A Bookmarked Death (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

“M
OM
, E
LISA
’
S
NO
T
answering my texts!” Hannah’s voice on my phone sounded frantic.

It was Thursday morning, the day before graduation at St. Brennan’s College. Jane was scheduled to take the train out from Manhattan tonight and we would be on the ferry to Connecticut early tomorrow morning. The plan was for Hannah to drive over from Ithaca and meet us at there.

“She has a lot on her mind,” I reassured Hannah, as I poured extra dried food into the dish for the cats. Yet even this small twist ramped up the tension I was already feeling. One more thing to worry about.

“She’s just going to be staying on in the dorm, they told her she could. And her classes are over. Why isn’t she answering my texts? She doesn’t want us to come.” My daughter was veering into tragic mode.

“Don’t be silly. She definitely wants you there. She probably just forgot to charge the battery on her phone. Are you all set for tomorrow?”

“I put gas in the car over the weekend.”

“Are you sure it will get you there?” That
would
be tragic, if her car broke down and she missed everything. “Maybe you should take the bus.”

“
Mom.
It’s fine. I always use it to go to Boston.”

“Okay. I figure we’ll get to the parking garage about ten so we can get good seats in the stadium. Where should we meet?”

“By the big eagle?”

“Fine.” I remembered the large bronze statue from the day I found Elisa, when I’d gone to the college in late January.

“Is—Dad coming?”

Something about the way she asked, the question mark in her voice, made me wonder if Elisa had told her about Ethan’s letter,

“No. He can’t get away.” The old family pattern of trying to shield the children from bad news. Most famously, we had repressed all mention of Elisa and her drowning when they were growing up, believing that they had been too young to remember and that they were better off not being raised in the shadow of death. Now I wondered if it had been more Colin’s and my attempt to bury the pain rather than anything to do with the children.

“And Mom? They still haven’t released her parents’ bodies! How can she plan a funeral without her parents being there? I mean—”

“I know what you mean. I know one of the detectives in the department and I’ll talk to him.”

After I hung up with Elisa, the next call I made was to England, to the Stratford-upon-Avon police constabulary about Nick and Micah Clancy. I had forgotten to do it yesterday until it was too late. As I dialed, I imagined DCI Sampson with his precise salt-and-pepper mustache, his military posture, seated in his office surrounded by his antique prints of fish and birds, and his tea-brewing paraphernalia. He had been the policeman involved both in Elisa’s initial disappearance when he was a young constable, and when I had returned to Stratford last December. He hadn’t believed my story initially, though after interviewing Nick Clancy he became more convinced.

I asked for his extension and listened to the pulsing tone. Had it been only five months since I had walked into the constabulary in Shakespeare’s hometown? Perhaps it was because it had been winter—snow icing the stucco half timbers and curling wrought-iron signs—that it felt like something from a storybook.

“Sampson here.”

“Good afternoon!” I said, surprised at how happy I was to hear his calm voice. Somewhere in the world there was sanity and orderly procedure rather than grasping at any debris floating by. “This is Delhi Laine.”
Your American pen pal.

“Ms. Laine.”

“Things have been happening here. The Crosleys—my daughter’s kidnappers and Priscilla Waters’s killers—died here in a house fire over the weekend.”

“Really. No news of it here.”

“So it means you don’t have to pursue extradition. If you were going to. The police here think it was arson, that the fire was deliberately set.”

Silence as he waited for me to go on.

“When they were trying to figure out a motive, I remembered Nick Clancy. I did tell Micah about the Crosleys and he asked me where they lived. I know Nick was vowing to get revenge on them for killing his mother . . .” I trailed off, waiting for him to pick up what I was suggesting.

Finally he did. “And you’re thinking that one of them hopped a plane, set the fire, and came home again?”

Would that it were that easy. “They may still find out it was a local arsonist. But is there any way to find out whether either of them left the country last week?”

“You mean check remotely without their knowledge? Yes, I can do that. All travel itineraries in and out of the UK are computerized now. Since 2009, and held for ten years.”

“Can you let me know?”

“Hadn’t I best be talking to my American counterpart?”

“Yes, of course.” He still seemed to find my version of the drowning and kidnapping as insubstantial as a paper chain glued together by a clumsy child. He had agreed that certain events had occurred but they were open to interpretation. No doubt he wanted to check with his “American counterparts” as to whether the arson story was even true.

“Wait.” I looked up the number of the Suffolk Homicide Bureau and gave it to him. “The detective in charge is Ruth Carew.”

“I’ll speak with her forthwith.”

“Thank you.” It was not really appropriate to thank him for doing his job, but it came out automatically and I left it between us.

