41 #3
Sam leaned closer to the wall so she could see faces in the photos.
Right away, she recognized Crispin Adams at the helm of a big sailboat.
There he was again, wearing black tie and holding a martini glass right here in the garden at Enchanted Petals.
Lincoln and Maeve were also dressed in formal clothes, sitting with Suzanne; Sam’s stomach dropped at the sight of them.
“Maeve really did lie,” Sam said quietly, staring. “She told us she’d never met Suzanne before she hired her to do the calligraphy for Kate and Conor’s wedding.”
“They’ve known each other since childhood,” Jennifer said. “They were always at the hospital.”
“As patients?”
“Not all three of them. Lincoln was there because his family still owns this property. The Adamses would come to picnics and things like that. Lincoln would play with us kids, the ones who lived here. Some of the girls had crushes on him. And for a while, his father was interested in Belinda.”
“Was Maeve in the hospital?” Sam asked.
“She was here,” Jennifer said. “Best friends with Suzanne. We called them the ‘BPD twins.’”
“Why?”
“They both have BPD—borderline personality disorder.”
“What is that?” Sam asked.
“It’s nasty,” Jennifer said. “Fear of abandonment, extreme emotions, intense anger, doing anything to keep people from leaving them.”
Sam thought of Belinda—the scene she had caused at the rehearsal dinner, stealing Kate’s wedding dress, smashing the painting: the lengths she had gone to, to keep Conor from marrying Kate.
“Maybe Suzanne inherited BPD from Belinda,” Sam said.
“How would that happen?” Jennifer asked, frowning.
“Because they’re mother and daughter . . .” Sam began, but she gasped and forgot everything she was about to say. Sam stared at a photo of smiling people sitting on the Ocean House verandah: Mike and Anne Reid, Nola and Edward Aldrich, Leo Kennedy, and a woman Sam didn’t recognize.
“Oh my god,” Sam said.
“What’s wrong?” Jennifer asked.
“It’s impossible,” Sam said. “They can’t be involved . . . Why is their picture here?”
“I told you—a lot of these people are just donors or board members. Which photo?”
Sam’s hand was shaking as she pointed at the photo of Uncle Mike and Aunt Anne, and the four others.
Jennifer laughed. “Oh, interesting.”
“Why? Do you know them?”
“Of course,” Jennifer said. “I’m always a server at the dinners for the board and the donors. That’s Mr. and Mrs. Reid, Mr. and Mrs. Aldrich, Darla Vandeveer, and good old Leo.”
“You know Leo Kennedy?” Sam asked.
Jennifer nodded. “Oh yes. He’s not just a donor. He’s a regular here. Pure 1740. Look at him, playing up to everyone with my therapist.”
“Your therapist?”
“Yes, the one I told you about,” Jennifer said. “The trainer, who teaches the girls to become Belles. Belles for 1740. That’s her.”
Sam stared at Darla Vandeveer, the only person in the photo whom she hadn’t met; she tried to see evil in her face, but she couldn’t.
She saw an attractive woman with a big smile, who looked very happy to be at the Ocean House.
And she tried to imagine how the people she cared about—the Old Detectives who were helping to find Belinda’s murderer—had come to trust Leo Kennedy and Darla Vandeveer.
Jennifer had a walkie-talkie on her belt. It had been crackling now and then, since she and Sam had made their escape from Maynard-King, but now it squawked with a transmission so loud, they both jumped.
“The bride and Girl #3 are in the FS,” the voice said. “Reception to follow.”
“The bride?” Sam asked. The only person who had been about to be a bride was Kate.
“‘Reception to follow’ means they’ve got something planned for her,” Jennifer said.
“What’s the FS?”
“The Finishing School—it’s a classroom in the second building, where most of the training takes place.”
“If they have Kate there, we have to go back,” Sam said, tugging on Jennifer’s hand.
“That’s crazy, Sam,” Jennifer said. “They are already on high alert, looking for you. ‘Reception’ is a code word for a meeting. They’re moving up their timetable with Caroline. If we go back, they’ll get us too.”
“Is Darla your therapist?” Sam asked.
“Of course. She’s a huge part of it,” Jennifer said.
“Let’s go! I can’t leave Kate to Darla,” Sam said.
“What?” Jennifer asked. “What do you care about Darla?”
“Your psychologist, the one who was trying to groom you. The trainer!” Sam said. “Come on, we’ve got to get there!”
“You have it wrong,” Jennifer said, but she ran with Sam to the ATV and began driving toward the access road, on the way to Maynard-King.
Tuesday, July 6; 6:00 p.m.
Kate sat beside Caroline, still tethered to the younger woman. Darla Vandeveer had gone in and out of the office several times, speaking in a low voice to someone just outside the door, then returning.
