An image of a black woman thrashing through a swamp, listening to the angry yelps of bloodhounds relentlessly tracking her flashed through Zoe’s mind. How much better to hide yourself away in the boiler room or cargo hold of a ship. The accommodations may have been sweltering and suffocating, but the trip was quicker, freedom that much nearer. Mariah had been wise to choose this route.
“In my research, I’ve come across the paper you wrote on the slave tunnel at Shepherd’s Point, Professor Cox. And I’ve read about your plans to work with the Preservation Society and the National Park Service to open the tunnel to the public and make it part of the National Underground Railroad Network to Freedom program.”
Gordon smiled, basking in the flattery. “Yes. That’s our goal.”
Seeing his pleasure, Zoe decided that now was the time to go for it. “I’m sure you can see, the slave tunnel at Shepherd’s Point is a key element for my documentary, Professor Cox. I must get video of the tunnel where slaves ran from the sea to freedom, and I was hoping that you’d be able to help me.”
“You mean take you to the tunnel?” Gordon’s expression soured. “I’m afraid that would be impossible. Agatha Wagstaff has forbidden anyone from entering.”
Zoe was not about to give up. “But perhaps if you appealed to Miss Wagstaff, she might make an exception, for the sake of education,” she pleaded.
“I’m sorry, Zoe.” Gordon was resolute. “I can’t help you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”
Can’t or won’t? Zoe wondered angrily, as the professor limped away. She was even more piqued as she watched Gordon beckon to Grace Callahan.
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Grace tried to make small talk on the ride from Fort Adams to the limestone chateau on Bellevue Avenue. But her attempts to engage the professor in conversation were met with short answers.
As she stood in the cold kitchen of The Elms, Grace had the feeling that Professor Cox didn’t want to be here. Maybe he thought she was beneath him. But she had her assignment, and tired or not, she was determined to carry it out. She scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad, gathering preliminary information for the segment scheduled to air Thursday morning on what it was like for the servants who worked behind the scenes at one of the fabulous mansions.
“There were forty-three in staff,” Gordon recited. “Twenty-seven worked in the house, and sixteen worked outside: a head gardener, two greenhouse men, two gardeners, two grounds-keepers, a chauffeur, three grooms, a coachman, two footmen and a …” Gordon paused, searching his memory. “I’ve forgotten now who the last outside workers were. If you really need it, you can ask a docent.”
They walked across the terrazzo floor, past a wooden trunk for storing silver that was big enough to hold a human body, and into the sprawling laundry room.
“This is where all the laundry was done for the Berwind family, their guests, and the staff. There were no dry-cleaning services, so all the linens and uniforms were also done here.” Gordon motioned downward. “Maids scrubbed the floors, down on their hands and knees. The expression ‘Elms’ knees’ came into the vernacular to describe the ruined knees that resulted.”
“That’s interesting,” said Grace as she wrote on her pad.
“Now we’ll go down to the furnace room.”
They climbed down the metal steps into a cavernous, underground room. A giant cast-iron furnace dominated the space. But Grace’s attention was drawn to the opening at the side of the room.
“That’s the coal tunnel,” said Gordon, following her gaze. “Mr. Berwind, like Mr. Vanderbilt, didn’t want unsightly fuel deliveries made in full view of the residents. So the coal was dropped through a chute behind a fence on the road at the side of the mansion into the tunnel below. Forty tons of it could be stored here at a time. It was moved in five-ton batches, loaded onto that big cart on those mini-railroad tracks, and rolled into the boiler room.”
Grace approached the tunnel opening, aware of the musty smell. Lit with electric lights, the tunnel’s redbrick walls were damp to the touch.
“The Elms was one of the last cottages built during the Gilded Age,” the professor continued. “The electrical system was so modern and expertly installed that it still functions today.”
But Grace was more interested in the tunnel.
“If I go out to the side street, will I be able to still see the chute where the coal was dropped?”
