As Conor walked down the road to meet with the Hawkes, he heard blues music coming from their house. Catamount Bluff seemed so sedate and buttoned up, Conor welcomed the sound. Two Mercedes sedans and a catering truck were parked in the circular driveway. The house seemed a mirror image of the Chases’: shingled, sprawling, over a century old, worth a fortune. Conor rang the front bell, and a minute later, a man answered the door.
“Mr. Hawke?” Conor asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m just breaking down the party—they’re out back. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Except for art on the walls, the house’s decor was pure white, similar to the Chases’ kitchen: white walls, furniture, rugs on the hardwood floors. In stark contrast, abstract paintings, in shades of red and pink, covered the walls. A tripod by a picture window held a telescope, and Conor noted it was pointed toward the Chases’ house.
Glass doors opened onto a pool, turquoise and sparkling in the sun. Tables and chairs had been set up, and a crew was folding them, packing them onto dollies. A couple stood by the bar, pulling down lengths of red, white, and blue bunting. The woman turned, spotted Conor, and said something to the man. She was thin and blonde, rings on her fingers and bracelets on her wrists, wearing a dress the same raspberry shade as some of the paintings inside. Conor approached the couple.
“Hi, did you call? Are you from the police?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m Detective Reid. Mrs. Hawke?”
“Sloane, please. And this is my husband, Edward.” They all shook hands. Both looked solemn. He was tall with brown hair, muscular but turning soft around the middle; he wore faded red shorts and an untucked starched white dress shirt; the breast pocket bore a small embroidered crest: a dark bird with outstretched wings, talons clutching a banner. He had seen it before.
“We want to help however we can,” Edward said.
“Claire would never run away,” Sloane said, shaking her head. “Never. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why would I think that?” Conor asked.
“All marriages have problems,” she said, looking downward. “Lawyers don’t always appreciate what it’s like to take in the world and turn it into art.”
“She means me,” Edward said.
“You’re a lawyer?” Conor asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, corporate law. My office is in Easterly.”
Conor found his gaze pulled back to the insignia on Edward’s shirt pocket. He was pretty sure he’d seen the same one on Griffin Chase’s shirts.
“And in case you haven’t guessed, Sloane’s an artist,” Edward said. “She painted those masterpieces in the living room.”
“What happened to Claire?” Sloane asked, brushing off her husband’s compliment. “I can’t stand not knowing.”
“Two tragedies on the same day,” Edward said.
“He means Sallie Benson. The boat explosion,” Sloane said.
Conor’s antenna went up. The Benson case belonged to Conor’s old partner, and Jen had told him what Dan Benson had said: “They got her.” Hours later, when the anesthesia had worn off, he claimed not to remember saying that and said Sallie had been upset and maybe her carelessness had caused the explosion.
Two local women affected by violence on the same day seemed like an awfully big coincidence. Could there be a connection between whatever had happened to both women?
“Do you know Sallie Benson?” he asked.
Sloane didn’t reply. Edward stared at the ground.
“Yes,” Sloane said. “We know her.”
“Are you close friends with both women?” Conor asked.
“Ironically, Claire and Griffin introduced us to Sallie,” Edward said. “She did some decorating work for us.” His eyes were red rimmed, and Conor sensed him holding back emotion. “But Claire, yes—we are very good friends with both her and Griffin.”
“Is that right, Mrs. Hawke?” Conor asked.
“Definitely,” Sloane said, her eyes filling with tears. “I hardly know Sallie, but Claire is one of my closest friends. We support each other’s work. When things are bad, we’re always there for each other.” She broke down, couldn’t go on.
“Can you tell me what you mean, ‘when things are bad’?” Conor asked.
Sloane stared down, her shoulders shaking hard, clearly trying not to let him see her cry.
Edward put his arm around Sloane. “Claire’s had a rough time with Griffin’s boys. Well, Ford anyway. He resents having a stepmother, and he can be a real prick to her. To everyone, frankly. He moved out. Alexander, too, although he and Claire get along much better.”
“Well, they were too old to be living at home anyway,” Sloane said, sniffling. “At least they’re being productive now.”
“If house-sitting can be considered ‘productive,’” Edward said. “Well, I suppose they get paid for it.”
“What does Ford do that bothers Claire?” Conor asked.
“He’s confrontational,” Sloane said. “He came down to her studio two days ago while I was there with her and said awful things. He’d been drinking.”
“What did he say?”
“I barely remember,” Sloane said.
“Anything would help,” Conor said.
She cleared her throat. “Dumb stuff about her not belonging here, that the property had been in his family. That she’d married his father right after his mother went away because she wanted the money. As if she ever . . .”
“So what can we do for you?” Edward asked abruptly, interrupting his wife. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that we’re very upset. We always have a Memorial Day party. This year it was going to double as a fundraiser for Griffin, but with Claire missing, we decided to cancel.”
“Did either of you see Claire yesterday?” Conor asked, and he watched them shake their heads in unison.
“No,” Edward said, sliding a glance at his wife. “I was at the office, and Sloane was running around, shopping for the party.”
“All day?” Conor asked.
“Lots to do for the party,” she said, glancing at Edward. “Got to keep up appearances, you know?”
“Appearances?” Conor asked. She didn’t reply. “When were you home?” he asked.
“Well, I left here midmorning, came back for lunch and a swim, then headed out again. I went to Claire’s opening with Leonora and Abigail. I spotted you at the gallery. I actually saw you leave with Griffin. I guess that’s when you came here and found . . . she was gone, right?”
“Did you see Claire at any time while you were home?” Conor asked, leaving her question unanswered.
“No,” she said. “And it breaks my heart. I thought about running over after lunch, just to give her a hug and moral support for her show. But I figured she might be busy getting ready or with some last-minute touches on this one particular piece. It had special meaning to her, and she wanted to hold on to it longer than the others.”
“Which piece was it?” Conor asked.
“Fingerbone,” Sloane said. “Kind of disturbing.”