20
After that visit to the Maynard-King cemetery, Kate felt incredibly relieved to return to the Ocean House, her sanctuary.
She went up to the Tower Suite and took a long, hot shower.
She put on the white robe and walked upstairs from the bedroom into the living room, and she sat on one of the window seats looking south, out toward the lighthouse.
Her finger hurt from where she had pricked it on the rose at Jonathan Tyler’s grave.
Her heart hurt from where it had been broken by Conor.
She looked at her phone, at the photo he had sent her just a short while ago. He had seemed not to realize how upset she would be by the Beauty and the Beast reference. Had he truly not heard what Belinda had said, there in the Harbour Room?
Why would she believe Belinda instead of Conor? But images kept flashing through her mind: Conor and Belinda huddled together on that bench by the harbor, the picture of the blue-eyed baby on Belinda’s phone, the silver ring, her words about him calling her Belle. Him saying he had slept with her.
Slept with her.
It was undeniable that the dark fairy tale somehow played a role in the mess they had found themselves in.
It kept popping up—Belinda’s words, the Cocteau film still—so it had to be significant.
Kate thought of the various interpretations.
She knew the Disney version because when Sam was a little girl and came to spend the weekend with her, or when Kate had gone to her sister’s house to babysit, they had snuggled together on the sofa and watched the animated movie—the tale of Belle and the Beast.
The Cocteau film was avant-garde and certainly a different art form—even, almost, a different story.
Shot in black and white, it was unbearably romantic.
It was dangerous and erotic. Kate found it to be an emotional, most unlikely, love story.
Outwardly, the Beast was frightening, but at heart, he was gentle.
Belle was a delicate beauty, with a caring spirit that led her to see beyond his physical ugliness and fall in love with him. And save him.
Kate had seen the movie many times. She spoke fluent French—studying French and German had been a requirement for her master’s degree in art history—and she found that the French language added to the film’s romance and mystery. Cocteau was a surrealist, and to view his work was to enter a fantasy.
Kate had felt that—and she knew Conor had too—when they had stayed in Cocteau’s room at the Welcome Hotel on the quai in Villefranche-sur-Mer—a pink hotel by the azure Mediterranean.
Conor had planned it, just for her. That first day, they barely got out of bed.
They didn’t want to let go of each other.
The scent of jasmine and bougainvillea was hypnotic, and they fell in and out of sleep until almost midnight when they woke to the glow of moonlight on the harbor.
Then they got up, went out to look for a late supper at one of the cafés on the Quai Courbet.
They stopped in front of the Chapelle Saint-Pierre.
The Romanesque chapel belonged to the Fishermen’s Guild, and in the fifties, Cocteau transformed the walls.
The exterior was wild with color, frescoes, and two unblinking eyes on the top story. The door was ajar.
“Can we go in?” Kate asked Conor.
“Well, the door is open, so . . .” he said, putting his arm around her waist as they walked inside.
It seemed like a magical invitation, that they could enter so late at night. Kate had known, in an abstract way—from her studies—what the interior would hold, but seeing it illuminated at midnight left her breathless.
Cocteau had filled the walls with images, connecting spirituality and art, paintings of angels and archangels and soldiers and ladders to heaven, all dedicated to Saint Julian, the patron saint of fishermen.
The altar was painted in shades of rose; the rear of the chapel shimmered blue and silver, like the moonlight on the water that had wakened them.
It all felt eternal, like a dream. It felt sacred.
“I wish,” Kate whispered.
“What do you wish?” Conor asked, holding her.
“That we could live here, in Villefranche-sur-Mer,” she said. “And come here every day.”
“You’d open a branch of the Woodward-Lathrop gallery right on the harbor. And I’d be a cop. Guess I’d have to learn French, though.”
“I’d teach you,” she said.
They stayed for a few more minutes, then walked outside into the night air.
One café was still open, so they sat at a table by the water.
The half-moon was still up, tracing a silver web on the harbor.
Kate remembered that night now, how she and Conor had held hands and shared a dream.
They had gone back to their room and stayed awake until dawn.
The moon had followed them into sleep. She was sure that one of the reasons they both loved Foggy Night by James Suydam was because it reminded them of the chapel and their moonlit stay at the Welcome.
Thinking about it, with the way they were now, was excruciating.
Kate needed something to do, to get her mind off him.
She thought about how the number 1740 kept coming up, starting with the decal on Suzanne’s truck.
She grabbed her laptop from the low table in front of the fireplace and googled 1740.
First, a page of real estate sites appeared, with properties that had “1740” as their house number:
1740 Pearl Street
1740 Fifth Avenue
1740 Broadway
And so many more. Next, she found a list of world events that had taken place in the year 1740:
The War of the Austrian Succession begins.
Frederick Ii becomes king in Prussia.
The University of Pennsylvania is founded.
Anna Strong, one of the only female members of the Culper Spy Ring in the American Revolution, is born.
George Frideric Handel composes L’Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato, based on two poems by John Milton.
Johann Sebastian Bach begins to lose his sight.