“Yes,” said Gordon, “but there’s really not much to see. There are just metal doors set into the sidewalk, covering the chute. Eventually they had to alarm them to keep kids and vandals out.” Gordon began his climb back up the stairs. “Come on,” he said, wincing at the tightness in his knee. “We still have a drying room, an ice-making room, a root cellar, a wine cellar, a pastry kitchen, a cooking kitchen, and a butler’s pantry to see—and, oh yes, there’s also some china displayed in the mezzanine pantry.”
“I’m right behind you,” she said, still enthralled by the tunnel.
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When Grace arrived back at the hotel, she bumped into her daughter in the lobby.
“Lucy, honey, what are you doing down here all by yourself?” she asked, giving her girl a big hug.
“Dad and Jan are in the dining room finishing lunch. I wanted to check the gift shop to see if I could find a souvenir for Grandpa.”
“Find anything?”
“Yeah.” Lucy held up a paper bag and pulled a long, tissue-wrapped item from it. “I got him a letter opener, Mom. You know how Grandpa is always doing his bills and paperwork,” she said, unwrapping the tissue and holding up the opener for Grace’s inspection. “It’s scrimshaw,” Lucy said proudly. “You know what that is, don’t you? They carve designs on whale teeth. Newport used to be a whaling port.”
“That was a great choice, Luce. Grandpa will absolutely love it.” Grace couldn’t bear to tell her excited child that her gift was made of plastic. Maybe someday she would show Lucy the scrimshaw test that she had just learned about, but this certainly wasn’t the time.
“Are you having a good time, honey?”
“The best. Yesterday we took a tour of two mansions. It was really cool to see how the rich people lived. And we had lunch at the Tennis Hall of Fame. They had really good soup with clams in it. I didn’t think I would like it, but Daddy made me try it, and I was glad I did. It’s my new favorite now.” The enthusiasm dripped from Lucy, her face animated and shining. But then it clouded as she looked at her mother, as if she suddenly felt she was being disloyal. “That’s really all we did,” she added hastily.
“Lucy, believe me, sweetheart, I’m so glad that you are having a great time. I want you to have a good time with your father.”
“I know you do, Mom. But are you having any fun?”
Even if she weren’t, Grace would have said she was. Fortunately, she didn’t have to fib.
“Yes, I am. It’s been really interesting, and I’ve met some great people and I’m learning a lot. As a matter of fact, I just came back from a mansion tour myself. The Elms.” Grace went on to give a thumbnail sketch of what she’d seen, spending the most time on what was most memorable to her.
Lucy’s face perked up again. “The tunnel sounds awesome, Mom. I sure wish I could see it.”
“Ask Daddy if you can take the tour.” Grace kissed her daughter on the forehead. “Well, all right, honey. I’ve got to get some lunch. You better go back now to Daddy and Jan.”
Unfortunately, Grace missed her escape by moments. Frank and Jan arrived in the lobby as if on cue. Once again, Grace felt bedraggled when she observed Jan’s immaculate appearance. She smiled politely and asked what the happy family’s plans were for the rest of day.
“We’re off to take a sailing tour of Newport Harbor and the Narragansett Bay on a seventy-two-foot schooner,” Frank announced. “Then we have an appointment with a real estate agent later this afternoon.”
“Daddy and Jan might buy a s
ummer place in Newport, Mom.” Again, there was that enthusiasm in Lucy’s voice.
“Is that so?” Grace kept her expression pleasant, while inwardly she seethed. You haven’t sent your child support payment, you bum, but you can afford a second home.
“Yeah, well, you know, things are going pretty well with the business,” Frank boasted, oblivious to his insult. “And I’ve always liked it here. I came up here the summer that I was nineteen for my scuba-diving certification test. I took it right off the rocks out at Shepherd’s Point.”
Grace did the mental math. She was thirty-two, and Frank was a year older. He was nineteen years old and in Newport the summer that Charlotte Sloane disappeared.
