“Looks like she caught fire,” Jeanne said, watching a soot-stained green cushion float past. She scanned the horizon for smoke, for a vessel still smoldering.
R 22—the red bell buoy marking Allen’s Reef—swung in the current a hundred yards south. The bell tolled with the movement of the waves, but beneath the mournful sound, she heard a voice—very weak, calling for help.
Jeanne placed Maggie at her feet and steered toward the buoy. Bart stumbled below, lifted the mike, and called the coast guard. Jeanne heard him give the operator their GPS coordinates.
“A boat sank out here,” he said. “The Sallie B. And someone’s alive. We can hear them, over by R 22. We’re going there now.”
Jeanne sped up, and as they approached, she saw a man clinging to the red metal structure that rose tall in the water, swinging wildly in the tide, the clapper banging with each wave. She didn’t know his name, but she recognized him—one of the many local skippers that greeted each other as they passed in the channel. She’d often seen a woman and two children in the cockpit with him. Knowing who he was, wondering what had happened to his family, made it even worse, and she choked on a sob.
6
CONOR
The road to Catamount Bluff was unmarked and unpaved and meandered along the western edge of a protected seven-hundred-acre forest and nature preserve. A security guard was stationed at the head of the road. Conor Reid recognized him as Terry Brooks, an off-duty Black Hall police officer. It wasn’t uncommon for town cops to moonlight as private security for exclusive compounds along the shoreline. Conor waved as he passed.
His Ford Interceptor took the ruts with no problem as he followed Griffin Chase. They passed three mailboxes; the houses to which they belonged were hidden behind hedges. This was the kind of old-money place where they didn’t bother with fancy gates or even a paved road.
The road ended at the Chases’ house. Conor drove into the turnaround in front of a large silver-shingled house, on the bluff above the rocky beach, Long Island Sound sparkling into the distance. Conor was surprised to see Ben Markham, a uniformed Black Hall cop, standing by the front door.
He paused a moment before getting out of the car, watching Griffin speak to Markham. There was obvious familiarity between them. Markham had been called to testify in some of Griffin’s trials; plus, as a local cop, he would do regular patrols here and possibly pick up shifts as a guard, just like Brooks.
The Chases’ rambling old house sat on acres of direct waterfront—property worth more than the average prosecutor and an artist could afford—but everyone knew Griffin came from a family fortune. Conor figured this had to be one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in the state.
Conor walked from the vehicle toward the two men and exchanged a nod with Markham.
“I just called Ben and asked him to meet us here,” Griffin explained.
“Got it,” Conor said. He hadn’t heard the call over his police radio and realized Griffin had used his cell phone.
“Claire has been really nervous,” Griffin said. “Jackie says it’s just jitters, but I don’t know. She’s had something on her mind this last week, but she wouldn’t miss her show for anything.”
“You think something happened to her?” Markham said, frowning at the house.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Griffin said. “But let’s find her. We’ll start in her studio.”
He led them around the side of the house, through an arch in a privet hedge, to a solid post-and-beam barn built at the edge of the bluff. It looked new in comparison with the hundred-or-so-year-old house. Griffin unlocked the door, and Markham and Conor followed him inside. Conor made a quick scan of the structure. It had an open floor plan, north-facing windows, an easel, a worktable, a daybed, and bookshelves. The space smelled of oil paint, turpentine, and the beach.
“She designed it herself,” Griffin said. “And I had it built for her.”
The space had no interior walls—there was nowhere to hide.
“She’s not here,” Conor said.
Griffin nodded, and he was already out the door, Markham at his side. Conor walked a few steps behind them, his eyes on the house. French doors and tall windows faced the sea. The doors were closed, glass panes unbroken. Griffin had his key out and opened a kitchen door. Conor looked around the vast room—nearly every wall and surface was white. He saw a Viking stove, an industrial-size refrigerator, and racks of copper pots hanging above a large island topped with white marble. There were dirty dishes and two half-empty coffee mugs in the farmhouse-style sink.
“You said you had breakfast together?” Conor asked.
“Yes,” Griffin said.
“What time did you leave?”
“About seven forty-five. I had a pretrial conference at nine.”
“And Claire planned to go rowing?”
“Yes, she was getting her things together when I left.”
“Would she leave here without doing the dishes?”
Griffin gave him a surprised look. Conor hadn’t intended to offend him, making a comment about Claire’s housekeeping, but he wanted to establish a timeline.
“She might have,” Griffin said. “When she gets inspired, she can lose track of real-world stuff.”
“Inspired? As in her art?” Conor asked.
“Yes. Going down to the dock is part of it. She collects sea things to use in her work. For her, taking a walk or going for a row is as much making art as actually creating her pieces. It grounds her. And she’s needed that, especially lately. I have no idea what’s going on with her. She’s been, I don’t know . . . distracted lately.”
Conor thought back to Monday night, when Claire had unexpectedly dropped in on Tom and Jackie’s family dinner. He had seen something of her state of mind, but he didn’t mention it now.
Conor walked slowly around the kitchen. He noticed a dark wooden block made for holding knives on the marble countertop. It was marked Sabatier. One slot was empty.
“What’s usually here?” he asked, pointing.
Griffin stared. “A carving knife, I think.”
“Could it be anywhere else?” Conor asked.
“The dishwasher?” Griffin asked and opened it. It was empty. “Sometimes the cleaning lady puts things in the wrong place. The pantry or the utility drawer.” He rummaged through both, but there was no sign of a Sabatier carving knife.
“Where next?” Markham asked.
“Upstairs,” Griffin said. “The bedroom.”
Markham and Griffin disappeared down a hallway, but Conor didn’t follow. He smelled something that didn’t belong here. It didn’t necessarily signal something dead, but it raised the hair on the back of his neck.
He checked the small bathroom off the kitchen, but it was pristine. No, the odor was coming through a door he hadn’t noticed before—at the end of a short breezeway, cracked slightly open. He used his foot to inch the door open wider and stepped into an old building that seemed to serve as the garage.
Conor had walked in on death before, and he instantly knew this wasn’t it. The smell was strong, that of an animal marking its territory. He found the source, a spill of rancid-smelling granules, at the foot of a tall row of shelves filled with garden supplies. It smelled as if an animal had sprayed urine. Did the Chases have cats? Had a skunk or raccoon gotten inside?