Into the Sound, page 21
Holly froze the picture and walked closer to the screen, focusing on everything around the two lovebirds. She knew this would be one of those photographs that would recirculate on the news a thousand times, but their faces weren’t what grabbed Holly’s attention.
There were small, round windows in the background behind Clay and Frankie that reminded Holly of something specific. They weren’t sitting in a typical house or apartment.
Holly examined it further and noticed white lights strung around a very low ceiling.
The photograph had been taken inside a boat.
Those were cabin windows, and they’d been belowdecks when the photo was taken. Holly wondered whose boat it was. Clay and Viv didn’t own a boat, although it could’ve been Frankie’s or one of Clay’s friends’.
It was nothing, really, but it niggled at Holly.
If Clay had a boat, he could hide a ton of things on it.
Holly wrote boat on the whiteboard. She was sure the police had already checked it out, but they had sorely disappointed Holly before, especially giving Vivian’s poetry book back already. The notebook held lots of clues to Vivian’s internal thoughts. They just didn’t want to take the time to pick them apart because they’d already found their motive—the mistress. Holly didn’t buy it.
She did a brief internet search.
When she logged on to the website for New York State boat ownership, she discovered that every state, including New York, required that owners register their boats. Mark would absolutely kill her, but when Holly was prompted for payment to find out if Clay’s name was on any boat records, she whipped out their credit card and paid the twenty or so dollars. Mark would pay dearly for not bailing her out, Holly had decided, dollar by dollar.
She didn’t know if she could ever forgive him for leaving her in jail to suffer. Didn’t he think she’d suffered enough with her sister missing?
Holly had figured Mark would take her seriously, since the chat sessions were apparently important enough to steal, but the theft had elicited the opposite reaction. He’d turned further away from her, made her the enemy, blamed her for the home invasion. His communications came only in the form of texts, all of which she’d received after getting her phone back that morning.
Mark still hadn’t forgiven her for breaking the law, for “placing their family at risk,” as he put it. They were at a domestic stalemate, where each person thought the other was at fault. She wouldn’t admit fault under the circumstances, and he wouldn’t apologize, so they’d just remain in this awful place until one of them relented.
It was probably what had happened to Vivian and Clay, too, Holly had decided. Perhaps they’d reached a marital impasse and hadn’t found a way through it. Clay had apparently found this Frankie instead. It made Holly sad, all the stages in a marriage and how lucky the couples were who could drift through each one and never hit these horrible patches of indifference.
When Holly punched Clay’s name into the search window, it came up empty.
Then she ran another one—for Francine Gallo.
And she gasped out loud when the search returned a record. She scribbled down the hull number and the name of the marina where the boat was docked. It had only recently been transferred over to her by a Russell Ambrose.
A quick search on Russell Ambrose pulled up a recent acquittal in the Liebler jewelry robbery, the attorney on the case—you guessed it—Clayton Eddy.
“Son of a gun.” Holly had filed that information away in the courthouse bathroom but had never followed up on her mental note. So Clay had gotten this guy off, maybe to repay him for using his boat, and now it’d passed hands to Frankie. Something was up with this boat.
Frankie had said she and her daughter were staying at a marina. It was a detail Holly’d neglected to tell the detectives because she hadn’t remembered it until now.
Holly ruffled the untamed blonde tufts on her head. She’d always had thick, unruly hair that never settled right without a curling iron, and right now she looked like a prisoner who’d been left in her cell without a bath. Well, she’d been released but still maintained the look, and she imagined her sister might be in a much worse state, if she was still alive.
She placed her hand over her mouth to stifle whatever was threatening to come up. She needed to find out what had happened to her sister before she could engage in normal life again.
“Mom, I think we have a problem.” Tyler was soaking wet and lingering in the opening of the sliding glass door off the back patio.
“What’s wrong, Ty?”
“We got out the water hose to up the stakes on the Nerf game and . . .”
“And?” Holly asked.
“And Jace tried to tie something around it to make a launcher, and it cut the hose.”
It was only sixty degrees outside, Tyler was shaking, and Mark would flip a shit if the neighbor kid had destroyed the garden hose.
“Seriously, Tyler? Come inside and dry off and tell Jace you’re done playing.”
Tyler looked over his shoulder and shrugged. Jace had probably already run his little butt home.
“Get upstairs and change while I deal with this.”
Tyler skulked his wet body, wrapped in a Star Wars towel, quickly up the stairs.
Holly made her way through the path of destruction to the sodden lawn and shut off the hose. It was cut open in three places. Jace had tried to hold it together with a pair of wire cutters that had sliced right through it. She picked it up, noticing the bruise on her wrist from where Clay had grabbed her the other day. She hadn’t mentioned the argument to the cops and thought maybe she should have. Holly needed to do anything she could to perpetuate an arrest so they could put Clay behind bars and squeeze the truth out of him.
She picked up the rubber pieces. “Damn it.” She wouldn’t tell Mark about the hose. It was autumn, and he wouldn’t need it again until spring, and he could figure it out later. Who knew what their relationship would look like by then anyway. She’d questioned it in that jail cell last night.
