The Girl In The Glass (4 page)

Chapter 5

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minted valedictorian walked to the lectern. She waited, scanning the audience, smiling warmly, until the applause died down. With the exception of a few toddlers squirming in their parents’ arms, every eye was focused on her. Aimée experienced a shiver of excitement.

Her eyes went to the faculty seating area. Sought and found Byron Knowles. Her AP English teacher was a married poet with languid looks and a perpetual two-­day growth of beard. Byron, or as she so often teased him, Lord Byron, looked back. His smile communicated nothing more than a teacher taking pride in the achievements of his star pupil. But Aimée knew there was more to it than that. She remembered the two of them sitting naked in bed just days ago, eating ripe peaches and reading erotic poetry to each other. Dripping peach juice both on the sheets and on their bodies. Then grabbing each other and licking it off. Delicious.

A few of her closest friends knew she was involved with someone, but she hadn’t offered even a hint as to who it might be. Not even to Julia, with whom Aimée shared most things. Keeping the secret made the affair seem dark, romantic, illicit. Which was, for Aimée at least, part of its charm. But there was also the near certainty Byron would be fired, his career ruined, if their secret came out. That seemed dreadfully unfair to Aimée, since it was she who’d started the whole thing.

The applause continued, and Aimée delighted in it. All these ­people focusing only on her. Then, with perfect timing, she held up a hand to quiet things down. “Thank you all,” she said. “Thank you all so very much.”

When there was silence, Aimée began to speak. She didn’t need a script or even notes. She’d worked hard, endlessly rehearsing every word, every gesture, every pause. As she did with everything else in her life, Aimée wanted the speech to be perfect. “Headmaster Cobb,” she began, “trustees, faculty members, family, friends and fellow graduates, today is a day for those of us leaving Penfield to reflect on and be thankful for all we have been given.” As her words tumbled out flawlessly, Aimée scanned the audience. For the first time, she spotted her mother, Tracy Carlin, seated way in the back on the aisle. Typical. As the
Press Herald
’s top crime reporter, Tracy’s mantra had always been to sit as close to the exit as she could in case of a breaking news story.

Across from Tracy, Aimée spotted Will Moseley. Gorgeous Will. Once a boyfriend but never again. He sat sprawled on a folding chair too small for his six-­four frame, long legs stretched out into the aisle, hands folded casually behind his head. A two-­day growth on his cheeks and chin. Will wore no suit or blazer, as others did. No necktie. Just black jeans, Frye boots and a checked shirt with tails hanging out loosely.

“The world we, as young ­people, will be inheriting,” Aimée told the attentive audience, “faces challenges on a global scale unlike any faced by previous generations. It is our responsibility as the next in line to shake ourselves loose from the narrow focus on self and look outward to a world that is crying out . . .”

She continued to the end, her speech timed to last precisely twelve minutes, no more, no less. “To paraphrase Benjamin Franklin,” she said, wrapping it up, “everyone is born ignorant. Even valedictorians. But for all of us who, for the last four years, have benefited so profoundly from the wisdom, knowledge and guidance of the teachers, coaches and staff here at Penfield, well, it would be impossible for any of us, valedictorians or not, to leave here the same way. For this reason, I’d like to ask all my fellow members of this year’s graduating class to stand and join me in thanking you—­ our teachers, parents and friends of the school—­for the love, wisdom, support and, yes, the tuition money you so generously doled out . . .” Aimée waited until the required chuckle died down. “ . . . to provide each and every one of us with the very best start in life we could possibly get.”

She accepted a long, standing ovation, then returned to her seat as Headmaster Cobb replaced her at the dais to present Emily Welles with her citizenship award.

Once seated, Aimée looked again at Moseley and wondered what he was doing here. She hadn’t invited him, though he’d hinted more than once that she should. Any interest she’d ever had in Moseley had died two summers ago in a particularly loud and ugly sexual incident out on the island. She thought of it as rape. Hell, it
had been
rape. Yes, they’d had sex before and yes, they’d been making out, but on this day she’d told him she didn’t feel like taking things any further. She’d gotten up and tried to leave. He’d gotten pissed off. Called her a cock-­teaser. Grabbed her. Thrown her down on the bed, pulled her legs apart and pushed into her. She’d said she was going to tell her father but he knew she wouldn’t, since the Moseleys and the Whitbys were best friends and, at the time, she and Will had been having regular sex for over a year. She didn’t want Daddy to know about that.

Perhaps Julia had invited him. Jules lusted for Will like a cat lusted for cream. Somehow she didn’t get it that making her desire so obvious made her less desirable to him. So much so that Will rarely gave her a second look. Except on those few occasions when he felt particularly horny and Jules allowed herself to be used to satisfy his immediate needs.

Still, it was possible that her father had issued the invitation. He made no secret of the fact that he thought Moseley—­two years out of Penfield, two years into Yale and the only son of one of the other richest families in Maine—­was exactly the kind of man one of his daughters should marry.

