The Lace Reader

by Brunonia Barry

  “The lights,” she said. She was looking toward May’s window. “She usually has only the one light burning,” Towner said, pointing to the two lights that shone in May’s window again tonight.

  One if by land and two if by sea, Rafferty thought. He stopped short of saying it out loud.

  It surprised him that she had noticed the lights, the detail. He took it as a good sign.

  That she didn’t seem to notice Jack’s boat leaving the harbor seemed a good sign, too, if for a different reason. Towner’s night with Jack LaLibertie was the elephant in the middle of the room that neither of them talked about. Not that they talked about anything, really. But they definitely didn’t talk about Jack LaLibertie.

  He had to admit he was relieved when her eyes stayed on May’s lights and did not track Jack’s boat heading for the Miseries, where most of his traps were located, then turning off its running lights and taking a hard turn to starboard and the back side of Yellow Dog Island.

  They didn’t talk much. That was the truth of it. If they had, he might have asked her about Jack. He definitely would have asked about the journal. Or was it a book of short stories? Rafferty didn’t know exactly how to categorize it. The stories he had heard from Eva seemed to overlap and twist in Towner’s version. He knew she was filling in the gaps of her own history, that it was somehow therapeutic; that’s what she’d told him when he’d asked if he could read it. Yes, he could read it, she’d said, if he thought it would help with his case against Cal. But she didn’t want anything to do with it.

  He’d read it over and over. Each time it raised more questions than it answered. It had instructor’s notes scrawled across the bottoms of the pages. The class she wrote it for was taught by a BU professor, though Towner had never enrolled as a student there. Rather, it was part of her reentry program her last year at McLean.

  Rafferty had been able to fact-check that much. But the course instructor was long gone. The course title, Introduction to Fiction Writing, didn’t do much to explain it either. The instructor may have believed that Towner was writing fiction; there certainly was a good amount of fiction involved. But there were facts, too, facts a more normal person might not want to share with the world.

  He would have asked her about Lyndley, about the love triangle, and about Towner’s conclusion that it was Lyndley whom Jack really loved, and not her. It was too personal and too painful for him to ask about, yet he couldn’t help reading it over and over again, trying to get a handle on it, trying to figure out the questions he would ask, should ask, if the time were ever right.

  This was the part of the journal that was the hardest for him to take. And how he knew he was in trouble. The part he kept reading over and over wasn’t the part about Cal, it was the part about Towner and Jack.

  Rafferty had known everything there was to know about Jack and Towner long before he’d met her. Not because Eva had told him but because Jack had told the story in AA meetings. Not just once but many times.

  He knew how they’d met and how Jack had put up with things he never should have put up with because he was in love. How he’d gone to the hospital every day in hopes that she would speak to him. How, after she got out, Towner had pretended not to know him. Not to even know me! Jack had almost cried when he said it. Rafferty had felt sorry for Jack, sure, but he’d also judged him for it, deciding that Towner had probably never loved him, not really.

  But Rafferty had changed his mind about that, both because of recent events and because of the journal. After reading her journal, Rafferty realized that at least at one time Towner had been in love with Jack LaLibertie. Probably she loved him still.

  It was because of Jack LaLibertie that Rafferty had stopped going to the Salem AA meetings. Not because Jack was there—no, he wasn’t likely to show up at AA anytime soon. Jack had fallen off the wagon long before Towner had come back to town. The reason Rafferty had stopped going to the meetings was that everybody knew about Towner, which made Rafferty feel guilty as hell. He had good reason. At one time, before Jack had started drinking again, Rafferty had been his sponsor.

  “Check your integrity, Rafferty,” Roberta had said to him the last time he’d gone to a meeting in Salem. The room fell silent. It was what everybody wanted to say to him and didn’t dare.

  Things got even worse for him at work.

  Every part of Rafferty’s cop’s brain knew that what was happening to him was a bad thing. And other people had been starting to notice.

  The chief had warned him. “Don’t corrupt the case just because you’ve got an itch.”

