“Ford,” I began, walking toward him. He stood with his back to me, trying to fork his cap out of the skillet. “Just leave it. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, he said I have to,” Ford said. He wouldn’t turn around. I put my hand on his back, and I felt his shoulders quaking. We just stood there for a long time. The sound of Griffin’s car receded. Waves broke on the shore. Gulls cried as they flew over the house. After a while, Ford shook my hand away. I didn’t want to leave him, but I knew he couldn’t stand for me to see his tears.
I left the house and returned to my studio. I thought about crab claws and those bare twigs, of the shadow box I was about to make, of how it would be titled Fingerbone and dedicated to my husband.
Looking back, I wonder if Griffin was giving me one last chance by telling me to think about protecting instead of undermining him. Or had he already made up his mind that I was a liability and set his plan in motion?
Even though he’d pretended not to hear what I’d said at the tidal pool that morning, we both knew I’d been talking to Ellen and that I’d told her I was going to leave. But my leaving might raise too many questions, trigger “rumors and innuendo,” and he couldn’t let that happen.
ONE DAY LATER
9
CONOR
On Saturday morning, the forensics team was still processing the Chase house, and Conor Reid drove toward the scene. Everything had changed: they now knew the DNA belonged to Claire. It appeared the rope had been used to hang her from the rafter, that it had snapped under her weight. Blood loss from the fall was possible, but the amount, and the pattern on and around the car, suggested to Conor that she had been beaten, possibly stabbed.
So far, Griffin Chase was the last person known to have seen Claire on Friday morning, at approximately 7:45. She hadn’t shown up at the dock as planned, and she never arrived at the gallery. The crime scene had been discovered by Conor, Griffin, and Ben Markham at about 5:30 p.m., and the forensic team began their work an hour later. That provided an approximate ten-hour window for when the attack could have taken place.
From blood in the garage, especially the still-not-fully-coagulated pool beside the right rear tire, the time frame was narrowed to two hours—the medical examiner estimated she had been assaulted no earlier than 3:30 p.m.
Ralph Perry, another off-duty Black Hall cop, was parked at the head of the private road that led into Catamount Bluff, and he waved as Conor approached. Conor rolled down his window, and Perry did the same.
“How’s it going?” Conor asked.
“Busy morning. You know, people wanting to gawk. It’s even juicier for them because it’s a rich family. That plus the usual trespassers trying to sneak onto the private beach. I just tell ’em how to get to the state park.”
Conor nodded and drove through. He saw the Major Crime Squad van outside the Chases’ house. Investigators walked between the van and garage wearing gloves and protective shoe coverings.
Catamount Bluff was bordered on one side by Long Island Sound and three sides by marsh and five hundred acres of deep coastal forest. The four families that had founded the Bluff in the late 1800s had decreed that the wildland be preserved from development. One section had been logged in 1906, and the ponds were a source of ice in winter. Period maps showed an abandoned icehouse as well as a series of caves in the rock ledge bordering one of the salt marshes.
Other than the cart path to the icehouse, the woods were inaccessible to vehicles—and pretty much any human encroachment. Conor would have expected the Bluff residents to create trails for hiking or to reach hunting and fishing grounds, but the deeds stipulated that the land remain forever wild.
Aside from the Chase house, there were three others that shared the private road, and the occupants were being questioned. The old icehouse, next to Lockwood Pond and close to the main road, had been checked, and no sign of Claire had been found. There were some beer cans and bags of fast food refuse in a corner, indicating that someone had used it at one point—possibly a party spot for kids.
Search dogs had been brought in last night, but they lost Claire’s trail on the dirt track just fifteen yards east of the Chases’ house. Someone could have hidden a vehicle there, where Claire wouldn’t have seen it. After ambushing her, the suspect could have loaded her inside and driven away with her.
In fact, there were signs that several vehicles had parked in that spot over time. When told there were tire impressions of trucks and various makes and models of cars, Chase had said it was where workmen parked and also guests from when he and Claire held parties.
Flowers bloomed all around the house. The beds looked well tended. Conor wondered if the Chases had a gardener or whether Claire took care of them herself. He couldn’t imagine Griffin doing it, working in the soil.
Maybe a landscape crew had made the recent tire tracks. Or perhaps it was Claire’s attacker. Had she been abducted? Or had he taken her body away? Although the tire tracks were photographed by investigators and impressions were taken, it was impossible to determine which were most recent. Conor needed a list of all tradespeople known to work on the Chases’ property.
Conor spotted Trooper Peggy McCabe standing by the front door. They waved at each other; he had worked with McCabe before, after Beth Lathrop’s murder, when McCabe was a town cop. She was local, born and raised in Black Hall. He made a mental note to ask her if she knew the Chases.
Last night detectives had questioned the Coffins and Lockwoods. The Hawkes had been out, and Conor intended to drop by to interview them today.
All four families were friendly—in fact, they had all gathered at the Coffin home just two weeks earlier for the annual Catamount Association meeting. Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres had been served. It was also a private campaign rally, with the neighbors toasting Griffin’s run for governor and writing big checks.
All day yesterday, Neil Coffin had been at work in Hartford, where he was an insurance executive; Abigail owned a yoga studio in town and had taught a class that started at three p.m. She hadn’t seen Claire at any point during the day, and she didn’t return home until six thirty, after dropping into Claire’s opening. Like the Chases and Hawkes, Neil Coffin was in his midforties, Abigail a couple of years younger.
Wade and Leonora Lockwood, a couple in their late seventies, had left their house in separate cars but at the same time: five p.m. Wade went to meet some friends at a club he belonged to, and Leonora drove into town to attend Claire’s opening.
They hadn’t seen Claire all day, hadn’t noticed any vehicles other than a FedEx truck driving toward the Chase home—as they were leaving their driveway. Wade reported the time as 5:00 p.m. sharp. He had been in the navy, fought in the Vietnam War, then returned to his family home on Catamount Bluff to settle down. He had inherited land and buildings on the gritty Easterly waterfront. Over time, he had developed many warehouses for commercial use and luxury condos.
Leonora thought she might have seen Claire drive past around noon, but she couldn’t be sure whether Claire was leaving Catamount or returning, and she wasn’t positive it hadn’t actually been the day before. Wade had expressed displeasure over his wife’s inaccuracy.
Conor had not seen a FedEx box outside the house when he had arrived there last night. He had called their dispatcher in Norwich, and she’d told him that nothing had been delivered. A pickup had been scheduled by Claire—she was a frequent customer, often shipping work to collectors—but the driver had not found a package.