Cast into Doubt (7 page)

‘We’ll keep your Chloe in our prayers,’ Peggy called back.

Virgie reached out her hand and patted Shelby’s forearm consolingly. ‘And you too.’

‘That’s right,’ Don agreed, and the pity in his eyes was so genuine that Shelby could not bear to look at him.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. She lowered her head and hurried away from them. She was intercepted by Chief Giroux as she reentered the incident room.

‘I want to speak to my son-in-law,’ Shelby said.

‘Right now, that’s not going to be possible,’ said the chief. ‘He’s being questioned.’

Shelby looked around for a vacant chair. ‘I can wait,’ she said. ‘I just need a chair.’

Chief Giroux looked pained. ‘Mrs Sloan,’ he said. ‘You’ll pardon me for saying so, but you look exhausted.’

‘I’m all right,’ said Shelby.

Chief Giroux ignored her protestations. ‘And you’ve probably not had a bite to eat. We have arranged for you and your son-in-law to have rooms at a guesthouse here in town tonight. You can have some dinner there and get a bit of rest.’

‘No,’ said Shelby, shaking her head. ‘I’m fine. I want to stay here.’ Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her face.

The chief’s voice was firm. ‘I will call your cell phone if there’s any news.

‘I promise you. If there’s anything at all, I will contact you. It’s not five minutes from here.’

Shelby looked at him helplessly. Did she have to go, she wondered? Could he force her to leave? In this strange, exotic place, she did not know the rules. She appealed to him the only way she knew how. ‘It’s my daughter,’ she pleaded.

Chief Giroux took her hand and held it briefly. The warmth of his grip made her aware of the coldness of her own hand. For a moment she felt lightheaded, as if she was going to faint. She gripped his wrist with her own hand to steady herself.

‘I understand,’ Chief Giroux said. ‘I have a daughter myself, ma’am. Believe me. You don’t need to be in this room to remind me of the importance of all this. I will do my very best for your daughter. But right now, you should go.’ Without giving her a chance to protest, the chief summoned one of his officers, a light-skinned young man with pale green eyes.

‘Darrell, drive Mrs Sloan to the Maison,’ he said. ‘Christophe is expecting her.’ Then, he turned back to Shelby. ‘When we are finished talking with your son-in-law, I will send him along. And I will see you both in the morning. First thing. Now, you go with Darrell and he will take you to the guesthouse. Go on, now. It’s best if you do.’

The young officer nodded and indicated that they would be heading to the door.

Numbly, Shelby picked up her bag and followed him.

SIX

S
helby sat in the back seat of the police car and stared out the window. The young officer drove slowly, waving and calling out occasionally to people he passed on the street. Though it was evening, the sunset lingered. On the waterfront the sea was silver, the sky layered with violet and blood orange over the low, dark hills that ringed the harbor. On the darkening streets, between the tall graceful trunks of palm trees, Shelby saw elegant boutiques with wrought-iron fences and restaurants glowing from within, shoulder to shoulder with modest, shuttered gingerbread cottages.

Darrell pulled over to a curb in front of a wooden house with a café on the first floor, and the floors above encircled by white railings with flowerboxes trailing exotic, brilliant blooms. A sign above the café read, Maison sur la Mer. Darrell got out of the car, and retrieved Shelby’s bag from the trunk of the car. Then he opened the door for her.

‘This is it,’ said the young officer.

A tall, mocha-skinned man with dreadlocks came out of the front door and greeted Darrell. He had a broad face, even features, and fuzzy traces of gray around his hairline.

‘Christophe, this is Mrs Sloan.’

Christophe’s smile was so kind and solicitous that Shelby had to look away to keep herself from bursting into tears. ‘Your room is ready for you,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ Shelby whispered.

She turned and thanked the officer as well. Then she picked up her bag and followed her host into the cool foyer of the guesthouse.

Christophe nodded at the doors of the off the lobby café. ‘We have a restaurant if you’re hungry.’

Shelby shook her head. ‘I couldn’t eat,’ she said.

‘As you wish.’ Christophe went behind the desk, and handed her a key. ‘Second floor,’ he said. ‘Room 204. Do you need help with your bag?’

Shelby shook her head and took the key from him.