  “Fuck you,” Rafferty had replied.

  Towner had been in the hospital for three days before Rafferty arrested Cal for her assault. He could have done it sooner—the chief had been pressuring him to, in fact—but he knew that Cal would probably be out within twenty-four hours. If he waited until 4:00 P.M. on Friday, the arraignment wouldn’t take place until Monday morning. At the very least, Cal would spend the weekend in jail. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And it gave Rafferty a chance to interrogate some of the Calvinist followers without Cal’s ever-present supervision.

  The interrogations proved fruitless. If anything, the Calvinists were more dogmatic than their leader. Or just plain brainwashed.

  Rafferty had one other idea, but it was a long shot.

  At the arraignment he asked the judge to allow no bail, explaining that Cal was a danger to the community, citing his beatings of Emma Boynton as evidence, beatings that had left her blinded and brain-damaged. He brought in the medical and court records to support his claims.

  Cal’s attorney had of course anticipated this, and he countered by producing Cal’s spotless record for the last thirteen years and his community-service commendation from the mayor of San Diego.

  On the day of Cal’s hearing, the courtroom was packed.

  First the chief presented some complaints against Cal from the local merchants whose businesses the Calvinists had interrupted and from some mothers who stated that Cal’s exorcism practices included corporal punishment that bordered on abuse.

  Rafferty then took over, telling the judge that Cal was a prime suspect in the disappearance of Angela Rickey, who was allegedly carrying his child.

  Cal’s attorney countered by telling the judge that Angela Rickey had left the Calvinists, as agreed, to go home to her parents’ house to have her baby.

  Rafferty said that Angela had never returned home to her parents and was not likely to do so.

  Cal’s attorney showed a sworn statement signed by Cal Boynton that stated he had never had sexual relations with Angela Rickey.

  Rafferty said that Angela claimed that the baby she was carrying did indeed belong to Cal and that she insisted on having the baby even though she wasn’t certain how Cal would feel about it. Clearly, Cal had not been pleased. Rafferty also pointed out that Cal had both means and motive. “Fathering a child would be bad business for a man who has made so much money preaching celibacy.”

  Cal asked to say some words on his own behalf. In a performance that was half sermon, half sales pitch, Cal likened himself to John Newton, who wrote the hymn “Amazing Grace.” Like Cal, Newton had been depraved and unrepentant, a sinner of the worst kind, Cal explained—a slave trader, in fact. And like Cal, Newton had found his great deliverance at sea. The day of his conversion was not unlike Cal’s own, and like Newton, Cal had gone on to become an evangelist minister. “Saved by God’s grace and intervention,” Cal said.

  “Who among us does not believe in redemption?” Cal implored, turning to his congregation—the lawyers, the judge, the Calvinists, and several townspeople who had come to attend the arraignment.

  “Who among you will cast the first stone?” Cal continued.

  Several members of the council of churches sat along the back row. The Presbyterian minister muttered to the Methodist that he might cast a stone, if he thought he could hit Cal on the head with it from way back here. It was meant to be funny. The
Presbyterians were the sect most offended by Cal’s practices and by his adoption of the Calvinist name, a name that had long been associated with their brand of Protestantism. Not that they wanted the name, mind you; the Calvinist label had been a PR nightmare for the Presbyterians, an association they’d worked hard to live down over the years. They weren’t likely to benefit in any way from the kind of press Cal was inspiring.

  “I’d like to throw a stone or two.” A woman rose to her feet. Her red hat and purple dress stood out in a sea of grays and browns.

  Another Red Hat got up to stand with her. “Let’s make it a boulder,” she said.

  The judge motioned the women forward. Five more Red Hats joined them as they walked to the front of the courtroom.

  “Good morning, ladies,” the judge couldn’t help saying. Red and purple was a color combination he didn’t see that often in the courtroom. He knew who they were, though: His wife had been threatening to start her own Red Hat chapter ever since she turned fifty.