What kind of man leaves his wife in a jail cell?
She wasn’t sure if it was the kind of man she wanted to spend the rest of eternity with, that’s for sure. Holly coiled the broken hose into its holder and went back inside. She suddenly became fearful of where her older son was and what havoc he might be wreaking at other people’s houses in the neighborhood. Punctured holes in water hoses were small problems. They could be patched. Tyler was fine. Jace’s ass was grass, but telling his parents what had happened could wait too.
Investigating Vivian’s disappearance, however, could not wait.
Holly felt responsible.
She’d known something was wrong in Vivian’s home, she’d decided to remain silent, and now she needed to rectify the situation if she was to ever have any inner peace.
Her email dinged. Archibald Steiner had returned her message. Holly had been trying to reach the professor ever since he bailed her out. She didn’t understand what would possess him to do that. Holly had called his cell three times, stopped at his house once, and emailed. It was hard to think of the old man in the midst of trying like hell to find her sister, but she made a point to do it every spare chance she got. What Archie had done for her was no small favor.
Dear Mrs. Boswell,
It’s been a long time since I had to post bail for someone. I hope you’re doing great things with your newfound freedom! Thank you for the notes of kindness and the gift card. It really wasn’t necessary. You mentioned wanting to know where the ginger pills came from, and I can help you with that as well. A chat is long overdue; why don’t we meet?
Please let me know your earliest convenience. I’m sure your family is still reeling from your missing sister, so no rush. I may be able to add some insight, as I, myself, was once a missing party.
All the best,
Archie
Holly smiled. Archie sounded like he had a sense of humor, this old man. Although she needed to budget her investigative time wisely. Her first priority was checking out Frankie’s boat. Archie had said no rush, so she’d circle back after she left the marina. She drafted a quick message back that said she’d stop at his house tomorrow if that was all right, between eleven and two. That should give her enough wiggle room.
She needed to figure out why this man had loaned her $2,500. She’d find a way to pay him back.
Holly walked to the kitchen, a feeling of unsettlement overtaking her as she poured herself a glass of water. She texted her older son and asked him to report back right away and tell her where he was.
Just then, her cell phone lit up.
Otto: I’m at Isaac’s.
Isaac was the good neighbor kid up the street.
Holly let out a sigh and texted him back. Be home for dinner in a half hour.
A flood of relief rushed down her bare arms. Her sons were okay, and the hose could lie flat on the ground and dry beneath the sun, and they would all fall asleep in that house and wake up the next morning as a family. But her family wasn’t a family without Vivian.
20
Tuesday
Clay had barricaded himself inside his house since Sunday. He’d placed one delivery order yesterday, for nonperishables, frozen pizzas, and a lot more vodka so he didn’t have to come out for a while.
He’d drawn the blinds, put on his sweatpants, and settled in for a nice long shitstorm.
This was going to be very bad for him. It would be better if they could stop flashing that damn picture of him and Frankie all over the television.
Where did they get it? Who sold me out at the club?
The picture was almost always followed by the torturous professional photograph of Vivian.
“Who takes out the town librarian?” one reporter had speculated.
“Not me,” Clay wanted to cry at the television.
But there was a newscaster on Real Crime TV who was already gunning for Clay. Hadley Bleaker’s answer to that question had been, “The same kind of guy who has the soccer mom a town over offed so he can win his trial.”
Now they were blaming him for Aliza Levine’s murder? His career was toast. Ari hadn’t reached out since the news about Frankie and Giana had been mass circulated. No one at the club would call him back. His own damn sisters wouldn’t even call him back.
He collapsed onto his leather couch in tatters. Things couldn’t get any worse.
“A break in the missing attorney’s wife case heard first here from his other mistress and neighbor—Eve Carrington.”
“What?” Clay actually shook his head at the television in disbelief. He rubbed his eyes, especially the one that had never stopped jumping, but now he thought his ears were going bad too. Surely he couldn’t have heard that correctly. Clay’s heart did a double thump as he took in Eve’s appearance on the flat-screen. She was positioned at a podium before the press. It was very early morning. Too early for a press conference. He had to squint to make sure it was really her on the screen.
Eve didn’t look like Eve, though. He’d never seen her in anything except black spandex and tight dresses. Today she had on a full navy-blue suit with a white collared shirt. She must’ve bought it special for the press conference or it was her funeral suit, because he’d never seen it before. The load of makeup she usually wore was toned down, and her tan skin seemed to take on a lighter glow. It was as if she’d hired a style consultant to make her look demure, if that were possible.
“She never dresses like that. She looks like she could teach Sunday school,” he said out loud. He’d taken to talking to himself, since no one else would. His biggest fear since his parents had died in the crash was coming true—to end up all alone.
“My name is Eve Carrington, and I’ve been having an affair with Attorney Clayton Eddy.” The crowd at the press conference let out a stir of disapproval.
