Last Night, page 19
Kate was waiting by the high-tech coffee station in the lobby. They filled cups with cappuccino and stopped by the reception desk on the way out. Isabel wasn’t there, but Agnes was.
“Good morning,” Hadley said.
“Hello, Ms. Cooke,” Agnes said. “How may I help you?”
“Could you ring my brother-in-law’s room?” Hadley asked. “Bernard Lafond?”
“Of course,” Agnes said and dialed the house phone.
Hadley had called and texted him repeatedly but had gotten no reply. With everything else being so uncertain, it threw her off, being unable to get in touch with him.
“He’s not answering,” Agnes said.
“Have you seen him today?” Kate asked.
“No, I haven’t,” Agnes said. “Shall I tell him to call, if I do see him?”
“Please,” Hadley said. “I have an errand to run and will be gone for a little while. I don’t want to leave, in case the police need me, but I can get back here right away. If Detective Harrigan or anyone else comes looking for me, will you please call?”
“Of course. Your cell phone number is in your profile. I’ll leave a note for my colleagues, in case I’m not here.”
“Thank you,” Hadley said.
Outside, the snow was falling. Dermot had Hadley’s truck ready—heat on full blast, windshield wipers going. Hadley and Kate climbed in and headed west, through the town of Westerly. They were both Nutmeggers—Connecticut natives—and somehow that felt comforting to Hadley, an additional bond with this woman she’d met only a few days ago.
“Do you think it’s odd that you haven’t seen Bernard?” Kate said.
“Definitely,” Hadley said.
“I know you’re wary of each other, but why is he avoiding you?” Kate asked. “In spite of the problems, you’re both worried about CeCe. Wouldn’t he want to stay close, if only to share info? Could it be Maddie’s pregnancy, if he was the father?”
“Or if he wasn’t,” Hadley said.
“Would she have told him?” Kate asked. “They were in the middle of a divorce, and that makes everything weird. My sister and her husband were about to separate when she was killed. He and I both loved Sam, but by that point, we couldn’t stand each other, so we kept away from each other as much as we could. We only spoke when it had to do with Sam.”
“She didn’t even tell me she was pregnant,” Hadley said. “She would never have told him, and there’s no way he’s the father.”
“Maybe he’s just so worried about CeCe that he doesn’t have the energy to be around other people till she’s found,” Kate said.
“Bernard has never lacked energy,” Hadley said. “Maddie used to say that the more that went wrong—between them, in his career—the more he kicked into high gear. He’s always trying to fix things, make people see them his way. He can never understand when the world goes against him. She said he was a narcissist. That word is thrown around so much, but it fits him.”
“I get it. My brother-in-law was a classic example. Every single interaction is seen through their eyes—they don’t take into account the fact that others have a point of view. It has to be their way,” Kate said.
“He’s probably trying to keep busy,” Hadley said. “Since he came here to ‘scout locations,’ maybe that’s what he’s doing.”
“I hear sarcasm there,” Kate said. “You really do think that’s not his real reason for coming to Watch Hill?”
“I think he somehow knew that Maddie would be at the Ocean House. The coincidence is too great. And I do know that he wanted to get her back. He probably thought he could charm her into loving him again, in such a romantic hotel.”
They drove in silence for a while. The snow fell thickly and covered the hilly contours of southeastern Connecticut: the fields and granite ledges, the coves and saltwater creeks, the stone walls and marshes, the glacial erratic boulders that lined the roads. It was a beautiful part of the world. Hadley and Maddie had driven this stretch countless times as teenagers on their way to Rhode Island beaches. She tried not to think about how her sister would never see it again.
“I feel strange going to Maddie’s storage place,” Hadley said. “But Jeanne was so adamant about making sure her paintings are safe and accounted for.”
“She’s right about that,” Kate said. “Maddie’s work is her legacy, and it will give CeCe financial security while she’s growing up. It’s really important, Hadley.”
“I get that. But it’s so soon after Maddie died.”
