Hide Yourself Away Read online

  “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.

  Of course, you had to have a staff of housekeepers, carpenters, gardeners, groundskeepers, maids, butlers, cooks, laundresses, grooms, coachmen, and footmen to keep it all going. But when you made millions and millions of dollars in railroads, oil, coal, tobacco, shipping, banking, and real estate—and didn’t have to pay federal income taxes—you could afford all the help you needed. It must have been a nice life.

  But times had changed and so had the cost of labor and the tax laws. Even many of the wealthiest families had decided that they could no longer afford to maintain these places. Donating their homes to the Preservation Society of Newport County was the way to go. Now, the Preservation Society took care of the precious landmarks, opening them to the public for guided tours and renting them out for social functions.

  Grace knew from the reading she’d done that the year-round influx of tourists had rescued Newport. The city’s fortunes had faded away with the chaos of the two World Wars. A military sameness drifted over the town after the U.S. Navy’s Atlantic Fleet was quartered there. The downtown area became full of bars and cheap stores catering to the servicemen. With no industry finding its way to Newport, except for the manufacturing of some rather less-than-glamorous torpedoes on Goat Island, it wasn’t until the sixties that Newport got some attention again with the start of the now world-famous jazz festivals and John and Jackie Kennedy’s visits in the summers. The next decade, the naval fleet departed from Narragansett Bay. Then Newport began to find its future in its textured past … in tourism.

  B.J. steered the car onto Ocean Avenue, past the cabanas of exclusive Bailey’s Beach club, past the gorgeous, somewhat newer homes overlooking the Rhode Island Sound. As he slowed down in front of Shepherd’s Point, it was clear that the Preservation Society had not been able to make any inroads with Agatha Wagstaff’s estate. Perched on a hill, it was like something out of an old gothic film. Dark, shuttered, and overgrown with ivy and wisteria gone wild.

  A figure wearing dark green pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and a wide-brimmed straw hat was whacking away with a scythe at some tall, dried-out grass near the gates.

  “Buddy, give it up. You ain’t makin’ a dent,” B.J. muttered as he turned the car into the driveway, switching off the ignition and getting out. Grace followed.

  “Excuse me,” B.J. called, approaching the man. “We’re with KEY News.”

  As the man lowered his scythe, Grace saw that he was quite elderly. Or at least he looked that way. White hair peaked from beneath the tattered hat. The suntanned face had the wrinkled, weathered look of someone who had spent many years outdoors. The facial expression was far from welcoming.

  “We’d like to take some pictures of the house, and we’re wondering if there is anyone at home right now who would be willing to talk to us,” B.J. continued.

  A gnarled hand gripped the handle of the scythe, and for an instant, Grace was afraid the old coot might take a swipe at them. Instinctively, she pulled back at the alcohol on the man’s breath.

  “It’s a free country, or at least they say it is,” the old man said. “But this here is private property. Take your pictures from the road if you want, but you’re not setting foot on Miss Wagstaff’s land.”

  “Would you be willing to talk to us?” B.J. tried again.

  “I doubt it, but ‘bout what?” The old guy sneered.

  He knows damned well about what, thought Grace.

  “About Charlotte Wagstaff Sloane,” B.J. said. “You’ve heard about her remains being identified this morning as those in the tunnel?”

  The man’s shoulders slumped. His tone changed as he
murmured, “No, I hadn’t heard that yet.”

  So much for my instincts, thought Grace. The old guy was clearly shaken. It was a horrible feeling, breaking bad news to someone while acting in a journalistic capacity. She thought fleetingly about the poor families who had figured out that their sons and daughters in the military had died from reports on television before the army chaplain came to their door to notify them.

  “I’m sorry, Mr ? What is your name, sir?”

  “Dugan. Terence Dugan.”

  “And you work for Miss Wagstaff, Mr. Dugan?” asked B.J.

  “Been gardener here for forty-two years. I remember when Miss Charlotte was born. Such a lovely little baby.” The rheumy eyes watered.