Daddy, no doubt, would think of such a marriage as a kind of business deal. R.W. Moseley and Company, the private bank Will’s family owned, had been looking after Whitby money for well over one hundred years and were major underwriters and investors in Whitby Engineering & Development (symbol WED on the New York Stock Exchange). Moseley weds Whitby. In Daddy’s mind not so much a marriage as a merger. Or possibly an acquisition. Either way a royal affair. Hell, if Daddy thought he could pull it off, he’d probably try to talk the Brits into renting him Westminster Abbey for the occasion. And maybe even the Queen’s golden coach. Failing that, he’d no doubt settle for St. Luke’s, the Episcopal cathedral on State Street where Whitbys had been christened, married and mourned since shortly after the Civil War. The wedding of the year, to be followed, no doubt, by the reception of the year in front of the cottage on the island.

Aimée snorted. She had no intention of marrying anyone anytime soon. She had her own life to live, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to dedicate it to some hot little frat boy who wanted nothing more than to drink as much booze and screw as many women as he could in the shortest possible time.

When Emily Welles finished her citizenship speech, she was followed by three middle-­aged former jocks who were being inducted into the Penfield Academy Athletic Hall of Fame. Aimée tuned them out and thought instead about tonight’s party. She reviewed the guest list in her mind. All her fellow graduates, plus some of Aimée’s and Jules’s other friends. Parents of graduates, some of whom were friends of the Whitbys, others who probably just wanted a chance to poke around a cottage that had been featured in three separate issues of
Maine Home and Design.
Checking out the lifestyles of the rich and famous.

Most of the faculty would attend with spouses. Except for Lord Byron, who, they’d agreed, would find a way to leave Gina at home. There would also be politicians. Governor Kevin Hardesty and his wife. Maine’s First District congressman. And Senator Ann Colman, Vice Chairwoman of the Senate Armed Ser­vices Committee, who would be flying up from Washington. Daddy had instructed Charles Kraft to keep an eye on Colman and make sure she was happy. A natural assignment. Kraft liked keeping women happy. Even fifty-­something female senators.

A few of Daddy’s lobbyists would be present to keep the politicians stoked and stroked. Plus one Pulitzer Prize–winning novelist who lived up in Camden and whose books Aimée liked and an aging Hollywood star who had a house down in Prouts Neck.

Guests who made the cut would be flown to the island on Daddy’s helicopter. The less favored would either sail their own boats or sail out with friends. The true commoners, the untouchables, would be relegated to the Casco Bay Lines ferry that had been chartered for the occasion. The only person Aimée could think of who wasn’t invited and wouldn’t come even if she had been was her own mother, Tracy Carlin, the first Mrs. Edward Whitby.

Chapter 6

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closer to Maggie. “Why don’t we go over to your place,” he whispered even though Tallulah’s had pretty much emptied out.

She shook her head. “A tempting offer, but no thank you.”

It was after three in the afternoon. In the course of telling Maggie about the final breakup between Kyra and himself, McCabe had managed to polish off five Scotches. Actually, in most places, they would have added up to seven or eight, since Lou’s bartenders always poured McCabe a good three ounces per drink. As a result, while going over to Maggie’s seemed like a really good idea to him, it was a game she definitely wasn’t going to play.

“Be more private than my place,” he said. “Casey’s probably home from school by now.”

“I said no. I meant no. But thank you for the offer anyway.”

McCabe peered at her with a self-­satisfied expression, like this conversation was a test in which he knew all the right answers. “Y’know, you once told me,” he said, “that the reason we couldn’t get together was because I was taken. Well, guess what?”

“What.”

“I’m not taken anymore.”

“No, but you are drunk.”

“Yeah. But . . .” McCabe grinned broadly. He knew the answer to that one as well. “But I’m not
a
drunk. You told me so yourself just a little while ago.” He looked at his watch. “Well, actually quite a while ago.”

“Yes, I did, and I meant it. You’re not a drunk.”

“Good.” McCabe turned away, looking for the waitress to order another round.

Maggie reached across the table and took one of McCabe’s hands. “Look at me, McCabe, and stop searching for Max. You don’t need any more drinks.”

McCabe frowned but did as she asked.

“We once made love,” said Maggie, “at a time when I was in a bad place and really needed you. I’ve never been sorry about that. But before we go over to my place or anywhere else for whatever you have in mind, there are a lot of things I have to sort out in my own mind. And probably just as many you should be thinking about as well.”

McCabe closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to clear the fog in his brain. When he felt about as articulate as he was going to get, he opened them. He looked into Maggie’s soft brown eyes, so different from Kyra’s blue ones. He spoke slowly, managing not to slur his words. “Mag, we care for each other. We always have. Call it love. Call it friendship. Call it whatever you want. But it’s a fact. We have something special. There have been a thousand times over the past six years when I’ve thought about us being together, and I don’t mean just for sex. I mean really being together. And I’m pretty sure you’ve thought about that too.”