  “Your Honor, we would like to say a few words pertaining to the dangerousness of Calvin Boynton.” The group had appointed Ruth as official spokesperson, and Rafferty had spent an hour coaching her.

  “Proceed,” the judge said.

  “As many of you know, we were regular customers of Eva Whitney’s tearoom,” Ruth said. “We have reason to believe that Eva’s disappearance was no accident.” The woman continued without taking a breath before the judge was able to tell her that her information didn’t pertain to this case. “We witnessed the ongoing harassment of Eva Whitney, not only of her business but of her personally. He threatened her on many occasions.”

  “That is a damnable lie!” Cal said, jumping up.

  “Sit down, Mr. Boynton,” the judge commanded.

  “What kind of threats did he make?” the judge asked.

  “He threatened to burn her at the stake, for one,” the Gulf War mother who’d attended Eva’s funeral said. Rafferty noticed that she had gotten rid of her pastel hat and was now sporting a bright red one.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He called her a witch, and he threatened to hang her or burn her or drown her, all on different occasions.”

  “He threatened to kill her, Your Honor,” a third Red Hat offered. “One day when he didn’t know we were in the tearoom.”

  “And how did Ms. Whitney respond to these threats?”

  “Well, she called the police, naturally.”

  “This is true, Your Honor,” Rafferty said. “We have many reports of such harassment. At the beginning of April, Eva Whitney took out a restraining order against Cal Boynton.” Rafferty presented a copy to the judge.

  “She told us,” the Gulf War mother said, “that if anything happened to her, it would be Cal Boynton who did it.”

  “She was found all the way out by Children’s Island,” another Red Hat said. “Everyone knows that’s where they dump the bodies.”

  A few years back, another body had been found out by Children’s Island. It was a murder case that had just been solved. And an association that everyone had. Like Eva, and maybe like Angela, the woman had been missing for a while before her body had turned up out by Children’s Island.

  “Eva never left the harbor on her swims.” Ruth took over. “She was eighty-five years old, for God’s sake. She never could have made that swim.”

  Cal’s attorney pointed out that there had been an autopsy on Eva. There had been no sign of foul play.

  “There had been no sign of anything,” Rafferty interjected. “By the time we found Eva, her body had been picked apart by lobsters. We had to identify her by her dental records.”

  The judge held Cal for thirty days. “If you want me to hold him longer, you’re going to have to get me a body.”

  He wasn’t talking about Eva. He was talking about Angela Rickey.

  As Rafferty left the courtroom, he walked over to the Red Hats.

  “Good work, ladies,” he said.

  “Do you think it helped?” the Gulf War mother asked.

  “Very much.”

  “What about the other girl…this Angela?” Ruth wanted to know.

  “Do you think he killed her, too?” the third Red Hat asked.

  “I’m not sure what I think,” Rafferty said. He had a bad feeling about what had happened to Angela. All he knew was that he had to find her. And fast.

  As the crowd thinned out, Rafferty realized that he was probably the only person in town who didn’t think that Cal had murdered Eva Whitney. Rafferty had let public opinion achieve his goal, which was to get Cal off the streets, at least for a little while. But he didn’t think for a minute that Cal had actually killed Eva. The reason was simple. If Cal had done it, he would have been smart enough to drop the body inside the harbor, where Eva usually swam. The fact that Eva was found “where they dump the bodies” was the one thing Eva had done wrong in her plan to stop Cal Boynton. The Children’s Island thing was meant to stand out. And it did. But to Rafferty it stood out for all the wrong reasons.

  The swim was a good idea, but Eva had taken it too far. Besides, she was a Whitney. Any one of the Whitney women could have made that swim. At any age.

  Rafferty told Towner that they were holding Cal. He didn’t tell her the rest of what had happened. He figured it wasn’t something she needed to know.

  He wasn’t sure what he believed about Angela. He wasn’t wrong about the child. And he wasn’t wrong about the motive. He only hoped he was wrong about his growing feeling that she was either already dead, or soon to be.