Clay gasped. Her wardrobe was the least of his worries. Clay’s phone lit up, his call-waiting buzzed, and even though he’d been dying for someone—anyone—to call him, he ignored it so he could better hear the final blow to the one-legged stool he’d been balancing on for the better half of the last week.
“I’m not proud of what I’ve done, and I’m only here to provide evidence to help bring Vivian home.”
Eve broke into hiccupping sobs and had to momentarily excuse herself while she dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
“That’s horseshit!” She never gave a damn about Vivian. Eve used to make fun of her behind her back. The situation had just gone from bad to so much worse. If he wasn’t an interested party before, he damn sure was now.
“Clay pursued me hard,” Eve went on.
“That’s a lie!” he shouted.
“It started when we vacationed together in Montauk. Peter, my husband, and I were having problems, and Clay knew this, so he fed on my insecurities. He told me I was beautiful and that he’d always found me attractive. He told me his wife no longer wanted to sleep with him and it had forced him to look outside his marriage for affection.” Eve paused for more tears.
“Oh, please! Affection? Affection! I would never in my life use that word.” Clay let out a howl.
“He had this way with words, which I’m sure most lawyers do. And then when false rumors circulated about my own husband and Vivian, Clay said we needed to even the score.”
What? Those had been Eve’s words. He was screaming inside, but he could no longer speak. This couldn’t be happening to him. This was a revenge scheme because he’d rejected her.
“I caved to Clay’s advances, but Vivian was my friend, and she’d confided in me. I’m here to tell you what she said about Clayton Eddy. She said he’d been abusive in the past. She said when they fought, he’d gotten in her face and screamed at her, usually after a drink or two.”
A steady moan of ohhs cascaded through the audience.
“I’ve wanted to leave my husband for some time, and Clay said I should. When it wasn’t moving fast enough”—pause for more crying—“he got physical. I have the bruises on my arms from last night to prove it.”
Eve ran off the stage, covering her sniffling nose and fake cries. The press started firing questions at her from every direction, following her with cameras as her attorney and security guards warded off the reporters.
Clay clicked off the television and stared at it long after it’d faded to black. “This is bullshit.” He knew Eve craved attention, but this was a disgusting display. Then he figured out what she was doing. She was protecting herself.
Vivian hadn’t been found, and Eve had already implicated herself in the case by admitting to fighting with Vivian before she went missing. And after their argument last night and the news about Frankie and Giana, Eve was airing out her dirt first before he could. She was afraid he would try to turn Vivian’s disappearance on her somehow. Not that Clay would’ve.
He had underestimated Eve. He never thought in a million years she’d trash her own image to upend his. Although the bit about Peter and Vivian circulating in the community had had her completely disturbed. Maybe she didn’t think that what she’d done was that far of a stretch, or maybe she wanted everyone to know she hadn’t tolerated her husband’s behavior, filing for divorce, making her affair public, getting back at Peter—by using Clay.
He should’ve turned Eve away that night he’d slept with her. He’d known it was a mistake even as it was happening. What the fuck would he do now? He lay down on the couch and put the pillow over his face. What a mess. He lay like that, paralyzed. When he got up, he noticed that none of his phone calls were from his lawyer. When he called Brent for guidance, he got his voice mail.
Clay looked out the window and was disheartened to see that the media parade had continued while he had his hours-long breakdown. As he pulled out of his driveway, he tried to maneuver around the angry mob of people forming a barrier with their microphones and cameras rolling and ready. They were holding him hostage from getting in and out of his own house until he answered a few questions, but he needed his mail.
As he pulled up a little farther, he saw another food truck. A breakfast one this time.
Good God, make it stop.
Clay refused to let the press bully him into an interview, so he drove up alongside his mailbox because he was sure the mail was piled up in there, and it was a federal offense for them to block it. But as he lowered his window, he couldn’t miss the new questions about his mistress that had replaced the old.
“Mr. Eddy, is it true that Eve Carrington was best friends with your wife? Some people are saying there’s motive. Comment?”
“No comment!” he yelled.
“Mr. Eddy, did you use your own home or your neighbor’s for the affair?”
He tried to ignore them with no success until his fingers hit the package in his mailbox. It was in a manila envelope with no postage stamp, but it was sealed with red lips—Frankie’s shade. His body flooded with joy, and he hated that she had so much power over him. He decided not to try to pull back into his driveway, so instead he drove to the stop sign a few car lengths up from the food truck and put his car in “Park.” He tore open the envelope. There was a little note inside.
I told you I’d be back for you and to wait for me.
I’m disappointed you couldn’t do the same.
Go to our favorite place “in lights,” and I’ll explain the rest.
Clay felt what was left of his stomach bottom out. By “disappointed,” Frankie meant she was livid. She was a controlled woman and rarely lost her cool. Using an emotional word like disappointed worried Clay.
He pulled his car onto the main road and then the highway, driving toward the North Shore, where Russ’s boat was docked on the sound. He braced himself for what Frankie might say next. She was probably just irate their picture together had been leaked to the press. Maybe she even thought Clay had something to do with it, that he’d cracked under the pressure of the law.