“All the more reason. Valuable artwork has a way of disappearing soon after an artist’s or collector’s death,” Kate said. “If people have access, there’s the risk of it being stolen before the executor has the chance to secure the location.”
“Who has access other than Jeanne?” Hadley asked.
“Exactly my point,” Kate said.
“My sister obviously trusted her, or she wouldn’t have had her as her attorney,” Hadley said, remembering a comment Kate had made yesterday. “What were you going to tell me about her?”
“Not about her, specifically,” Kate said. “But I had some trouble with her firm over an artist’s estate. Our gallery had been representing him for decades—my grandmother had nurtured him as a young artist. We’d gotten close; I’d been to his house many times—for parties, tea by the river, and to see work in progress. I was very familiar with the house and all his furnishings.”
“Is it common for gallery owners and artists to have that kind of relationship?” Hadley asked.
“Sometimes,” Kate said. “For my family, always. Our role is to encourage and protect our artists. We don’t take anyone on unless we love their art. Most often we wind up loving them, too.”
“Lucky artists,” Hadley said.
“We’re the lucky ones,” Kate said. “Anyway, Caleb Hart appointed me executor of his estate. He was ninety-three. His wife had died twenty years earlier, and they had no children. He lived in Black Hall—in a 1700s house right on the Connecticut River. It was filled with antiques. He collected eighteenth- and nineteenth-century furniture. Oriental rugs. First editions by Melville, Hawthorne, Frost, Alcott, Millay. Colonial-era silver, including a tea set attributed to Paul Revere.”
“That’s amazing,” Hadley said. She was riveted by the story while concentrating hard on driving through the snow, making sure she didn’t skid off the road.
“He also had a cache of his own paintings, as well as a number of works by American Impressionists,” Kate said. “Jim Bradley, Jeanne’s partner at Cross, Gladding, and White, was his lawyer. He had drawn up the will and trust. Caleb was leaving everything to the Black Hall Museum of Art. He had talked to me about it often over the years. He saw it as his legacy, and it was my job to protect it, to see that his wishes were carried out.”
“Like my job to fulfill Maddie’s wishes.”
“Yes,” Kate said. “And very similar to what you are doing today—meeting Jeanne to get the key to Maddie’s storage space—I met with Jim at Caleb’s house, where he was going to give me the keys and alarm codes and make arrangements for an appraiser to come in and catalog everything in the house.”
“Did it go well?” Hadley asked.
“No,” Kate said. “When I did the walk-through with Jim, I noticed that things were missing.”
“Don’t tell me—the Paul Revere silver,” Hadley said.
“No, that would have been too obvious. Several other silver pieces, though. Nothing famous but all quite valuable. Some rare rugs that would have fetched a great deal at auction. He had a drawerful of vintage fountain pens, too.”
“That’s a lot to go missing,” Hadley said.
“It sounds like it,” Kate said. “But Caleb was a tremendous collector. His house was jammed full of his beloved belongings. He hung his art salon-style—from chair rail to ceiling. His bookshelves were crammed with first editions, as well as modern novels he loved and one of the most impressive groups of art books I’ve ever seen.”
“So it would be hard to spot things that had been taken?” Hadley asked.
“By anyone but me,” Kate said. “Probably because I was so close to him and had spent so much time at the house, I could see what wasn’t there.”
“Someone stole everything?”
“That’s the only explanation,” Kate said.
“What did you do?”
“I filed a police report—that is, I told Conor. He and detectives on the state police Art Theft Squad investigated the cleaning person, the gardener, various service people who might have gotten into the house. But it always came back to the fact that the alarm was set, the doors and windows locked.”
“Could any of the service people have taken things while Caleb was still alive? Or could he have given belongings away?” Hadley asked.
“That’s what Jim and the rest of the firm said when they were questioned. But I knew that wasn’t the case. I’d had dinner with Caleb two nights before he died, and everything was in place. I’m positive that Jim and his partners did it. There is no other explanation—they were the only ones with keys and codes.”
