Luanne Rice

by Summer's Child

  He asked directions to the membership office, thinking that over nine years later, he was still hot on the trail of the coldest case he’d ever had. All that deep curiosity about human nature had gotten him exactly nothing when it came to finding out what had happened to Mara Jameson. He might as well just spend the rest of his life praying Hail Marys for a big fat clue to drop right in his lap.

  Throngs of kids were racing around, giving him a headache. It was a beautiful sunny day outside. What were kids doing in here? When he was young, his parents would have handed him a bat and a ball, or a fishing rod, and told him to go out in the sunshine and not to come back till dinnertime. But as he followed the crowd, he found himself being mesmerized by the glowing tanks, the schools of fish, the eel weaving in and out of its green reef—he began to relax.

  Patrick spoke the language of fish. He looked at these and thought of how great it would be to be in a boat on the open water, with all these fish swimming below. Sandra had never understood that. She had thought fishing was nothing more than sitting on deck with a beer and a pole. She hadn’t understood that it was clouds in the sky, the water changing colors, schools of fish breaking the surface. It was one big mystery, but a beautiful mystery—not like the kinds that tore at Patrick’s heart every day.

  Not like Mara Jameson.

  So the aquarium tanks gave him some insight into what went on below the surface, and when he’d had enough, he drifted out into the corridor, looking for the administrative offices. A receptionist asked if she could help him, and he said he hoped so, he needed to see someone in membership. A few minutes later, a pretty blond woman came out.

  “Hello, I’m Viola de la Penne,” she said. “I’m associate director of membership.”

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Patrick Murphy.” He paused. This was where he wanted to whip out his old badge and show her that he was official. Instead, he said, “I’m a retired state police detective.”

  “Oh, and with all your free time you want to join the aquarium—or maybe even volunteer!” she said. The twinkle in her blue eyes let him think she was kidding. At least, he hoped so. He seriously hoped he looked too tough and seasoned to be giving seal tours to the kiddies.

  “If only there was time for such things,” he said, cracking a three-cornered smile.

  “You mean, crimes still need to be solved, speeders still need to be stopped, stuff like that?”

  “You got it, ma’am,” he said.

  “I’m only forty-two,” she said. “Does that put me in the ‘ma’am’ category?”

  “To retired cops, I’m afraid so.”

  “Hmm. That’s a sobering thought. What can I do for you, Retired Officer Murphy?”

  He grinned at her giving it back to him.

  “I am here about a membership,” he said. “You’re right about that. Only, it’s not for me. It was a gift to a friend of mine.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Maeve Jameson.”

  “Was there a problem with the category of membership? Would she like to upgrade?”

  “There’s no problem. It’s just that it was anonymous. Whoever gave it to her wanted to keep it secret. I was wondering whether you could help me figure it out. Maeve really wants to say thank you. That’s just how she is.”

  “I can understand that. I obviously have to balance the wishes of the donor, but I don’t think there’s any harm in taking a look.”

  Patrick followed her into her office, which was filled with family photographs—a man on the deck of a sailboat, and a beautiful dark-haired daughter. Viola sat at her computer, looking through files. Patrick tried to lean around, to see her screen, but he couldn’t do it discreetly enough, so he quit trying.

  “Ah, here we go,” Viola said.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Actually I don’t, which makes it easier for me to say no to you. There’s a note here saying that the gift was to be completely anonymous—just as you said.”

  “There must be some record of who made the gift, right? Even if you can’t tell me?”

  Viola shook her head, peering at the screen. “No. All I have is a note to myself, that the giver wanted to be sure we still had beluga whales here. Somehow that was important—I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you that.”

  “Beluga? Isn’t that caviar?”

  “Retired Detective, it’s also a type of whale, one of the few that can live in captivity. We’ve had beluga whales here at the acquarium for many, many years. People who are adults now still remember the thrill of seeing a whale for the first time—right here in our tanks. There’s a show, starring Snowblind and Snowflake, beginning in just about fifteen minutes. Perhaps you’d like to go… .”

