Last Night, page 17
“Zane,” Tom said, “Grub says he’s going to double your money. He was talking about CeCe. What did he mean?”
Zane suddenly went slack. He stopped moving. Tom saw panic on his face. He thought of marine mammals, of large ocean predators. When terrified, they sometimes went perfectly still. They’d roll on their backs in the face of an attack, exhibiting tonic immobility: playing dead so the predator would swim away.
Tom knew they weren’t getting any answers from Zane. “Let’s get going,” he said to Conor.
“We’ve got to hold him here till Joe arrives,” Conor said.
“Zane’s not going anywhere,” Tom said. As a Coast Guard officer, he was law enforcement, and even though he was off duty, he had his gear in the truck. He went outside, grabbed his handcuffs, and returned to snap them on Zane Garson—securing him to the radiator.
Conor stood, brushing himself off. “You know where Grub lives?”
“Yeah, I do,” Tom said. “Not far.”
“Let’s go,” Conor said.
“Give me back my phone!” Zane yelled.
“Right,” Tom said as he and Conor slammed the door behind them and got into his truck. He didn’t know Grub’s exact address, but he knew the street in South Kingston. He would recognize the Garson Lobster Company vehicles when he saw them in the driveway.
He had the truck in gear, ready to pull out of the parking lot, when a line of Rhode Island State Police cars came speeding down Galilee Escape Road. He and Conor were itching to get to Grub’s; instead, they sat back and waited for Joe Harrigan.
29
Hadley felt restless. Kate had gotten her to leave the suite and sit in the lobby for a while. A harp played, and Isabel, from hotel reception, brought a silver tray of complimentary sparkling water over to the cozy seating area next to the grand piano and sweeping staircase. She placed it on the low table.
“Thank you,” Hadley said, expecting Isabel to head back to the front desk, but she hovered close by, as if she had something to say. She seemed to be having an inner dialogue with herself, and Hadley got the sense she was trying to decide whether to speak or not.
“I’ve been thinking so much about you,” Isabel said after a few moments. “I feel so involved . . . I was the last one to see Maddie. I can’t get her out of my mind. I liked her so much.”
“I appreciate that,” Hadley said.
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“You told everything to the police, right?” Kate asked.
“Of course. But you know how it is,” Isabel said. “You think you’ve remembered everything, but then other things come back.”
“Like what?” Kate asked.
“Just impressions, mostly,” Isabel said. “Not really facts. More like feelings woven into the memories.”
“Can you tell us?” Hadley asked.
“Would it help?”
“It might,” Kate said. “Do you have time now?”
“I’m about to go on break,” Isabel said. She glanced around. “I’m really not supposed to take it here in the lobby, though.”
“Is there somewhere else we can go?” Hadley asked.
“Yes,” Isabel said. She gestured for Hadley and Kate to follow her. They walked down the grand stairway, through the Bemelmans Gallery, into a small anteroom with a sofa and two chairs. They each took a seat, and Hadley watched Isabel, waiting for her to tell her story.
30
ISABEL
Two Nights Ago
I am almost ready to go off shift.
With this blizzard, I am not going home, though. Even though I can’t afford this triple Five-Star resort on my own, when the weather is this bad, the manager lets us employees stay. I look forward to my room with its comfy bed, embroidered linens, Italian towels, and marble bathroom.
I really do love my job and want to make life better for our guests. They are all important to me—to the whole staff—but children are especially important. I want them to feel the magic of this place, especially during the holiday season. We have the annual tree-lighting ceremony, with a carol sing and hot chocolate. Santa joins us for brunch every weekend. The children love it.
So I’ve kept a special eye on CeCe. I don’t know everything about what’s going on in her life, but I can see how affected she is by her parents’ divorce, how protective her mother is of her, and how her mother wants her to feel happy and loved.
Our hotel knows how to be discreet, so I would never even let on to Ms. Morrison—Maddie—that I know who she’s married to and so much more. But she uses a pseudonym and has asked for no calls, except from her sister and lawyer, to be put through to the suite. She deserves better than a Hollywood blowhard who has seen better days and is trying to soak her for all she’s worth.
