The Shadow Box

by Luanne Rice

  “She did,” Tom said.

  “Well, because of that, okay,” she said. She stood up and walked into the living room, Maggie at her heels. She climbed onto a sofa and reached between the arm and the seat cushion, pulled out her notebook.

  Jackie and Lydia entered the room. Gwen turned the pages, and Jackie drifted over to stand beside her, looking down at each picture. The pencil sketches were detailed, and Gwen had colored some of them.

  “These are beautiful,” Jackie said. “You’re a good artist.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said shyly. She looked up at Tom. “Want to see one of the new pictures?”

  “Definitely,” he said.

  Gwen turned the pages until she came to a drawing of a large stone house with a turret on one side and a crenellated tower on the other. It resembled the one she had shown Tom at the hospital but with much more detail. Dark gargoyles shaped like birds lined the parapet gutters and cornice moldings. There were pine trees on both sides of the house and a garden in front.

  Tom felt startled by a moment of recognition and felt that he had seen this place before. Could it have come from an illustration in a children’s book, something he had read in his childhood? And that Gwen had read in hers?

  A small boy stood on the roof, his arms outstretched. A king and queen sat in regal chairs on the rocky ground on either side of the palace’s entrance. Swirls of blue filled the sky above, and fish swam through clouds.

  “What are these lines in the sky?” Jackie asked. “They’re really intriguing.”

  “That’s the ocean, not the sky. They’re waves,” Gwen said. “The fish are swimming all around, like birds. The birds”—she glanced up at Tom to make sure he saw the blackbird gargoyles—“are like fish. And they”—she pointed at two sturdy black-clad guards—“are the mermen.”

  Lydia walked over, set the tray of glasses of iced tea on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

  “Is it okay if I look too?” Lydia asked.

  “Yes,” Gwen said.

  Tom watched the way aunt and niece gazed at each other, the way Lydia sat beside Gwen and put her arm protectively around her. Gwen leaned her head against her aunt’s shoulder for a minute, then pointed at the page.

  “It’s about Charlie,” Gwen said. “It’s how we’re going to find him.”

  “Oh, honey,” Lydia said, sounding helpless.

  “He’s alive, Aunt Lydia,” Gwen said. “Dad doesn’t believe me. He says Charlie is at peace with Mom. But he’s out there! You have to know that with me, so we stay hopeful and keep looking.”

  “Gwen, did you tell me that this castle was in a picture that you’d seen before?” Tom asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “In a book?”

  “No, a photo. With men wearing monkey suits.”

  Tom must have looked confused, because Lydia laughed. “That’s what Dan calls his tuxedo.”

  “So,” Tom said, pointing to the black-clad mermen. “Are these guys wearing monkey suits too?”

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re all going to dance. Charlie too. It’s a happy place, the sea castle. Flowers and boats and birds. That is why it’s okay he stays there until you find him.”

  “Where are those pictures now?” Tom asked.

  She shrugged. “Around someplace, I guess. I haven’t seen them in a long time.”

  “But it was here in your house?” he asked.

  When Gwen didn’t answer, Jackie spoke. “You did a really good drawing of the mermen,” she said. “They look almost like seals because they’re so smooth.”

  “Mnnn,” Gwen said.

  “Is that because they swim in the water?” Jackie asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “They love the sea.”

  “How many were there?” Tom asked.

  “Two,” she said. “One leaned over to get Charlie, and one called my name.” She paused. “One might have been a mermaid.”

  “A woman?” Jackie said.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I want to show you one more thing,” Gwen said.

  She turned a page to a drawing Tom hadn’t seen before. It depicted the interior of a castle with long draperies on tall windows, regal furniture, and a little boy wearing a crown, sitting on a jewel-encrusted throne. Beside him was a table covered with cakes. In the background was a line drawing of a hag holding a broom. She had matted hair, slit eyes, and sharp teeth; her body was hollow—unlike the boy’s. Tom wondered if she was supposed to be a ghost. Gwen had drawn a black slash behind her, as if she were emerging from darkness.