“The reception is about to start,” Darla said, smiling at Kate and Caroline. “Are there any food allergies? Or particular dislikes? I’ll take the liberty of ordering for you.”
Kate was struck by the absurdity of the situation: sitting in an elegantly appointed room that felt more like a boudoir than a classroom, handcuffed to a terrified young woman she had just met, with a stranger taking her food order and seeming to be concerned about her food preferences.
Kindness and normalcy met the cruel and surreal.
“I don’t want anything,” Kate said. “Except to be let go. Now.”
Darla laughed. “But of course you must eat! We can’t have you losing your strength. Kate, you pose the most challenging dilemma.”
Kate gave her a defiant look. “I’m sure you’ll tell me how.”
“Just, what do we do with you?”
“You will let me go. And Caroline too.”
The classroom door opened, and Suzanne walked in carrying a bottle of champagne and an ice bucket.
She placed them on the desk in front of Darla, then went to a cabinet where she removed three champagne flutes.
Kate watched as she presented the champagne bottle to Darla for her approval, then expertly opened and poured it.
“Very good, Suzanne,” Darla said. “I remember the first time you opened champagne. The cork flew across the room, and the wine bubbled all over the table.”
Suzanne laughed. “Give me a little credit. I was awfully young.”
Kate watched Suzanne fill the glasses, wondering why Belinda hadn’t protected her daughter more.
The champagne was Taittinger Brut Rosé, and it fizzed with tiny pink stars in the late-afternoon light.
Suzanne had pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and those blue eyes that had struck Kate when she had first seen them—they had reminded her of Conor.
“You’re staring at me,” Suzanne said, glancing at Kate.
“Yes,” Kate said.
“You want to know if Conor is my father, right?” Suzanne asked.
“I know that Belinda planted that seed in your head,” Kate said. “You were there at the rehearsal dinner when she caused that scene.”
“Yes, I was there,” Suzanne said. “So aren’t you curious?”
“Not at all,” Kate said. “I know it’s not Conor. Belinda was a liar, a very troubled soul. She was just stirring things up.”
“Don’t say that about Belle,” Suzanne said. She was gripping the neck of the champagne bottle tightly, and Kate flinched because she felt Suzanne wanting to swing it at her.
“Your mother, you mean?” Kate asked, and Suzanne laughed.
“Come now, ladies,” Darla said. “Let’s stop the squabbling and drink our champagne . . . We have things to discuss. Food is coming, along with a treat.”
The door opened again, and Maeve walked in carrying a silver tray filled with canapés—foie gras on toast points, smoked salmon on brown bread, crabmeat-stuffed mushrooms, and a bowl overflowing with artistically arranged crudités.
“Very good, Maeve,” Kate said. “Just like at my gallery. You were always so adept at planning receptions for exhibition openings. People always wanted to buy the paintings after you’d warmed them up with food and drink.”
“I learned here, Kate. I was well trained,” Maeve said.
“Did you hear what she said?” Suzanne asked Maeve. “She called Belle my mother.”
“Enough of this,” Darla said. “Kate, we have a surprise for you. Relax for a moment, and Maeve will get it.”
“Oh, come on,” Suzanne said, sounding exasperated.
“I’ve had enough surprises,” Kate said. She stared at Maeve and felt an ache in her heart.
She had really cared for—even loved—this young woman.
She had considered herself Maeve’s mentor, and she had felt an almost familiar bond with her.
Now, looking into Maeve’s eyes, she felt as if she had never known her at all.
“You look sad, Kate,” Maeve said.
“I am,” Kate said.
“About your wedding?”
“Right now, I’m sad about you,” Kate said.
“Why?”
“Because you’re someone I loved and thought I could trust,” Kate said.
“Boo-hoo,” Suzanne said. “Hear that, Maeve? She feels so sad for herself that you betrayed her.”
“No, not for me. I’m sad for Maeve,” Kate continued.
“Why?” Maeve asked.
But Kate just stared at her, saying nothing.
“Silent communication,” Suzanne said. “How meaningful. This is getting a bit too fraught for me.”
“Maeve, would you like to get the surprise for Kate?” Darla asked again.
Without another word, Maeve went to a closet across the room. Caroline was sitting very still beside Kate but lightly nudged one of Kate’s feet with hers. Kate glanced down and saw that Caroline was very discreetly pointing toward the window.
The view from the classroom was of the long lawn sloping down toward Narragansett Bay.
There were clusters of trees, but the blue water was visible through branches and leaves.
As Kate gazed out the window, she saw Sam’s head pop up.
Their eyes met, and Kate caught her breath.
She tried not to give anything away, terrified that Sam could get caught.
Maeve now turned from the closet, holding a large rectangular-shaped object covered with a sheet. Kate noticed that Maeve had an odd expression in her eyes—not quite triumph, not quite pride, but a combination of both. She stood in front of Kate.