by Luanne Rice
They forgot about the hole until Claire Beaudry Chase’s disappearance hit the news, was on TV and in the local papers every day, and they remembered how a group from the Black Hall–New London area, where the missing lady was from, had rented out the property for an outing during the wild turkey hunting season, and they began to wonder.
Conor was following up on their call. The day had dawned foggy, and at ten a.m., the mist had just started burning off. By the time he got to North Stonington, where the club was located, the sky was bright blue and the day was hot.
Jim Dufour was short and round with a fringe of hair that looked like a monk’s tonsure. Lance Staver was stocky but fit; he wore a T-shirt that said NAVY SEAL TEAM 6 and had an American flag tattoo on one forearm and a howling wolf on the other.
“Call me crazy,” Dufour said as the three of them set out on a trail behind the club building—a white farmhouse with a wide porch and two chimneys—“but this thing’s got human grave written all over it.”
“When did you first find it?” Conor asked.
“Round about April, maybe midmonth,” Staver said.
“And you didn’t report it then?” Conor asked.
“Truth is, we didn’t think much of it until we read about the Chase woman,” Staver said.
“And we started thinking, What if she’s here?” Dufour said with an exaggerated shiver. “That’s why we called you.”
“Good that you did,” Conor said.
They crossed a meadow full of tall grass. At the far side was a thick wood, and they skirted the trees until they came to a pond. Staver explained how the pond was stocked with trout every spring and how the club released game birds every fall.
“Something for everyone,” he said.
Conor was sweating and took off his blazer, slinging it over his shoulder. Staver glanced at him, nodded with approval. “Smart move, you got long sleeves under there. This is a nasty year for ticks.” Conor didn’t mention Staver’s T-shirt or the fact he was wearing camo shorts.
“We’re getting close,” Dufour said. “Now, you see those humps of brush and leaves?” He pointed at three piles between the woods and the water. “People think we’re just out here killing animals, and we are, but truth is, we are also into conservation. The eastern cottontail population has been declining in recent years. Too much development, habitat displaced by a bunch more houses and stores. So we build these brush piles to give the rabbits somewhere to live.”
“And we don’t shoot them,” Staver said. “We only go after the nonendangered. But the thing is, all these piles of twigs and branches and leaves are just things we take for granted out here. Whoever piled them up was probably trying to make it look like just another bunny site.”
“But it wasn’t,” Dufour said. “You could tell a person did it to cover that hole in the ground.”
“And what made you put it together with Claire Beaudry Chase?” Conor asked.
“Well, on account of the fact that group of lawyers and whatnot from down Black Hall way were here for a turkey shoot in March.”
“Lawyers?” Conor asked. But the two men stopped short before they answered, and so did he.
“Huh,” Staver said. “Looks different.”
“Completely different,” Dufour said.
“That’s where the plywood was,” Staver said, pointing at a patch of ground, bare dirt sunken down about a foot, compared to the level grass-covered area around it. “It was covering a deep pit, we’re talking a good three feet, but half of it’s been filled in.”
“Damn it to hell, someone put someone in that grave.” Dufour took a step toward the spot, but Conor stopped him.
“I’m going to ask you to not go any closer,” Conor said.
It was a potential crime scene, so he took photos with his iPhone and called his office to ask for the Major Crime Squad van to be dispatched. While waiting for the forensics team to arrive, Conor took Staver’s and Dufour’s statements.
They sat in the clubhouse on leather chairs beside a large fieldstone fireplace. One entire wall was covered with antlers with brass plates identifying the species and the member who’d bagged it. There were several vintage black-and-white photos of men in tuxedos, a sepia-toned close-up of a Model T Ford, and two out-of-focus shots of what appeared to be the same car on a snowy road and in front of a massive Gothic stone building.
“Whose car is that?” Conor asked, leaning closer.
“One of the founders,” Staver said. “Zebediah Coffin. This land belonged to his family—that picture in the snow was taken here, on the road to the club. Back then they farmed the property.”