  “How extraordinary,” Jackie said. “There’s so much detail. You’re a good artist, Gwen.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said.

  “Jackie’s right,” Tom said. “You are really good. Gwen, would you mind if I took a photo or two of your drawings?”

  “You can,” Gwen said, and Tom snapped a few shots.

  Jackie pointed at the gargoyles. “They look scary.”

  “They are big crows,” Gwen said. “They have hooked beaks and sharp claws, and they eat animals.”

  “Gwen, who is the lady with the broom?” Jackie said.

  “A bad person,” Gwen said.

  “Why is she there?” Jackie asked. “She looks evil.”

  “She is,” Gwen said. “Once I heard Daddy talking to someone. I don’t know who. He was on the phone with his speaker going. The other person said she ruined everything and she has to go. That they wouldn’t have to do it if she wasn’t going to tear it all apart.”

  “Tear what apart?” Tom asked.

  Gwen shrugged.

  “Were they talking about your mother?” Lydia asked, her voice shaking.

  “No, another lady.”

  “What is the darkness behind her?” Jackie asked.

  “A shadow. Where she lives in secret. They can’t see her.”

  “How sad that she lives in a shadow,” Jackie said. “They said that?”

  Gwen nodded. “Yes.”

  “Is she a ghost?” Tom asked. “The way you drew her, her body looks hollow.”

  “Not a ghost, she’s just clear.”

  “Why clear?” Tom asked.

  “That’s her name. Clear,” Gwen said. “They said Clear ruined everything.”

  “What an odd name,” Lydia said, holding Gwen tighter.

  “Wait,” Jackie said. “Could it have been ‘Claire’? Do you think they might have said Claire?”

  Gwen looked up, eyes meeting Jackie’s, then Tom’s. She didn’t reply.

  “And she lives in a shadow,” Jackie said.

  “Shadow box,” Tom said, and Gwen nodded.

  37

  CONOR

  “Whoa,” Conor said on the phone to his brother after Tom had spent five minutes on a stream-of-consciousness rant that sounded more like a tortured dream sequence than anything resembling reality.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Tom asked. “She said ‘Clear,’ but I’m sure she meant ‘Claire’—Jackie thought so too. Dan was on the phone with someone, and he said ‘she ruined everything’ and ‘she has to go.’”

  “Gwen was hallucinating,” Conor said. “I’ve already said that, and you know it too. There’s no way a merman followed the Sallie B and rescued Charlie to take him to some enchanted mansion where a scary lady lives in a shadow.”

  “She must have heard them say ‘shadow box,’” Tom said as if Conor hadn’t spoken.

  Conor took a deep breath. He heard the strain in his brother’s voice and understood; Tom had been first on the scene of a horrible explosion, rescued the Bensons’ daughter but hadn’t found their son. Conor knew well the feeling of guilt when he couldn’t solve a case, provide answers to a family.

  “Aren’t you listening to me?” Tom asked. “You sounded damned interested about her sketchbook, enough to go to the hospital with me. And now you can’t even be bothered to check it out?”

  “Take a deep breath,” Conor said.

  Tom did and let out a bi
g exhale of frustration.

  Conor was sitting at his desk at the barracks, staring at photos on his wall: of Claire Beaudry Chase, the garage where her blood had been found, and the evidence retrieved from the storm drain and gallery recycling can on Black Hall’s Main Street. He thought he had let Tom know he believed the theory had arisen to assuage guilt and grief; he had assumed his brother would have come around to realizing that by now.

  “I think someone sabotaged the boat and took Charlie,” Tom said.

  “It doesn’t track,” Conor said, trying to be patient. “Jen is working your case hard, and your own guy told her fuel had leaked into the bilge, and that’s what caused the boat to blow up. It’s an accident, pure and simple.”

  “There are too many things that do track,” Tom said. “The name—Clear or Claire. And shadow—that has to refer to her work, shadow boxes, right? And the fact she was going to ruin everything.” He paused.

  “And you think Dan was talking about Claire when he said ‘they got her,’” Conor said.

