The Anniversary (16 page)

nario to the one now facing her. The noise she’d heard in the 30

yard last night. Someone
had
been watching. The watch and the 31

anniversary note. There had to be some connection.

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It was almost one in the morning.

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The book lay open in front of her. Now, closing the cover, she 34

absently turned it over, stared at the glamorous photograph on 35 S

the back of the dust jacket. Diane Massey’s hair was swept to one 36 R

side, and she gazed out from under it. Perhaps because she wasn’t 8 4

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smiling, she appeared slightly disdainful. Her arms were folded 1

across her chest. On her left wrist, she wore a watch.

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Dumbly, Callie stared at the picture, told herself it couldn’t be 3

true.

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This couldn’t be the same watch that Anna had found. It 5

couldn’t. It just couldn’t. Because if it was, if it was . . .

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Her mind wouldn’t process the thought.

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Callie picked up the watch and looked at the photo again. The 8

image was so tiny. She needed a magnifying glass. They had one 9

somewhere in a kitchen drawer that Anna used for science class.

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Downstairs at the table where they ate their meals, she studied 11

the photo again. She raised, then lowered the glass, until the 12

watch came clear.

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The same gold bracelet.

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The same white face.

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While she couldn’t make out the inscription, she had no doubt 16

what it said.

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Monday, April 17

W

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h e r e were you supposed to meet her exactly?” The woman 2

on the phone was skeptical, polite, but just barely. Her name was 3

Marianne North, and she was Diane Massey’s editor.

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“At my apartment. For lunch. She was supposed to come over 5

yesterday, but she . . .” Callie hesitated. “She never made it.”

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“At your apartment
in New York
?”

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“Ummm . . . Yes. That’s right.” Callie twirled a piece of hair in 8

her fingers, thankful for caller-ID block. She wished that she’d 9

spent a little more time thinking through her cover story. For all 10

she knew, Diane was in L.A., out of the country even.

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She decided to cut her losses and just plunge ahead. “Look, you 12

can believe me or not. But what’s the harm in checking?”

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Seconds later, when she hung up the phone, Callie felt de-14

feated.

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It was shortly after one o’clock, a cool, overcast day. She’d 16

planned to work this morning, to catch up on reading for school.

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Instead, she’d spent most of the morning trying to reach Diane.

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Not surprisingly, Diane had an unlisted number, so she’d called 19

Diane’s publisher. At Carillon Books, she’d been transferred, put 20

on hold, disconnected. She’d left numerous messages, none of 21

them returned. She’d been about to give up and try the New York 22

police when Marianne North had called back.

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From her perch on the side of her bed, Callie’s eyes moved to 24

the watch. It was sitting on her nightstand. Now she picked it up.

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On the back of the face were numbers and letters: 1120, followed 26 S

by 157480CD. A serial number, she supposed, proof of owner-27 R

ship. She reminded herself that she couldn’t be sure that this 8 6

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watch belonged to Diane. But even as she tried to reassure her-1

self, her anxiety was growing.

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She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Maybe food would help.

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As she walked downstairs, she was conscious of an overpower-4

ing silence, broken only by the muffled sound of her footsteps on 5

the carpet. Faces in the photographs lining the wall watched her 6

slow descent. She and Anna on a Nantucket beach. Anna at Dis-7

ney World. A formal portrait of Anna at six. Anna on a sled. She 8

found herself wondering about these pictures, why she had so 9

many. It was almost like she was building a case that she really 10

had a life.
See, we were here. And here and here and here.
For a mo-11

ment, it struck her as slightly bizarre, almost embarrassing.

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In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and stared blankly 13

at its contents. If she’d had the time she might have cooked 14

something, a childhood comfort food. Meat loaf and mashed po-15

tatoes. Macaroni and cheese. Instead, she settled on a peanut 16

butter sandwich along with a glass of milk.

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She put the sandwich on a plate and sat down at the table. As 18

she ate, she looked around the kitchen, but something didn’t feel 19

right. The pleasure she normally took in this room was sharply 20

diminished today. Everywhere she looked, she confronted hidden 21

dangers. The knife block on the kitchen counter. A long three-22

pronged fork. The gas jets on the kitchen stove, odorless yet 23

lethal. For the first time, she fully grasped the truth of Rick’s ob-24

servation. She could see how the kitchen was, in fact, the most 25

dangerous room in the house.

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Tuesday, April 18

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e p u t y Tim O’Hara drove his Jeep Cherokee off the ferry 2

onto Blue Peek Island. He wished that he’d had time to change 3

before coming out today. In a Shetland sweater and freshly 4

pressed khakis, he was feeling a little self-conscious. He looked 5

like the clueless college kid he’d struggled to prove he wasn’t.

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O’Hara pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto Main 7

Street. He hadn’t been on the island since summer and was 8

struck by the bleakness of it. During July and August, the island’s 9

population grew to over a thousand, but during the long dark 10

winters, it shrank to a couple hundred. By June, the summer 11

people would start trickling in and Main Street would burst to 12

life. Today, though, it was hard to believe that this change would 13

ever take place. Everywhere he looked was gray. The place felt 14

like a ghost town.