“Well, they didn’t,” Dufour said. “The Coffins hired some poor slobs to milk the cows. They lived in that place.” He pointed at the photo of the stone building.
“Nearby?” Conor asked.
“Down on the water,” Staver said. “Same name as this place—the rich ones have to name all their property. The oldest Coffin brother still owns it.”
“He and his wife stay there when they’re not at their other places,” Dufour said. “San Francisco, Saint Bart’s, Colorado. When they’re not home, the caretakers look after the house. We got plenty of founders’ heirs here. Should be thankful to them, right? Having the foresight to start this club?”
Another wall contained trout and bass mounted on wooden plaques. There were several framed slogans, incongruously embroidered with silk thread, including IF YOU’RE NOT SHOOTING, YOU SHOULD BE LOADING; I’D RATHER BE JUDGED BY 12 THAN CARRIED BY 6; IF YOU CARRY A GUN PEOPLE CALL YOU PARANOID; NONSENSE! IF YOU CARRY A GUN WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO BE PARANOID ABOUT?
Conor stared at the signs. He had seen similar sayings before, most recently on the study wall in the home of a family where the six-year-old son had found the loaded pistol in his father’s desk drawer and blown a hole through the chest of his three-year-old sister while playing hide-and-seek.
“Second Amendment,” Staver said, following Conor’s gaze. “Gun wisdom. Those were made by one of our female members.”
“Guns don’t kill people,” Dufour said. “People kill people.”
And six-year-olds kill three-year-olds, Conor thought.
“Can you narrow down the date you first saw that hole in the ground?” Conor asked.
“Let me check,” Staver said, scrolling through the calendar on his phone. “It was a weekend. I remember Jimmy and I were checking the cottontail dens, and I had to make it quick because it was my turn with the kids, but my ex was jerking me around, saying I couldn’t get them till five because of a birthday party. But I can’t remember whose birthday. One of their cousins, I think.”
“That’s right,” Dufour said. “You were pissed.”
“Got it,” Staver said, looking up. “April fifth.”
“Okay,” Conor said, writing it down. “And when did that group of lawyers come here?”
“That we’d have to check with Al on—he’s our membership officer, and he takes care of renting the place out now and then. But he’s not in today,” Staver said. “And they weren’t just lawyers. Businessmen, too, and whatnot. White-collar types.”
“Can you get Al’s number for me?” Conor asked.
“Got it right here,” Staver said and read it off.
“You mentioned Black Hall. That’s where they were from?”
“Somewhere around there,” Dufour said. “That’s how Stavie and me put it together with the Chase woman.”
“What was the name of that club?”
“Jeez, that escapes me,” Staver said. “Wasn’t one I’d ever heard of, but it had a ring to it. I liked it, I remember that.”
“One of them had to be a member here, or know a member, because we’re not open to the public,” Dufour said.
“And everyone had to have the proper licenses and permits,” Staver said. “Al would have made sure of that.”
“Got it,” Conor said. “Think I can get the membership list from Al?”
“Hell, we can do better tha
n that,” Staver said, pushing himself out of the deep chair. “We’ve got it right here.” He walked over to a bulletin board, removed a sheet of paper, and handed it to Conor. “We’re a small club. We keep membership down, on account of we don’t want to overhunt or overfish our property. It’s part of our charter. The founders planned it that way.”
Conor scanned the list of about thirty names. He stopped at Wade Lockwood.
“Could Lockwood have been the member who brought that group here?” Conor asked.
“Could’ve been,” Staver said. “Great guy. He loves this place, definitely brings guests, likes to show it off.”
Farther down the list was another familiar name: Neil Coffin.
“How about him?” Conor asked, pointing.
“He keeps to himself more than Wade,” Staver said. “He and his brother, Max, usually come here together.”
“They are your basic Ravenscrag royalty,” Dufour said. “Zebediah’s great-great-grandsons. Their family goes back to the Mayflower or thereabouts, brought their muskets right over from England. They needed a hunt club, didn’t they? So old Zeb and a bunch of his buddies founded this one.” He chuckled.
