The Shadow Box(82)

“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 than 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.