“Many times,” Nola said. “I often go to the ACI—the Adult Correctional Institute—here in Rhode Island to interview inmates, trying to understand their motivations. That’s where I would have met Lilian. Most often, I’ve spoken to survivors. Victims of assault or attempted murder, who lived through it. I really believe that Lilian was a victim, and she needed an advocate. I wish I could have been that for her.” She paused. “I always try to talk to family members who can tell me about the one they lost.”
Sam nodded. She wished that she had had someone like Nola to talk to after her mother had died. Kate had done her best. She had always been there for Sam and had sent her to therapy. But losing a parent to murder wasn’t like losing her to illness or an accident, so talking to someone who didn’t understand crime, who really just thought Sam needed to “process her grief,” hadn’t been that helpful.
“There’s always a victim ... and we all care,” Mike said. “We want to solve the crime. Now we have a great clue about this one—1740.”
Then a chime rang, signifying it was time for dinner, and a parade of servers came around carrying trays heaped with bright-red lobsters. Sam’s spirits lifted a little not because of the food but because it helped to know there was a team on Conor’s side. It felt as if something was happening, as if, to use Mike’s word, they were being useful.
Melted butter was poured into individual bowls, wines were served, and music played. Sam tried to eat, but she had zero appetite. She looked across the festive tables, toward Dune Cottage, and saw Lincoln standing there, beckoning her. She excused herself and walked over.
“Where’s Maeve?” she asked. “You’re going to miss dinner.”
“I don’t know where she is,” he said. “After I decided to stay, we planned to meet in the lobby, but she’s not there. I thought she might have come down already. You haven’t seen her?”
“No,” Sam said. “Is she all right?”
“Not really. She’s incredibly shaken up.”
“I can only imagine,” Sam said.
“Look,” Lincoln said, sounding nervous. “Will you come with me to look for her? She’s been acting strange. I’m getting worried.”
“Strange how?”
“Super distracted. She keeps stepping away to make calls.”
“It’s probably about Kate,” Sam said. “Touching base with the conservator, to fix the painting.”
“Maybe,” Lincoln said. “But it feels like something else—as if she doesn’t want me to hear what she’s saying. Never mind, I’ll go look for her by myself.”
“Of course I’ll go with you,” Sam said. “We have to find her, make sure she’s okay. Let me just let everyone know what I’m doing.”
“Thanks, Sam,” he said, giving her a quick hug as she hurried over to the table to excuse herself and say she’d be back after she found Maeve.
22
Sunday, July 4; 8:30 p.m.
Conor didn’t return from the island until just before dark. They had crossed Block Island Sound in one of Tom’s Coast Guard RIBs, speeding over the mirror-calm surface. The Ocean House loomed in the distance, the sunset light striking the yellow tower. He stared up at it, wondering if Kate was there waiting for him. He had to make things right—even though he knew it would hurt her to hear the truth.
They slowed to navigate the rocks and currents of Watch Hill Reef. Tom had told Conor that there had once been a Coast Guard station located just north of the lighthouse on Watch Hill Point. Many lifesaving missions had originated there, but it had been decommissioned in 1947. They came around Napatree Point and into the harbor, and the helmsman dropped Conor, Tom, and Joe off at the dock where the Fire District rescue boats were stationed.
The three men walked up Plimpton Road. House lights were coming on, and the Ocean House glowed from within. The murder house was twenty yards ahead, and Conor knew he had to get inside. He had the boat and mansion fresh in his mind, and he had to compare what he had seen there with the murder scene. He knew equally well that because Garrett’s suspicion had made him a suspect, he would be prohibited from entering. Aside from protocol, he knew that it could be perceived that he was trying to remove, alter, or destroy evidence.
“That’s odd,” Joe said as they got closer.
“What?” Tom asked.
Joe gestured toward the murder house. “The crime scene tape’s been taken down, and I don’t see a patrol car.”
Depending on the police force, a crime scene could be blocked off and guarded for several days. In this case, although the tape had been removed, Conor saw a notice attached to the front door, and he knew its basic message would be “off limits.” He felt torn, because he wanted to see Kate right away, but this felt urgent.
“Joe, I want to see the room again. Can we go in there right now?”
“No, you’re not going in,” Joe said. “You know that. I mean, how many more rules do you want me to break today?” He stopped and looked at Conor. “Why do you want to?”
“To compare what we found on the boat and in the mansion with what was left behind in that room.”
“A lot of blood,” Joe said. “That’s what was in that room.”