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No one had seen Sam Watkins since Sunday night. The intern had not called. His room had not been entered, except by Grace yesterday morning, and then again this morning by security, at Beth Terry’s request. His bed still hadn’t been slept in, and none of his belongings seemed to have been touched.
Beth didn’t care if Linus liked it or not. She was calling the police to report a missing person.
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In the Bellevue Ballroom, a buffet lunch was being served. Grace noticed with pleasure that it wasn’t the usual sandwiches and potato chips. There were platters of hot pastas with seafood, primavera and marinara sauces, and big bowls of green salads sprinkled with cucumber, olives, and bright red tomatoes. Large loaves of crusty Italian bread were arranged, sliced on a wooden cutting board. Beside the board, a tiny card announced that the buffet had been prepared by Seasons Catering.
Grace got on the buffet line behind Beth Terry. “This looks great,” Grace said. “And it smells even better.”
Beth heaped a spoonful of the seafood pasta on her plate. “I’m so tired of ordering the same ol’ deli stuff. So I got the name of the guy who did Joss Vickers’s party, and it turns out he does more than just clambakes.” Beth continued on to the pasta primavera and Italian bread, and piled some of that on her plate, too.
With her plate in hand, Grace looked around the newsroom, ostensibly searching for a place to sit down and eat. More important, she was hoping to find B.J. But he was nowhere to be seen. Grace sought out another intern as a lunch companion and spotted Zoe eating by herself at the side of the room.
“He went out to a winery to shoot for his piece tomorrow,” Zoe announced, seeming to read Grace’s mind.
“Who?” Grace felt herself blush.
“B.J.,” Zoe said. “That’s who you were looking for, wasn’t it?”
Was she that obvious to everyone?
“And he took Joss along with him.” Zoe delivered the stinger, spearing a ripe wedge of tomato with her plastic fork.
It was absolutely ridiculous to feel hurt or slighted in any way. After all, she hadn’t been around this morning for B.J. to ask that she accompany him to the winery. He had every right, perhaps even a responsibility, to give another intern some field experience. Still, Grace was disappointed that he hadn’t tracked her down or beeped her. Even worse, he had asked Joss instead.
She finished her lunch, unable to really enjoy it, and tossed the plate and utensils in the trash receptacle near the doorway. There was no point in brooding. There was nothing she could do about it.
Actually, this might work out well. She would skip the nap she had been hoping to catch. If no one in the newsroom had anything for her to do this afternoon, Grace could take the opportunity to go out to Shepherd’s Point.
Maybe Agatha Wagstaff would be willing to see her, maybe the old recluse wouldn’t. But Grace felt she had to make the attempt to tell the woman about her last conversation with Madeleine. If something happened to someone Grace loved, she would want to know what had occurred immediately before the person died. And if the loved one had spoken about Grace, she would want to know that, too.
Grace checked with the assignment desk, learned that she was free for the next few hours, and went out onto the porch of the hotel, asking the doorman to summon a cab.
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As Grace’s cab pulled out of one side of the driveway, a police car pulled in the other. Officer James was driving. He was excited at the prospect of surprising Joss where she worked.
“This is all we need,” groaned Detective Manzorella from the passenger seat. “The Sloane girl dead, now a student intern missing. If this one hits the local papers, we’re going to have the mayor barking at us again. Crime doesn’t foster summer tourism.”
Inside the ballroom, Mickey oversaw the buffet cleanup. He wanted to make sure that, start to finish, this first job for the TV network went well.
KEY News was a prestigious client to add to his roster. Though the news team might not be in Newport again to order from Seasons for a long time, Mickey wanted them to be satisfied. He hoped to get a quote for the “Satisfied Customers” page in his brochure and website. That heavy woman who had placed the order had already offered to give him a rave. But Mickey was hoping for someone a little higher up the food chain than Beth Terry.
Constance Young hadn’t touched the buffet, but Harry Granger looked like he had enjoyed it. He had gone up to the serving table twice. Mickey was about to approach the KTA host with his request when he noticed the tall policeman standing in the doorway. Mickey had a visceral urge to flee.
