by Nancy Geary
There was also the issue that Jack had raised—no evidence of a struggle. She’d thought of that fact as she wondered how Michael could have murdered her without even a scratch. Strangled without the slightest resistance. Could 2,000 milligrams of meprobamate achieve that level of passivity?
All of these logistical inconsistencies aside, that someone would kill a bride for her engagement ring seemed remote. He had a criminal record. Was the value of a diamond worth the risk? Then again, people killed for a lot less—a pair of Nikes, a baseball jacket, a Timex watch. The cases she’d heard about in the district attorney’s office never ceased to amaze or sadden her.
The purr of the engine stopped abruptly, and the enormous sails flapped for a moment as Jim positioned them to catch the wind. The boat listed slightly as they filled. The Lucky Day picked up speed. “Come here, Jack,” Jim commanded as if addressing a dog. “You steer.” Robotically, Jack took over the helm while Jim moved about the deck, tightening winches and adjusting cleats. Frances remembered the frantic sense she’d experienced whenever she’d been in charge of a sailboat, the overwhelming stress caused by the speed, the required strength, the multitude of tasks to perform simultaneously; but Jim seemed completely at ease. An experienced captain, he controlled his ship the way he appeared to control the rest of his life.
When he’d finished, he joined the group of passengers seated in the stern, made several vodka tonics in plastic tumblers, handed one to his wife, and took a sip of the second. “Ah. I’ve needed a stiff drink.”
“You have a beautiful boat,” Frances remarked to make conversation.
“A Sou’wester 59. It’s a Hinckley design that’s been around for more than a decade. They don’t come much better. Have a look around the interior if you’d like.”
“Thanks.” She forced a smile without getting up.
“Shall we go over the details now?” Fiona asked as she spread cream cheese draped with chutney on assorted crackers and offered them around. That she had no takers didn’t seem to bother her. “That way we can try to enjoy the rest of the sail. I mean, if that’s possible.”
“Good enough,” Jim said, rubbing his palms together. “Lloyd’s drawn up documents to create a charitable trust in Hope’s memory. As soon as he obtains 501(c)(3) status, we’ll make an initial contribution of one million dollars.”
Can’t forget the tax deduction, Frances thought, then chastised herself for her cynicism. With or without a benefit from Uncle Sam, it was very generous.
“We wanted your input, but our thought was to make you two the trustees. That way it really gets turned over to the Lawrence family.”
“Why not Jack?” Adelaide asked.
Jim took a step closer to his wife before answering. “I don’t know how best to say this,” he began. “But… but… his team’s planning on making a substantial donation. Beyond that, it’s clearly best to leave him out of it. He’s young. He shouldn’t be saddled with the administration.”
“I can’t believe he wouldn’t want some role,” Bill said, looking in Jack’s direction.
“If you asked him today, I’m sure he’d agree. But I’m trying to be realistic about the future. The trust will continue in perpetuity, but he shouldn’t be burdened by memory any more than he has to.”
“Jim and I both feel that Jack’s pain—”
“Don’t interrupt,” Jim admonished his wife. “Look. Let’s be sensible. We want to memorialize Hope and have done everything as quickly as possible to achieve that end. But Jack… well… I expect he’ll have a family someday. It’s not a good idea for him to be acting as trustee for his former fiancee’s trust once he’s married.”
Adelaide and Bill exchanged glances before she diverted her gaze and covered her mouth with her hand.
“I’m speaking from a practical standpoint,” he added.
“Administering a charity that Hope would have wanted might be soothing for Jack,” Frances offered. She didn’t understand why the Cabots continued to treat their grown son as a child. His role, if any, should be his decision. But the undercurrent of ugliness in the conversation made her comments irrelevant.
“He’ll get all the comfort he needs,” Jim retorted.
“Why are you trying to distance him from us?” Bill asked.
“Please don’t,” Adelaide said quietly, reaching out to touch his pants leg.
