Madeleine read her mother’s final diary entry, as she had done easily a hundred times before, but this time she ignored her aunt’s outstretched hands.
“Not this time, Aunt Agatha. I want to keep it now. It’s time for it to be mine.”
Agatha didn’t resist the demand. “All right, dear. You’re probably right.”
Together, they rose from the sofa, knowing where they would go next. It was always the same. They climbed the wide staircase to the second floor, to Charlotte’s old room.
The large space was virtually the same as it had been when pretty, young Charlotte left for her new life at Seaview as a married woman twenty years before, but time and neglect had left their marks. The yellow spread on the curlicued wrought-iron bed was the one that Charlotte had snuggled under, but now it was faded and covered with animal hair. The flowered wallpaper was peeling at the seams, and two strips had come down altogether. The stench of cat urine was exacerbated by windows shut tight.
A red Limoges box sat on the writing desk beneath the window. Madeleine opened the porcelain lid, knowing exactly what she would find. The plain gold band that symbolized her parents’ union lay alone at the bottom as it had for the past fourteen years. She turned her mother’s wedding band over in her hands and then slipped it on. She could still remember watching her mother taking the ring off to put lotion on her hands that last night. Aunt Agatha had insisted on keeping the ring right where Charlotte had left it, and Madeleine’s father hadn’t had the heart to fight her for it.
Madeleine took the gold band off as she heard the phone ringing in the distance. And then Finola was at the door.
“The police are on the phone, Miss Agatha.”
For a moment, each of them was paralyzed, knowing that this could be the definitive news they had waited to hear for so long. The ring slipped out of Madeleine’s hand, and as she bent down to pick it up, she broke the silence.
“I’ll get that, Aunt Agatha.”
CHAPTER
10
Minutes after the next of kin were notified, the official press release was issued.
THE OFFICE OF THE STATE MEDICAL EXAMINER, IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE RHODE ISLAND STATE POLICE AND THE NEWPORT POLICE DEPARTMENT, IS RELEASING THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION:
THE SKELETONIZED REMAINS FOUND AT SHEPHERD’S POINT IN NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND, LAST WEEK, HAVE BEEN POSITIVELY IDENTIFIED BY THE USE OF DENTAL COMPARISON, COMPUTER-AIDED FACIAL/SKULL SUPERIMPOSITION, ANTHROPOLOGICAL DATA, AND PERSONAL EFFECTS AS CHARLOTTE WAGSTAFF SLOANE, A WHITE FEMALE, BORN IN NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND. MRS. SLOANE WAS 28 YEARS OLD WHEN SHE WAS REPORTED MISSING FOURTEEN YEARS AGO.
MRS. SLOANE WAS THE VICTIM OF HOMICIDAL VIOLENCE. NO FURTHER INFORMATION WILL BE RELEASED. THIS IS AN ONGOING CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION.
CHAPTER
11
The
Seawolf
was Gordon Cox’s pride and joy and a great way to impress women. He’d named his sailboat in honor of the father he never knew. Soon after marrying his mother in 1944, Gordon’s father had joined the navy, and a few months later, he was lost at sea with seventy-nine other men aboard the USS
Seawolf,
one of America’s World War II submarines.
Gordon’s white hair and the crisp, white sails of the
Seawolf
flapped in the morning breeze as it came around the curve where Narragansett Bay met Newport Harbor at Shepherd’s Point. Professor Cox pointed out the run-down Victorian mansion on the hill to the woman who was both his student and his much younger companion. “There it is, Judy. Shepherd’s Point from a different angle.”
The pretty, red-haired coed adjusted the brim of her baseball cap to ensure protection of her fair-skinned face from the sun’s strong rays. “It looks a lot better from this distance,” she said, squinting. “Seeing it up close yesterday with the rest of the class was kinda sad. It must have been beautiful, but it’s depressing
to see what’s happened to it now. I hope someone with bags of money buys it and fixes it up.”
“Well, that’s exactly what it would take,” Gordon said. “Bags and bags of money.”
“Do you think Agatha Wagstaff will sell it?” Judy asked, rifling through her canvas tote, looking for sunblock.