Kate’s mind kept going back to the chapel, how it had felt as if Jean Cocteau and his paintings had blessed her and Conor.
And he was connecting them now, but through that disturbing image from his film.
Kate thought of all the elements from this case swirling together—Belle, the Beast, the film, and the number 1740.
That made her put two things together, and this time she googled 1740, Beauty and the Beast.
She felt a jolt when she saw what came up.
The original fairy tale had been written in 1740 by the French novelist Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve.
The name “Suzanne” jumped out at her. She read about how Villeneuve’s work had inspired many versions.
Eventually the tale became the story that modern readers were most familiar with, adapted by French author Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont.
Villeneuve’s work had its own origins. It had been inspired by ancient Greek stories, including “Cupid and Psyche.” In school, Kate had read that powerful myth about overcoming obstacles to love. Back then, she had never realized that it was connected to Beauty and the Beast, but now she saw it.
Psyche was the name of the boat Conor was investigating on the island.
And Suzanne was the name of the girl so closely connected to Belinda. Was her name coincidence, or had it been chosen very consciously, an homage to the author of the fairy tale and a connection to 1740?
Kate looked at her phone, wondering when Conor would get back to Watch Hill, knowing he needed to hear all this.
And knowing that she needed to sit down with him and hear the whole story of what had happened with Belinda.
She was tired of being stuck with Belinda’s words in her head, with the baby photo emblazoned in her mind.
She heard a knock on the door. Her immediate thought was that Conor had forgotten his key, and she ran downstairs to let him in. Instead of Conor, she saw Miranda Forrest standing there in the hallway.
“Hello, Kate,” Miranda said. “I don’t want to intrude, but I was hoping to have that chat with you.”
“This isn’t a good time,” Kate said.
“Please,” Miranda said. “It’s important.”
Kate hesitated, wanting to get back to reading about 1740.
But she stood aside, letting Miranda enter.
She led her through the foyer and upstairs, past the small gallery of vintage New Yorker covers done by Garrett Price, an artist who had painted with the nearby Mystic Art Association.
They were cheerful depictions of summer and sailing scenes.
She and Conor had found them charming, perfect for the Tower Suite, but now her mind was on darker art, and she barely noticed them.
“What an amazing view,” Miranda said when they reached the living room. She walked from window to window, surveying the vista of three states. Then she looked up at the tall spiral staircase leading another full story up to the Crow’s Nest.
“Bernard and I were wondering what it was like up here,” Miranda said. “It must be the most romantic spot in the hotel . . .” Then as if she realized how that must affect Kate, she touched Kate’s arm. “I’m sorry for saying that. I don’t want to bring up something hurtful.”
“That’s okay,” Kate said. She wanted to rush Miranda through whatever she wanted to say and be alone again, to get back to her reading—and waiting for Conor. But Miranda just stood there, saying nothing.
“Thanks for having me here this weekend,” Miranda said. “I’ve always wanted to see what the Ocean House was like inside—especially up here in the tower.”
“Well, you’re Bernard’s date,” Kate said.
“Yes,” Miranda said. “It wasn’t easy, engineering that.”
Kate tilted her head at the odd statement. “But you’re his girlfriend,” she said.
Miranda paused. “That’s a recent development.”
“Okay,” Kate said, waiting for her to say more.
“Did you open my gift?” Miranda asked.
“No,” Kate said. She had forgotten about it until that minute. She glanced at the dining table, where the box sat unopened.
“Could you do that now?” Miranda asked with an anxious edge to her voice.
Kate figured she might as well open it, to send Miranda on her way.
The two of them sat at the table. A door opened to a terrace overlooking the beach.
Kate didn’t want to look down there, to see the Independence Day Beach Ball being set up.
She and Conor had been looking forward to it—it was going to be the last chance to gather with their wedding guests.
She picked up the small square box, untied the blue ribbon, and ripped the yellow wrapping paper. When she lifted the lid, she saw a thin, tiny silver ring on a bed of white cotton.
“What’s this?” Kate asked.
“Don’t you recognize it?” Miranda asked.
Kate stared at the object and realized it was a piece of wire, twisted at the ends to make a ring. She knew exactly where she had seen it before.
“A child’s wedding ring,” Miranda said. “Something a little boy might have made for a little girl.”
“Belinda’s,” Kate said, raising her eyes to look at Miranda. “The one Conor gave her.”
Miranda nodded.
“How did you get it?”
“I took it off her finger while she was sleeping,” Miranda said.
Kate’s mind was spinning. “But why? How did you get close enough to her to do that?”
“She’s my cousin, Kate. She’s the whole reason I found a way to meet Bernard. Just like she found a way to meet Garrett. She and I both really needed to come to your wedding.” She paused. “For different reasons.”
“Why?” Kate asked, shocked.
“Belinda, because she’s obsessed with Conor. Me, because I was afraid of what she would do,” Miranda said. “I wanted to stop her.”
“From telling me about her and Conor?” Kate asked.
“No, Kate,” Miranda said. “From killing you.”