Amagansett (13 page)

‘Here?’

‘I come every day, sometimes twice. Hubert likes me to come, you see, even if it’s for a few minutes, just to say hello. Oh, I know it sounds silly, and maybe it is, but I live close, on Osborne Lane, just along from the crossing, so it’s no great hardship, though sometimes my joints protest when the wind’s off the ocean.’

Out of politeness, Conrad allowed her to finish.

‘She used to come here?’ he asked. ‘To the cemetery?’

‘Who?’

He nodded at the grave. ‘Lillian Wallace.’

‘Oh yes, almost every week. To visit someone over there.’

She pointed towards the northeast corner of the cemetery.

‘Almost every week,’ she repeated. ‘Always with flowers.’

‘What kind of flowers?’

‘Just…flowers. I don’t know.’

The directness of the question had unsettled her. Why should he care what variety of flowers Lillian Wallace had brought with her?

‘I best be going.’ She shuffled off, casting a suspicious glance over her shoulder as she went. Conrad waited till she was lost to sight on Cooper Lane before making for the northeast corner of the cemetery.

Apart from the names, there was little to distinguish the headstones from one another—a scattering of rough-hewn granite blocks with polished faces. The resting place of the poor. Poor but not forgotten. Flowers adorned many of the graves.

Which one had drawn her here? And why? Who amongst this silent gathering of the dead had she known or cared about enough to warrant her making regular visits?

It didn’t make sense, not unless it was something to do with a member of the household staff. The maid, Rosa, perhaps. They were close, very close, he knew that. Could Rosa have lost a son, a daughter? No, Lillian would have said something to him. He would have known.

He silently hoped that he didn’t stumble upon an innocent explanation. He wanted the reason for her visits to have a bearing on her death. More than that, he needed it.

He had dredged the memories of their times together for clues,
but had turned up nothing. The father she feared, the ambitious brother, the sister who had always belittled her, the fiancé who had left her for another woman. Hardly a happy life, but commonplace stories nonetheless, unremarkable. All he had to go on was a faint impression of disquiet in her last weeks, a remoteness that would settle on her face like a veil when she was off her guard. If she hadn’t been more eager than ever to spend time with him, he might have assumed she was having misgivings about their relationship. He certainly now wished that he’d pushed her a lot harder on the matter.

He glanced around, reading off names at random—familiar names, names still carried by the living—but the answer didn’t present itself. There were just too many to choose from.

He fought the frustration building inside him and cleared his head. Think. If she’d left flowers around the time of her death, they would have to be over a week old, well past their prime, dead even. That excluded most of the graves. In fact, it left only a handful of candidates.

He moved slowly between them, dismissing them in turn: a woman some twenty years dead, Edna White’s stillborn daughter, Orville Hatch who had lost both legs to poor circulation before the end. No obvious connection there.

The name on the next headstone stopped him dead in his tracks.

Being a long-lived flower, the lilies had stood up pretty well, though a scattering of petals lay around the rusted metal vase. He approached slowly, crouching down.

One lily for every year of the short life memorialized in the cold granite. Lilies, a symbol of purity and innocence. He knew that from the somber print that used to hang on the landing of their house, the one his stepmother had brought with her when she moved in with them, the one entitled
The Annunciation
—the Virgin Mary on her knees before the angel, clutching a single lily.

He could sense Lillian’s mind at work, her hand at play. More than that, though, he had a dim recollection of a conversation, an idle question, or so it had seemed at the time: Lillian asking him if he had known Lizzie Jencks.

Yes, had been his reply, but not well. His father had fished with her father once, setting gill nets off the ocean beach.

Young Lizzie, hair the color of copper wire, always so ready to spring a smile on you, her cheery disposition snuffed out late one night on a lonely lane, victim of a hit-and-run driver.

Hollis had never had cause to visit the Maidstone Club before, and the appearance of a police officer was clearly something of a novelty for the members as well. Four of them gathered on the green abutting the parking lot broke off from their golf game and stared as he pulled the patrol car to a halt. Words were exchanged, and a ripple of laughter passed between the men.

The interior of the clubhouse was cool, dark and strangely dank, the moist air heavy with the odor of wood polish. The desk clerk peered over the top of his spectacles as Hollis approached. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said coolly.

