The Shadow Box(26)

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.