Chapter 25
Monday, May 25
Caroline was wearing leggings and a long silk jacket with a mandarin collar and the apartment was filled with the smell of chicken with forty cloves of garlic, Hugo’s favorite meal. She was waiting in the living room, looking out at lush green trees along the street and the beginnings of orange-pink dusk reflected in the windows opposite. Hugo hadn’t been sure what time he’d get in; evidently there was still much to do with the insurance adjusters and the fire people, and then all the mess of replacing the computer he’d lost and finding someone to help him with the cloud backup that he hoped was in place. At least his cold sounded better. To put the cherry on top, he’d had a flat tire on the Mercedes when he got up this morning, but lovely Jean and her husband had come right over to help. They’d changed to the temporary spare, then followed him into the village, where the gas station man came in to help him even though it was Memorial Day. He didn’t have a new tire in the right size but could repair the old one well enough to at least get Hugo safely back to New York.
She heard the key rattling in the front door and called, “It’s unlocked, love.”
Hugo walked in and dumped his bags in the front hall and stood there, like a cart pony taken out of its traces that doesn’t know where to go unless it’s being led or driven. She went to him and folded him in her arms and he gave a long shuddering sigh of relief and gratitude. She patted his back and he kissed her neck. Even in the embroidered flats she usually wore when they were together, she was taller than he. They stood together, breathing the scent of each other’s skin. Then Caroline turned back toward where she had been waiting and said, “I was sitting out here, so I could see the light.”
“Perfect,” he said, and let her lead him toward the windows. He took his favorite chair with a sigh, and she went to the cocktail table and made him a vodka gimlet. She’d opened a fresh bottle of Rose’s lime juice, knowing he claimed he could taste staleness if it had been opened more than a week.
He took his first sip, closed his eyes, and looked as if he were at prayer. She had resumed her seat and picked up her glass of wine. When he opened his eyes he looked straight at her. He held her gaze for a long time, then said, “I am so grateful for you. For your goodness and your kindness. With your love, I can face all of it.”
She took a sip of wine and said, “Thank you, darling. You’ve had a hard time.”
He shuddered and drank more deeply before saying, “So hard. I just can’t . . . can’t . . . can’t tell you what it felt like to see that pillar of fire and picture all my work, all that . . . that . . . that . . . all that turning into ash.”
She nodded. They had already said all this to each other over many phone calls.
“Tell me what they say, the fire people, now that they’ve had time to study it.”
“They seem to agree with me that it must have been arson. There’s just not another way to explain why it went up so fast, and burned so hot. And that boom. But who, and why, they’re just . . . just . . . just at the start of their inquiries.”
“You told them about the Black brothers?”
This was a pair of town outlaws, decidedly bad hats, according to Jean, whose family had once owned part of the farm that was now Glimmer Glen. A couple of generations back, but down in the scrub beyond the creek, there was a Black family graveyard on the property. It was all falling to ruin, only one of the headstones unbroken, but you could read some of them, and at least one ancestor had been killed in the Civil War. Somewhere in there in the scrub there were some cellar holes, where the houses had been and the family had farmed. Hugo had seen one of the Black women, Roberta he thought her name was, a slattern in shorts and a wifebeater, sunburned and tattooed, coming out of the woods carrying bags of things one September when she thought there was no one home. Hugo had surprised her and pointed out she was on private property. She had replied, not at all politely, that she was gathering apples from trees her family had planted and that he didn’t even know where the trees were and without she picked them the apples would just rot, and he said that be that as it may, she was trespassing on his land and she said be that as it may he could fuck himself, and the relationship with the family had not improved since. The brothers liked to get a snootful and drive up onto his land with shotguns pointing out the windows of their truck. And similar. Hugo believed, and he had let it be known, that if anyone wanted to know who would burn his studio down, they should start by questioning the Blacks. And he strongly suspected that one of them had put a shiv into his tire sometime last night. The garage man said it was a suspiciously clean cut.
After a time, Caroline said, “We have to keep remembering that no one was hurt, and we’re insured.” She rose and took his glass to refill his drink.
When she sat back down she said, “Darling, we need to get away from this. I’ve made a plan that I hope you’re going to be pleased about.”
Hugo looked up expectantly.
“Linda Beemis is giving a surprise birthday party for Randy. She’s asked us to come, and I said yes.”
Linda was a lifelong friend of Caroline’s who lived in Santa Barbara. She was married to a man that no one outside of the family circle called anything but Randolph, who had been under secretary of the treasury in the second Bush administration and was by most accounts worth many many millions. Hugo had always wanted to meet him, and tended to refer to him as Randy in conversation, even though up to now they were merely rumors to each other.
His eyes lit up. “When?”
“The weekend after school gets out.”
“Here?”
“Oh no . . . at their ranch.”
“But . . .”
“I know, you can’t fly there, but you can take the train, and I’ll fly out and meet you. You’ve always wanted to see the ranch.”
That was absolutely true, he had.
“She asked us to stay with them too, but I know you don’t like being a houseguest. I booked us at the Santa Barbara Biltmore. You will love it.”