‘I’m looking for Anthony Cordwell.’

‘I wouldn’t know if he was here. Members aren’t required to sign in.’

‘And I suppose you can’t leave the front desk to check.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ came the reply, heavy with false regret.

‘Then I guess I’ll just have to take a look around myself.’

He was a few steps shy of the doors leading to the back terrace when his path was blocked by the desk clerk.

‘I’ll see what I can do. If you’d be so good as to wait over there.’ He indicated some club chairs before disappearing.

Hollis lingered at the doors, curious to get a glimpse of the wealthy at play. From its vantage point at the top of the steep grassy slope, the clubhouse offered a wide vista over the swimming-pool complex with its sandy sunning areas, restaurant,
bar and dining patio. Beyond, two long runs of cabanas arced through the broken dunes towards the beach like arms reaching out to embrace the ocean. All around, people were gathered beneath striped umbrellas, finishing lunch or sleeping it off. Only a handful of youngsters were braving the sun, frolicking in the pool, diving for hoops.

Hollis felt a little cheated; the Sunday afternoon scene before him was hardly different from those being enacted all over the country, though the setting was surely grander than most.

‘May I help you?’

The gentleman from the front desk had reappeared. He was accompanied by a colleague, a younger man with a thin, reedy voice.

‘I don’t know, can you?’

‘You want to see Anthony Cordwell.’

‘I think we’ve already established that.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Not unless you don’t go get him for me.’

Anthony Cordwell had been playing tennis, and judging from his complexion he was being given a run for his money.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said warily.

‘I won’t take up much of your time,’ said Hollis. ‘Though it looks like you could do with the break.’

Hollis was led through to the bar, which to Cordwell’s evident relief was deserted. Cordwell wiped his face with a towel.

‘Couldn’t this have waited?’ he asked.

‘You’re a bright boy. You’ll think of something to tell them.’

Hollis handed him a buff envelope. Of the two photos inside, the first was a close-up of a dress shoe, Cordwell’s name clearly embossed inside. The second showed the shoe beside a hydrangea bush, the Rosens’ defaced front door visible behind, the crude, dripping white Star of David clearly in focus.

‘What is this? Blackmail?’

‘Think of it as a gift.’

Cordwell eyed him suspiciously. ‘And in return…?’

‘I have a few questions, then I’m gone. Those stay.’

‘And the negatives?’

Hollis patted the breast pocket of his uniform. ‘When we’re done talking.’

Cordwell nodded, as if accepting a deal from the Devil himself.

‘Justin Penrose, you know him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’

‘As well as anybody, I suppose.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He’s what you might call private. Why?’

‘How long was he with Lillian Wallace?’

‘A year, two years.’

‘Try and be more specific.’

Cordwell thought on it. ‘Just under two years.’

‘Why did they break off their engagement?’

‘Differences. I don’t know. She ended it.’

‘You must have heard something.’

‘You know,’ said Cordwell, casting his mind back, or at least appearing to, ‘it really wasn’t discussed.’ He paused. ‘It was never going to be easy, what with Gayle.’

‘Gayle Wallace? What about her?’

‘They were an item once, Justin and Gayle.’

‘What are you saying, he switched horses in mid-stream?’

‘It was over with Gayle by then, but she still wasn’t happy when she heard about Lillian.’

I bet she wasn’t, thought Hollis.

‘What does Penrose do?’

Cordwell snorted, amused by the notion. ‘He doesn’t have to
do
anything. His family has a bank.’

‘And what do
you
do, Mr Cordwell?’

‘Me?’

‘Aside from persecuting Jews?’

Cordwell was too angry to manufacture any kind of response at first. ‘Are we finished here?’ he asked sharply.

‘No, we’re not. Penrose came to see Lillian about a month ago.’

‘Did he now?’ sighed Cordwell.

‘Why would he do that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean did he still carry a torch for Lillian?’

Cordwell hesitated before replying. ‘It’s possible. He was pretty upset when it ended.’

It was a hard image to conjure up, Justin Penrose upset by anything.

‘What’s this all about?’ asked Cordwell.

‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this conversation to anyone.’

‘And I’d appreciate it if you gave me those negatives now.’

Hollis handed them over.