“That’s unsettling, to put it mildly,” Hadley said.
“It is, but there’s no direct evidence,” Kate said. “Conor said that suspicion wasn’t enough to arrest them or take them to trial. As executor, I—or the museum, as Caleb’s sole beneficiary—could bring a civil suit. That will be up to the museum’s trustees.”
“Didn’t Caleb have security cameras?” Hadley asked. “That would have recorded anyone coming or going?”
“He didn’t,” Kate said. “He had a very sophisticated alarm system that did provide a record of times it was set and disarmed, but no cameras.”
“But if the firm’s lawyers were the only ones with the alarm codes . . . ,” Hadley said.
“They claimed that Caleb must have given the combinations to other people—including me. I was furious, but there was nothing I could do. Conor says the Art Theft Squad is letting the case go cold.”
“Why?”
“Because there is no case,” Kate said. “I was the only one who knew what Caleb owned. He hadn’t kept an ongoing list or inventory. He’d told his insurance company about items worth more than ten thousand dollars each, but he hadn’t kept a running list. He had bought much more than was officially accounted for.”
“That’s awful,” Hadley said.
“It’s why it’s so important that you take charge of Maddie’s paintings right away,” Kate said.
“Who cares about them, considering that CeCe is missing?” Hadley asked.
“CeCe will care,” Kate said. “Her mother’s work will mean the world to her.”
“But I won’t know what should be there,” Hadley said. “I won’t know if something is missing. It’s not like you, spending time with Caleb and his collections. I’ve never even been to Maddie’s storage space.”
“You can start from today,” Kate said. “Get the keys from Jeanne and change the locks. In fact, would you like me to call the locksmith I use? He can meet us there.”
“Thank you,” Hadley said. “That would be great.”
Silver Bay Fine Art Transport & Storage was located in the only semi-industrial section of town. Just off the highway, it was in a cul-de-sac with a stonecutting business, a shop that did after-market modifications to high-performance sports cars, and a veterinary hospital.
Hadley noticed that the storage facility was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. A keypad was stationed just outside the fence and obviously opened a sliding section.
“I don’t have the combination,” Hadley said.
“I have it to this gate,” Kate said. “But we should wait for Jeanne.”
They looked toward the building and the surrounding parking area. There were two panel trucks with the Silver Bay Fine Art Transport & Storage logo painted on the side but no cars. Hadley checked her watch. Right on time, when Jeanne had said she’d be there.
“Maybe the snow is holding her up,” Kate said.
Hadley nodded. She felt pressure building up inside, a combination of excitement at the prospect of seeing Maddie’s work and trepidation because she knew how hard it would hit her—the fact that this was it; there would be no more new paintings.
A car pulled into the cul-de-sac and drew up next to Hadley’s truck. The driver rolled down the window and waved. It was Donna Almeida. Hadley was shocked to see her. She hadn’t told Johnny she was coming. Even if she had, why would he have sent his girlfriend?
“Hi, Hadley,” Donna said.
“What are you doing here?” Hadley asked.
“I think I mentioned to you that I work at Cross, Gladding, and White. I’m a paralegal in Jeanne’s department, and I’m here on her behalf.”
“You said a firm in Hartford, you didn’t tell me the name,” Hadley said.
“I’m pretty sure I did,” Donna said. “I wouldn’t have left that out.”
“Why isn’t Jeanne here?” Kate asked.
“I’ll explain in a minute. Follow me—I’ve got the combination,” Donna said. She pulled ahead, then tapped the code into the keypad, and the gate slid open. Hadley drove right behind her into the enclosure.
“Who’s that?” Kate asked.
“Johnny’s girlfriend,” Hadley said.
“And Johnny is Maddie’s ex-husband?”
“Yes,” Hadley said. She felt confused. Had Donna mentioned the firm? Hadley had been so upset that night. Was it possible she’d just blocked it out? Or had she heard, and the name just hadn’t meant anything to her? Until the next day, she hadn’t even known Maddie’s lawyer’s name or that of Jeanne’s law firm.
