by Luanne Rice
The size of the Last Monday Club membership never changed—twenty men. As members died, new ones were admitted. It was a morbid truth that death was the only way a man could get in. The new members had to be the same “type”—in other words, rich and connected. They claimed that background didn’t matter. Bank accounts did.
But like all organizations, there was a hierarchy within this one. Wade Lockwood was the oldest member and had the most power. Griffin’s closeness to Wade, and the fact Wade championed his political future, made Griffin next in line. The Catamount Bluff connection was powerful. Edward Hawke was in the inner circle and so were Neil Coffin and his brother, Max.
I had heard the Catamount men laughing about it one night over brandy on our terrace. They loved the club, partly because the other members were a built-in constituency: men with money and influence, to finance Griffin’s campaign and get their friends on board to donate and vote.
Ford and Alexander were in line to join. I had no doubt that as sons of the golden boy, they would be welcomed into the top tier.
I was glad for the night alone. I gazed out the window at our wide lawn sloping to the edge of the bluff, the gracious and impeccably trimmed privet hedges, and a rose garden that had been here since Griffin’s great-grandmother had first planted it. It was all so perfect—on the outside. I thought of heading over to see Sloane but remembered that she had said she was taking an early-evening yoga class with Abigail Coffin.
Every man on our road was there, in that closed room on the top floor of the Mohegan Hotel. They didn’t even allow women servers. There were waiters and a male chef, none of them members of the society. Once the meal was served, the staff would leave the members to their port and cigars, when the real discussions would begin. The employees were sworn to secrecy—they signed nondisclosure agreements, and not even the members were allowed to repeat what was said in the meetings, least of all to their wives. They were not even supposed to tell who the other members were. But of course, the wives talked—most of us, anyway. Leonora never would.
I felt the urge to get away from Griffin’s upper-class domain, his black-tie Monday night, and head to Hubbard’s Point. I hurried along the forest path—as always, pausing at the cove where I had found Ellen’s body.
I made my way down the steep hill, onto the beach at Hubbard’s Point, and my whole body relaxed. Instead of the four mansions on Catamount Road, there were over a hundred small cottages scattered close together on winding roads, with a feeling of fun, joy, and togetherness. Not tuxedo-clad secrets of the rich and infamous. This was my home.
I spotted Jackie walking slowly along the tide line, head down as she looked for beach treasures. We’d been beachcombing these sands from the time we could walk.
“It’s you!” she said, hugging me. “The star of the show!”
I tried to smile, but I couldn’t.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Something about the exhibit?”
“I was just thinking of Ellen. I just passed the spot.”
“Oh, Ellen,” Jackie said.
We walked in silence, the memory of our old friend shimmering between us. I thought of Fingerbone, of how angry Griffin would be when he saw it. Protect his reputation? No. His campaign was gathering steam, amassing huge contributions, but it would soon come to a halt.
There was no way I could let a killer, a man who hated women, take office. I would show Griffin my shadow box at the same time I told him I was leaving, and he would know that this was real, that I knew he murdered Ellen. And he would realize that I was ready to tell.
“Hey,” Jackie said, pulling me out of those troubled thoughts. “Are you okay?”
“Sort of,” I said. Then, “Not really.”
“Tell me,” Jackie said.
“There’s something I have to figure out,” I said.
She stared at me with her big, beautiful, kind eyes, and I felt bad for not being ready to confide in her.
“Have you eaten?” she asked after a moment.
“No,” I said. “Griffin’s out, and I wasn’t in the mood to cook.”
“Come join us,” she said. “Kate and Conor are coming over, and I know she’d love to see you. She’s so disappointed she has to fly Friday and will miss your opening.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love to.”
I felt a rush of blood in my chest. Conor Reid was a detective. Although I didn’t know him well, he had become part of Jackie’s family when she married his brother, Tom. He seemed quiet and serious. Could I trust him? Would he listen to me, believe me? Or was he, like many in Connecticut law enforcement, so loyal to Griffin that he’d find a way not to investigate?