Bill put his hands in his pockets. “Our children loved each other. They were going to make a life together,” he said, ignoring her efforts to silence him. “You can’t deny that your son wanted to marry my daughter. You can’t minimize his devastation or ours. The violence has destroyed us all. You may choose to ignore how people feel, but I’ll be goddamned if I’ll allow Hope’s memory to be obliterated.”
“Calm down,” Jim said, taking a step forward and resting his hand on Bill’s shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t touch me.” He took a step away and turned to look at Jack, who seemed lost in thought at the helm.
Frances hoped that the wind prevented any of the conversation from drifting his way.
“We care about him,” Bill continued. “If you had some problem with my daughter, you picked a fine time to raise it.”
“You’re overreacting. What happened is an unfathomable horror. We all agree on that.”
“Stop,” Adelaide pleaded. She was trembling all over. “Please bring us back to shore.”
Frances felt a surge of anger. She knew it wasn’t her place to intervene, but the Cabots’ insensitivity toward her aunt and uncle in their most vulnerable moment seemed beyond inhumane. She was about to interject when Fiona spoke in a softened tone. “I think you’ve misunderstood. No one’s being critical of her. We just want to help.”
“Help? Is that what you’re doing? We don’t need your help. We don’t want your pity. Forget your trust. We don’t need a memorial to remember—”
“My parents had three problems with Hope that they never wanted to admit. They couldn’t bear the thought that if our marriage didn’t work out, she might end up with some of the Cabot wealth, as dear Father refers to it.”
The sound of Jack’s voice silenced the group. Nobody had noticed he’d abandoned the helm and moved to within inches of his father.
“And they recently discovered she couldn’t have children. That seems to have agitated them further, the idea that we couldn’t perpetuate some noble lineage. But most of all, they couldn’t accept that she was also in love with another man. That’s why they want me to stay out of the trust. They want me to move on. To find some other woman who will be forever grateful for my affection. But there’s nowhere I can go and nothing I can do to avoid thinking of her, and part of thinking of her is thinking of Carl.”
Fiona gasped at the mention of Hope’s lover.
“I won’t hear this,” Jim said.
Jack turned away from the group and stared out to sea. “Hope loved me, too. In the end she loved me more. She wanted to be my bride, not his. I had won. At the end of the day, we would have made each other very happy. But because I gave her a ring, she was murdered. Some killer thought her life was worth less than a diamond. So we’ll never have a chance.”
Nobody said anything. Frances saw Fiona pour more wine, resorting to ingrained social convention when conversation became painful. Jack looked lost, and Frances wanted to make some effort to embrace him, but she feared such a gesture would be seen as too forward, too friendly to the Cabot clan. Instead she reached for her aunt’s hand, pressing the chilled fingers between her two palms. Bill got up and moved gingerly to the bow. She watched him stand with his legs apart for balance and his Gore-Tex jacket flapping.
It seemed hard to fathom that such animosity had been hidden behind this facade of social etiquette, forced smiles, and endless pleasantries. Even with Hope’s murder and Michael’s arrest, the Cabots and the Lawrences were still locked in a debate over the union between Hope and their son. Was this how every set of
future in-laws reacted? Was every marriage surrounded by diseussions of whether one party was worthy of the other? If so, it seemed hard to imagine that anyone would ever wed.
The wind gusted, sending a chill through her whole body. Please, she thought, get us back to solid ground.
23
Ricki Manning and Associates,” read the gold plaque on the outside of the brownstone. Before ringing the bell, Frances rested her shopping bag of documents on the threshold, turned her back to the door, and let the sun shine on her face. She glanced up and down Marlborough Street and admired its beauty, the rows of town houses with iron-gated gardens in front, the narrow brick sidewalks buckled by the roots of magnolia trees. A woman in black leggings, a white T-shirt, and wedged sneakers pushed a baby stroller toward her. A second child, a girl of perhaps four with reddish pigtails and a lime green sundress, skipped along beside, chatting to her mother. Ms. Manning’s office, located in this decidedly residential area, was appropriately discreet.