“You know I have. But it’s not going to happen. Not until I know the answers to a ­couple of things. For one, Kyra may have left you, but I have a feeling you may not be entirely done with her. Not emotionally anyway. I think if she changed her mind and said she wanted you back, you and I would be right back where we started. And as much as I care for you, I don’t want to be anybody’s rebound or second choice. Not even yours.”

“Maggie, Kyra and I are history.”

“I’m sure you believe that’s true. And maybe it is. But I’d rather wait till we both know it for sure.”

“Okay. I understand. I’m not sure you’re right, but I understand.”

“There are also a few other problems,” said Maggie.

“Like what?”

“Like the fact we work together. That you’re my boss. That we work with other detectives, none of whom are stupid.”

“Well, there is Will.”

“He’s no dummy either. If our relationship changed, ­people would know, and a lot of things about our jobs would have to change as well.”

McCabe sighed. She was probably right about that too. “Okay, so what do we do now?”

“Now? Now I’m going to call a cab to take you home. No way you should go staggering back to the office in the shape you’re in. And do me a favor? When you get there, don’t have another drink. Okay? Just go to bed. You look like you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Chapter 7

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a few minutes of flying time for Whitby Engineering & Development’s AgustaWestland 139 helicopter to go from the company helipad on the Portland waterfront to Whitby Island. Aimée always loved the ride. Especially on brilliant days like this. She leaned as far forward on her soft white leather seat as the seat belt would allow and pressed her face against the window.

As the island came into view, it seemed to Aimée that the green of the trees bathed in summer sunshine made the place seem like a glittering emerald floating in the middle of a sea of sparkling diamonds. She glanced quickly at her fellow passengers. None was looking. Julia was too absorbed in Gillian Flynn’s
Gone Girl
to notice emeralds, diamonds or anything else
.
Julia was smart. Quite pretty. A very good actress. Amazing how she could transform herself into someone like Blanche DuBois on the stage. Aimée sometimes wished she and Julia could overcome the twin thing. The two had been competing for both accolades and their father’s love since they were in the cradle. It was something Aimée wanted to resolve. She wanted them to be friends as well as sisters.

In the middle seat, her stepmother, Deirdre, sat staring straight ahead. Deirdre hated the helicopter. Flying in it frightened her, and she avoided it whenever possible. Up front, next to the pilot, Daddy was talking loudly into his cell. Something about some Pentagon procurement officer fucking up some specs on some job or other. Charles, of course, was snoozing. It always amazed Aimée how Kraft could fall asleep instantly, even if only for a ­couple of minutes, then wake up alert and ready to go.

As the chopper descended toward the helipad, Aimée watched dozens of white-­jacketed caterers stop their frantic scurrying to stare as it gently touched down.

When they had safely landed, the worker bees returned to their activity, setting up dozens of tables, three bars and a large outdoor dance floor. Other workers went back to stringing lights from the trees. The main summer cottage, an eight-­thousand-­square-­foot mansion, was surrounded by patios and manicured gardens. Tonight all would be bathed in lights as soon as the sun went down and darkness fell. Everything would look stunning.

Once on the ground, the misnamed Mr. Jolley rushed out to greet them and grab bags. The dour, skinny, sixty-­year-­old Scot was a retired cop from up in Houlton and the male half of the ­couple who took care of the place. He was also someone Aimée generally avoided when she could. Three years back, she’d caught the old fart peeping at her through a corner of the studio window as she was getting dressed after giving Will Moseley what he claimed was one of the best blow jobs in history. Will had reciprocated by providing Aimée with equally good treatment with his own tongue. She didn’t know how much Jolley had seen, but most likely the entire performance. He’d scurried away the instant Aimée spotted him. When she’d asked him what was he was doing there, he apologized profusely. Claimed it had been a total accident. Said it was part of his job to check on the cottages and he hadn’t seen all that much anyway. Aimée hadn’t pushed it. She sure as hell didn’t want Mr. Jolley, in his own defense, telling Daddy what she and Moseley had been up to. It wouldn’t sit well, since she was only fifteen at the time. Anyway, Jolley had been giving her sly glances and creepy smiles ever since. She told him if he didn’t cut it out she would tell Daddy he was a habitual Peeping Tom. So far she hadn’t bothered. She preferred the threat to the reality.

Jolley took Aimée’s suitcase in one hand and Julia’s in the other. He offered to take the dress-­bag Aimée was carrying, but she held on to it. The dress was a secret. She’d had it made specially for her dramatic entrance at tonight’s party. The dressmaker, the best in Portland, had been instructed to duplicate the design in an old book Aimée had found in the Penfield library.
Hidden Masterpieces of American Art.
She’d actually had to steal the damned book, since it wasn’t allowed to circulate.

Once safely in her room, Aimée locked the door, took the dress from the bag and tried it on. She opened the book to the appropriate page. Propped it up and compared her image in the full-­length mirror to the one on the page. A perfect match. Identical. She just had to get the hair, makeup and timing right. If she did, there was absolutely no doubt that she’d steal the limelight from everyone else. Daddy, the governor, the famous author, the movie star, and also, alas, poor Jules. Fantasizing about their likely reaction to her performance gave Aimée immense pleasure.