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Last summer, he’d been the deputy assigned to island duty, a 16

standard first-year rotation in the Hanson County sheriff’s office.

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Blue Peek Island was forty-five minutes offshore but technically 18

part of the county. Four days a week, for three long months, with 19

almost nothing to do. He’d taken to driving around the island, 20

patrolling its quiet streets. He’d given several speeding tickets, 21

arrested a mailbox vandal. As he saw it, he was just doing his job, 22

something to earn his paycheck. But the islanders had rolled 23

their eyes. They’d called him Mr. Columbo. He’d gritted his 24

teeth and pretended to laugh, but he hadn’t thought it was funny.

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So he was only twenty-three. He still deserved respect.

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Today would be different, though. At least that’s what he 27 R

hoped. Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally catch his first real case. A 8 8

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major step toward his long-term goal of joining the Maine State 1

Police.

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He’d been on his way to pick up his fiancée when the sergeant’s 3

call came in. They’d planned to have dinner with Molly’s folks 4

after a trip to the mall.

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“I need you to check out a call on Blue Peek Island. Missing 6

person report. I’d send Barrett out,” the sergeant said, “but he 7

doesn’t know the island.”

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“No problem,” O’Hara responded. “I’ll take the next boat out.”

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A missing person report. This could be interesting.

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He’d pulled out a long thin notebook and flipped open the 11

cover. At the bottom of the first page, he scrawled a
1.
If the 12

notepad was ever introduced in court, that could be important.

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Consecutive numbering could help to prove that the evidence 14

hadn’t been altered.

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“Name’s Diane Massey.”

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O’Hara’s pen, poised to write, stayed in midair. “You kidding 17

me?” he said.

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“You know her?”

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“Well, sure, I mean she’s . . .” O’Hara stopped. No point in 20

making the sergeant feel like a total idiot. “She’s a writer. She 21

wrote this book about Steven Gage. You know, the serial killer.”

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“I know who Steven Gage is.” The sergeant sounded ag-23

grieved. “So you know this Massey woman?”

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“Not know her exactly. I mean, I saw her around last summer 25

when she visited her parents. They’ve got this gigantic house 26

right on the tip of North Point.”

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“Yeah, that’s what I hear,” the sergeant said. “Anyway, here’s 28

the deal. I got a call from this woman in New York. Her 29

name’s — let me see — Marianne North. Says she’s Massey’s ed-30

itor and she can’t get in touch with her. Probably nothing, you 31

know, but this woman was real insistent.”

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Probably nothing.

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But maybe not . . .

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O’Hara parked in an empty space. Today he had his pick. The S 35

Massey house was just up the road, overlooking the Narrows. The R 36

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house was visible from where he stood, fog-shrouded and impos-2

ing. It had been built by one Thomas Massey, more than a hun-3

dred years ago.

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Last summer, he’d spent a couple of hours at the Blue Peek Is-5

land History Museum, learned about the wealthy Boston families 6

who’d built the first summer homes. They’d called themselves 7

rusticators and relished simple pleasures. Their summers were 8

filled with a festive round of sailing, parties, and picnics. These 9

days, descendants of those first settlers returned with their own 10

children. But the summer people wouldn’t start to arrive for an-11

other month at least. The island was all but deserted now. Why 12

was Diane Massey here?

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A set of granite steps led up to the house, which was shielded 14

by a stand of pine trees. From where he stood, he could just make 15

out a corner of the shingled roof. As a breeze came up, he heard 16

a rustle of trees tossing in the wind. He flipped the latch on a low 17

gate and headed up the stairs.

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O’Hara rapped on the back door, three sharp knocks. He 19

waited a bit, then tried again. Still no response. The porch where 20

he stood wrapped around the house. Now he walked toward the 21

front, his footsteps sounding hollowly on the worn wooden 22

planks. Below him, a vast expanse of lawn ended in granite cliffs.

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By summer, the grass would be emerald green, a smooth velvet 24

carpet. Today, it was still scruffy and brown with weeds poking 25

through it.

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By the front door, he saw a wooden folding chair with a blue 27

canvas seat. Beside the chair, on a rickety table, was an ashtray 28

filled with cigarette butts. A few more knocks. Still no answer.

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He tried the door. It opened.

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“Ms. Massey? Are you here?”

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He was standing in a two-story foyer with a broad staircase to 32

his left. At the end of the central hallway, he saw a closed door.

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“Hello?” O’Hara called.

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It was darker in the house than it was outside. O’Hara flipped 35 S

a light switch. A heavy wrought-iron chandelier sent out a dusty 36 R

glow.

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Then, as he inhaled, he smelled something, a faint scent of rot.

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He walked down the hall. The smell grew stronger. His hand 2

moved to his gun. For an instant he considered calling Dispatch, 3

then decided against it. If it turned out to be a false alarm, he’d be 4

asking for it. He’d already taken enough ribbing for that Mr.

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Columbo bit. Better to handle this on his own. Not get too ex-6

cited.

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When he reached the door, he pushed it open and found him-8

self in the kitchen. The room was empty, no one here, but the 9