Be calm, he told himself. It was only Tommy James, and Al Manzorella along with him. You’ve known these guys for years. They aren’t even looking for you. They couldn’t have known you’d be here.
But when you had a guilty conscience, you feared that anyone could discover your secret.
The detective and patrolman crossed the newsroom to the assignment desk.
“We’re looking for Beth Terry.”
“That’s me.”
Al and Tommy identified themselves. “Thanks for calling in with the information, Miss Terry,” said the detective. “We’d like to talk to anyone who might know anything about Sam Watkins. What he did that night, who he talked to.”
Beth glanced nervously around the newsroom to make sure Linus wasn’t there. “Well, I suppose the thing that stands out most for me is that Sam was scheduled to appear on KTA the next morning. His face had been shown on a promo, not identifying him by name but touting him as an eyewitness to Madeleine Sloane’s murder.”
So this was that kid, thought Tommy James with anger, recalling the resistance the night-shift guys had reported getting when they’d come here Sunday night. If they’d identified Sam Watkins then, they might not be in this mess now.
“We’d like a copy of that video of Sam, Miss Terry, so we can get a picture out of it for our investigation and search.” Detective Manzorella made a notation in his book.
“Certainly,” said Beth. “We have the equipment to isolate that picture for you here, Detective.”
“Can you suggest anyone else we should talk to?” asked Al.
“Scott Huffman, the satellite truck operator, was the last one I know of who saw him. Scott’s down at Bowen’s Wharf getting the truck in position for the broadcast tomorrow morning.” Beth bit her bottom lip, trying to think of who else might be able to help the police. “Maybe the other interns?” she offered, looking around the newsroom again. “But Joss Vickers is out on a shoot right now. I don’t know where Zoe Quigley has gone off to. And you just missed Grace Callahan. I know Grace said that she bumped into Sam outside on the porch just before he left to go over to The Breakers Sunday night.”
Hearing the name, Detective Manzorella made the connection. Grace Callahan had come to the station the day before with the story about the dream Madeleine Sloane had confided to her shortly before she died. The same Grace Callahan had been the one to talk to Sam Watkins right before he disappeared. Maybe Grace Callahan was more involved in this than was healthy for her.
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“You better let me off here,” said Grace as the cab arrived at the gate to Sheph
erd’s Point. She paid the driver, suddenly realizing she’d have no way back to the hotel once he drove away. “If I call you later, will you come to pick me up?”
“Sure, but it might take a while for me to get back out here.”
“That’s fine. Thank you very much.”
Terence was not stationed at the entrance to the estate this afternoon, and Grace was glad. She didn’t want to have to talk her way onto the grounds. The gate was slightly ajar, as if no one cared enough anymore to bother trying to keep intruders away. As Grace entered, she was reminded of that first meeting with Madeleine at this gate just a few short days ago.
The cats lying in the sun glanced disinterestedly at Grace as she walked up the long driveway. Heat waves shimmered above the overgrown shrubs and uncut grass. She felt a bead of perspiration trickle down her side.
The shade of the porte cochere was a relief. Grace walked up the steps, took a deep breath, and knocked on the peeling door. After a few moments, a glowering elderly woman appeared.
“Hello. My name is Grace Callahan. Are you Miss Wagstaff?”
“No. I’m her housekeeper.”
“Oh. Well, I was hoping that Miss Wagstaff would be able to see me.”
“About what?” The housekeeper eyed Grace with suspicion.
“Actually, this is a condolence call about her niece.”
“Well, thank you very much for coming, but Miss Agatha isn’t receiving anyone right now.”
Grace had no intention of forcing herself on the grieving woman. “All right,” she said. “But would you please tell Miss Wagstaff how sorry I am and that I was with her niece the night she died. Madeleine spoke of how much she loved her aunt. I hope Miss Wagstaff will find some comfort in that.”
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