Hide Yourself Away Page 4

  How Charlotte got there was a long-ago, yet still painfully clear, memory. Everything had gone so utterly wrong. What started out as a desire to make things right had turned into the worst possible nightmare.

  Charlotte had been distraught but still breathtakingly beautiful as she’d agreed to go to the playhouse and talk away from the mansion, away from the chance that little Madeleine would overhear their conversation. As they’d talked, Charlotte accepted the handkerchief offered to wipe her tears, but there was no comforting her.

  If only she’d been more receptive. If only she’d offered some small solution to the problem. Instead, she had wept as she studied the photograph taken just hours before at the country club, unable to focus on anything else. She hadn’t seen the need in the eyes of her playhouse companion, hadn’t considered how their conversation would determine whether the future would be worth living.

  The rage at the idea of a dream shattered had been crushing. Even now, fourteen years later, it was hard to accept the blind fury that had led to grabbing the iron tool from the fireplace and smashing it against Charlotte’s head.

  SATURDAY

  —— JULY 17 ——

  CHAPTER

  9

  The dentist had long since retired, but before he closed his practice he had sent his records on Charlotte Wagstaff Sloane to the Newport Police Department. For years the X-rays of Charlotte’s molars and bicuspids had gathered dust in the “cold case” file. The dental records, filed with the State Medical Examiner’s Office now, should be enough to identify the remains if they were those of her mother, but twenty-year-old Madeleine Sloane had given a blood sample in case DNA testing was necessary.

  As she drove her yellow Mustang convertible along Ocean Avenue, Madeleine took one hand off the steering wheel and ripped the Band-Aid off the inside of her elbow, not wanting to be reminded of any of it. Not the loss of her mother when Madeleine was six years old, not the years of living alone with her broken father, not the constant awareness that people still whispered and gossiped about what had happened.

  Under a clear sky and a blazing yellow sun, the sparkling deep blue waters of Rhode Island Sound glimmered to her left.

  On the horizon, white sails billowed in the breeze, giving their boat owners pure pleasure. On the other side of the road, kite enthusiasts flew their creations at Brenton Point State Park. Along with the traditional flat and box kites, brightly colored plastic frogs and whales and whirligigs danced in the ocean air, celebrating summer vacation, freedom, life.

  Envious, Madeleine wondered what it was like to be as carefree as the kite fliers were, as the sailors must be. What was it like to simply enjoy the moment without always having a sad tug of memory?

  Steering the car around the bend, the wind whipping through her short, sun-streaked blond hair, Madeleine tried to remember a time when she hadn’t felt torn. Vaguely, she could recall going to kindergarten, her pretty mother holding her firmly by the hand, both of her parents smiling and making a fuss as their little girl went off to school. She could remember them picking her up at the end of that first session and taking her for a banana split at La Forge, Charlotte and Oliver Sloane praising their daughter for her important accomplishment. She had felt very special, very secure, very loved.

  But by the time she went to first grade, things were different. Madeleine would often hear her mother and father’s fights, ending with maternal tears and paternal trips to the study and the solace of the amber liquid that filled the crystal decanters on the butler’s table.

  And then, just after school got out for the summer, Mommy was gone. Just like that. After another day of Mommy and Daddy fighting.

  Fourteen years. Through most of grammar school, all of high school, and now her first two years at Salve Regina. Madeleine had ached for her mother, telling herself that her mother would never have left her if she could have helped it. Madeleine would never allow herself to think that her mother would have gone away willingly. Something or someone had taken her mother from her.

  But, even more than not entertaining the notion that her mother could have abandoned her, Madeleine could not for a minute let herself think that her father had anything to do with her mother’s disappearance. Madeleine knew she was in a minority. Most Newporters thought Oliver Sloane had killed his wife.

  In the fall, when it was time to go back to class, the second-graders in the school yard had been eager to repeat for Madeleine’s benefit the conversations they had heard at family dinner tables all over town.

  “Your father never really loved your mother.”

  “Your father drinks too much.”

  “Your father killed your mother.”

  At first she had been wounded and embarrassed, then she became defiant, finally she pushed everyone away. Except for her father and Aunt Agatha. They both needed her.

  But those relationships were problematic as well. After Charlotte disappeared, neither of her closest relatives liked or trusted the other.

  The convertible turned into the entrance and rode straight through the peeling gates. Massive rhododendrons and topiary bushes which had long ago lost their expertly carved animal shapes lined the long gravel road that led to Aunt Agatha’s rambling, twenty-eight-room Victorian “cottage.” Madeleine counted eleven cats sunning themselves on the overgrown lawn.

  Parking her car beneath the porte cochere, Madeleine saw Finola standing at the front doorway.

  “Who’s that?” Finola called, squinting to see.

  “It’s me, Finola. Madeleine. What are you doing there, waiting like a spider?”

  “I’m guarding your aunt. There are reporters and such trying to muscle their way in here.”

  Madeleine knew that the housekeeper had to be exaggerating about the “muscling,” but she was relieved that Aunt Agatha had Finola to run interference for her. The local newspaper and television people had been trying to get to Madeleine and her father, too.

  Finola stood aside as Madeleine climbed the steps that led to the grand entry foyer. The young woman’s nostrils flared at the smell of cat urine wafting from the once plush, royal red carpeting.

  “Your aunt is in the deck room.”

  The frayed shades were pulled down tight, forbidding any of the glorious sun to come streaming through the many glass doors and windows designed for enjoying the sweeping views of the water. The heat in the room would be stifling by the afternoon. There was no such thing as central air-conditioning at Shepherd’s Point, and Aunt Agatha wouldn’t have the extra money to run it even if there were.

  As Madeleine’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she spotted the diminutive figure sitting on one of the two sofas beside the Italian-tile fireplace.

  “Aunt Agatha, it’s me.” Madeleine bent to kiss the clammy cheek.

  “Ah, Madeleine. My Madeleine. How are you, my dearest?” Without waiting for a response, she called, “Finola, please get Madeleine some lemonade.”

  “No, thanks, Auntie. I’m not thirsty.”

  “You’re sure? All right then. Never mind, Finola.” A clawlike hand patted the worn velvet. “Come. Sit here beside me, my Madeleine.”

  Madeleine obediently took her place.

  “I want to see it again.”

  “See what, dear?” Agatha asked.

  “You know.”

  “Oh, Madeleine, why do you tear yourself up this way?” the older woman implored.

  “Please, Aunt Agatha, I have to see it.”

  Agatha rose and slowly walked across the room to the antique mahogany desk in the corner. She took the key from under the blotter and slid it into the brass lock. Pulling the bottom drawer open, Agatha lifted out the yellow leather-bound journal.

  Fool. Why am I so naïve? People lie and cheat all the time. I can’t let this go on one more minute. Tonight’s disappointment at the country club was enough.

  The handwriting was strong and clear, so unlike the more youthful scrawl in the rest of the diary. In her childhood bedroom, Charlotte
had pulled out her old diary to unburden herself that last night of her life.

  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.