“You’re coming up tomorrow, right, Grace?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you to do me another favor?” B.J. didn’t wait for her answer. He was holding out a sheet of yellow lined paper. “Put together a short research package on scrimshaw and tattoos. We are doing a segment with a scrimshander and, perhaps, a tattoo artist, and we’ll need to have some questions for Constance to ask during the interviews. Don’t go overboard,” he continued. “Just enough to cover the bases, and fax me what you come up with. The fax number at our newsroom at the Viking is on the paper.”
“No problem,” answered Grace as she took the information from him and noticed his strong, tanned hands.
“Thanks, Grace. Thanks a lot.” He flashed a smile revealing white, even teeth and leaned closer. “I’ll let you in on a secret. This is my first remote as a producer, and I’m a little nervous.”
“Really? I thought you were an old hand at this.”
“Nope. I’ve been a cameraman and editor here for six years, and at local television stations for years before that. But just a few months ago they made me a producer as well. That’s the wave of the present, you know. Hyphenates. You gotta do two or three jobs for the price of one if you want to stick around a place like this.”
Grace was a bit envious. She figured B.J. to be about her age, maybe a couple of years older, and yet here he was, well established in his career. She wondered if he was married and had a wife who stayed home with his child while he was carving out his place in the world. Somehow, she thought not. Not only because there was no ring, but because she just had the indefinable sense that he was available. You never knew, though. There were guys who acted unattached when out in the workforce, when in reality they had families depending on them. Frank was one of those guys. Watching B.J.’s lanky frame as he walked back to his desk, Grace found herself hoping that he was not like her former husband.
As she turned to execute her task, punching in the numbers on the fax machine phone pad, the intern with the miniskirt walked over.
“At least he gave you something to do,” the dark-haired beauty whispered. “I’m going out of my mind with boredom. If I spend one more minute surfing the web, I’ll slit my wrists. They don’t have enough for us to do.”
Grace smiled as she listened for the electronic beep signaling the fax was going through. Jocelyn Vickers was right. The interns did have a lot of free time on their hands.
“It should be better when we get to Newport, don’t you think?” she offered. “There should be plenty of things they’ll need us for. At the very least, we get to spend a week in a beautiful place in the summertime.”
Jocelyn shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I’ve never been to Newport before, have you?” Grace asked, wanting to extend their talk if she could. The younger interns hadn’t exactly been seeking her out for conversation. They didn’t seem quite able to make out what to think of her. Grace, the old lady. What could they possibly have in common with a divorced mom?
“Just about every summer of my life.” Jocelyn sighed. “My parents have a house there.”
“Really? That sounds great.” As Grace took the transmitted Newport schedule out of the fax machine tray, she glanced downward and caught a glimpse of the familiar beige, black, and maroon plaid peeking from beneath Jocelyn’s perfectly manicured toes. Burberry. Over a hundred bucks for a pair of plastic strapped sandals. It must be nice. Grace was suddenly aware that her own shoes, the black pumps she had purchased on further markdown at the DSW Shoe Warehouse, looked second-rate and hopelessly boring.
“Yeah, Newport can be fun, if you know where to go and what to do.” Jocelyn swept her hand back through her long, black, expensively cut hair.
“Well, that should keep you in good stead with the folks around here, Jocelyn.”
“Call me Joss.” She brightened. “And, yes, I’m counting on that. In fact, I’m going up there tonight so I’ll be there a little early to help out. I want to make myself invaluable to them when we’re there next week. I really want to be the one who gets the full-time job when the internship is over.”
You’re not the only one, thought Grace, her heart sinking at the idea of Jocelyn’s advantage. You’re not the only one.
Just one was going to be selected from this summer’s intern crop to get a staff position as an assistant producer. Everything depended on performance, and Grace was determined to give it her all. She really needed to get that job.
CHAPTER
2
Professor Gordon Cox pulled the document from his faculty mailbox and scanned the faxed information. He would go over the KEY News schedule in depth later. Right now he had a class to teach.
He paused before the large, ornately framed mirror and checked his appearance. A full head of silver hair complemented his dark eyes and golden tan. He may have gone totally gray a bit prematurely, but he liked the effect. A distinguished, debonair scholar, attractive to the impressionable coeds.
If only he could impress Agatha Wagstaff the way he did the coeds. With the discovery of the bones, Agatha was threatening to pull the plug on the renovations of the old slave tunnel if it turned out to be her sister’s tomb. Gordon’s pet project for the seventeen years he had been teaching at Salve Regina University was going to come to a screeching halt, and he was in knots about it.
Opening the Shepherd’s Point tunnel to the public was a cause célèbre in history circles, and Gordon, as the driving force behind the project, had made a name for himself in the preservation community. He had heard he was up for the Stipplewood Prize, but he supposed he could kiss that and his legacy goodbye now. Agatha was as crazy as a loon, and she had always been skeptical about opening her precious tunnel for the delight of the masses. What chance was there that she’d go ahead with the plan if the tunnel turned out to have been her own sister’s final resting place for the last fourteen years?