‘If you need anything . . .’ he said.

Shelby nodded, and began her climb up the dimly lit staircase to the floor above.

The room was cell-like, with roughly surfaced walls painted the color of sunflowers. A narrow bed was covered with a Provençal quilt in a red and mustard print. Beside it, on an end table, sat a pottery lamp, and, against the opposite wall along with a small chest, a spindly desk and a chair, on which Shelby placed her bag. On the desk, a bud vase held an exotic, fresh bloom. Shelby turned on the bedside lamp and went to the French double doors that took up most of the far wall, pulling them open. A balcony, only large enough for two small chairs and a tiny round table between them, looked out on the street below. Through the palm fronds of the tree in front of the building, Shelby could see people moving lazily along the gas-lit street, calling out to one another, or quarreling or laughing.

Shelby felt the tropic breeze envelop her and she felt a sudden longing for someone to lean on. She thought that she was used to being alone. She had lived alone ever since Chloe moved out, and in some ways she enjoyed her solitude. But she had never in her life felt as alone as she did this night. Through the spaces between the buildings across the street she could see the twinkling lights along the harbor and the blackness of the sea beyond. Somewhere, in that sea, her only child was lost.

Shelby began to shiver, although the night was warm. She had rushed to get to this island in the grip of a superstitious agitation that her presence on the scene would somehow rescue Chloe from peril. It was irrational, of course, but it was part of being a mother – the belief that you could protect your child if only you could reach them. It didn’t matter how many mothers could testify that this was untrue and that fate was implacable. The belief persisted. Though she was no sailor, there was a part of Shelby that wanted to flee from this narrow room, and run to the harbor. She wanted to hire a boat, clamber in, and set out to sea. She imagined herself in the prow, calling Chloe’s name. Somehow, her voice would drown out the sound of the motor, and the trade winds, and reach to the middle of the vast sea, to where Chloe floated, waiting for rescue. Shelby could almost picture Chloe there, bobbing impatiently on the shifting waves, wondering what was taking her mother so long. The image made her smile, and then her smile faded and the image dissolved. Chloe was not suspended there awaiting her, safe from the elements, the creatures of the sea. She was gone.

Shelby turned her back on the open window. She could not bear to look out at the lights of St Thomas’s capital: Charlotte Amalie. The sight of them made her feel short of breath, as if she could feel her daughter’s panic. Shelby’s stomach heaved as she imagined Chloe falling overboard, hurtling into the water. Despite what everyone had told her, she continued to wonder if perhaps Chloe had survived the plunge from the deck to the water. And then . . . what? Had she struggled to the surface only to see the huge ship, unaware of her plight, steaming on its way to the next port, deaf to her cries? Perhaps, frightened and desperate, Chloe saw those faraway lights of the harbor and tried to swim towards them, barefoot in her yellow dress, her curly hair streaming behind her. Did the hopelessness of her situation dawn on her as she swam, her arms weary, her heart heavy, as she made little progress? Was she full of regret, like a mermaid who realized too late that she had foolishly traded her tail for the dream of love with an indifferent mortal? At the thought of it, Shelby’s soul could not contain her anguish, and she let out an unearthly groan of pain and misery.

A rap on her door turned her groan to a cry, and she stared fearfully at the door.

‘Mrs Sloan?’

Shelby walked to the door and opened it. The innkeeper, Christophe, stood at her door holding a tray. There was a bowl of fragrant soup, a glass of wine and a basket with some bread.

‘But, I didn’t . . .’

‘Chief Giroux said to make sure you had something to eat,’ said Christophe firmly. He did not ask if he could come in, but simply walked past her, crossed through the room and set the tray down on the small table on the balcony.

‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s soup. It will go down easily.’

Shelby looked around, flustered, for her purse. She didn’t know whether to offer the man a tip or not.

Christophe understood what she was doing and strode past her into the hallway. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Accept our hospitality. This is a terrible day for you. Perhaps when you eat you’ll feel a bit better.’

The smell of the soup caused a twisting of hunger in her stomach. Shelby hung her head. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

Christophe waved away her thanks and began to descend the stairs to the first floor. ‘If you need anything, call the desk,’ he said.