  Grace observed B.J. as he continued with his gentle prodding.

  “Well, we’re very sorry, Mr. Dugan. I can tell you cared about Charlotte.”

  The old man put down the scythe and pulled a soiled handkerchief from his back pocket. He wiped the dampness from his eyes and the perspiration from his furrowed brow.

  “Miss Agatha is going to be real torn up about this. She really raised Miss Charlotte, you know. Their mother was never right after that baby was born, and she passed on when Miss Charlotte was just a few weeks old. Everybody said she was too old to have that baby. Miss Agatha was already twenty years old when Miss Charlotte came. Can you imagine?” Terence didn’t wait for an answer to his question. “Mr. Charles died just two years later. So, with no mother or father alive, Miss Agatha devoted her life to raising Miss Charlotte.”

  “It must have been torture for Miss Agatha, all these years, not knowing what happened to her sister,” B.J. led on.

  “That’s not the half of it. She had to live all these years, knowing that no-good Oliver Sloane had probably murdered her sister.”

  “That’s enough, Terence!” A female voice shouted from the other side of the gate. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop your blabbing this instant.”

  Madeleine Sloane led the way as the three of them trudged through the tall grass up the hill to the playhouse. B.J. carried his video camera and equipment case, while Grace carried the tripod.

  “I can’t let this go on one minute longer,” Madeleine said with fierce determination in her voice. “It’s time to set the record straight, time to open everything up and let the chips fall where they may.”

  “Why don’t we talk with you first, Madeleine?” B.J. suggested, thrilled at the opportunity to talk to the daughter of Charlotte Wagstaff Sloane and knowing that it was more important to get this exclusive interview than to get the B-roll of the estate grounds and the tunnel. He didn’t want to give Madeleine time for any second thoughts about her spur-of-the-moment agreement to talk to them.

  “Fine,” said Madeleine. “Where do you want to do it?”

  B.J. scanned the area for the spot that had the best lighting. The summer sun was high in the sky, and Madeleine would have to squint if they shot in this open area. A large oak at the side of the playhouse offered a shady spot. It was so bright today there would still be enough light beneath the branches for a good picture.

  As B.J. set up the tripod and camera and connected the wires for the microphone, Grace stood beside Madeleine and waited.

  “I’m very sorry about your mother,” Grace offered.

  “Thank you.”

  In the awkward silence that followed, Grace looked down and noticed the small, dark tattoo on Madeleine’s sandaled foot. Aware that Grace was staring at the tattoo, Madeleine shifted her right foot, pointing it out in front of her in the grass.

  “I doubt my mother would have liked it, but I actually had it done for her. I wanted it to remind me of her. I don’t remember much, I was only six when she disappeared, but I can remember her saying, ‘Always put your best foot forward, Madeleine.’ So I had this angel tattooed on my right foot to remember her. She always called me her angel.”

  “That’s a sweet story,” said Grace, smiling ruefully. “My mother used to say the same thing to me.”

  Madeleine searched Grace’s face. “Your mother is dead, too?”

  “Yes. She died six years ago.” But at least I had her while I was growing up, thought Grace. At least she was there when I graduated from high school, she was there for my wedding, there when Lucy was born. At least I had her for all those milestones. Though she still missed her mother every single day, still ached to talk with her mother and share what was going on in her life, wished that she could use her as a sounding board about what was going on now with Frank and the custody issue, Grace counted herself lucky to have had her mother for as long as she had. The thought of growing up motherless was too sad to contemplate for long. But that was the anguished experience of the young woman who stood beside her now.

  “I’m sorry for you, too.” Madeleine searched for the information. “Pardon me, but I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Grace. Grace Callahan.”

  “And what do you do for KEY News again?”

  “Actually, I’m an intern.”

  Madeleine looked at her skeptically.

  “I know,” Grace said. “I look too old to be an intern. It’s a long story. I hope to parlay this internship into a staff position. But I have competition. All the other interns want the assistant producer job, too.”

