The Girl In The Glass (14 page)

Chapter 29

M
AGGIE WENT TO
her car to wait for the call. It took seven minutes before she heard the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.
Da-­da-­da-­dum.
Caller ID said Private Caller. “This is Detective Margaret Savage,” she said. “Is this Mr. Whitby?”

“Yes. It is.” Another irritated voice. “Now, Detective, please tell me what’s so urgent that you’re waking me at the crack of dawn.”

“It’s about your daughter, sir. Aimée.”

“What about Aimée? Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“I’d rather speak to you about this in person.”

“I’m sure you would. But that’s not possible, since I’m on an island three miles out in the bay. If this is so urgent, why don’t we just forget about the niceties and you tell me what’s going on with Aimée? And please, try to make it quick.”

Taken aback by his abrasiveness, Maggie paused for a moment, then thought to herself,
All right
,
Mr. Whitby
,
you want to forget about the niceties
,
we’ll forget about the niceties.
“Your daughter is dead,” she said.

“What?”

“She was murdered early this morning just off the Loring Trail in Portland. Possibly raped before she was stabbed to death.”

“Dear God in heaven . . .”

There was a moment of silence before Whitby spoke. “Could you hold on a minute? I need to check on something.”

“What?”

“Please, just hang on for a minute.”

Maggie stayed on the line for what turned out to be more like three minutes.

Whitby returned. “And she’s not at her mother’s?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said Maggie, certain McCabe would have let her know if a live Aimée had somehow turned up on Howard Street.

“I see. How sure are you that the person you found is Aimée?”

“One hundred percent,” said Maggie. “When was the last time you saw your daughter?”

“Give me a minute to absorb all this, will you? I feel like I’ve just been sucker-­punched.”

So much for the man’s aggressiveness. Perhaps he’d now appreciate
the niceties
a little more
.
“Of course,” she said. “But the sooner we get the investigation underway, the better.”

There was a brief silence on the other end.

“Mr. Whitby?”

She heard Whitby let out a long, slow breath on the other end. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking how beautiful Aimée looked at the party last night.”

“What party?”

“We threw a large party on the island last night. To celebrate my two daughters’ graduation from Penfield Academy. Aimée and her sister, Julia. Both just starting out in life.” He paused, his voice choking up. “Now one of them’s gone.”

“And Aimée seemed okay last night?”

“Better than okay. She was positively glowing. I’ve never seen her looking so alive. Or so beautiful.”

“About what time did you last see your daughter, Mr. Whitby?” Maggie asked.

“Let me think. It was probably around ten thirty. Most of our guests had already left. I was chatting to some old friends. Aimée had changed out of the gown she was wearing and into some cutoffs and a sweatshirt . . .” Whitby’s voice quavered. He was finding it difficult to talk. He cleared his throat. Cleared it again. Finally continued. “She gave me a kiss and thanked me for being . . .” Another cough. “Shit. This is hard . . . the best daddy in the whole world.”

Maggie was sure Whitby was weeping but was trying hard not to be heard.

“Said she was going off with some of the Penfield kids.”

“Off where?”

“A bonfire near the cliff on the other side. An after-­party for the graduates.”

“How many ­people were on the island last night?”

“A lot. Between two and three hundred, including help.”

“How many were left when you last saw Aimée?”

“God, I don’t know. Maybe forty or fifty. Plus the caterers and other help.”

“When did they leave?”

“Nearly everyone was gone by midnight except for a few of the kids and some other hangers-­on. I don’t know for sure, but I’d say that by
2
:
0
0
a.m., the island was empty except for my family and the ­couple that looks after the place for us.”

“Mr. Jolley?”

“Yes. And his wife. Oh, and my director of security also spent the night.”

“Name?”

“Charles Kraft.”

“It would be helpful, Mr. Whitby, if you could put together a list of everybody who was on the island last night. Not just your guests but bartenders, caterers, musicians, whatever. Also if you could indicate those whom you know were still there when you saw Aimée for the last time. We’ll also need contact numbers. Everyone who attended or worked at the party will have to be interviewed.”

