The Shadow Box(27)

“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 green 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?