  B.J. had finished setting up. He held the tiny black microphone toward Madeleine. “Now if you just stand right over here, I’ll ask you questions from behind the camera. Grace, you stand behind me to the side, and Ms. Sloane, if you’ll please look at Grace when you answer, that would be great. It will look better if you don’t stare directly into the camera.”

  “You can call me Madeleine.” She attached the microphone and, at B.J.’s suggestion, slid the wire under her T-shirt. Grace took her position at B.J.’s side.

  “All set?” B.J. asked.

  Madeleine nodded.

  “Okay.” B.J. focused on the miniature image of Madeleine Sloane in the tiny video monitor attached to the top of the camera. Her short blond hair ruffled in the gentle breeze that was blowing up from the bay. She was wringing her delicate hands, which she had clasped in front of her thin body. The trunk of the oak tree stood behind her.

  “First of all, Madeleine, how and when did you get the news that your mother’s remains had been identified?”

  Madeleine cleared her throat. “I was here, visiting with my aunt Agatha, when we got the phone call. That was just a little while before I met you down at the gate.”

  “What was your reaction to the news?”

  Madeleine’s mouth turned up at one corner, and she shook her head at the question. Grace always hated it when the reporters on television jammed microphones into victims’ faces and asked how they felt about a tragedy. How do you think they felt, for God’s sake? Miserable, awful, devastated, heartbroken. But somehow, as Madeleine was doing now, the bereaved often managed to answer.

  “Honestly? Honestly, I was relieved. I’ve wondered what happened to my mother for the last fourteen years. I never was sure if she was dead or alive. The uncertainty was horrible. Now, at least, I know for certain she’s gone. Maybe that will make things easier.”

  B.J. switched gears. “Did the police tell you where they are going with the investigation?”

  “No. And I didn’t ask them,” Madeleine answered curtly.

  “You seem angry.”

  “Wouldn’t you be if your mother had been lying dead in a tunnel and the local police had never found her?” Madeleine didn’t wait for an answer to her question. “Because of their incompetence, my father has been unfairly blamed all these years. His life has been a living hell, everyone whispering about him, saying he had done away with my mother.”

  “With all due respect, Madeleine, the fact that your mother’s remains were found in the tunnel doesn’t prove that your father didn’t kill her.”

  “Well, I know he didn’t. I’ve always known that he couldn’t have hurt her. He loved my mother very much. If the p
olice had found my mother early on, there might have been more clues for them to work with to find the real killer. But I’ll tell you one thing. My father didn’t kill my mother. I’m sure he didn’t.”

  B.J. pulled his head back from the camera eyepiece and looked over, first at Grace, then at Madeleine.

  “Who do you think killed your mother, Madeleine?”

  The young woman hesitated. She felt as though the answer was just beyond her grasp. It was frustrating not being able to come out and name her mother’s killer. But she couldn’t. Not yet anyway.

  “That’s all I have to say, at this point,” Madeleine declared adamantly. “Now take your other pictures, if you like, as quickly as you can, and then go. If Aunt Agatha sees you out here, she’ll have a fit.”

  “We understand,” said B.J., clicking off his camera. “Can we have ten or fifteen minutes?”

  “All right, but no more than that,” said Madeleine. “I’ve got to get home to be with my father.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  The radio news echoed with the medical examiner’s findings. To the last person who had seen Charlotte alive, it was really no surprise that this day had come. It could have come at any time. But the hope was always that it would come later, after everyone was dead and gone. Just like Charlotte.

  Digging up her bones meant digging up the sordid details that had led to her death. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. It was worrisome that the handkerchief had remained in the pocket of her dress, right where Charlotte had tucked it after borrowing it to wipe her tears. But at least the photograph hadn’t surfaced.

  In the heat of the moment, the photo Charlotte had ranted about that night had been dropped down over her body as it lay on the slave tunnel floor. When there was time to think more clearly, the realization that the murder weapon had been left behind as well necessitated another nocturnal visit to the playhouse. The iron fireplace shovel was wiped clean, to be buried in the tunnel wall along with the body. But the photograph was gone.