Chapter Thirteen

M
Y
LAST
CALL
was to Detective Frank Marselli. I told myself I had every right to talk to Frank. I had met him when he was investigating the deaths at what was now Port Lewis Books. The second time, after another murder in an artist’s home where I was working, I had insisted on calling Frank. Our relationship was a one-way street, of course. He never phoned me for
my
insights.

My call went to his voice mail and I pressed the extension to talk to someone else. The young officer who answered told me Frank was out on a homicide. I persuaded him to tell me where by saying I had some important information on an arson case that I could only give him in person, information he needed to have as soon as possible. I can’t lie directly, but I can expand the truth when it’s necessary.

According to the officer, there had been a drive-by shooting in the Pace Park area of Bellport. Bellport was on the opposite side of Long Island from Port Lewis, located on the Great South Bay instead of the sound. The village is a community of large colonial homes and has the advantage of being closer to Manhattan than the Hamptons. Its charm has attracted residents like Isabella Rossellini and Charlie Rose. Main Street has trendy shops and a pier you can park on.

The charming village was not where the shooting had been.

The other area of Bellport, Pace Park—farther from the water and truly on the wrong side of the tracks—is a downtrodden area of wooden tract homes built in the 1950s to provide housing for workers in the defense weapons plants. When the defense industry on Long Island collapsed a few years later, many of the unexpectedly unemployed lost their homes to foreclosure. Decades later Suffolk County’s poorest residents are placed here in rentals by social services.

As I crossed Sunrise Highway and drove down Station Road, I remembered that the picturesque waterfront village had originally been an African-American resort in the 1880s, complete with its own orphanage and retirement home. Unlike the Sag Harbor community that has remained a wealthy African-American enclave, a malignant hand seemed to have reached down and shoved the first residents’ descendants back into the run-down area of Pace Park.

Pace Park was as depressed as I remembered it. I soon saw flashing red and blue lights and other signs of police activity in front of Chubby Charlie’s Bar-B-Q Chicken. A large tin sign of a well-fed, rosy-cheeked chef in a white cap and apron dominated the front of what might have once been a KFC. I pulled my van up next to a wooded lot across the road and got out.

I found Frank Marselli gesturing to a patrolman and looking as if his last shred of patience had just disintegrated.

“Frustrating case?” I asked sympathetically.

“Ms. Laine.” His flat hazel eyes gave me a wary look. “Tell me you just happened to be driving by.”

“Well, no. I need to talk to you.” As I said it, I noticed that he was still keeping his colorless hair clipped close to his head as befitted the least vain man I had ever known. He was good-looking enough, but his mouth too often had the set of someone who did not trust the world to do the right thing. His default expression seemed to be “Why
me
, God?” His clothes, clean and pressed, looked more like government-issue than if he had gone to a shop.

Frank turned his palm over, a gesture that I took as a signal to begin.

“You know about the fire in Southampton?” I asked.

“You know I can’t discuss that with you.”

“But it’s so unfair! That detective is blaming Colin with no good evidence.”

“Even if I agreed with you, it’s Ruth Carew’s case. I’m only part of the team.”

Did that mean he didn’t agree with her? I hoped so, tucking it away like a ten-dollar bill I might need unexpectedly. “Okay, but at least tell me this. When will the bodies be released? My daughter—Elisa—is upset because she can’t plan a service and get any closure.” Like half the population, I hated that word, but here it seemed the only one that fit.

He studied me as if holding a debate with himself about what he could tell me.

I pulled my jacket more tightly around me and stared back at him. Despite the sunshine, it was a chilly day on the South Shore.

“This is not a simple case,” he began. “Before the main fire, accelerant was poured over the bodies and they were badly burned. That makes identification challenging.”

“You mean they were burned before the fire outside was started?” Then I realized the significance. Someone setting the Crosleys on fire first ended any thought of casual arson. No wonder Detective Carew had her sights trained on us. “But that’s horrible! Do you think they knew what was happening?”

“They were probably unconscious. They’d been drinking heavily. It’s only a formality, but we haven’t been able to locate the Crosleys’ dental records. So the ME can’t sign off yet. No dentist in the Providence area has identified them as patients. We’ve widened our search for them by name, but so far nothing. Not that I’m surprised: The ME says the woman’s teeth were badly neglected and the man’s teeth were perfect. No work at all.”

Had Sheila been afraid of dentists? “But Ethan might have gone for checkups anyway. Doesn’t Elisa know who their dentist was? Didn’t they use the same one?”

“She still saw her pediatric dentist. Her teeth are very good too.”

“What about DNA?”

“You want my job? I’m only telling you this much so you can let your daughter know why things are delayed. DNA is hard. We’d have to get a warrant to get into their home in Rhode Island to check hairbrushes or toothbrushes, then send the samples to the FBI lab. The warrant’s easy, same day, but analyzing the DNA can take a couple of weeks. No one’s questioning their identity anyway. It’s just a formality.”