The challenge was to find someone I could trust. I wondered if that person might be Conor.
13
CONOR
Conor grabbed every chance to hang out with his brother, Tom, and Jackie, and any time he got with Kate was a bonus. Claire Beaudry Chase had joined them, spur of the moment. They all gathered outside Tom and Jackie’s cottage. The charcoal sizzled as Tom flipped the swordfish. Jackie stood beside him, brushing on the marinade. Claire sat at the table, sipping wine and gazing at the water.
The cottage faced west over the beach. Conor and Kate stood slightly apart from the others, holding hands and watching the spectacular red-and-gold sunset. The woods between Hubbard’s Point and Catamount Bluff were dark and shadowed.
“Did you walk through the path to get here, Claire?” Conor heard his brother ask. “Or did you drive over?”
“I walked,” she said.
“I met her on the beach,” Jackie said.
“Well, I’m really glad you joined us,” Tom said.
Conor noticed that Claire looked worried, almost shell shocked. She didn’t seem like an artist with a big show about to open. Conor had seen similar expressions on the faces of crime victims.
“Dinner’s served!” Jackie said after a few minutes. Everyone sat around the wrought iron table. Platters were passed, drinks poured. Kate raised her glass.
“Here’s to Claire,” she said. “And a great exhibition!”
Everyone clinked glasses. Claire smiled, and her mood seemed to lift slightly, but Conor still saw the heaviness.
“I have a charter to LA that day,” Kate said. “Memorial Day weekend and my clients are flying to their house in Malibu. It’s killing me to not be able to celebrate at the gallery, but Conor will be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, not letting on that Kate had leaned close in the car on the way over, said that she just knew he’d love representing her at the opening, being there for Claire, and in return, she’d promise to attend any police banquet he asked her to. He laughed because he knew Kate realized he’d do anything for her—there didn’t have to be a quid pro quo.
After dinner, Tom and Jackie went inside to make coffee and get dessert; Kate followed them into the kitchen to help clean up. Conor was about to follow, but Claire stopped him.
“Have you ever seen eyes change color?” Claire asked.
“Uh,” he said. “You mean how babies’ eyes are blue when they’re born but can change as they get older?”
Claire didn’t reply right away. The sun had nearly set, and it was getting almost too dark to see.
“No, not that,” Claire said. “Not babies. I mean a grown-up whose eyes change color depending on mood. Have you ever heard of anything like that?”
He felt that familiar shiver run down his spine, a signal that this was important. He stayed silent, the way he did in interrogations, waiting for her to go on. Claire stared at the beach. The sound of waves hitting the shore echoed up the hill.
“It’s something I wonder about,” she said. “Probably just my imagination. But I wonder, Is it possible for anger to alter a person’s eye color? A person whose green eyes turn black when he gets furious. I mean totally black, in one second. Not bruises on the skin, not shadows under the eyes—the eyes themselves. The irises actually change from gr
een to black.” She stared hard at Conor.
“Yes,” Conor said. “It does sometimes.”
“What kind of person would it happen to?” Claire asked.
“A psychopath,” Conor said.
“Has it been documented?” Claire asked. “Have people actually seen it happen?”
Conor could tell by the tension in her voice that she herself had witnessed it. “A famous example is Ted Bundy,” Conor said. “One of his only victims to survive said that during the attack, his eyes turned from blue to black. And police interviewers saw it too. The eyes don’t actually change color, but the pupils completely dilate from extreme arousal.”
“Fueled by rage?” Claire asked.
Conor nodded. “And the desire to inflict pain.”
“What can you do about a person like that?” she asked.
“Stay away from him,” he said.