“Neil’s wife is a California yoga type,” Dufour said. “She comes to the Christmas party and pisses all over the slogans and trophies. She has a stick up her ass. My wife is like, you don’t like it, honey, you don’t have to be here. We respect the way you live your life, you respect ours. But you know, we can’t actually say anything to her, on account of her being a Coffin. Like I said, they’re royalty here.”
“Right, because they’re descendants of Zeb,” Conor said.
“Day of the week!” Staver said.
“Excuse me?” Conor asked.
“The name of their club. It was Saturday something.”
“Not Saturday,” Dufour said. “That would have made sense, a little excitement on the weekend. Monday, it was. Who celebrates a Monday?”
“The Last Monday Club?” Conor asked.
“Bingo,” Staver said. “That’s it.”
The Major Crime Squad arrived. Conor thanked Staver and Dufour for their statements, told them he would be in touch if he needed anything further. Then he asked them to unlock the chain across a dirt road that led toward the fishing pond. Conor rode in the van, directing the driver to the half-filled-in grave-shaped hole.
The team set up a perimeter and began to search the tall grass and the damp earth around the pond. The techs in their protective white jumpsuits excavated the hole slowly, sifting through the relatively soft, recently tossed-in dirt with all the care of an archaeological dig.
When they got to the bottom, where the earth was hard and damp, they found no body. The bags of lime had been removed, but the tarp was there, spread flat on the cold ground. As Conor stared at the plastic, he thought he saw footprints and knelt down for a closer look. Indeed, there were shoe impressions in a film of dirt and a calcified-appearing white substance. The soles of the shoes had left a distinctive repeating wave pattern—fine and intricate parallel lines.
Conor took his own photos, then gestured for the techs to photograph, measure, and take samples. He had the feeling he knew what would come back: Top-Siders and limestone. His brother wore boat shoes with that precise wavy pattern—the cuts in the rubber soles were designed to grip slippery and wet decks, to keep the wearer from sliding overboard.
And limestone tended to harden, just like cement. Even the dampness of the earth couldn’t keep that from happening. People thought the use of quicklime sped the decomposition of bodies, but in fact, it tended to preserve them. It prevented putrefaction, the rotten smell that attracts insects and animals. In that sense, Staver and Dufour could be correct—that this hole had been dug to hold the carcasses and spoils of the hunt.
But Conor didn’t think so.
The plastic tarp had been spread so smoothly, and a trickle or more of quicklime had spilled from bags the two men had seen. A boater—someone who wore Top-Siders—had stood in this hole, preparing it as a grave. All this time, it had been waiting for a body.
Claire’s, he thought. Here was the connection again: he thought of the boating shoes and pictured the foam key chain found in the storm drain with items linked to her disappearance. It had come from the Sallie B.
Dan Benson was a member of the Last Monday Club. Conor wondered if he had been along with the others who had descended upon the Ravenscrag Sportsmen’s Preserve for a turkey hunt in March. He might have scouted a deserted location, a disposal site. Two dead wives. Had Griffin and Dan conspired to kill Claire and Sallie? Had Griffin coerced Dan into killing Claire? And in return, had Dan contrived for Griffin, or someone connected to him, to destroy the Sallie B with his wife on board?
Conor thought of Wade Lockwood. The man who loved Griffin Chase like a son, who had warned Conor to leave Chase alone. How was the timing of all this connected to Chase’s run for governor? Having a dead wife made him sympathetic, as long as he wasn’t a suspect.
Conor pulled out his cell phone and dialed Jen. They had to apply for a warrant to search Dan Benson’s house, office, cars, and the wreck of his boat to see if he had a pair of Top-Siders caked with quicklime. They would search for DNA, weapons, GPS coordinates, and anything else connecting him to the disappearance of Claire Beaudry Chase.
45
TOM
Tom was trying to get hold of Jackie, but when he called both the gallery and her mobile phone, it went straight to voice mail. He texted her, and after three hours, he didn’t receive a reply. That was unusual, and it made him wonder, but he wasn’t exactly worried. He headed across the parking lot, past the van, three state police cars, and Conor’s unmarked vehicle, to the boat shed, where what was left of the Sallie B was stored on a cradle.