The door buzzed and she pushed her way into an expansive, carpeted foyer. Lit only by an ornate crystal chandelier, the room was dark, especially in contrast with the bright light of outdoors. A cleanly shaven receptionist came around from behind his desk to greet her. “Ms. Pratt, welcome. Ricki is just finishing up on a call. She’ll be with you in a moment.”
Frances sat in an armchair upholstered in gold brocade and flipped through the materials that Adelaide had collected of Hope’s handwriting—letters she’d sent her parents, her checkbook ledger, scribbled lists on pieces of notepad, anything and everything that evidenced her actual penmanship. Then there was the red leather diary. Frances had looked at the lettering several times since her aunt had raised the issue of its authenticity, but the deviations in the loops and dips seemed to be normal variations that could occur in anyone’s handwriting. Out of desperation, her aunt was willing to pay Ricki’s exorbitant fees to have the book examined because she couldn’t accept the truth of its contents.
The door to the left of the reception area opened, and out stepped an elegant woman with long gray hair tied in a loose bun. Around her neck hung two pairs of eyeglasses as well as a silver-handled magnifying glass. As she walked toward Frances, the flowing fabric of her beige pants swirled around her slender legs. “I’m Ricki Manning,” she said with a slight smile and an outstretched hand. “Won’t you come in?”
Ricki and Frances settled themselves at a round conference table in the bay window of her spacious office, and Frances began unpacking her shopping bag. “I should have showed you upstairs before we got started,” Ricki said. “That’s where the hard-core science takes place, the forensic handwriting analysis that tends to impress people.” She smiled. “But you know the ropes.”
Although it was said in all innocence, Frances cringed at the expression. Ricki apparently didn’t notice. “Some think because I’m a graphologist that I can’t do the forensic work, too, but they’re wrong. I’ve got ultraviolet light tables, stereoscopic microscopes, you name it. You won’t find a more state-of-the-art facility anywhere in the country, I can assure you.”
“That’s what I understand,” Frances said. In her years as a financial crimes prosecutor at the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office, she’d had her share of cases involving forged or fraudulent documents. She understood the various techniques, the tools experts used to analyze details such as ink luster and pressure, erasures, watermarks, and other signs of authenticity, as well as the distinguishing characteristics of an individual’s penmanship. But none of the handwriting experts she’d used on Long Island had either Ricki’s personal presence or exceptional professional setup. Elvis claimed she was unparalleled. “No one can hold a candle to that broad, and once she forms an opinion, she won’t waver. She’s about the best witness out there.”
Furthermore, Frances had never sought the services of a graphologist. Largely considered a pseudoscience, graphology involved an evaluation and assessment of an author’s personal and emotional characteristics from penmanship, grammar, and stylistic flourishes. Margin size, word slant, and letter height revealed educational background, personality traits, and signs of mental illness. Frances hoped that such a comprehensive analysis would satisfy her aunt.
“So,” she began as she put on one of the pairs of glasses and glanced at a legal pad in front of her. “Aside from what you told me on the telephone, what can you tell me about the diary?”
“Not much. It was given to me after her death by Father Whitney, the Episcopalian minister who was to perform the marriage.”
“And she had given it to him?”
“Yes. Shortly before her wedding. All he said was that he’d found it in his office with a note asking him to keep it safe for her. When I made this appointment, I called him again to see if he remembered anything else about it, any mention Hope might have made of her diary, anything at all, but he just repeated what he’d said the day he gave it to me. When he learned that Hope had been murdered, he gave it to us because he hoped it might contain something helpful. In any event, he didn’t think it was his place to keep it.”
“Someone’s been arrested, isn’t that right?”
“Yes. This has nothing to do with that. In all honesty, I think this may be a waste of your time. Her mother, my aunt, questions its authenticity. As I’m sure you understand, she’s very fragile at the moment. She and her husband are very close to Hope’s fiancé and can’t bear to think that she was unhappy with him. So she’s searching for another explanation for these sad words. I look at the other stuff I’ve brought—everything from a to-do list to letters she sent home from camp ten years ago— and I don’t see anything in the handwriting that looks suspicious.”