“Why would you need a warrant if they’re dead?”

He gave me a calm look. “You can’t just break into people’s houses and collect evidence.”

“Can’t Elisa give you permission?”

“Family members can. But you told Detective Carew she wasn’t related to the Crosleys. That she’s your biological daughter and there was no formal adoption.”

I nodded.

“We’re allowed to check on their credit cards or bank accounts, their cell phones, and there’s been no further activity.” He remembered something else. “Dr. Crosley was wearing one of those expensive watches, a Patek Philip, and they had on their wedding rings.”

“Patek Philippe. That’s odd.” Why hadn’t whoever incinerated them removed jewelry worth thousands?

“Also—” He stopped and pressed his lips in a narrow seal as if to keep more words from leaking out. We both knew he shouldn’t have said as much as he had.

“Did you know the Crosleys had a son?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, but he’s not in college. He’s younger than Elisa and I think he was adopted legally from Nicaragua. But he was estranged from the Crosleys.”

Frank watched me. He seemed to be expecting more.

“His name’s Will, William Crosley, I guess, he’s around eighteen or nineteen. Elisa thought he was living in Spanish Harlem.”

Frank began writing in his notebook.

“Can you find him?” I asked.

“We have no choice. We have to interview any next of kin. Did you mention this to Carew?” His mouth drew in, annoyed that they had not had this piece of information earlier. My fault, of course.

“She didn’t ask. All she’s interested in is framing Colin!”

Frank gave me a reproachful look. But he said, “As you probably know, his car came up clean. So did his apartment. Nothing on his computers.”

“So he’s not a suspect?”
Please God, make it so.

“You’ll need to speak to Detective Carew about that.”

“I don’t think she likes me.”

“It’s not her job to like you or dislike you. She’s a professional and that’s all that matters.”

“She hates my cats.” I said it to make him smile and he did.

Chapter Fourteen

W
HEN
J
ANE
AND
I arrived at St. Brennan’s College Friday morning, the stadium parking garage was jammed with excited families, each escorting a graduate in a baby blue robe.

“You’d think they were giving away souvenir bats,” Jane grumbled as we circled the tiers to the rooftop.

“I guess we should have come earlier.”

“To do what? We’re fine.”

I felt lucky to find a space on the top level, even though it was far from the exit stairs.

Hannah was waiting under the eagle clutching a handful of silver and red “Happy Graduation!” balloons. Instead of her usual sweats, she was wearing dark jeans and a green and white poplin jacket, her hair down around her face. Peering through the balloons, her face lit by excitement, she reminded me of the little girl she had once been, and my heart squeezed. A little girl caught up in her own dramas who would never have imagined being at the graduation of a twin sister.

Yet here we all were.

“Have you heard from Elisa?” I asked immediately after hugging her.

“No.” The excitement in her eyes faded, and I cursed myself for making it the first thing I asked her.

“You brought those all the way from Ithaca?” asked Jane, eyeing the garish balloons. She was carrying a tasteful sheaf of long-stemmed red roses. It was obvious that she was not thrilled to be here.

“I kept them in the trunk so they wouldn’t block my view. I was afraid they’d lose their helium or something, but they’re fine.” She gave an experimental tug downward and they bounced back immediately.

“Oh, goody,” said Jane.

“You know what? You’re such a spoilsport. I’ll bet she likes the balloons more!”

It was hard to believe sometimes that there was only a nineteen-month age difference between them. Jane, with her lucrative job in finance, had settled quickly into a Manhattan lifestyle. Her short blond hair and perfect features made her the prettiest of the girls.

My gift to Elisa, if it was that, was lunch at the Purple Pig, a boutique restaurant that Hannah claimed was her favorite. It would not be the graduation party the Crosleys had planned, but it was the best we could do. Elisa would be with people who loved her.

But why hadn’t we heard anything from her?

The crowd entering the stadium was so thick that we were funneled to the gate slowly, like theatergoers to a ticket taker. I tried to ignore the din of excited voices and my own sadness. These people carrying balloons and flowers had every right to be here. They had seen their graduates at every permutation of life, watched them weep over dead goldfish and smile into the camera for their senior prom photos. There was so much about Elisa’s life locked away. Had St. Brennan’s been her first choice? Had the Crosleys insisted she attend a college close by?

And the overhanging question: Would she ever let me get to know her well enough to find out?

We had to settle for bleacher seats halfway up the stadium, far from the dais. This was the large general graduation, the one everyone attended. The individual programs had separate ceremonies later on where the graduates would be handed their diplomas and presented with awards.

“I don’t see her,” Hannah worried a few minutes later when the graduates marched in and took their places on folding chairs below us. “I should have brought binoculars or something!”