Actually he wouldn’t have minded at all staying at the ranch with Randy Beemis, but he suppressed his flare of irritation at her for getting it wrong. “I’m just . . . I’m just . . . just . . . just . . . having trouble switching gears. Do you really think we should be away, with the . . . the . . . you know, the fire people needing to talk to us, and insurance people, so much to sort out?”
“They’ll be able to reach us, and we won’t be gone that long. It will be good for us. Say yes.”
Caroline was smiling at him so hopefully.
He thought about meeting Randy and being able to say afterward, “When we were out at Randy Beemis’s ranch for his birthday . . . ,” and Linda was a nice woman, he liked her very much . . .
“Yes.”
“Oh good!” Caroline crowed. “We are going to have so much fun. I booked you on a train that leaves on Wednesday at three p.m. and gets you into L.A. at eight in the morning Saturday. I’ll have a car pick you up. You’ll have a longish layover in Chicago, but it was the only train with a private room available, and I figured you could go to the Art Institute or something.”
Hugo smiled. He quite loved trains. Except for the food, but he could pack his own. He took a big slug of his drink, relaxed into the plan, smiled, and said simply, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And we’re having chicken with forty cloves of garlic tonight and I made you a tarte tatin.”
Chapter 26
Tuesday, May 26
Phillips and Bark were in the office of the assistant DA. Again.
The report on the fire at Glimmer Glen was clear on the finding of arson, but how exactly it was set, and by whom, seemed to have gone up in the fireball.
They laid out their case against Hugo.
“And you want me to do what with this?”
“Take it to a grand jury.”
“Weren’t you just in here wanting me to take a circumstantial case against Ray Meagher for this same crime
to the grand jury?”
It had been several weeks ago, but still.
“Hollister is a man of means,” said Bark. “The arson is a clear destruction of evidence. He could afford to disappear. We need him held without bail until we can get the rest of the physical evidence.”
“The rest of the physical evidence? Do you have any physical evidence?”
“As I said, we found his DNA in Florence’s car.”
“Along with Ray’s, and how many other individuals, twelve was it? Including Jesse Goldsmith and about eight unknowns?”
“Yes, but those are explainable. Explain what Hugo was doing in Florence’s car.”
The assistant DA shrugged.
“The motive is powerful,” Bark bore down. “Hugo relies completely on his wife’s money. We know he was under financial pressure, and—”
“What do you mean, you know? Are you bringing me proof?”
“We are, but we need to make sure he doesn’t leave the jurisdiction.”
Country is what he meant. “We can make this case.”
The assistant DA looked at him for a long time over his glasses. He was fairly new to the job, and he didn’t want to start his work for the DA by swinging for the fences when a series of singles would look more solid. It was embarrassing to fail at the grand jury level.
“You seem to me to be flailing here, detective. The sheriff in Dutchess County likes a local family called Black for the fire. And a lot of men have cheated on their wives and not felt the need to murder anyone. How did he get into the pool house and why did he bother? Why didn’t he just dig a hole and bury her in the woods? I have to tell you, I liked your case against the husband better.”
“He burned up his prized possession! His own Maserati! Doesn’t that tell you that he’s desperate?”
“I get the feeling someone is, Bark. But you’ve got to convince me before I can convince a grand jury, and so far you’re not even close.”
Hope drove into Rye-on-Hudson early Tuesday evening. She’d come straight through from Bergen, Maine, after breakfast with the newlyweds. Maggie was waiting for her at Le Bistro. She was buying Hope a congratulatory Mother of the Groom dinner.
It was a warm night, but drizzly, and the room was full, the mood jolly. When they were settled at a table by the window, with a bottle of rosé between them, Maggie said, “Tell me everything, M.O.G.”
“It’s a whole lot easier than being mother of the bride,” said Hope. “At least, when the bride is Lauren.”
Hope’s daughter, Lauren, had had nine bridesmaids and a dinner dance for 250, which was to say nothing of showers and bachelorette parties and postwedding brunches.
“Where was the ceremony?”
“Bergen Town Hall. The town clerk is a justice of the peace, and a pal of Buster’s.”
“Who was there?”
“Cherry was the maid of honor. Brianna’s parents were the witnesses, and I was the best man.”
“And what did you all wear?”
“Brianna rented a bridal gown.”
“Virginal white?”
“Camo. Buster wore his uniform. The formidable Beryl wore a Hillary pantsuit, and Roy had had a shower. He got quite teary during the ceremony.” Beryl and Roy were Brianna’s parents, long divorced and still barely speaking to each other.
“And then what happened?”
“Gabe up at the inn gave the bridal luncheon. It was lovely to have the staff bowing and scraping over Beryl. She was so pleased.”
Beryl worked in the kitchen at the inn, and at one time Brianna’s sister, Cherry, had worked for Gabe there too, but it had ended badly. Maggie thought it was a lovely gesture, in the circumstance, for Gabe to give everyone lunch.
“It saved any worry that Beryl and Roy would feel they had to give a lunch party,” Hope said.