Shelby closed the door and went out on to the balcony. She sat down in the chair and looked at the simple, lovely tray in front of her. She felt tears rising to her eyes again. Like a dam once breeched, tears trembled at the surface and seemed to spill over at will. Shelby took a deep breath, broke off a golden crust of the bread and dipped it into the soup. After the first bite, she picked up the spoon and began to eat and take a few sips of the wine.

There was another tentative knock on her door. She turned in her chair.

‘Shelby, are you there?’ asked a familiar voice. ‘It’s Rob. Can I come in?’

She hesitated, then walked over to the door and opened it. Her son-in-law, pale, disheveled and with a heavy five o’clock shadow, seemed to be propping himself up against the door-frame with one arm.

‘Is there any news?’ she said.

Rob shook his head.

Shelby turned away from the door, leaving it open behind her. She walked back out to the tiny balcony and sat down in her chair. Rob hesitated a moment, and then came into the room, closing the door behind him. He walked out to the balcony also and put a hand on the back of the other chair. ‘May I?’ he asked.

Shelby nodded, but said nothing.

Rob sat down gingerly on the small chair and looked at her tray of food.

‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

Rob shrugged. ‘Someone at the station got me a sandwich.’

Shelby nodded, and broke off another corner of bread. She stared at it, wondering if she had the strength to chew it. ‘Did they say anything more?’

Rob shook his head ‘Nobody is stating it outright, but I think they’re ready to rule it an accident. They think that Chloe fell over the railing . . .’

Shelby glared at him. ‘Because you said she had a drinking problem.’

Rob took a deep breath. ‘I know it’s upsetting to you, but it’s true,’ he insisted. ‘I’m sorry, but it is’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Shelby hissed. ‘My Chloe?’

‘Yes. Your Chloe.’

‘You made it up,’ Shelby said.

Rob did not bristle at her accusation. ‘You don’t have to take my word for it. They have a record of the drinks she bought. They have film of her on the boat, buying them. Drinking them. Ask Chief Giroux.’

‘I heard all that.’

‘Then you know it’s true.’

‘A couple of drinks on vacation is not a drinking problem,’ Shelby snapped. ‘You implied that she was a problem drinker before you even went on this trip.’

‘She was,’ said Rob. ‘Well, actually I thought she’d stopped. She was attending AA meetings. But obviously she slipped.’

‘How you can sit there and say this to me? Chloe’s not in AA. She would have told me.’

‘I’m sorry, but she was. Her drinking was out of control.’

‘No,’ Shelby insisted. ‘That is not Chloe. She doesn’t do anything sloppy. She likes everything to be just perfect.’

‘That was an illusion. An illusion that was too hard for her to keep up.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Shelby insisted.

‘Believe what you want,’ he said wearily.

They sat in angry, uneasy silence.

Rob sighed. ‘I know it’s a shock, Shelby. Believe me, it was for me, too, when I found out.’

Shelby glared at him.

Rob did not seem to notice. Or perhaps, he didn’t care. ‘I’d had my suspicions for a while,’ he said, ‘but . . . there was nothing specific. Then, oh, about a year ago, she went to pick up Jeremy at a play date and she didn’t come home,’ said Rob. ‘It was snowy and I was worried, so I called and she didn’t answer her phone. I went looking for her. I found the car jumped up on the curb in front of a vacant lot. Chloe was passed out behind the wheel. Jeremy was crying in the back seat.’

‘You said it was snowy,’ Shelby cried. ‘Maybe the car skidded and she hit her head.’

‘She was drunk,’ said Rob firmly.

Shelby’s eyes blazed. ‘With Jeremy in the car? No. Not Chloe. I don’t believe it. She never . . . she would never do anything that might hurt that child.’

Rob’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t you think I know that? That’s how I realized how bad it was.’ He began to sob. Shelby looked at him wonderingly.

Finally he sniffed and wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. ‘I confronted her and it all came out. She was hiding vodka in water bottles. She was drinking at work and while Jeremy was at preschool. It’s a miracle something worse didn’t happen. For a long time I wouldn’t let her take him in the car after that. But she joined AA. And she swore she was sober. She promised me . . . over and over. Swore she had stopped . . .’