When the snow stops, I will borrow my cousin’s toboggan and pull CeCe around on the beach. Maybe I’ll have a seaside picnic for her and her mom. I’ll ask Didier—my pal and the hotel’s amazing sommelier—to choose the perfect wine for a blizzard.
He’s a sweetheart and is also staying in-house for the duration of the storm. I’ll fill a thermos with hot chocolate for CeCe, and we’ll heat up some lobster canapés. The Ocean House has one of the best chefs in the world, and needless to say, we get the freshest lobster, straight off the docks in Galilee.
Those are literally my thoughts when CeCe and Maddie walk up to the front desk. I beam, so happy to see them.
“Hello! What a crazy storm, right?” I ask.
“I love it,” Maddie says. “After so long in Malibu, I am here for some good New England weather.”
“A great night to sit by the fire in your suite and listen to the waves,” I say. “I’m sure you can hear them, even through the windows. If you’re brave, step out onto the terrace!”
“Oh yes, they’re pounding the beach,” Maddie says. “And we’ll do more than step out onto the terrace.”
That’s when I notice what they are wearing: They are dressed for the nor’easter. Maddie is wearing a Moncler parka with a watch cap, and CeCe has on a cute little ski jacket. I can tell, from looking at her, that her pockets are stuffed full.
“You’re not going out, are you?” I ask.
“Not for long,” Maddie says, resting her hand lightly on her belly, as if she has eaten too much. “But we need some air and a little exercise.”
“It’s dangerous out there, Ms. Morrison,” I say.
“Call me Maddie,” she says, smiling. She has told me that many times since she and CeCe first checked in. I know she means it, and I want to, but my training won’t let me. We are very correct here at the Ocean House, careful not to blur boundaries.
But since I am the only one at the desk, I do what she asks.
“Thank you. Maddie,” I say. “But truly, please, don’t go out there. There’s zero visibility, and the wind will blow you away. We just heard that the highway department is about to close the roads.”
“Oh,” Maddie says, looking concerned. “But they haven’t yet?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. I see her glance toward the front door. It seems obvious she’s expecting someone.
“A lot of the town has lost power. Traffic lights are out,” I say.
CeCe has been strolling around the lobby, looking at everything and seemingly telling herself a story, but she gets to the desk in time to hear me mention lights.
“Christmas tree lights,” she says. “All over the trees and garlands and whales and swans. How many lights are there?”
“Millions and millions,” I say. “We make sure of that, CeCe. There are as many tiny lights on our trees and whales and swans as there are stars in the sky.”
“Really?” CeCe asks, her eyes wide.
“Yes,” I say. “When the storm stops, by tomorrow night, you can go down to the beach and count the stars, then come back here and count the lights.”
“I will do that,” she says very seriously. “I know a lot about stars.”
“You do?”
She nods and reaches into one of her pockets. I try not to laugh when a collection of six-year-old-girl valuables tumbles out: a pine cone, a small silver bell, and a handful of moonstones.
“Oops,” she says, gathering them up. “I don’t need these. May I leave them here?”
“Certainly,” I say.
“I have other things in my pockets,” she says, “including the most important thing. The reason I love stars.” She stands on tiptoes to place a rather raggedy square of flannel on the desk in front of me. It has traces of raspberry jam on one side.
“What is this lovely . . . ?” I trail off, not wanting to call it a scrap.
“It’s Star,” she says. “My best friend.”
“Hello, Star,” I say.
She beams, so I know I’ve said the right thing.
“Isabel,” Maddie says, checking her watch, “we have to hurry. My sister is on her way, and I want to get back before she arrives. I’m going to leave her a note. Do you have paper? Just in case she gets here before we do.”
“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’ll send out the ski patrol and a Saint Bernard,” I say, joking.
“Papa!” CeCe says. “He’s Bernard! That’s his name!”
