of them. Jackie could see that it was bulging with news clippings and loose sheets of paper.

  “Tell us,” Claire said.

  Jackie watched Spencer sink back in the armchair, close her eyes, and take a deep breath. She seemed to be willing herself to relive the worst moment in her life. And then she began to talk.

  43

  CLAIRE

  I was riveted, listening to Spencer, a woman I had read about, who had seemed more like a phantom of the internet than an actual person.

  “Marnie Telford was my best friend,” Spencer said. “From the time we were in sixth grade. You know how sometimes people outgrow each other as they get older? We were the opposite. We got closer.”

  “Like us,” I said, glancing at Jackie.

  “I wish Marnie and I had the chance to say that now. But we didn’t. She left this world too soon. It all began—and ended—on a trip we took when we were juniors in college.”

  “To Cancún,” I said and felt my stomach flipping. Was this it? Was I about to hear the story that would explain it all?

  “Yes,” Spencer said.

  At first it had been a thrill. It was their first time really on their own—away from college, out from under their parents’ supervision, making their own money. Working at Las Ventanas Resort, the luxury pink hotel on its own private beach, had been a dream. It was too high end for the usual spring break crowd, but there were plenty of young people on vacation with their parents.