“Hadley, I am so sorry if you feel I wasn’t straight with you,” Donna said after they had parked and gotten out of their cars.
“It’s weird to me,” Hadley said. “That you didn’t tell me.”
“I should have told you right away that I sometimes work with Maddie’s lawyer. It was such a terrible time, having just learned about her death. I couldn’t bear to bring it up,” Donna said. “Also, please understand—it’s a big law firm.”
“Largest in Hartford, second largest in Connecticut,” Kate said. “I know—some of my artists have used your trusts and estates department. I’m Kate Woodward, Hadley’s friend.”
“Donna Almeida,” Donna said. “Kate, you’re right. We have so many clients, and Hadley, I want you to know that I’m not assigned to Jeanne’s team, or to Maddie’s account.”
“I thought you said just now that you work with Jeanne,” Hadley said.
“I do, occasionally, but not on a regular basis. Only when she’s in a pinch and her usual paralegals are busy with other things.”
“Why are you here today, then?” Hadley asked.
“Jeanne is so terribly sorry she couldn’t be here—she slipped on the ice leaving her house this morning and had to go to the clinic,” Donna said.
“Is she okay?” Hadley asked.
“Her wrist is broken,” Donna said. “And because it happened this morning, she didn’t have anyone lined up to take over and meet you. I was the only paralegal available. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” Hadley said. “It’s fine.”
But none of it was fine. She steeled herself to enter her sister’s storage unit, uncertain of what she would find but knowing that Maddie would never be here again.
“Thanks,” Donna said. “Bear with me—I’ve never been to Maddie’s unit before, so I’m seeing it for the first time, just like you. Jeanne gave me some fairly complicated directions on how to get in.”
The building’s outer door had another keypad, and Donna punched in the code. Once inside, Hadley felt warm. Art needed to be stored in a temperature-controlled environment. The heat couldn’t go too high or the cold too low. Extreme fluctuations on either end could be damaging. Equally or more important, there had to be moisture control—humidity could cause mold, which was extremely destructive to works on paper.
The large building was in the shape of an E. Numbered units were located along the corridors. Maddie’s took up most of the center section, the middle row of the E. Donna dug into her cross-body satchel for her iPad. She opened the email in which Jeanne had sent instructions.
“Okay,” Donna said, reading. “We have to put in a code first, and that gives a twenty-second delay on an alarm. It has to be perfect the first time. If it isn’t, the siren sounds, and the signal goes straight to the police. We don’t get a second try. Hadley, I’ll let you type it in. And Jeanne told me she suggests you change it right away, for extra security.”
Hadley glanced at the screen. The combination was the month, date, and year of CeCe’s birthday. She entered the number, and three clicks sounded.
“Now, here are the keys,” Donna said, handing them to her. “Top and bottom lock. Twenty seconds.”
Hadley fumbled, dropped the keys, picked them up, and managed to open the steel door with a few seconds to spare. The unit was dark. Donna turned on her cell phone’s flashlight, found the light switch.
“Wow,” Kate said when the space was illuminated. “I have units at the other end of the building, and they’re nothing like this.”
“It’s amazing,” Donna said. “Beautiful, like a gallery . . . or an apartment.”
Hadley shouldn’t have been surprised. Her sister had had such style and grace. But who would have expected her to furnish her storage unit like a Paris atelier? Every wall was hung with her paintings. There was a seating area with Victorian furniture—a sofa and two chairs covered in burgundy velvet, with ornately carved rosewood backs and arms.
Racks and sliding shelves lined one wall from floor to ceiling. They looked chock-full of canvases, expandable portfolio cases, drawings stored in archival sheet protectors, and aluminum boxes. Four tall filing cabinets stood at the very back of the space. Hadley spotted a black leather chair pulled in front of an antique rolltop desk made of kingwood with inlaid strips of yew. She knew that desk well; she had been with Maddie when she’d bought it at Les Puces, the Paris flea market at Saint-Ouen.