My heart skips—has she spotted her father? He made me promise not to tell them he was in-house. They are supposed to think he’s out in Hollywood or on a film set in Europe—anywhere but the Ocean House. I look around, but he’s not in the lobby.
“She means a different Bernard, CeCe,” Maddie says. “It’s a great big dog.”
“Ha ha, Papa,” CeCe says, and she barks.
I watch Maddie take off her gloves to pick up the fine pen I hand her to start writing on the stationery I’ve set on the counter. The note is brief; it takes her less than a minute to write. She folds the paper, puts it in the envelope, hands it to me. I turn and insert it into the cubbyhole for Maddie’s suite. She zips CeCe’s jacket up to her chin, wraps a scarf around her neck. Then she puts her gloves back on.
“I’m worried about you and CeCe going out,” I say.
“Isabel, I’m a New Englander like you. When have we let a little storm get in our way? I got my driver’s license during a blizzard! This is nothing.”
That’s what she says—This is nothing—but I detect nervousness.
“Come on, CeCe,” she says, starting for the door. She turns back for one moment and speaks to me. “Let Hadley into the suite if I’m not back yet, okay?”
“You bet,” I say.
I watch them go down the wide, curved front stairs to the circular drive; I assume Dermot is there to see them off, but then he appears in the corridor, carrying another guest’s bags.
Tops on the list of rules for employees at the Ocean House is that respecting our guests’ privacy is paramount. But I am anxious about Maddie’s safety, her state of mind, so as soon as she is out of sight, I break that cardinal rule and reach for the note she left her sister. I take it from the envelope and read:
Hi, H! I’m not going to text because you are driving and I don’t want you spinning out in the storm. I have a little errand to run, a very quick meeting on our favorite path. Sorry to be mysterious—I’ll explain when I get back. I’m taking CeCe, hoping a walk in the snow will tucker her out so you and I can have a good talk while she sleeps. Lots to tell you. Heading out now, be back in no time. XXXX M.
I reread it several times. I want to tell Maddie that she’s fooling no one. I know—or at least think I know—whom she is meeting. It has to be the person who has sent her flowers so often during her stay. Until this week, they were always the same: white roses. But yesterday they were red.
I am relieved when Hadley arrives safely but incredibly uneasy because Maddie and CeCe still aren’t back. So rattled by that fact, I make a stupid mistake: I hand Hadley Maddie’s note, but I forget to put it back in the envelope. Of course, Hadley doesn’t notice. How would she know?
A moment later, giving Hadley that glass of champagne feels wrong. We offer a drink to our guests to welcome them, to celebrate their arrival, to put them in a festive mood. I worry that drinking that champagne will be Hadley’s last carefree moment. Because I have a terrible feeling, deep down, that something bad has happened to Maddie.
And to CeCe.
They should have returned by now.
How much does this have to do with Bernard—unwilling to let his wife and daughter know that he’s here at the hotel? I am mad at myself for letting him make me his ally. As much as I can’t stand him, I’ve let him think I’m “on his side” by keeping his presence a secret from Maddie.
More to the point, how much of Maddie’s failure to return from her walk has to do with her admirer, who sends her roses, both white and red?
Hadley listened carefully to Isabel’s account of the last time she saw Maddie and CeCe. She had hung on to every word, wanting to see her sister through Isabel’s eyes, to picture Maddie and hear her voice during the last hour of her life, to turn over every detail in her mind. And she did—it was as if Isabel had brought Hadley straight back into those moments before Maddie and CeCe left the hotel.
“I am really sorry I read her note,” Isabel said. “And I can’t help thinking that if I had told her Bernard was here, things might have been different.”
“Because you think he killed her?” Kate asked.
“I don’t know,” Isabel said. “But what if he did?”
“It’s not your fault,” Hadley said. “No matter what, you can’t blame yourself. I certainly don’t.”
“Thank you,” Isabel said. She sounded grateful, but she looked unconvinced. “I’d better get back to work. Please, if there is anything I can do for you, just call.”