  Rafferty couldn’t do much about Angela. But at least he could keep an eye on Towner. That’s what he told himself anyway. What Towner needed was R&R, and so he did his best to take care of her. He cooked. They sat outside and watched the boats.

  Tonight they sat on the porch looking out at the ocean. “Is Leah a sailor?” Towner asked. It was race week in Marblehead. She was looking out over the harbor at a line of spinnakered sailboats.

  The question was so far from his thoughts that it took him by surprise. “What?”

  “Does your daughter sail?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “a little.”

  It was one of the only times Towner had spoken all evening. He should answer her if only to continue any form of conversation. “The boat she wants me to buy is a Scarab.”

  Towner nodded as if she understood. “The need for speed,” she said. “She’ll grow out of that. Tastes change.”

  “Is that true?” He was hopeful.

  “Definitely,” she said.

  Tonight Rafferty offered pasta, he offered to grill some steaks, but nothing seemed to appeal to her. He was running out of menu options. He was tired.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said.

  He stood up from the deck chair and stretched his legs.

  “Then I’m going for a run,” he said.

  “Now?” She seemed surprised. He’d been yawning all evening.

  “Yup. And after that I’m stopping at the Willows for a chop suey sandwich.”

  “You and your chop suey sandwiches,” she said.

  “You want to come along?” He always asked. She never said yes, but he kept asking.

  “I’m tired,” she said.

  “Ice cream?” He tried one more time. Ice cream was something she would always eat.

  “I’m all set.”

  Rafferty made three loops to Derby Street before he slowed down. With each turn he ran past Winter Island. Cal might still be in jail, but the rest of the Calvinists were just as dangerous as he was.

  Rafferty ran until he tired himself out. On the cut-through path to Willows Park, he finally slowed to a walk. He was pouring sweat. He passed neighbors sitting on porches, kids playing street hockey. Down on the beach, a neighbor’s kid stopped smoking weed and hid his stash behind a rock. At the end of the walkway, another neighbor called to her dog.

  “Sorry,” the woman said to Rafferty as she put her dog back in compliance with Salem�
�s leash law. Rafferty tried to smile. Being a cop put an automatic distance between him and everybody else in town.

  Someone fishing on the end of a pier pulled in a striper. It waved through the air like a pendulum, catching the red of the falling sun and painting it across the sky.

  The Harleys were lined up just across from the midway, the leather-clad bikers behind them in full costume. Accountants and dentists, Rafferty thought, but no, there were Hells Angels, too. They made a pilgrimage to Salem twice a year, thousands of motorcycles. Salem closed the streets for them. It was impressive. When they rode into town, you could hear the roar of the engines way back on Highland Avenue long before you could see them. People lined the streets in lawn chairs just to watch them roll in.

  The bikers rode in the Heritage Parade, too. And they rode on Halloween. Behind the witches. Right between the preschoolers and the marching band.

  Roberta spotted him before he saw her. She stood sipping her Diet Coke, admiring the row of bikes. When she saw Rafferty, she turned the other way.

  Rafferty stood in line for a chop suey sandwich, then took a seat between the band shell and the dock. As soon as he sat down, the band went on break.

  Perfect, he thought.

  But it was probably a good thing. With the band quieted, the sounds from Winter Island would echo over the noise of the midway, and he figured Towner was safe. He could make it back to the house in less than two minutes if he had to, and that was much faster than anyone could get to her.

  But the Calvinists didn’t seem to be preaching tonight. When Rafferty passed on his run, the hangar was dark. Instead a group of them were proselytizing down here. One of them wore a sandwich board with the same printed message on both sides: JESUS IS HELL-BENT ON SAVING THE HELLS ANGELS.

  The bikers weren’t biting, but some of the local witches took the bait. They argued back and forth, throwing words and phrases at one another.

  “Go back to Derby Street!” the Calvinists yelled at the witches, who had set up a booth to sell Celtic jewelry.