  “Snowblind and Snowflake?”

  “Yes. Belugas are white whales.”

  “Huh.”

  Patrick considered. Maybe Maeve loved whales, loved belugas in particular. Or maybe she had taken Mara to watch whales when she was little. Or maybe one of her ex-students wanted to give her a gift. Or maybe it was just a mistake, the gift had been from her insurance agent or greengrocer or freaking car repairman.

  “How’d the person pay? Got a credit card number on file?”

  “The payment was in cash. I have a note to myself, that the exchange rate was a little off. The payment was over—too much—once I calculated the rate.”

  “What rate?”

  “The exchange rate—Canadian to U.S.,” Viola said. “The currency was Canadian.”

  “Did you save the envelope?”

  Viola shook her head, smiling. “Sorry. I didn’t know we were going to be investigated for processing a gift.”

  Patrick smiled back. He thought for a minute she was flirting with him. But she had on a wedding ring, and there were those family pictures everywhere. He was so out of practice, he didn’t know the difference between friendly banter and flirting. As Sandra had told him often enough, he was hopeless—in many areas.

  “Look,” Viola said. “Just to make it up to you, I’m going to comp you for the dolphin show.”

  “Dolphins?”

  “Well, Snowflake and Snowblind make an appearance. That way, you can see the belugas for yourself, and hopefully report back to Mrs. Jameson that they’re worth coming to see.”

  Patrick thanked her, shook her hand, and accepted the ticket. Who had sent Maeve the membership, and what did beluga whales have to do with anything?

  He made his way up to the marine theater and took his seat among a crowd of people from Brooklyn. They were part of a bus tour, and by listening to the women beside him, he realized that the tour included the Seaport, the aquarium, and dinner and a show at the casino. One woman was divorced, and the other was a widow. The widow was saying her grandchildren loved dolphin shows.

  Patrick squinted at the pool. He thought of Maeve, how much she missed her granddaughter, how she had never known the great-grandchild Mara had been carrying. What was he even doing here? Most of the time, he was 95 percent sure that Edward Hunter had killed her, that he had hidden her body where it would never be found. But that other 5 percent was powerful enough to send Patrick following crazy leads, even to the marine theater.

  Some marine biologist took his place up on a platform and began his spiel about bottlenose dolphins and Atlantic dolphins, and then some dolphins—Patrick didn’t really notice which kind—came out and began leaping into the air like circus animals doing tricks. Blowing the horn, catching the rings, bumping the beach ball.

  He remembered going to Sea World with Sandra. She had worn white shorts and a blue halter, and she’d had a sunburn. Patrick had spread sunscreen on her shoulders and wanted to forget about the dolphin show and go back to the hotel. Now, he forced himself to stay in the moment. Sugar, one of the dolphins, landed with a huge splash, and half the audience got soaked.

  Then the dolphins went away, and the ringmaster guy made his voice very serious. Patrick thought it was sad that he was a scientist who spent his
time making dolphins do tricks. It made Patrick feel depressed somehow. And then the water’s surface broke, and this big white creature stuck its head up.

  Patrick was shocked—it was huge. A whale, a real whale, right here in a tank in Mystic, Connecticut. “This is Snowflake, our oldest beluga whale,” the ringmaster said. “Her sister, Snowblind, is on vacation today, and won’t be performing. The sisters come from northern waters, up in Maritime Canada, and we …”

  Some kids in the crowd sounded disappointed. Patrick found himself standing up, pushing past the women from Brooklyn, casting one last look back at the white whale. Her eyes looked bright and solemn. Patrick felt them following him out the door, watching him go. It was the oddest sensation, being watched by a whale.

  The scientist had said the belugas came from Canada. Viola had said the membership money came from Canada. Patrick wondered—was there anything Canadian in Mara Jameson’s file? He had to get back to the boat to dig up his old notes and find out.

  Maeve wasn’t feeling very well. The heat had closed in on Hubbard’s Point, making everything—including the roses and her—wilt. She was standing in the backyard, filling the yellow watering can from the hose, when she heard a car door close. It was probably Clara’s son stopping by with his kids to take a swim, she thought. She leaned against the weathered shingle house, splashing her feet with the hose.