“Sometimes that’s not so easy,” she said. She looked away again, gazing across the crescent bay at the woods between Catamount Bluff and Hubbard’s Point. “Have you ever heard of Ellen Fielding?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “I remember it well. I was a town cop back then, and my partner and I got to the cove right after you and Griffin left.”
“So you know,” she said. “That Griffin and I knew her. That I found her body.”
“Yes, I remember that,” he said. “I read your statement at the time.” He pictured the gruesome scene: the dead girl who had been in the water for days, her flesh ravaged by marine life, the horrific sight of that massive gold bracelet dangling from her skeletal wrist.
“Do you believe her death was an accident?” she asked.
“That’s what the medical examiner ruled,” Conor said carefully.
Claire had been staring at him with electricity in her eyes, but now she blinked, and her expression went flat. She looked away. He had the feeling he had let her down. He didn’t say that although it wasn’t his case, he had been on the scene and it felt personal to him: Ellen was about his age, local, and had died without any explanation.
He had followed up, read the autopsy report. Ellen had sustained blunt force trauma to the head. The shape of her skull fracture indicated that it could have been caused by a fall on the rocks or a blow from a weapon. The findings were inconclusive. Ellen was from a rich family; so was her ex-boyfriend Griffin. Money and influence could do a lot, and he had always wondered if those things had played a role in preventing further investigation.
He wanted to ask Claire more, but just then Kate came out with a mug of coffee for him, and Jackie and Tom followed with bowls of ice cream. Claire thanked Tom and Jackie, said it was great to see everyone but that she wanted to leave for home before it got completely dark. She headed down the stone steps and across the footbridge. Conor watched her run along the tide line. He found himself thinking of what she had said about green eyes turning black. And he wondered why she had fallen silent after he had answered that Ellen’s death had been ruled an accident. Did she suspect it had been a homicide?
Conor knew he would take another look at Ellen’s case file when he had time.
And he decided that the next time he saw Griffin Chase, he would check to see the color of his eyes.
THREE DAYS LATER
14
CLAIRE
The cabin was my hospital for the first three days and nights. At the edge of the marsh behind the woods, I felt hidden and safe. I wrapped myself in my old sleeping bag and slept on a bed of pine needles, slipping in and out of dreams. My cuts and bruises stung and ached. At night I heard screams—a rabbit being killed by an owl or the wild cat I’d tried to spot my whole life. In my dreams and delirium, the rabbit was me.
I knew I was being hunted, no differently from the creatures of the night. My attacker wore that black mask, but his size and shape made me positive it was Griffin. During the first twenty-four hours, I heard bloodhounds and knew that Griffin’s police had ordered search dogs. Their baying sounded distant; I hoped my concoction would keep them far away.
First thing, I knew I had to get water. There was a spring nearby, at the foot of the granite ledges. I left the cabin at dawn. I carried an empty plastic jug from the cabin, filled it up, and drank straight from the bottle right there by the brook. It took all my effort to trudge back to the cabin, staying in the shadow of the rock face as the sun’s first light began to penetrate the woods.
I had no appetite. My head felt as if nails had been driven through my skull, and I had double vision. Did I have a concussion? If I could look in a mirror, would my pupils be different sizes? Maybe my brain was bleeding and I would die of traumatic head injury.
Better than letting Griffin find me.
But I was stubborn, and I had every intention of either surviving or leaving evidence of what had been done to me. The problem was, I couldn’t be sure what had been done to me. The force of the attack had been so swift and violent and the mask so terrifying. By the time the noose was around my neck, I had passed out once, then twice. Cuts on my hands oozed blood from where he had jabbed me with the knife.
He must have thought the hanging had killed me. Had someone interrupted him, forced him to leave me there? I escaped before he could remove my body. It gave me pleasure to picture his face, the shock when he returned to find me gone. But once he realized he had failed, he would rage and search until he found me.