Ricki crossed her arms in front of her chest and leaned back in her chair. “Well, that might mean one of two things: Either the diary is authentic and was written by Hope, or it was re-created by a good forger.”
“Or I just can’t see the difference.”
Ricki smiled.
“I’ve brought a lot of exemplars, more than you probably want or need.” Frances handed her the diary while she spread out the remaining documents on the table in front of them. “Actually, I guess they’re collected standards instead of exemplars,” she corrected herself, recalling the difference. Standards referred to everyday documents whose authenticity wasn’t at issue that could be used for comparison against the questioned document; exemplars were specific writing samples obtained from suspects that contained specimens of the entire upper-and lowercase alphabet.
Ricki looked at several letters under her magnifying glass. “When were these written?”
“Unfortunately, a while ago. Adelaide looked for more recent correspondence but couldn’t find much. She wrote her poetry on a word processor,” Frances added somewhat apologetically.
“What about these?” she asked, pushing several Post-it notes toward Frances.
“Those are recent. Written in the last week or so before she died.”
“And perhaps written in more haste than her diary.”
Frances nodded.
“See this descending baseline?” Ricki asked, pointing out the downward slope of Hope’s words. “It indicates depression, fatalism, and fatigue. The slope is alarming.” She produced some colored tabs from a drawer under the table and stuck them to various documents, making notations on each that Frances couldn’t discern. “See how these sentences drop off at the end?” she said, pushing a letter toward Frances. The last words pitched down, falling off the line. “You tend to see this in people with suicidal tendencies. Had there been anything terribly upsetting to her in the weeks before she died?”
“I’m not aware of anything specifically. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t.”
Ricki held several documents up to a light board, squinted through her magnifier at numerous others, and thumbed through several pages of the diary. As she did, she made slight sounds but offered no information. Finally, she pushed her chair back from the table
. “It’s interesting to me that the slant, or word tilt, changes quite a bit. Most people have a more or less consistent slant, but Hope’s diary is quite vertical, and her quick notes have a pronounced left slant. At times the words look almost flat.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, I’m not sure at the moment, but I think it’s worth exploring.” She stood and turned to an oversize calendar that hung on the wall. Each day was marked with entries in red, green, or navy pen. She sighed. “Give me a couple of days. I’ll call as soon as I have anything definitive.”
“I appreciate your help,” Frances said, standing up to leave. She thought momentarily about whether to apologize. It did seem absurd to utilize the services of this expert to placate Adelaide. But nothing in Ricki’s demeanor made it appear that she resented the task in the slightest.
Adelaide held the lid of the teapot secure with one hand as she poured with the other. Steam rose from the porcelain cup, and the strong smell of mint filled the breakfast room where the two sat despite the noon hour. Frances had left for Boston before eight and had missed an early morning meal, which she now needed. Her stomach growled. She reached for the creamer as well as a raisin scone from the stack arranged on a plate. Through the window she could see a grove of freshly planted cherry trees in the center of the immense lawn. It was Adelaide and Bill’s personal memorial to their daughter and would be the burial place for her ashes. The grove was to be dedicated following the memorial service.
“I never thought I’d live to see this day,” Adelaide said, leaning against the cushioned window seat and pushing a wisp of hair off her face. “You’re not a parent, but I’m sure you can understand. You do the best you possibly can to raise your children with the hope that you give them the strength, courage, and resources to live a happy and productive life. You expect that they’ll bury you, but go on with their lives, full of the joys and inevitable share of sadness that we all experience. The order’s not supposed to be upset. I feel as if the whole purpose of my life has ended. Everything I tried to do, to accomplish, is ruined. I look around. I see people being sympathetic but also managing to carry on, and I don’t know how I’ll find the strength.”