“I doubt it. Agatha is determined to pass it along to her niece,” Gordon answered. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if Madeleine Sloane sells Shepherd’s Point when she inherits it. Even if she could afford it, I don’t think she’ll have much interest in keeping the place, especially if the bones that were found in the tunnel turn out to be her mother’s.”
Judy’s eyes searched the coastline. “Where is the tunnel? I don’t see it.”
Gordon made the adjustments necessary to steer the
Seawolf
toward the opening in the land at the water’s edge, a course he had taken many times before. As the dark, boarded-up hole came into view, he was hopeful. Maybe finding Charlotte would make the preservation of the tunnel an even more important project. After all, Gordon thought, if people’s interest in the Underground Railroad didn’t pull them in, the American fascination with a “high society” murder would.
CHAPTER
12
They were minutes from arriving at the Kingston station, and Grace was apprehensive. This was a first for Lucy and for her.
“All right, honey. Now remember, just stay here in your seat and don’t get into any conversations with anyone.”
“I know, Mom. I know.” Lucy sighed with exasperation. “I’m not a baby, you know.”
“You’re my baby, and I’m telling you again, don’t talk to strangers.”
“I won’t, Mom.”
Grace gazed with love at the freckles that sprinkled Lucy’s nose and the sooty lashes that were canopies for those big, brown eyes. The braces would be coming off next year, and Lucy was beginning to develop beneath that T-shirt. Her baby was growing up.
The time had passed so quickly, yet it was hard for Grace to recall what life had been like before Lucy. Her daughter had been her focus for a third of her own life. Of course, the aim was to raise an independent adult, but it was difficult to let go, even
gradually, hard to imagine what her life would be like without Lucy.
At least she had seven more years before Lucy would go off to college. Seven years was a good while yet. But if Frank won his case, if Lucy went to live with him, Grace wouldn’t even have that time. Weekend visits and a couple of weeks in the summer or at Christmas vacation weren’t going to cut it. With the back of her hand, Grace wiped the tears that were forming at the corners of her eyes.
“Ah, Mom, don’t cry. I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will, sweetheart, I know you will.” Grace kissed the top of her daughter’s head, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of shampoo. “I’m being ridiculous.”
The train was slowing down. Grace lifted her suitcase down from the overhead storage compartment.
“Now, you have the money I gave you? And the cell phone? And you know Daddy’s number, right?”
Lucy nodded, pleased. She had been begging for a cell phone. Her mother was lending her hers for this trip. It was a start, at least. “Yeah, I’ve got it, Mom.”
“Maybe you’ll get a little something to bring back for Grandpa?”
“Yep. Dad says we’re going to do some sightseeing while I’m there. I’ll find something nice for Grandpa.”
“Good girl.”
The car had stopped moving. It was time to get off.
“All right, Luce. Have a great time. Daddy will be right there waiting for you at the station.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m fine.”
“I know you are, Lucy. Bye-bye, sweetheart. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom.” Lucy stood from her seat and wrapped her arms around her mother, hugging Grace tightly.
She was still a child after all, thought Grace, as she stepped down to the platform in front of the shingled railroad station. Lucy was still her little girl, and Frank couldn’t take her away.
But should she be giving Frank this ammunition? Should she be pursuing this dream of hers, traveling for her career at a time like this?
As she flagged down a taxi, Grace knew she was at one of life’s crossroads. She could give up the internship, choose something to do that was less demanding, more predictable. Something with which Frank couldn’t find fault. Or she could go ahead, and not allow Frank to dictate what her professional life would be.
By the time the car reached the mammoth span of the Newport Bridge, Grace knew what she had to do. She stared out at the pleasure boats dotting the deep blue Narragansett Bay, certain that she had to go forward, she had to be true to herself. In the end, that was the role model she wanted her daughter to see.
CHAPTER
13
The taxi turned into the semicircular driveway at the entrance to the Hotel Viking. Guests sunned themselves in the white wooden rocking chairs on the porch that lined the front of the large, brick, colonial-style structure. In her research, Grace had read that the classic hotel was built in the 1920s to accommodate some of the out-of-town guests of the mansion owners. Grace imagined the well-heeled visitors arriving for their stay in Newport. She smiled in appreciation at the pink and purple petunias, golden hibiscus, and cheerful daisies waving from the window boxes and planters.