The building was cool compared to the hot weather outside, and it still smelled strongly of smoke. He walked toward the hull, looking up at the charred and gaping hole just below the waterline, hearing the chatter of officers getting ready to do their work. His head investigator, Matthew Hendricks, stood amid the detectives and troopers.
The Major Crime Squad had gone over and over the boat, but late yesterday Conor had called to say they would be back to search again. As Tom approached, he saw his brother standing at the Sallie B’s stern, reading a sheaf of papers.
“What have you got there?” Tom asked.
“A copy of the search warrant,” Conor said, looking up. “We already served it to your commandant, but here’s one for you too.”
Tom took the papers and read the first page.
SEARCH AND SEIZURE WARRANT / STATE OF CONNECTICUT SUPERIOR COURT
To search the Sallie B, a 42-foot Loring motor yacht (color white, registered to Daniel and Sallie Benson, which is currently stored at the United States Coast Guard Pier B in Easterly, CT).
For property described in the foregoing affidavit and application, to wit:
Blood, saliva, physiological fluids, secretions, and genetic material, hair, fibers, fingerprints, palm prints, footprints, shoe prints, dirt, dust, and soil, paint samples, chemical samples, and items that may contain traces thereof; hatchets, axes, knives, and other sharp-force instruments and cutting tools, shovels and other digging equipment, blunt-force instruments, glass and plastic fragments, marks of tools used to gain access to locked premises or containers; cellular telephones and electronic communication devices, to include SIM cards, computers, and electronic storage media, digital imaging devices; infotainment system/vehicle electronics/GPS navigation devices; photographs or handwritten notes by, to, or from the victims, and male/female clothing and/or footwear; traces or bags of quicklime. The evidence will be collected and submitted to the Connecticut Department of Emergency Services and Public Protection Forensic Science Laboratory and/or other qualified law enforcement facility for physical examination, scientific testing, and forensic analysis.
“What are you hoping to find?” Tom asked. “Other than everything.” He tapped the search war
rant.
“Shoes, basically.”
“All this for shoes?”
“Deck shoes,” Conor said, pointing at Tom’s feet. “With ridged soles. Like yours.”
“And the rest of what’s in the warrant? ‘Infotainment system’?” Tom asked.
“The Bensons have SiriusXM radios in each of their cars and on the boat, and the systems come with location services. Someone might turn off a cell phone or GPS but forget about their radio.”
“Don’t you already know the Sallie B’s cruise track?”
“We’re checking for anything we might have missed.”
“Is Benson under arrest?” Tom asked.
“No, not yet.”
“Will he be?” Tom asked, thinking of Gwen and how that would affect her.
“Depends on what we find. Possibly, though. Jen has teams on the way to his office and the Benson home right now.”
The house, Tom thought. It was nearly three thirty p.m., and unless she was still at school, Gwen would be there.
“Is it okay if I head over?” Tom asked. “To check on Gwen?”
“That would be great, actually,” Conor said. “I hate what she must be going through, and how much worse it will be if her father was involved.”
Tom drove straight to the house. Jen Miano hadn’t arrived yet. He parked on the street, not wanting to get boxed in by police vehicles. As he walked up the front sidewalk, he caught sight of Lydia Clarke and Gwen working in the garden on the side of the house. Maggie barked and raced toward him.
“Hey, little one,” he said, picking her up. The Yorkshire terrier squirmed in his arms and licked his face, and he had no doubt that she remembered her time with him and Jackie.
“Hello there,” Lydia said, surrounded by garden tools and flats of annuals—snapdragons, zinnias, cosmos, and other flowers like the ones Jackie bought to fill their window boxes.
“Hi, Tom,” Gwen said, doing her best to smile but unable to hide the sadness in her eyes.
“Look at that garden,” Tom said. “It’s really pretty.”
“Mom usually plants these,” Gwen said. “They’re her favorite summer flowers.”