  The spigot was attached to a corner of the house, right next to a small cement circle. Mara had always loved to create pictures out of odd materials: she would sew little quilts, make small pillows, embroider wall hangings, needlepoint bookmarks. But this was really her pride and joy: Maeve had helped her mix up cement, they had poured it into a one-foot-diameter circle, and Mara had pressed shells, sea glass, and a large sand dollar into the wet concrete. It was still beautiful.

  “Hello, Maeve,” came the low, familiar voice that she had heard only on the phone these last many years.

  Maeve jumped. It was Edward—holding a small glossy blue bag. She saw that he was still tall, broad-shouldered, confident. He wore a white shirt over pressed khakis. No belt, no socks. Polished brown loafers. Rolex watch—the same one Mara had bought him with some of her inheritance. The sight of that watch made her stomach turn, and she had to literally hold on to the side of the house. She raised her eyes to his—they were the same, cold black fire. Icy yet scorching at the same time—the damnedest eyes she’d ever seen. And dark hair combed back, and a tan—a golf tan, or maybe this year it was a tennis tan, or maybe he’d bought a yacht and now it was a yachting tan.

  “Edward. What brings you here?” she asked with enough coolness to keep him from kissing her cheek.

  “I was in the neighborhood on business,” he said.

  “Really. Hubbard’s Point?” She glanced around—beach, rocks, salt water, roses, wishing well. “Not much business here.”

  “Not Hubbard’s Point, exactly. Black Hall, Silver Bay, and Hawthorne. I have clients in all three towns.”

  “Aren’t you successful. Three of the most affluent towns on the Connecticut shoreline. You’ve always known where to find new prospects.” She felt the words burning on her tongue. During the investigation, she had been quoted as saying he was a predator and Mara had been nothing more than a mark to him.

  “Yes, I am successful,” he said, staring at her, unable to keep himself from taking her on. Everything to Edward was a challenge. Maeve knew that she could push his buttons and have him slobbering with rage in ten seconds flat. Instead, she counted to ten and smiled.

  “Your mother must be very proud,” she said. “That you made something of yourself.”

  His jaw rippled. My, but he was transparent. Maeve could almost see the wheels turning. Should he put her through the plate glass window, or just continue his Ivy League act? Maeve would refrain from pointing out that it was, in fact, an act. That Mara had discovered his lies about Harvard and Columbia Business School. Sadly, in his profession of stock brokerage, they didn’t matter. Too bad they couldn’t disbar him or revoke privileges or something.

  “She is proud,” he said.

  “Of course she is. And so must your new wife be.” Maeve thought of what Patrick had told her about the marriage falling apart. Edward flinched.

  “How have you been?” he asked, not taking the bait.

  Maeve smiled gently and didn’t reply.

  He waited for a few seconds. When he realized that she wasn’t going to answer, he nodded briskly, as if he hadn’t really asked the question. They stood there, facing off. Did he really have the nerve to show his face here? The last place on earth Mara had been seen alive? Maeve found her attention drifting across the yard, to the only flat section big enough to hold a tent.

  It had actually straddled the property line between her and Clara’s houses. For Mara and Edward’s wedding, eleven years ago this month, they had put up a pretty yellow-and-white-striped tent in that very spot. There had been tables with pale yellow tablecloths, white wooden chairs, vases of roses and wildflowers picked from Maeve and Clara’s gardens, and a string quartet.

  Everyone from Hubbard’s Point had attended. All of Mara’s childhood friends: Bay McCabe, Tara O’Toole, Dana and Lily Underhill, and all the other now grownup Point kids. Maeve had invited people from school—other retired teachers, as well as some still at Black Hall High, her old principal—and her roommate from Connecticut College, who had flown out from Chicago, and some of her son and daughter-in-law’s friends. Aida Von Lichen, Johnny Moore’s sister, had come, and his daughter Stevie—from whom Mara had once taken art lessons—had read a love poem of Johnny’s.