The thought that all his planning, and cajoling of Agatha, and attention to her niece, Madeleine, and her mother, Charlotte, before her—not to mention all his research, monographs, and speaking engagements—that all of it would come to naught had depressed him, deeply.
Still, Gordon knew that his was a dream job. To have the opportunity to open the eyes of others to all the cultural and historical splendor that surrounded them. To revel in his passion— and be paid for the privilege.
Of course, the pay could be better. That was why he always volunteered to teach during the summer session. He had no desire to leave Newport anyway, in this, the high season. If millionaires had chosen the historic City by the Sea as the place to build their “summer cottages,” it was certainly good enough for him. Why should he go away in the most gorgeous months? No, he took his trips during the winter and spring breaks. In July and August he was content to stay right here.
Just like Charlotte Sloane.
Gordon hadn’t called ahead of time to see if it was all right to bring a group of students to Shepherd’s Point. He didn’t want to risk Agatha’s refusal to allow entry to the grounds of the rambling Victorian mansion built atop acres of rolling farmland at the tip of Newport.
“Go ahead,” he instructed as the driver slowed down at the gates. “Drive right through and over to the playhouse.” As the van rocked across the dirt road worn by the excavating equipment, Gordon continued his narration for his students.
“Shepherd’s Point figured prominently in the history of the African-American in Newport. The mansion was built on the site of a former shepherd’s pasture. A principled man, the shepherd lent his help to the desperate, hunted slaves fleeing their southern masters. A tunnel was built up from the ocean to the small shanty that led to freedom at Shepherd’s Point. Years later, when the grand home was built by the silver magnate Charles Wagstaff, Sr., the tiny farmhouse was shored up and used as a playhouse for the Wagstaff children. The Underground Railroad tunnel was left intact.”
Gordon led the way out of the van, wincing at the pain in his
knee. The students followed as he walked to the weathered playhouse, continuing his lecture as they moved along.
“Until now, there has been only one documented Underground Railroad tunnel open for public viewing. That one slopes toward the home of the noted abolitionist Henry Ward Beecher in Peekskill, New York. There have been rumors about the Shepherd’s Point tunnel, and Newporters have talked about its existence, some even sneaking onto the estate to catch a glimpse.
“Historians have been trying for years to persuade Agatha Wagstaff to allow access to the tunnel and permit essential preservation work. At one point, she had almost acquiesced, but the work was never started. Fourteen years ago, Ms. Wagstaff’s sister, her only sibling, Charlotte Wagstaff Sloane, disappeared. Agatha became a recluse, and the preservation project never happened. Shepherd’s Point, as you can see, sank into decrepitude.”
All eyes wandered across to the gray manor house looming at the top of the sweeping, weedy lawn.
“It was finally lack of money that persuaded Agatha to let the work begin just recently. City officials made a deal by which the back taxes on Shepherd’s Point would be forgiven in exchange for the right to open the tunnel to the public.”
The scholars reached the playhouse. Yellow police tape blocked the entrance, yet no one stood guard. The students watched as Gordon pulled back the tape and opened the door.
“Should we be doing this, Professor?” asked one.
“It’s all right. I’ll take full responsibility. I don’t know what the future of this tunnel will be now, in light of what has just been discovered here, but I want you all to see this. We may be the last people to witness this historic, sacred place for a very long time.”
The group passed single file through the narrow doorway and huddled in the only room. If there had once been a cot for the shepherd to sleep on or a table and little chairs for the Wagstaff girls to hold tea parties, that furniture had long since been removed. The only sign of the life that had once pulsed inside the walls was the darkened fireplace, ashes still lying on the hearth.
With the pain in his knee always present, the professor knelt to lift a piece of the wooden floor, revealing a narrow wooden staircase. The students craned to look into the dark passage. Engrossed, none of them felt the presence behind them, blocking the doorway.
The shrill voice cut the musty air. “Out! All of you get out of here. Get off my property!”
Agatha Wagstaff, mistress of Shepherd’s Point, stood before them, her blue eyes bulging from her milk-white face, her red lipstick bleeding grotesquely through the lines around her mouth.
“Agatha, please,” Gordon pleaded. “I just want my students to see the tunnel. Just give us a few minutes.”
“No, Gordon. You and your students, get out of here this instant or I’ll call the police. Charlotte never wanted you here to begin with. She didn’t want our home to become a tourist attraction. She never wanted this tunnel opened.”
CHAPTER
3
After lunch, Grace gathered with the other interns in the KTA conference room as T-shirts were distributed. With pleasure, she inspected hers. KEY NEWS—CALLAHAN was imprinted in large black letters on the front of the white shirt. But the vain thrill was replaced by tension as the executive producer strode into the room and began to reel off what would be expected of them on the Newport remote.
“You are on call twenty-four-seven. You’ll all be assigned beepers, and when you are paged you are expected to answer. Promptly.” Linus Nazareth’s deep voice boomed. “That’s what’s expected if you want to work on this broadcast. Every single person on this staff knows that this is a fact of life. And if you are thinking of a career in television news, you better get used to it. If a story breaks, there are no excuses. No hot dates or family birthday parties get in the way of your responsibilities to KEY to America.”