  Tom cleared his throat. “Look, Jackie is really upset,” he said. “Claire was—is—her friend. She thinks this means something. We both do. Will you at least pass it on to Jen Miano? Did you even tell her about the sketchbook?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Listen,” Tom said. “I took some photos of Gwen’s drawings. Okay if I text them to you? At least take a look?”

  “Sure,” Conor said.

  “Thanks,” Tom said in a subdued tone.

  “Hey, meet me for a drink later, okay?” Conor asked. His worry was sharper now, knowing how a feeling of responsibility and failure in a case could lead to despair, and he wanted to lay eyes on Tom.

  “Not today,” Tom said. “I’m on duty.”

  “Be careful,” Conor said.

  “You too,” Tom said.

  Conor hung up. A few seconds later, his cell phone buzzed. Tom’s photos had come through. Conor stared at them, taking his time. Gwen had drawn detailed pictures of a castle, complete with gargoyles, crows, and black-clad guards. He saw the ones she’d done of “Clear,” the sea witch. The images didn’t change Conor’s mind, make him think that Gwen’s drawings were anything more than a traumatized girl’s attempt to keep her brother alive in her mind.

  He put his phone in his pocket and went to look for Jen. He wondered how he was going to show her the photos and tell her what Tom had said without making his brother sound bonkers.

  NINE DAYS LATER

  38

  CLAIRE

  Everything felt new and unfamiliar. Moving around by daylight, something everyone took for granted, felt wild and dangerous. I didn’t have a disguise, and it was impossible to think I wouldn’t be recognized—Hubbard’s Point was a private beach within the small town of Black Hall; I lived and shopped and had so many friends here, and for the people I didn’t know, my photo was all over the news.

  I had regained some strength over the last days, and I had a plan. I needed a computer. I felt I had tempted fate enough by returning home once, so I walked through the woods in the opposite direction, away from Catamount Bluff, until I came out at the top of the hill overlooking Hubbard’s Point.

  It was seven a.m., early enough in the day that people were not yet sitting on the beach. The tide was out, so I ran along the hard sand at the water’s edge to the footbridge crossing the creek and up the steep, narrow stone stairs that led to Jackie’s cottage. My heart was pounding as I walked through the hillside thick with coastal scrub, white oaks, and sassafras. The small gray-shingled house was perched on the rock ledge just above. I stood quietly, listening for sounds of the family talking, having breakfast. Nothing.

  I poked my head over the crest of the hill to see if there were cars parked along the stone wall—none were there. Tom often left for work before dawn. Hunter worked the early shift as a trooper, and her younger sister, Riley, was a lifeguard at the town beach. The gallery opened at noon on Sundays; although it was too early for Jackie to be opening up, she often went running at the high school sports fields before work. I badly yearned to see her and talk to her, but I wasn’t ready to be seen—not even by her.

  The house had an outdoor shower enclosed by latticework entwined with ivy and honeysuckle vines. Just behind it was a door, green paint fading from sea wind and salt air, that led to the cellar. I pulled it open, wincing as the hinges creaked. I held my breath, listening for footsteps up above, any sign that someone had heard me, but all was silent. The wooden frame was swollen from humidity, and the latch was stiff; the door didn’t quite close behind me—I’d make sure to shut it tight when I left.

  Here was a difference between the posh comforts of Catamount Bluff houses and the salty simplicity of Hubbard’s Point: the bluff houses had sturdy foundations with wine cellars and, at least in the Chases’ case, a temperature-controlled room for storing antiques and fine art. Jackie’s cottage was built directly on a granite ledge. The cellar held crabbing buckets, nets, and fishing rods. A rickety ladder led to a trapdoor that opened into the kitchen.

  I stood very still for a long time, listening. I heard no one walking around upstairs. Once I was mostly sure no one was home, I climbed up, inched the hatch open, peered around, and hoisted myself into the kitchen. Congratulations, Claire, I thought. You’ve just broken into your best friend’s house. And I was about to do worse.