  Edward’s side of the aisle had been less populated. That should have been a red flag, she knew now. But at the time, it had been just another reason to feel sorry for him. His sister hadn’t been able to get time off; his mother had come down with pneumonia; his father had spent the airfare Edward had sent him on booze. It was all so sad; so Mara had worked overtime, extra hard, to make sure every one of her and Maeve’s friends gave him extra love and attention.

  Those thoughts were crackling in Maeve’s mind as she stared at Edward now. Her fingers literally twitched—she wanted that badly to rip his eyes out. She had never known that she was capable of true, passionate, unadulterated hatred until after Mara disappeared. Eight and a half months pregnant, her darling, beloved Mara had just fallen off the face of the earth… .

  “Let’s forget the pleasantries, shall we?” she asked now. “What brings you here?”

  “I found some things of Mara’s I thought you should have,” he said, now clutching the bag to his chest. “The police had them for a while, but they returned them to me. They’ve been in my trunk, waiting for a chance to bring them to you.”

  “I don’t want them,” she said.

  His eyes widened with surprise. Maeve’s lips trembled. She half-turned away, began to train the hose on the roots of the rosebushes climbing up the side of the house. They were thick, hardy bushes of white and yellow roses—and they were in full, delicious bloom right now. She couldn’t bring herself to look up, to where the roses were most lush. The trellis stopped just short of a bedroom window—Mara’s childhood bedroom, and the one they had decided would be the nursery when the baby visited.

  “I’m sure you do want them,” he pressed.

  “Hmm,” she said, feigning indifference. Her hands shook, she wanted so badly to look inside that bag. But Maeve had learned something about Edward, through Mara. She remembered one of Mara’s visits, early in her pregnancy. Some of the truth about Edward had started leaking out—and Mara was fighting awareness with every inch of her body. She wanted to stay in the denial of a “happy” marriage, part of a couple expecting a much-wanted—by Mara, at least—child.

  “I don’t get it, Granny,” she said. “As soon as I let him know I’m happy about something, or excited, it’s as if he wants to take it away from me. Like last night. He’s told me all spring that he wanted to take me to dinner at the Hawthorne
Inn. But at first I was sick, and then I was so tired, and I’ve had lots of work—so last night was the first time I really wanted to go. We were all dressed and ready—out the door—when he changed his mind. He just looked at me and said he didn’t feel like it. That now he was too tired to go.”

  “Maybe he was,” Maeve had said. She kicked herself now, but back then, she had tried to help Mara give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “No,” Mara had said, starting to cry. “He left me home, and went to hit golf balls at One Hundred Acres.”

  Maeve remembered Mara’s tears. She stared at the spray coming from the hose and thought of all the tears Mara must have cried—that she didn’t let her grandmother see. She could almost feel Edward twitching with frustration.

  “These are things of Mara’s,” he repeated. “I thought you’d want—”

  “Leave them by the door,” she said.

  “You’re her grandmother,” he said. “I thought you’d care—”

  Maeve glared down at the roots of the rosebushes. A cool breeze blew off Long Island Sound. Did Edward remember the times he and Mara had gone sailing? The times they had rinsed off in this exact spot, using this exact hose? Maeve heard a screen door slam, and not thirty seconds later, a breathless Clara appeared.

  “Hello, Edward.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Littlefield. Wow, you look great. I haven’t seen you in so long!”

  “It has been a long time,” Clara said, her tone slightly more friendly than Maeve wanted it to be.

  “I came to give these things of Mara’s to Maeve, but it seems she doesn’t want them.”

  “I’ll take them,” Clara said, and the instant Maeve heard the bag passed from Edward’s hand to Clara’s, she felt something relax inside—as if the wire holding her stiff and brittle had been cut, and she was suddenly a rag doll.

  “It’s been a long time,” Edward said. “I thought by now there’d be water under the bridge. Every June and July, just past the time of year Mara disappeared, I miss her so much. I swear, I’ve never gotten over it. I just thought that we could maybe talk—”