“That’s okay with me, Mr. Nazareth,” a young man piped up, in a soft drawl. “That’s the way I expect it to be. That’s what gets me psyched about working in this business. The excitement and unpredictability of it.”
Nazareth looked at the lanky kid leaning against the wall and tried to take his measure. Could this saccharine enthusiasm be for real?
“Anyone might say that when they’re starting out,” Linus answered. “What’s your name again, son?”
“Sam. Sam Watkins.”
“Where do you go to school, Sam?”
“Northwestern.”
“Good school. But you’re not from Chicago, are you?” Linus made an educated guess, hearing the regional twang.
“No. I’m from Oklahoma. Hollis, Oklahoma, sir.”
“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?” Linus was constantly amazed at how willing these kids were to travel from all around the country to take a summer job that paid nothing and offered no room or board. He had heard one of them had come all the way from England this summer.
Sam nodded. “Yes, sir.”
If it mattered a tinker’s damn to Linus, he would have asked where the kid was staying while he worked in Manhattan, but it didn’t. The interns usually camped out on the sofas or in the guest rooms of apartments in the city or homes in the suburbs of relatives or family friends. Sometimes the students availed themselves of reasonably priced campus housing at one of New York’s universities. Linus wasn’t interested in the details.
“Well, Sam, as I was saying, at first most young journalists are eager to drop what they’re doing when a story breaks, but that can get old, real fast.” Linus scanned the room. “I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it. It’s better if you know right up front the kind of life that’s ahead of you if you decide to make your living this way.”
As she listened to the executive producer rant on, Grace felt her stomach twisting. This was what she worried about when she woke up in the middle of the night. Grace knew she would hate herself if she ever had to miss her daughter’s birthday. Lucy was getting older, it was true, but she still needed her mother to be there for school shows, teachers’ meetings, doctors’ appointments, and the myriad other events that go with raising a child. And as Lucy approached adolescence, it was as important as ever that parental involvement be strong, especially when one of those parents had chosen to move away and leave her. Still, other women did it, didn’t they? Managed to be good mothers while making a living. There was a way to work things out. There had to be. As long as crucial support was available, it could all fall into place.
Please, God, let Dad stay well, she prayed. Without her father’s help, Grace didn’t know what she would do.
CHAPTER
4
A half hour before quitting time, Grace was finishing her Internet search. She’d found several excellent articles on the arts of scrimshawing and tattooing. There was a common thread. Both required a steady hand: one, carving designs onto bone; the other, onto human skin.
She printed out the appropriate pages, marked them to B. J. D’Elia’s attention at the newsroom being set up in the Bellevue Ballroom at Newport’s Hotel Viking, and fed them into the fax machine. Ten minutes later, the voice on the newsroom intercom crackled. “Grace Callahan, line two.”
The only calls Grace had gotten in the few weeks she had been at KEY News had been from Lucy, making her wish she could be in two places at once, home with her daughter this summer and nailing this internship in the city.
“I’m just about to leave, sweetheart,” she answered as she picked up the phone. “I should be home just after six if the trains are running with me.”
The male laugh on the other end of the line startled her. “Okay, sweetheart, see you then.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was my daughter,” Grace stammered. “Who’s calling, please?”
“It’s B.J., Grace. I got the material you just faxed. It’s exactly what we need. Thanks.”
“Ah, you’re there already.”
“Yeah. It was no problem. Took the Metroliner right up to Kingston and a taxi from the station to the hotel
. It’s a nice place; you’ll like it.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Grace said truthfully. She had not been away, without Lucy, since Frank took her along on a business trip to Boston four years ago, and those three days had been anything but fun.
“Grace, I know you’re trying to get out of there and go home, but I was wondering if you could do a little more research for me.”
“Sure. Shoot,” she replied, already trying to remember the times for the later commuter trains out of Penn Station.
“Great.” B.J. launched into his request. “The local newspaper is leading with a story of a human skeleton discovered in an old tunnel on an estate up here called Shepherd’s Point. There’s speculation that the bones might belong to an heiress named Charlotte Wagstaff Sloane, who disappeared fourteen years ago. Then again, they might not. The tunnel was once part of the Underground Railroad, and God knows who could have traveled through there. But between the mystery of what happened to Mrs. Sloane and the old slave saga, I think this could be something interesting for KTA to pursue while we’re up here.”
“You’ve got me hooked,” Grace answered. “I’ll get right on it, and before I leave, I’ll fax you whatever I can find.”
“That’s terrific, Grace. I really appreciate it. And I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, right?”
“Yep. I’ll be there.”
Grace pushed down the button on the phone to sever the connection and was about to release it again to call her father when Jocelyn stopped at Grace’s borrowed desk. “You’ve got to get home soon, don’t you?” Joss asked.
Grace had the uneasy feeling that the other intern was checking up on her, wanting to make sure that Grace wasn’t looking more devoted to the internship than Joss was. Grace didn’t want to play that game.
“I was about to leave, but B.J. just called and asked me to check something for him.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
What the heck? It’s not a secret. “He wants some background information on an old missing-persons case up there, a woman named Charlotte Wagstaff Sloane. They found some remains on her family’s estate, and they think they might be hers.”
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