“So many secrets,” Hadley murmured after Isabel had left to return to the reception desk.
“You mean Isabel not telling Maddie about Bernard?” Kate said. Hadley didn’t reply, but that wasn’t what she meant.
“Everyone has secrets,” Kate continued. “We all have things we want to keep private—thoughts, feelings, actions—but when someone is murdered, every single thing gets examined.” She paused, and Hadley knew she was remembering back to Beth’s murder. “You heard Isabel—you can tell she blames herself.”
“I told her she shouldn’t.”
“But how can she not? If he did it.”
“There are no roses in the suite,” Hadley said, as if she hadn’t even heard Kate.
“Sounds as if they were delivered pretty regularly,” Kate said.
“Why wouldn’t Maddie have kept them? Did she like them? Did she throw them out as soon as they were delivered?” Hadley asked.
“We should check with housekeeping,” Kate said, “though I’m sure the police already have. Find out who the florist was, whether the order came from Bernard.”
“Maddie used to hate when he sent her flowers,” Hadley said. “She said he’d send them to apologize. When he’d been jealous, overbearing, controlling toward her, he would burn his anger out, and the next thing she knew, she’d be getting a five-hundred-dollar bouquet from the Empty Vase in West Hollywood.”
“That wouldn’t do it for me,” Kate said.
“No,” Hadley said. “Same with people he worked with. He’d throw a tantrum during a scene, blow up at the director or one of the other actors, and storm off the set. The next day he’d wind up having the whole flower shop delivered to the production company.”
“Too little, too late,” Kate said. “And manipulative.”
“I don’t think the roses were from Bernard,” Hadley said quietly.
“Then who was the secret admirer?” Kate asked.
“The father,” Hadley said.
“Bernard is CeCe’s father,” Kate said, sounding slightly worried, as if Hadley had lost her mind or at least her memory.
“I’m not talking about CeCe,” Hadley said.
“Then who?”
“I mean the father of the new baby,” Hadley said. She could just hear Isabel describing how Maddie had stood there, her hand on her belly, and all of a sudden she knew what the secret had been. “Maddie was pregnant when she died.”
31
Law enforcement swarmed the waterfront outside Zane Garson’s house. Rhode Island State Police officers and a team of FBI agents led by Special Agent Patrick O’Rourke arrived within minutes of each other. Conor led Joe Harrigan through Zane’s cellar, up the outside hatchway, and into the snow tunnel. The small footprints left no doubt in his mind that they belonged to CeCe Lafond.
“She was here,” Conor said. “Not just in that bedroom but right here on the path. While Tom and I stood out on the dock, letting it happen.”
“We don’t know for sure,” Joe said.
“We don’t?” Conor asked. “Let’s see—she wrote her name in blood on the wall, and check out these little footprints.”
“I’m with you, Conor. But I can’t assert too hard. The kidnapping case belongs to the Feds. Patrick made that clear, as if I didn’t already know—and you know, too. I’m going to keep investigating, but this scene is theirs.”
“The Garsons talked about doubling their money, tripling it. What does that mean?” Conor asked.
“It’s not good,” Joe said.
“They’re talking about trafficking her, aren’t they?” Conor asked.
Joe didn’t answer and didn’t have to. The solemn look in his eyes said it all.
Conor knew trafficking went on, all through southeastern New England. On the Major Crime Squad, he had taken part in raids of houses in Connecticut’s wealthiest suburbs: a stone mansion in Silver Bay, a rambling colonial in Hawthorne, a shingled cottage near the beach club in Black Hall.
They had rescued individuals brought across various borders by the cartels. Some came all the way from what law enforcement had started calling Pimp City—Tenancingo, in the Mexican state of Tlaxcala—to Connecticut and other northeast states. Most of the trafficked were taken to cities like Las Vegas, Chicago, and New York, but there were customers everywhere, even in the suburbs. This was a world where women and children were commodities, to be sold. The sellers went to where the money was.
