Leo’s phone buzzed. He excused himself and stepped out of the cabana to take the call. Sam watched him walk down to the tide line for privacy as he talked on the phone. The others began discussing dinner plans, whether to eat at Dune Cottage or walk down the hill to the Olympia Tea Room, and wondering if they could get a reservation last minute.
The phone book was still open on the table. Sam pulled out her iPhone and snapped a picture of the ad. She glanced down at the water and saw that Leo was still on his call, talking animatedly. She hadn’t acknowledged this to herself till now, but she had the feeling that Leo and Miranda meeting on the beach hadn’t been an accident. Something told her they had known each other before.
By itself, that wouldn’t be all that strange. But if they had known each other before, why would they keep that a secret? Maybe it was the fact that Miranda was Belinda’s cousin, too close for comfort to the murder. And why was Leo so negative about investigating the ad in the YellowPages? To Sam, it proved that 1740 had been in existence for at least twenty-five years, the age of the phone book—a very valuable lead.
She said goodbye, and she headed up toward the hotel. Even though they had called the phone number in the listing, Sam was going to call it herself and see what she could learn. She would do it from her car—it had been a few days since they had checked the house and picked up mail. Steve, their postman at the small South Lyme Post Office, always held it for them when they were away for a while. It was only forty-five minutes away, and she would be glad for the break.
Tuesday, July 6; 9:00 a.m.
Kate sat at the suite’s dining table, working on her laptop. A weather front hung just offshore, dispatching high clouds through the blue sky, kicking up waves, and sending a strong breeze through the open door. Conor had gotten up early, gone to meet Tom and continue investigating the boats—PsycheandZémire.
On Kate’s screen was the photo that Conor had sent from the house on Bellevigne Island. It showed the image above the bed. Last night, she had rewatched Jean Cocteau’s 1946 black-and-white film—the one from which the enlarged photo had been taken. The film was a magical, romantic, and frightening fantasy, full of Freudian imagery. In the movie, Belle loved her father and would do anything to save him—even leave her home and family to live in the Beast’s castle.
Kate had made notes while watching Cocteau’s eerie and extravagant film, and she consulted them now as she stared at the photo Conor had texted.
She had written down a line in French, the Beast telling Belle that she was in no danger. Had Belle believed that?
And she had noted what a lonely creature he had been.
She thought of how the entrance to the Beast’s castle was filled with statues that were alive, that spied on the Beast and Belle.
Voyeurism?she had written. Was that part of the current scenario? If girls were being taken, trapped aboardPsycheor elsewhere, was there just one perpetrator, or were there others who watched? Or participated?
The Beast had prepared clothes for Belle, and when he carried her into her chamber, the white nightgown was waiting for her. He called her his queen.
Kate thought of the opulent room Conor had described. She could imagine royal garments chosen for whomever was brought there. It seemed that the man who took the women idealized them—or at least wanted to present them with a type of luxury—at some point during their captivity.
Did he start out intending no harm, and did his plans change along the way, when his instincts took over? Because instead of the love the Beast felt for Belle, the perpetrator felt some sort of deep-down hatred that manifested in violence—irons and chains. She remembered her impressions ofPsyche’scabin; in her brief moments on board the boat, she had sensed that any woman being held there would feel unimaginable fear.
Beast’s intention was to make Belle his bride. Kate thought of Belinda Tyler. She didn’t believe the nickname was a coincidence—Belle. And if her daughter was indeed Suzanne, that was the same as the author’s middle name. Belinda had been dressed as a bride—in Kate’s dress. Someone had murdered a bride—the “Beauty” of the story.
Kate’s mind was spinning with too much fantasy and allegory, so she turned to her email and began to read. Most of them concerned gallery business. Her regular framer wanted to know whether she preferred a gold frame with a medieval and elaborate gothic pattern or a simpler design. This was a common question. Did an ornate frame give the painting the respect it deserved, or did it steal attention from the painting?
She read some inquiries from collectors regarding works on the website or ones they had seen on visits to the gallery. Then she opened one from Fernando Harris, her main conservator. The time stampwas eight a.m.—just an hour earlier—and the message heading wasFoggy Night.
Hello Kate,
Maeve just dropped offFoggy Night. What an extraordinary painting. It might just be the best James Suydam work that I have ever seen, and I include the ones shown at that National Academy Exhibition.
The damage is not as extensive as it appears at first. It is a clean tear. I will rejoin the fibers and back and reinforce the canvas. Once I finish that, I will turn to the paint itself. Even though it will take some time, I will put this project ahead of everything else on my worktable. Maeve told me a little bit about the incident—I can’t believe someone tried to destroy this masterpiece. It is horrific to me that this person stopped your marriage. But rest assured,Foggy Nightwill be ready to give to your husband in time for your rescheduled nuptials.
All the best,
Fernando
Kate felt shocked. She had Fernando’s number stored in her phone and dialed it as she ran out of the suite. Instead of waiting for the elevator, she ran down the stairs. She got Fernando’s voicemail and left him a message to call her back as soon as possible. The hotel drive was full of cars, with valets loading cargo areas with the luggage of departing guests. Kate hurried across Bluff Avenue, into the upper parking lot.
Maeve’s BMW was nowhere in sight.
She called Conor, and he answered right away. She told him about the email and how Fernando said that Maeve had delivered the painting an hour ago.
“Her car is gone,” Kate said. “How is it possible?”
“Could we have misinterpreted what we saw on the video? Could she had driven off on her own?”
“No,” Kate said. “We saw her saying ‘help,’ and she purposely dropped her necklace. She was in trouble, sending a message.”
“Yet somehow she delivered the painting to Fernando,” Conor said. “So that means she wasn’t taken—she must not have been. She returned to the Ocean House this morning, got into her car, and took it to him. Is he sure it was her?”