I knew I needed to eat, to get strong again. In my search for food, I headed toward the beach. It was a longer walk than it was to the spring. I had to skirt the ledges on my way downhill, and I felt nervous because once I got to the cove, I would be close to Catamount Bluff, almost within sight of my house. It was barely dawn, but the last morning stars were still out, and I was able to slowly follow a deer track through a grove of scrub oak and white pine.
At the edge of the rocky uplands, I came upon the burial ground. I passed the sacred place, made my way down the ridge, and crossed the path between Catamount Bluff and Hubbard’s Point. For a moment I considered going “home”—to Hubbard’s Point, to Jackie and Tom Reid’s cottage. But could I trust Tom? Especially since his brother, Conor, as a member of the state police, was closely connected with Griffin.
My instincts told me Conor was good, but those same instincts had allowed me to fall in love with Griffin. I didn’t know who to trust.
It was only a few days after I had sat at that picnic table with the Reids that someone tried to kill me. Could Conor have told Griffin that Ellen was still and forever on my mind? Griffin already knew that, but coming from Conor, it could feel like even more of a threat. Had Conor figured out that when I talked about green eyes turning black, I was talking about Griffin? He had told me psychopaths had eyes that did that.
Conor had clearly said that Ellen’s death had been ruled an accident. He didn’t show any doubt, so I stopped myself from saying more. Griffin demanded loyalty. Every law enforcement agency in the state was rooting for Griffin to win the election. Having a law-and-order governor would benefit and empower them. Conor was part of that group. Tom too.
Before I stepped out of the woods, I broke a low bough off a pine tree. From spending my childhood here and from all my beachcombing treks, I knew every inch of this shore. I took off my shoes, carried the branch as I crossed the sand, and dropped it on the tide line. I stepped very carefully onto the granite ledge, inching my way over the slippery surface to the shallow water.
It was midtide. Sargassum weed, attached to rocks, wafted in and out. I brushed aside clumps of seaweed and in the gray light from the last stars was able to see a colony of blue-black mussels clinging to the rocks. I gathered a handful, cracked them with a loose stone, and ate the sweet shellfish raw.
I knew I needed to return to my cabin before the sun rose, but I had a pilgrimage to make first. The cove was just around the bend. This spot was as sacred to me as the Pequot burial ground—the tidal pool where I had found Ellen. Emotion overtook me. My neck was so bruised from the rope that e
ach sob felt like it was crushing my throat from the inside out.
I crouched beside the pool where Ellen’s body had lain. I reached into the water with both hands, splashed it on my wounds. The ocean called to me. Some people are scared of what they can’t see in the depths, especially in the dark, but I knew I had to go in. I stripped off my clothes. Dried blood made the fabric of my shirt and jeans stick to my cuts. I winced as I tugged them off, reopening wounds. My father had said nothing was more healing than salt water.
I dived in. The Sound was late-May cold. It felt bracing, and it stung every inch of my body, but just for a minute. I got used to it quickly. The salt buoyed me up. It soothed my bruises, felt like salve on my neck and shoulders. My muscles and joints had seized, like bolts rusted solid, after barely moving for three days; swimming fifteen yards off the beach loosened them and brought me back to life.
By the time I climbed out of the water, the sun was just cresting the horizon. I gazed west, saw lights on in one of the houses at Catamount Bluff: mine. Griffin was up already. I knew I had to move fast. I put on my clothes, tried to ignore the harsh feel of cotton sticking to my salty skin. Then I picked up the branch I had dropped and used the pine needles to brush away my footsteps. I found my shoes and disappeared into the trees.
The woods embraced me every bit as much as the sea had. By the time I reached my cabin, the sky was the deep blue of dawn, and I was so exhausted I could barely make it inside. Thoughts tumbled through my mind: I should go to the spring and rinse off; I should get more water before the sun is all the way up; I should go to the marsh and try to catch some blue crabs to eat later.
I lay down just for a moment, but my eyes wouldn’t stay open, and for the first time since I’d gotten here, I slept without nightmares.