The lobby rang of white-paneled grace, with original chandeliers and woodwork. A wonderful brass mail chute stood guard beside the elevators. Grace went directly to the front desk to check in.
The uniformed reception clerk pulled a slip of white paper from the mail slot assigned to Grace’s room. “You have a message waiting, Ms. Callahan.”
Grace read the note, a bit disappointed that now she
couldn’t go to see her room and freshen up. B.J. wanted her to come directly to the news work space. “Which way to the Bellevue Ballroom?” she asked.
“To your left, around the corner.” The clerk pointed.
“Thank you.” Grace nodded, beginning to pull her suitcase along with her.
“Ms. Callahan, someone will be happy to take your bag up to your room if you like.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
Grace caught her breath as she entered the ballroom. It had been transformed from an opulent spot for business meetings, society parties, and weddings into the base of operations for the
KEY to America
team. Long tables had been brought in for the computers, telephones, videotape editing decks, fax machines, and copiers. Along the side wall, technicians were running yards of electrical cables, setting up for transmissions to New York and then, within nanoseconds, to the rest of the United States. Grace spotted B.J. at the large buffet table set up at the rear of the room. He saw her at the same time. “Come on over,” he called, gesturing to her.
Grace glanced at the platters of sandwiches, cookies, and fruit.
“I’m glad you’re here. If you hadn’t arrived soon, I was going to have to leave without you,” B.J. said. “I thought you’d want to come with me. I’m going to see if we can get some video over at Shepherd’s Point… and, if we’re really lucky, someone will talk to us. Get yourself something to eat. You can take it with you in the car.”
Grace wrapped a tuna sandwich in a napkin, grabbed a bottle of water, and hurriedly followed B.J. out through the lobby.
“We just got word that dental records confirm that the remains they found in that old slave tunnel belong to Charlotte Sloane,” B.J. said over his shoulder as he led the way to the car.
“You buried the lead,” Grace replied.
CHAPTER
14
Zoe Quigley watched as Grace left the ballroom with that tall, good-looking white male producer. B.J. they called him. If Zoe were the gambling sort, her money would bet that B.J. was interested in more than Grace Callahan’s mind.
I didn’t come three thousand miles and give up my summer holiday for this.
None of the
KTA
producers had come over to Zoe with a lick of substantive work to be done. Photocopying and answering the phones were all she had been entrusted with at the Broadcast Center in New York. So far, it didn’t look like it would be any different in Newport.
Next they’ll have me fetching their coffee.
Flipping back her long braided hair, Zoe was determined. She wasn’t going to let it get to her. She was going to win the job with KEY News. When she went back to England, she could use the trophy as a tool in getting another job there. This accomplishment here in the States, along with the documentary she was filming entirely on her own, could land her a spot with the BBC.
This time in Rhode Island was fortuitous. Black heritage in the state ran complicated and deep. There was plenty to show the pervasive evils of the American slave trade. In her free time, Zoe planned to take her camcorder and document the struggle of blacks in the so-called land of liberty, focusing on one black in particular. A female slave named Mariah.
She knew it wasn’t going to be easy to juggle both tasks, but she also knew she could do it. Zoe prided herself on facing reality, and this she also believed to be true: in America, if you were black, you usually had to try harder.
She was still struggling to wrap her mind around it. In England, skin color didn’t matter much. One was judged by class, not race. When one opened one’s mouth and spoke, certain assumptions were made. A proper accent, signifying social status and the right education, opened doors. Perhaps, in its own way, that was discriminatory, too. But how one spoke, with hard work, could be changed. Skin color couldn’t.
CHAPTER
15
Dear God, people really lived like this?
Grace was awed at the majesty of the architectural masterpieces they passed on their ride south on Bellevue Avenue. It was almost unbelievable, mansion after mansion, each one different, each one planned and executed with exacting attention to even the tiniest detail. This couldn’t be the United States. This was like driving down a road flanked by European palaces. Classical Greece, imperial Rome, Renaissance Italy, and Bourbon Paris were all represented in the architectures of the mansions that sat on acres of exquisitely maintained property. Again, Grace tried to imagine what it had been like to live as one of the wealthy here during the Gilded Age, when carriages and fine livery traveled along Bellevue Avenue.