“Here.” Jane opened her Coach bag and pulled out a small pair of pearl-toned opera glasses, handing them across me to her sister.

Hannah blinked at her, awed. “How did you know to bring those?” It was the same expression she’d had when they were much younger, and Jane claimed to have made something happen by magic.

Jane laughed. “A no-brainer. I always keep them in my bag for plays and museums.”

“Wow.” Hannah fitted the round metal circles to her eyes and scanned the rows of blue caps and gowns. But after several minutes her hands, still holding the glasses, dropped into her lap. “She’s not
there
.”

“Of course she is,” I said. I held out my hand until she handed me the delicate binoculars. Still trying to improve life for my children, though I doubted I could see anything Hannah hadn’t. The dark black balloon of fear I’d felt was growing inside me, threatening to crowd out everything else.
She had to be here.

I scanned the graduates slowly, row by row, but it was not easy trying to identify individual faces under identical caps. I did not know my own daughter well enough to recognize her body language, though there was plenty of motion. Although I was sure they had been ordered to sit quietly on their folding chairs and face forward, few of them did. The robes dipped and swayed like clusters of bluebirds’ wings. Using the opera glasses I could read the messages spelled out in colored tape on some of the caps: “$165,000”; “HIRE ME”; and the usual “HI, MOM!” When I did not pick out Elisa, I went back to the front of the section, trying to focus on blond hair this time. I found one girl who looked like her, but had a long braid down her back.

“Well, this isn’t her real graduation,” I said finally, handing Jane’s opera glasses back to Hannah. “I’m sure we can find her at the arts and sciences diploma ceremony.”

“No, she said to come to this one first!”

“Maybe she put her hair up under her cap or something,” Jane suggested.

“She
never
wears her hair that way.”

The music began a formal march, and a procession of dignitaries climbed onto the platform. One of the men wore the colorful regalia of a Roman Catholic bishop, and I remembered the college’s roots. Had Elisa been raised Catholic? When she was a few weeks old she had been baptized Methodist in my father’s church. I would have to tell her that.

The ceremony dragged in a way it wouldn’t have if I had been able to look down and watch Elisa’s reactions. I recognized the name of the commencement speaker, a congressman who was no longer in office, and agreed with what he said about fighting climate change, eradicating disease in foreign countries, and stamping out extremism. As if handing out a classroom assignment, he reminded the graduates that it was now
their
responsibility.

Jane had her eyes closed as if asleep, and Hannah kept pulling out her battered maroon phone to look for a message from Elisa, then frowning and snapping it shut. A woman sitting in front of us whipped around to glare at her, but Hannah didn’t notice. Colin had promised her an iPhone for a graduation gift, but Hannah seemed lukewarm about the upgrade.

“Let’s go,” I said as soon as the last notes of the recessional faded and the aisles were less crowded. Below us happy parents were already swarming the field. “We should wait outside the gym for the next ceremony so we can see everyone who goes in.”

“She hates us,” Hannah moaned, brushing away a strand of hair that had been released from its ponytail for the occasion. “She’s never going to talk to me again!”

“
Stop
,” Jane said sharply. “It’s not just about you. Why don’t you try putting yourself in her place for a change? Maybe at the last minute she couldn’t face going through the ceremony without her parents here. Mom told me how upset she was.”

I jumped in to agree. “There’s so much hype about graduation, it was probably too much to face. They’ve only been gone a week, Hani. Less.”

My daughter turned her fury on us. “Will you two stop! I
get
it. But she said she was going to meet us here. If she’d changed her mind, she would have texted me. But she didn’t. That’s what I’m talking about!” Her face was turning red, her eyes growing wild.

I grasped her shoulders. “It’s okay! Maybe her car broke down. She got a flat tire where there was no one around to help. Anything could have happened.” Considering that it was less than a mile that seemed unlikely, but I needed to calm her.

“But she would have—”

“No, Hannah. You can’t make guesses about her phone.”

“We could check her room,” Jane said. “Drive back along the way she would have come. Just to see.”

We had just reached the path outside the stadium. It was a beautiful spring day, the sun splashing the leafy campus, red and white azaleas blooming, the dogwood trees making lace curtains over the dark leaves. But I didn’t want to be there a moment longer. “That’s a good idea. The next ceremony’s not for two hours.”

“I have the keys,” Hannah said.

“You have the keys to her room?” Jane turned, surprised.

“Of course I do. She gave me both keys in case she wasn’t back from class yet when I came for a weekend. She has my keys too.”

But at the parking garage elevator I realized the implications of going back to Elisa’s room. If she was there—and wanted to see us—she would have let Hannah know. If she was not there, it would only raise more questions. Worst of all, if she hadn’t been able to handle the Crosleys’ deaths and had done something to herself . . . but I wouldn’t let that thought take hold.