“Which Beryl would have had to cook herself,” said Maggie. “Did you give a rehearsal dinner the night before?”
“Oh, I did! Well, I mean, not as such.” Hope suddenly looked ever so slightly as if she thought they maybe should glide over the details.
“Hope? You gave a dinner?”
“Well we had dinner . . .”
“Where?”
“At the bowling alley. It was more beer and cheese dogs than dinner in the way you mean.”
“That sounds like great fun,” said Maggie, who thought it sounded deadly.
“It was! I am excellent at bowling it turns out. It was me and Brianna against Buster and Cherry. We won.”
“Well done!”
“Yes! And then we all got tattoos.”
“Hope!”
“I may have had a little more beer than was strictly good for me.”
“Where?”
“In Ainsley.”
“No, where on your body?”
“Ankle. I’m not going to show you because they don’t look very nice at first.”
“What will it look like when it’s unveiled?”
“Buster and Brianna both got bees—”
“Initial or insect?”
“Insect. Bumble. And I got two bees and Cherry got a skull and crossbones. My treat.”
“This should startle your grandchildren,” said Maggie, drily.
“It will be good for them. Tell me what’s happened here.”
“Oh dear. Well, you sure know how to ruin a party.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It isn’t. The state finds Bark’s case completely resistible. First they stonewalled us the whole time we were making a case against Ray and wouldn’t indict.”
“But they were right not to.”
“Yes, but now they won’t bring the case against Hugo because the defense will just make the trial about how Ray should be on trial instead. All our evidence that Florence was at the studio, assuming there was any, was destroyed in the fire. Hugo pulled the Maserati out into the driveway and parked Florence’s car in the car hole and no one remembers seeing Hugo drive it through Hatfield. No one ever found her computer or phone, and now we never will. And Hugo was in some final club at Harvard with the state attorney general. So that’s not going to speed the wheels of justice. A high-profile murder trial costs a fortune and it only makes the prosecutors look good if they win.”
“Pretty risky, setting a fire like that. He’s got a nerve on him, little Hugo.”
“I don’t think he had any choice, unless Caroline was about to lend him a huge chunk of money. He has to buy back that painting or he’ll be sued right down to his underpants.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, I wouldn’t put odds on Caroline one way or another. She was very angry when I showed her Florence’s pictures, but I couldn’t tell if it was at him or at me.”
“Are we missing something?” Maggie asked.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. The one piece of the circle I can’t close is how he got into the pool house.”
“But we do know that! Lily had a key and he took it away from her! I told you!”
“You certainly did not!”
“Caroline told me and Angus, the day we saw Hamilton. She said that Lily is so driven that she got a key to the building somehow and went to practice by herself, but someone caught her. Saw her using it. She confessed to her father, before he could find out some other way and blow a gasket, and Hugo took the key away from her. I’m sure I told you.”
“Hamilton. That was the weekend you forgot to stop here on your way to Boston. Then you went back to New York and then to Maine. All I got from you for a week were texts about Onesies.”
There was a silence. Hope looked thoughtful, then said, “That’s sort of true, isn’t it.”
“Well it doesn’t matter, I just wanted to know I hadn’t known it and forgotten.” Hope understood. At their age, they were constantly running Alzheimer’s drills on themselves. Maggie went on, “So that very bad girl had a key to the pool, and nobody did anything? If an athlete did that at my school, I’d have her off the team
in a hot minute!”
“Yes, so the coaches wouldn’t tell you and neither would the parents. Why do athletes get away with rape all over the place? The coaches’ jobs depend on their stars and their winning teams.”
“I’m calling Charles N. Bark,” said Maggie, for once taking her mobile out at the table.
“Will this help?”
“I doubt it. But we can hope.”
Chapter 27
Friday, June 5
The morning of the Rye Manor School’s 126th commencement dawned hot and bright. Every hotel room and bed-and-breakfast in the area was booked, with parents, siblings, aunts, and uncles of graduating girls come to celebrate. Most of the trustees were in town as well, to witness the fact that against all odds, the school had survived the year. Maggie had been right; school pride had revived at Christina’s handling of the shooting, plus the news that the school’s accreditation was secure had quelled defeatist rumors. Of course, this morning the press was back in force to rehash the traumas of the spring. There was a profile of the Meaghers on the front page of the local paper, full of unattributed quotes from anonymous sources and “no comments” from the police, the DA’s office, and the school. But on this sunlit morning, there was a sense that what had not broken the school had made it stronger.
Not so for the Goldsmith family, which was back in the spotlight with an update on the charges against Jesse, who was still in a psychiatric facility. There were pictures of the locked and abandoned house on Violet Circle with its graffiti and overgrown lawn, and quotes and reprinted posts and tweets from angry neighbors and random strangers about Jesse, his parents, the gun lobby, the antigun lobby, and the school.
Christina had decided not to hold the ceremony in the Congressional church, as had been the tradition for a hundred years. No one wanted to be reminded of Florence’s funeral. Instead the Hollisters had generously offered to pay for an enormous tent, which was now pitched on one of the athletic fields beyond the weeping birches.
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