If Cordwell had bothered to examine the negatives before slipping them into the envelope he would have noted that they didn’t match the incriminating photos. Rejects from the batch of shots taken by Abel, one was of the Rosens’ daughter, a ravenhaired beauty with whom Abel, in characteristic fashion, had been mightily and momentarily taken; the other showed Hollis on his hands and knees in a flower border, the crack of his ass just showing above the waistband of his pants.

A print of this last shot now hung on the wall of Hollis’ kitchen. Framed up and presented to him at the time by Abel, the handwritten title on the matt proclaimed:
The Thin Blue Line.

As he mounted the steps to the library, Conrad’s knee buckled under him. He swore, then gathered up the books that had spilled from beneath his arm.

‘Good morning, Mrs Emerson,’ he said, approaching the front desk.

She looked up from the typewriter, peering at him over the top of her spectacles. ‘Mr Labarde. Returning, are we?’

‘Yes.’

‘Overdue, are they?’

‘How did you guess?’

She pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter and handed it to him. He scanned it.

‘I was going for a note of mild outrage,’ she said.

‘Mild, huh?’

She smiled.

‘I’ve a confession to make,’ said Conrad.

‘Unless you want the whole town to know, I’m probably not the person to share it with.’

Conrad handed her one of the books. ‘I think I just broke the spine.’

‘No,’ she said, examining it. ‘You
definitely
broke the spine.’

‘I’ll replace it, of course.’

‘What, and deny Mrs Cartwright the challenge? She’s a whiz with the glue, you know.’

Conrad settled the fine, then asked where the back copies of the
East Hampton Star
were stored. Because the dates he was after were more than six months old, he was sent through to the Reading Room, Mrs Emerson appearing a few minutes later with two bound volumes on a trolley.

Conrad hefted them on to the table. He could see her itching to ask what he wanted them for, and he’d prepared an answer for her, but it wasn’t required. She fought her curiosity, returning to the front desk.

Conrad took a seat and stared at the spines: April-June 1946, July-September 1946. He found the initial newspaper report without any difficulty. News of Lizzie Jencks’ tragic death had, of course, made the front page of the
Star.
Two issues later, the story still warranted the front page, though it had been relegated to the bottom right-hand corner, rolling over into a handful of column inches on page three.

By now, Chief Milligan of the Town Police Department was reluctantly conceding that the investigation had produced no concrete leads in the past couple of weeks, and possibly never would. The incident had occurred on a Saturday night when the roads of the South Fork were notoriously infested with drivers who had flooded in for the weekend from up-island or New York City. Questions remained, however. The Medical Examiner had placed the time of death at somewhere between midnight and two o’clock in the morning, and no one seemed to know what a young girl was doing walking a country road at that hour of the night.

Come August, coverage of the story had all but petered out. The last mention Conrad could find of it was in an editorial that leveled its sights at the ‘people from away’ crowding this quiet corner of Suffolk County. The piece had the hollow report of a blind, scatter-gun blast into the night, the intruder long gone.

Conrad worked his way back through the newspapers, sifting for signs. The first issue with news of the incident had come out on the Thursday, young Lizzie already five days dead. In the same edition, there was a brief report of a wedding that had taken place in Sag Harbor on the Saturday in question. The festivities,
complete with impressive fireworks display, had rolled on into the early hours of Sunday morning. The names of the happy couple, not known to Conrad, suggested summer people, the kind of society event Lillian might have attended.

The geography was wrong, though. There was no way you could end up on Town Lane when driving from Sag Harbor to East Hampton, not unless you had completely lost your way. Still, it was the best he could come up with, and certainly better than nothing.

He almost left it at that. Thankfully, he cast a quick eye over the Thursday issue from the week predating the accident. Buried on page seven was a small announcement, no more than a few lines, announcing the first dinner dance of the season at the Devon Yacht Club on Gardiner’s Bay, set to take place that Saturday night.

The Devon Yacht Club, one of Lillian’s favored haunts.

He experienced no surge of relief, no sense of elation. Rather, he felt a chill descend upon him, the stillness and clarity a hunter experiences when first sighting his quarry, his world narrowing to a point, the periphery blurring, all else forgotten.

He stared at the page for a good while, not focusing on the print, but deep in thought, weighing his various options. They shared one piece of common ground: whichever way he chose to proceed, it was time to start drawing Deputy Hollis into the hunt.