The Girl In The Glass (25 page)

Chapter 51

A
T A FEW
minutes after four on Saturday afternoon, McCabe watched Edward Whitby emerge from the Cathedral Church of St. Luke on State Street. Unlike their first meeting on the island, Whitby was now clean-­shaven and dressed in a jacket and tie. The man next to him wore an ecclesiastical collar.

He had told McCabe that he would be spending much of the afternoon at the church, completing arrangements for Aimée’s funeral. McCabe wondered what say, if any, Tracy had in the plans. Probably none. She didn’t believe in religion of any kind, and Whitby liked running things.

McCabe got out of the car and approached the two men.

“Sergeant McCabe,” said Whitby, “this is Bishop Stephen Crocker, who will be officiating at the ser­vice for Aimée.”

McCabe extended his hand. The priest shook it.

“The sergeant is running the investigation into Aimée’s murder.”

“A horrible thing,” said Crocker, “for someone so young who had so much to live for.”

“When will the ser­vice be?”

“We’re planning for Tuesday at eleven o’clock here at the cathedral.”

McCabe made a mental note to attend if the case was still open. “Will there be a burial?”

“Aimée’s body will be cremated and her ashes buried in the Bishop’s Garden, in the cloister outside the chapel,” said Whitby.

“Well,” said Crocker, “I’m sure you gentlemen have much to talk about. It was a pleasure meeting you, Sergeant.” He excused himself and went back inside the church.

“You wanted to talk privately,” said Whitby. “Why don’t you walk with me back to the house? It’s not far.”

McCabe agreed. He needed the exercise anyway. The two men walked up State Street, turned left, and continued on Pine. Most of the ­people they passed were locals out doing weekend chores and enjoying the fine weather.

“I take it Aimée’s mother is comfortable with having her ashes buried there.”

“Yes. We discussed it. We’re both comfortable with cremation. Tracy suggested scattering her ashes to the wind. I preferred St. Luke’s. Whitbys have worshiped here since shortly after the Civil War. Tracy said fine, one place was as good as any other.”

“Sounds like Tracy.”

“I understand you once had a brief fling with Aimée’s mother.”

“Did Tracy tell you that?”

“No. I had Kraft do a little background research on you.”

“Investigating the investigator?”

“Yes. I wanted to make sure you and Savage are as good at what you do as your reputations suggest. According to Charles, you are. Both very good and very thorough.”

“Glad to hear Charles feels that way. Yes, I did have a relationship with Tracy when I first came to Portland. Aimée was a child at the time, and I actually met her. None of that will affect how I approach the case. It was a long time ago.”

“For both of us,” said Whitby. “But I’m still very fond of Tracy. I’ve always liked strong-­willed women, and she is definitely that.”

“Would you describe your current wife that way?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Now, what did you want to talk about?”

“I want to do a little background research on you.”

“Such as?”

“Tracy told me that when you and she were married, you asked her to sign a prenup specifying how much money she would get in the event of a divorce. She said she signed it. She also said it wasn’t very much.”

“I’m not sure what that’s got to do with anything.”

“Maybe nothing. But I’d appreciate it if you could humor me with the details.”

“All right. Yes, there was a prenup. It specified that Tracy would receive exactly one hundred thousand dollars if we divorced. It also said I would take care of all the costs of child support and education. Which I have.”

“One hundred thousand dollars isn’t much for someone like you.”

“No. But that’s what she agreed to, and that’s what she got.”

“Did you have the same terms in your agreement with Deirdre?”

“Identical.”

“What about your will?”

“What about it?”

“Who gets your money if you die?”

“I’ve made substantial bequests to the Portland Museum of Art, Penfield Academy and Prince­ton. Smaller amounts to various other charities. However, the bulk of the estate would be split equally between Aimée and Julia and any other children we might have had. Guess now she’s gone I’ll have to amend it.”

“How about your wife? What does she get?”

“She gets five million dollars.”

“Was Deirdre familiar with the details of your great-­grandmother’s death?”

“Yes, she’s read the newspaper accounts.”

“Was she bothered by it?”

“Not especially.”

“What did Deirdre feel about the portrait of Aimée you paid more than two million for?”

“She thinks it’s beautiful.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No. But I’m sure she does.”

“You’re sure she does?”

“Well, I don’t actually remember her describing it that way or really any other way. Listen, McCabe, I’m trying to be cooperative, but what in hell are you getting at?”

