“It’s nearly five, and she’s still not here,” Jackie said.
“Maybe she wants to make an entrance,” he said.
“No, she said she was coming early, to autograph a few catalogs for clients who can’t make it. Let me check on her.”
Jackie stepped away and made a call from her cell phone. Conor took the opportunity to grab some cheese and crackers and survey the room. He would never enter this gallery without thinking of Beth Lathrop, Kate’s sister. He and Kate had gotten close while he was investigating Beth’s murder.
Beth used to run the place; after her murder, Kate had hired Jackie. Conor knew it was hard for Kate to come here; it wasn’t easy for him, either: the building was haunted by violence and tragedy, but it had been in the Woodward family for three generations, and Kate would never let it go. Conor couldn’t help feeling that Jackie was helping Kate keep it in the family, partly for Beth’s daughter, Samantha.
“No luck,” Jackie said, walking over to him.
Conor didn’t reply, distracted by one of Claire’s shadow boxes. It was about twelve-by-sixteen inches, bordered by a driftwood frame, and filled with mussel- and clamshells, moonstones, exoskeletons, sea glass, crab claws, and carapaces. It also contained what looked like the skeleton of a human hand and was titled Fingerbone.
“That hand,” Conor said.
“I know, creepy, right?” Jackie said. He felt the ripple again and sensed her watching for his reaction.
“Reminds me of something,” he said, not wanting to say too much, wondering whether she had heard what Claire told him at dinner on Monday.
“Ellen?” Jackie asked—proving to Conor that she had heard enough. She was referring to Ellen Fielding, a school friend of Jackie, Claire, and Griffin’s, who had died twenty-five years ago.
Griffin’s official state car pulled up in front of the gallery. He stepped out, projecting the confidence and power that everyone in the court system was so familiar with. He wore custom-made suits and Hermès ties, and Conor had heard one corrections officer say he could put his kid through college on Griffin’s tie budget alone.
“Look who’s here,” Jackie said and headed for the door.
Conor hung back, watching. Griffin had grown up as a rich kid in tragic circumstances. He had lost his parents young. His college girlfriend had died just after graduation. His PR spin was that the losses had given him tremendous compassion and that he was devoting himself to justice for others, that as state’s attorney he cared personally about the victims whose cases he prosecuted. A murdered child’s family had said he was “the most caring man in the world,” leading one newspaper to dub him the “Prince of Caring.” The moniker had stuck. It played well politically and was featured in many of his campaign ads.
Conor watched Jackie greet him, usher him into the show.
“The show looks great,” Conor heard Griffin say.
“Roberta Smith from the New York Times came for an early look, and Smithsonian Magazine wants to do a profile on her,” Jackie said.
“Fantastic,” Griffin said. “Have you heard from Mike Bouchard yet?”
“From Connecticut Weekly? Yes,” Jackie said. “We spoke on the phone, and he wants to meet Claire here tonight. I take it someone from your election committee arranged for the interview?”
The room was getting crowded. Conor leaned against the wall and watched Griffin examine Fingerbone: hundreds of fine silver wires attached to the outer edges of the rough wooden frame caught the light, creating the illusion of water. A gold coin that appeared to be ancient and authentic lay at the bottom, beneath the skeletal hand.
Conor stared, watching Griffin’s reaction. Was it his imagination, or was the prosecutor rattled?
“I’m buying this,” Griffin said to Jackie, gesturing at the shadow box.
“It’s very compelling,” Jackie said, “but you don’t have to buy it! I’m sure Claire would give it to you.”
“I insist,” Griffin said, the charm gone from his voice. “I don’t want the gallery to lose its commission.” He took out his checkbook, and Conor watched him scrawl the amount and a signature. Conor wondered if he was thinking about Beth. Griffin had successfully prosecuted her killer; he might be aware that Sam had inherited her mother’s share of the gallery and that profits would help pay for her college education.
“Well, thank you,” Jackie said to Griffin. She put a red dot on Fingerbone to let everyone know it was sold.
“I’m going to call her right now—see where she is and tell her I have a surprise for her,” Griffin said. He pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “Where are you? We’re waiting for you—are you okay?” He disconnected. “Voice mail,” Conor heard him say.
“She must be on her way,” Jackie said. Then, as if noticing the worry in his eyes, “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Griffin said. Then, “She’s been anxious lately.”
“It’s normal,” Jackie said. “Preshow butterflies.”
“Hmm, you might be right,” Griffin said, but he didn’t sound as if he believed it.
The space was packed; Conor watched Griffin take Fingerbone down from the wall. That struck Conor as weird; it was customary to leave works hanging for the entire duration of an exhibition, and being married to an artist, Griffin should have known that.
Griffin was halfway out the door when a throng of people surrounded him. Conor watched the way he smiled, shook hands with them, made easy conversation, spoke of being proud of his wife. One was a reporter and had his notepad out. Conor wondered if that was Mike Bouchard. Griffin was animated, full of passion, looking like someone born to run for governor.
Then Griffin slipped away, the shadow box under his arm. Conor watched him open the trunk of his car, put Fingerbone inside. Conor felt that ripple again.
3
CLAIRE
Griffin and I go back forever. My crush on him began in eighth grade. He was a lanky boy, a graceful athlete, a high-velocity soccer and tennis player who made the crowd gasp as he kicked the goal or nailed the point. He had sharp cheekbones and deep-set green eyes—sensitive eyes that would occasionally catch mine and make me feel he wanted to ask me something. I’d lie awake at night and wonder what the question could possibly be.
He always dated cool girls from the country club or beach club. They went to private schools, drove sports cars, and wore cashmere sweaters tied around their shoulders. Griffin and I would sometimes play in the same round-robin tennis match or see each other at a beach bonfire, but that was about it.
One foggy night, the summer between our junior and senior years in high school, he and a bunch of country club boys showed up at the Hubbard’s Point sandy parking lot. There was a cooler in Jimmy Hale’s trunk, and Griffin and I reached for a beer at the same time. Griffin’s knuckles brushed mine. “Hi,” he said. “Hi,” I said. His eyes had that question in them, but I felt so shy, I looked away. Nothing happened for a long time after that, till after college.
Griffin went to Wesleyan, and so did Ellen Fielding, a girl from our town. When they began to date, no one was surprised. She was from Griffin’s old-money world and lived in a sea captain’s house on Main Street. Although she didn’t have to worry about paying for college or buying books, each summer she waitressed with Jackie and me at the Black Hall Inn. Her family thought it would be character building. She worked as hard as we did and made us laugh with her dead-on imitations of the drunken chef and lecherous manager. She always wore a heavy gold bracelet with what looked like an ancient gold coin dangling from it. She told me it had been her grandmother’s.