“Some pretty important ­people are on that list.”

“We’ll need to talk to everyone.”

“Even Senator Colman? Or Governor Hardesty? Or Margaux Amory? Obviously none of them had anything to do with Aimée’s death.”

“I’m sure not. But it’s impossible to know who, if anyone, may have seen something or someone that might turn out to be important to the case.”

Whitby sighed. “Fine. My assistant can make up a list with contact numbers. I’ll call her at home and have her get started. I’ll try to figure out if there is anyone else still here and ask them to stay.”

“Who catered?”

“A company called Great Expectations. They handle all our parties and events. Both corporate and personal. I guess I better come back to town so we can talk face-­to-­face.”

“I’d rather you stayed on the island for the time being. My partner, Sergeant McCabe, and I will need to come out to the island to have a good look around. We’ll also want to talk to you and your family and whoever else still there who might have seen Aimée last night. Oh, by the way, do you get cell ser­vice on the island?”

“Intermittent. On the side facing Portland, where the house is, it’s quite good. On the backside by the cliff, practically nothing.” Whitby paused and then asked, “Where is Aimée now? Her body, I mean?”

“In the morgue at Cumberland Medical Center. The medical examiner will be performing an autopsy this afternoon.”

“Is that really necessary? It just hurts. The idea of someone cutting up my child.”

“I’m afraid it is. In all cases of homicide, an autopsy is required by law. It can also be very helpful in identifying the perpetrator.”

Maggie heard another deep sigh on the other end of the phone. “Have you told Aimée’s mother yet?”

“Sergeant McCabe is with her now.”

“Poor Tracy. This has got to be absolutely devastating for her.”

“And for you as well.”

“Yes. And for me. Let me know when you’re coming.”

“I will. Let me have the best number to reach you.”

He gave it to her. Then added, “Call me before you come. I can have my helicopter waiting for you.”

“No need. The Portland fireboat can bring us out.”

“The chopper’s faster. By the way, I suppose Tom Shockley knows about Aimée?”

“Yes, sir. He’s assigned Sergeant McCabe and me to head up the investigation.” That was only a small lie. “We’re the department’s senior homicide investigators. We’ll be running things. And, of course, Chief Shockley will be fully involved in the investigation.”

“Frankly, if I were you, I’d keep him as far away from this as you can. I suspect you know as well as I do, Shockley’s an ass.”

Maggie didn’t say anything. And, of course, Whitby couldn’t see her smiling.

When they’d broken the connection, she texted McCabe.
Whitby notified.

Chapter 30

M
C
C
ABE LEFT
T
RACY’S
house and called Maggie from the car.

“Can you talk?”

“Yes. You’ve finished with Tracy?”

“All done. But something else has come up.” He told her about Byron Knowles’s disappearance. “We need to talk to the wife next. Be a good idea if we did it together. I want to drop the Bird off at my place. Maybe you could pick me up there.”

As McCabe headed home, his mind focused on the text Byron Knowles sent his wife.
I can never forgive myself for the terrible things I have done.
Okay, so what was it Knowles had done? Given the timing, maybe Knowles got drunk enough at the party to lose control and rape one of his own students. When it was over, maybe she threatened to turn him in and he killed her to avoid punishment. Consumed with guilt, he then killed himself. That seemed possible.

On the other hand, maybe the sex had been consensual and ongoing. An affair between student and teacher, forbidden both by law and moral custom. Maybe Aimée wanted to break it off. Knowles didn’t. They argued and Aimée threatened to go public. Not being able to face the scandal, Knowles killed her and then himself. All of it possible, but why in hell carve an
A
in Aimée’s chest? As an English teacher, he certainly would have been familiar with Hawthorne’s
Scarlet Letter.
Maybe even assigned it in one of his classes. In which case, the blood red
A
carved into Aimée’s chest stood for Knowles’s adultery and not her own.