By this time McCabe and Whitby had reached the Western Prom.

“Why don’t we sit over there on that bench and finish our conversation?” said McCabe. The two men crossed the circular road and sat down.

“Were Aimée and Deirdre particularly close?”

“I asked you before what you were getting at. What exactly are you insinuating?”

“Please, Mr. Whitby, just bear with me. Were Aimée and Deirdre particularly close?”

“I don’t know. I think they were when the girls were little. She’d sometimes take them both on outings. She tried to be a good stepmother to Aimée when she was staying with us.”

“Did you love Aimée more than you loved Julia?”

“How dare you?”

“Did you? Love her more, I mean? At the graduation party you apparently referred to Aimée as ‘my dearest, favorite girl.’ ”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did. I’ve got it right here on video.”

McCabe pressed Play and handed Whitby the phone.

Whitby looked at the clip in silence. Handed the phone back.

“Sure sounds to me like you loved Aimée more.”

Whitby said nothing.

“What about Julia?” asked McCabe. “What was she? Your second-­dearest favorite girl? I wonder what she felt like, standing in that room surrounded by two hundred ­people and hearing that?”

“I am very sorry about that, but it was merely a slip of the tongue. I love my daughters equally.”

McCabe waited for Whitby to say more. He didn’t. He just seemed to be staring at the view of Mt. Washington outlined hazily in the distance. After a minute or so, McCabe continued. “You said the other day on the island that Deirdre didn’t want to talk to us because she was so upset about the murder. You described her as emotionally fragile. Yet ten minutes ago you said you’ve always been attracted to strong-­willed women. Would you describe Deirdre as both emotionally fragile and strong-­willed?”

“An oxymoron I suppose, but in Deirdre’s case, it applies.”

“Deirdre’s brother, Dennis McClure, is the founder and CEO of The Orion Group. According to his bio on Google, Dennis is a former officer in the Navy Seals. He started the company when he left the navy back in the late eighties to provide physical security to both government and corporate personnel required to work in dangerous places.”

“That’s right. I met Dennis in the early nineties when Whitby was hired by the navy to design and build marine bunkering facilities in Djibouti. We hired Orion to provide security for our engineering and construction ­people. They did an excellent job under difficult circumstances. We’ve worked with them a number of times since. In fact, it was Dennis who introduced me to Deirdre when she was looking for a job. I hired her. Then I fell in love with her, and the rest is history.”

“A history that starts with the nearly simultaneous birth of two daughters by two different women?”

“Not my proudest moment, but yes.”

“Over the years, hundreds, maybe thousands, of former military special operations ­people work or have worked with Orion. All of whom are trained experts in the fine art of killing other human beings.”

“McCabe, are you suggesting someone from Orion came out to our island to kill my daughter and Byron Knowles?”

“I’m wondering about it.”

“And why do you think an Orion professional might have done that? Certainly not for personal reasons.”

“No. I’m sure not. What I’m wondering is if somebody familiar with Orion, somebody who perhaps knew its ­people, might have hired a current or possibly a former company operative to do the job.”

“Somebody such as who?”

“Somebody such as Deirdre.”

“That’s the most ridiculous accusation I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it? Well, let me ask you this. What if your emotionally fragile yet strong-­willed wife believed, in spite of your denials, that you loved Tracy’s daughter more than you loved her own? And what if this emotionally fragile yet strong-­willed woman feared that you . . . who Tracy described to me as a serial adulterer . . . might one day hand her a check for one hundred thousand dollars and kick her out the door of that white pillared mansion over there and invite someone younger and perhaps more desirable in? And what if this emotionally fragile yet strong-­willed woman feared that once you had done that, you might then set about
amending
your will, perhaps to write her and her less-­loved daughter out of it, or at least to reduce that daughter’s share of the pie?

“And a pretty impressive pie it is. According to
Forbes
Magazine,
you were tied last year with two other lucky souls for the hundred and forty-­third spot on their list of the four hundred richest Americans. They listed your net worth at roughly $4.3 billion dollars.

“Given that number, and given the fears that your emotionally fragile yet strong-­willed wife might have had, and given the fact that she once worked for Orion and thus was almost certainly familiar with a number of current and former Orion operatives, is it still the most ridiculous suggestion you ever heard? If you believe it is, I suggest you ask Charles Kraft if he happens to agree with your assessment. I’d also suggest that you might want to watch where you walk and perhaps avoid riding around in helicopters for the time being.”