  The family room was just off the kitchen, and an Apple desktop was set up on a drop-leaf table. I sat down and clicked the mouse. I was relieved to find the computer wasn’t password protected, so I went to Safari and brought up Facebook. It was opened to Jackie’s account. I logged out, but instead of going to my own page, I created a new username: Anne Crawford. It was meaningful to me alone—Anne was my middle name and Crawford, the name the English settlers had forced on Tantummaheag.

  I needed a profile picture. I scrolled through Jackie’s photos and, hoping she’d forgive me, chose one of the two of us—photographed from behind, standing at the water’s edge, looking toward the horizon. Since our faces weren’t visible, it seemed a safe bet. For the cover photo, I uploaded a shot of a sunset, taken from this very spot—Jackie’s house—facing the beach and the woods beyond.

  I immediately went to the WHERE IS CLAIRE BEAUDRY CHASE? group and requested to join it. Within a few minutes I received a message from Kiley M, the administrator: Hello! I have a concern. You have zero friends. Are you a bot?

  No, I wrote back. I’m a person.

  With no friends?

  I just joined Facebook. Haven’t had the chance to friend people yet.

  Well, I have to ask the question: Why do you want to be in this group? And why join it before you even find friends?

  The case interests me. I want to know what happened to Claire. It struck me, as I wrote those words, that nothing could be truer.

  Okay, you can join. But we are a serious group—we’re here for Claire. No self-promotion, no bashing on Claire or other members.

  Why would people bash Claire?

  Haters in this world. In groups like this, even her attacker could be trolling us and we wouldn’t know. We are very careful, and if we sense anything like that, we report to law enforcement.

  Like her husband?

  We won’t bother him, he’s got enough going on. But state police, def. So behave yourself!

  I will, thanks.

  Two minutes later I got my first friend request—Kiley M. I accepted.

  My next step was searching out Fenwick388. I found the profile by looking through Kiley’s friends. Her profile was set to private, but because we had Kiley M as a mutual friend, I was able to look through her photos. I found the ones she had posted of me, taken last week as I walked in and out of the gallery.

  I scrolled through her albums, looking for clues of who she was, people we knew in common. There were several scenic shots of southeastern Connecticut, so I assumed she was local. She had one album labeled Danger, and it was filled with photos taken in and arou
nd the courthouse, including several of Griffin.

  Another album titled Links between C and S took my breath away.

  Every shot pertained to my life or Sallie Benson’s. There were Ford and Alexander at the yacht club; Griffin and me dancing at the governor’s inaugural ball; Griffin and several members of the Last Monday Club—including Wade Lockwood, Edward Hawke, and Neil Coffin—the four members, counting Griffin, who lived at Catamount Bluff; me guest lecturing a seminar at Connecticut College. I tried to tell if they were stock photos or if Fenwick388 had taken them herself—I couldn’t be sure.

  But the ones of Sallie were all publicity shots for her design business, probably pulled from her website: Sallie in a showroom smiling and holding up fabric swatches, at her desk piled high with sample books, in an Architectural Digest feature, and on a dock with her husband and kids, all waving at the camera.

  The last photo was of a newspaper article about Daniel Benson and how domestic violence charges against him had been dropped by Griffin Chase. Beneath it, Fenwick388 had written two sociopaths.

  My hands shook, hovering over the keyboard. I wanted to message Fenwick388 about her photos, but what I really needed was to talk to her. I didn’t have my cell phone—and couldn’t use it anyway—and I had no way to get to a store to get a prepaid phone.

  The Reids still had a landline. Many of us who lived along the shoreline still did, because of how often coastal storms knocked out the power. I knew Jackie’s number by heart. I wrote a private message to Fenwick388.

  Hello. I saw your posts on the WHERE IS CLAIRE BEAUDRY CHASE group page, and I am curious about a few things and might have some information in return. If you are interested in speaking, I will be at this number for the next hour.

  I gave her Jackie’s number, sent her a friend request, then settled back to wait and stare at the phone. That’s when I saw the note in Jackie’s handwriting tacked to a bulletin board above the desk:

  Clear=Claire?

  Scary lady who lives in the shadows=shadow box?

  Mermen???

  Lost boy in enchanted castle . . .

  Scary crows.