Of course, he could be overthinking it. Possibly his first guess was the right one. That Knowles just got drunk at the party, made a pass at a beautiful girl, lost control and raped her. She threatened to turn him in. Tell her father. Knowles panicked and killed her. He had a boat. ­People keep knives on boats they use for fishing. Maybe he was giving her a ride back to Portland when it happened. But if so, why not just dump her body at sea? Why drag it to the East End and up the Loring Trail? Especially if she was still alive. Which Scott said she was. And again, why in God’s name carve the letter
A
on her chest? It had to be meant as a message or a confession.

Of course there was one other possibility. That Knowles’s disappearance had nothing to do with Aimée’s death other than the coincidence of timing. Maybe he was just an unhappy husband who wanted to run away from a bad marriage. Or throw himself into the ocean and end it all.

He called Fortier back. “Bill,” said McCabe, “can you get us Knowles’s cell phone records as well as Aimée’s? Every number called. Every text. Every voice mail. Every e-­mail. We need to know if their relationship was more than just normal student and teacher.”

“Cleary’s already on it. Let you know when we get them.”

He next texted Casey, who, at this hour, would still be asleep.
Out working. Brand-­new homicide. Talk later.
He briefly considered changing his plan to use Sandy’s uncanceled reservation at Fore Street for the celebratory dinner she was supposed to have had with her daughter. On the other hand he didn’t want to disappoint Casey the way he’d so often disappointed Kyra.

Chapter 31

From the journal of Edward Whitby Jr.

Entry dated June 28, 1924

I have, for many years now, suffered a recurring dream, the images of which have lately tormented me night after night. In this dream, I see Aimée gazing out from within the glass of an old mirror. I can see no reflection of myself in this mirror. Or of the room in which I sit. It is as if I am looking through a window darkening with age. There is only Aimée on the other side. Behind her, the clutter of her island studio as it was in that fateful final year.

She stands before her easel, working on a canvas. It is turned toward her, so I cannot see the image she is working on. However, from time to time, she looks into the glass at herself, unaware both of my presence and the longing I feel for her, just feet away. Unaware, as well, of the tortured wreckage I have become. As she looks, she turns her head, first this way and then that, studying, I assume, the structure and color of her own face. Then she turns back to the canvas and works the colors into it. I think this must be a self-­portrait she is working on. She painted many of these in the years we were together. I have kept them, and they are precious to me.

She looks pleased with her work. As she examines it, she smiles the same smile I remember so clearly from our first day at the Académie in Paris. The face and smile I fell so hopelessly in love with. I yearn to again hold her. To take her into my arms. To press my lips against hers. To make love as ardently as we did back then, when we were both too young and eager and, in the way of youth, too selfish to understand where love might lead.

I reach out, wanting to touch her face, but my hand is stopped by hard glass. I press harder. Still I cannot penetrate this brittle barrier. I knock, as if knocking on a doorway to the dead will convince Aimée to open it and allow me to join her on the other side. She appears not to hear my knocks, so I knock louder. Still the door will not open. She will not let me in.

An uncontrollable rage builds within me. I get up and lift the chair I am sitting on. I swing it with all my might. The glass explodes. Knifelike shards fly toward her. They strike her face and body. She erupts in blood from a thousand cuts. She stares at me with a horror which, in my life, I have never seen on another human face.

I fly through the open space where the glass once was. I reach out, wanting to comfort her. To heal her wounds. She turns and flees. Runs toward the cliff. I follow, desperately calling her name, trying to stop her before she gets to the edge.

I am too late. I peer over the edge and see her naked body falling. Arms flailing, face looking up into mine. She falls for what seems an eternity, reaching up for me to save her as she goes. I try, but cannot. I tell myself to follow her over the cliff. But I don’t. I simply watch as she falls faster and faster and finally lands on the rocks below, breaking into a thousand pieces like a glass figurine, its delicate and now broken parts strewn across the bottom of the cliff. As I look down, I scream in anguish at the sight of her lying there, and it is my screams that, night after night, wake me from this ghastly nightmare.