Whitby stared at McCabe but said nothing.

“Detective Savage and I have tried a number of times to arrange to interview your wife. So far she’s stonewalled us. I’m not suggesting that all the what-­ifs I just outlined are necessarily true. But given the possibility, we do need to ask Deirdre some difficult questions. The help I need from you is to convince her to talk to us without lawyering up.”

Chapter 52

From the journal of Edward Whitby Jr.

Entry dated July 30, 1924

I arrived at the house at a little after nine the following morning, hoping to surprise Aimée with my return a day early from New York. To my great disappointment, she was not there. The housekeeper told me she’d sailed out to the island the day before to paint and had spent the night there. Anxious to see her and eager to present her with the earrings that I hoped would serve as a symbol of our reaffirmed commitment, I decided to go out myself and surprise her. I asked Mrs. Simms to prepare a picnic lunch for the two of us. Cold pheasant, beluga caviar, a fresh baguette and two cold bottles of Perrier-­Jouët. When the lunch was ready, I took the basket and drove down to the company dock.

Once on board my boat, I put the champagne in a net bag, which I tied to the stern. The frigid Maine water would serve to keep the bottles suitably cold on my way over. Then I hoisted sails and went out to the island. As the wind caught my sails, I felt like a young suitor, alive with joy. As lighthearted as I had been on that first day at the Académie Julien when Aimée had invited me to go to the Café Lézard with her group.

I tied up at the family dock, where I found the
Aimée Marie
. Since she wasn’t in her boat, I suspected I would find her at the studio.

I hurried up the path, imagining the pleasure we would have consecrating our renewed marriage vows in the island house she loved so much. When I got to the studio, I peered in the window. I instantly closed my eyes, unable to believe the scene before me. When I opened them again, what I saw utterly horrified me.

Chapter 53

M
C
C
ABE WAS STILL
waiting for Edward Whitby to agree to convince his wife to be interviewed without benefit of counsel. Instead Whitby stood. “Let me get something I think you should read,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

McCabe watched him walk across the Western Prom to the big house with the white columns and go inside. Less than five minutes later, Whitby returned. He handed McCabe a leather-­bound notebook. The leather was old and cracked. McCabe flipped it open. The pages inside were handwritten in pen on the kind of lined paper one uses in school.

“What is it?” asked McCabe.

“A journal written by my great-­grandfather during the summer of 1924, the last months of his life before he died of cancer. In it he describes the real story of the deaths of both Garrison and Aimée on the island that day.”

“The real story?”

“Yes. Things didn’t happen quite the way we discussed earlier. Garrison did not kill the first Aimée.”

“So it was Edward?”

“Just read what he had to say.”

“Who knows about this journal?” asked McCabe. “Who’s read it?”

“Nobody ever has. Just my grandfather, my great-­aunts Charlotte and Annabelle, my father and myself.”

“Not Deirdre or your daughters? Not anyone else?”

“No. I keep it in my private safe, as did my father and grandfather before him. Deirdre and the girls don’t have the combination. I don’t think they even know of the journal’s existence. I haven’t looked at it myself in several years.”

“And your father and your grandfather also kept it secret?”

“They did. As did Charlotte and Annabelle. A secret handed down within the immediate family.”

“Why keep it such a secret?”

“My great-­grandfather wanted it that way. He wanted us, his and Aimée’s children and grandchildren, to know the real truth of what happened on the island that day. But no one else. Each of us in turn acceded to his wishes. The journal was written twenty years after the event, and its author, my great-­grandfather, was dying as he wrote it.”

McCabe flipped the pages. “Why are you breaking with that tradition and allowing me to read it now?”

“Because Aimée’s death has convinced me that burying the truth all these years may have left a curse on this family that can only be expunged by ripping away the curtains and letting in the light.”

“Do you believe in curses?”

“I never have. But after the events of the last three days, Aimée’s death and your accusations about Deirdre, I’m beginning to think they may indeed exist.”

McCabe wasn’t sure how much more he would learn, but he took the old journal. He handed Whitby a business card. “This is my cell phone. Call me if anything occurs to you. Anything that seems important. Anything you want to discuss privately.”

Whitby slipped the card into his jacket pocket, crossed the Prom and entered his house. McCabe watched him go, walking slowly, eyes focused on the ground, the walk of a troubled man.