Elin Hilderbrand - Nantucket Nights

She followed Paul Henry down the dim hallway to his office. Paul Henry sat down behind a kidney-shaped desk. Kayla collapsed in a needlepoint chair while Paul Henry opened a manila file folder. He read. Kayla studied the photographs on his desk- his wife, Carla, their kids, a grandchild. Kayla studied his hands-he wore a gold wedding band. Raoul never wore his wedding ring because when he built houses it could catch on something. Instead, he kept it in a plain white box in his sock drawer. A lonely gold band with her name inscribed inside and their wedding date, June 1, 1981.

Kayla looked expectantly at Paul Henry.

“I have to tell you, Kayla, I called the woman’s daughter yesterday. Told her who I was. She hung up on me, and I haven’t had any luck reaching her again.”

“Okay.”

Paul Henry took a small notepad and copied something from the file. Like a doctor writing down the diagnosis of a terminal disease, Kayla thought. He slid the paper across the desk. Kayla was afraid to look at it. “Can’t you just tell me?”

Paul Henry put down his pen. “Ms. Riley is living on Martha’s Vineyard.”

“She’s alive?” Kayla’s stomach dropped; she started to sweat. “For the love of God, Paul, she’s alive? Living on the Vineyard? Are you sure?”

“Detective Simpson was conducting the missing persons, and he subpoenaed pertinent information from Valerie Gluckstern’s office.”

“What kind of information?”

“Information about Ms. Riley’s assets. Back when this whole situation started, John Gluckstern told us that his wife had convinced Ms. Riley to take her assets out of Nantucket Bank and invest them with a broker in London.”

“London,” Kayla repeated.

“We finally tracked down the guy in London, and he refused to answer our questions, so we went to his supervisor and what while found out was that the bank has been sending Ms. Riley money to an address on the Vineyard the first of every month… since, well, since September.”

“You’re kidding.” Kayla nearly swooned. She put a hand on Paul Henry’s desk. “Did Val know? Did Val know this whole time that Antoinette was alive?”

“I called Valerie myself and asked her because I couldn’t believe it. She said she merely put Antoinette in contact with the London broker and that she knew nothing of their arrangements.” Paul Henry smoothed his crew cut. “If Valerie knew all along that Ms. Riley “ran away,’ as it were, we can slap some fraud charges on her. Detective Simpson has big hopes for this. I don’t. This police station isn’t set up to handle big cases. I’m just glad Ms. Riley is alive.”

Kayla looked at the piece of paper. “This is Antoinette’s address?”

“Supposedly.”

“What should I do with it?”

Paul Henry shrugged. “Whatever you want. Go see her. Don’t go see her. I guess Detective Simpson was hoping you could give him a positive ID so that he could close the case.” Paul Henry reddened. “You certainly don’t have to do anything for Simpson’s sake. He was awfully rough with you, Kayla. I’m sorry.”

“Val was rough with me. I really can’t believe this. I can’t believe Antoinette is alive. I thought… really, I don’t know what I thought.”

“Well, again, I’m sorry for what happened. I don’t like to see good people, good Nantucketers, take it on the chin like you and Raoul did. And your son.”

Kayla stuffed the paper into her purse. “Okay,” she said. She knew Paul Henry was looking for some sign of forgiveness, but she couldn’t give it to him. She had to get out of there. “Thanks.”

On the way home, Kayla stopped at Hatch’s and bought a six-pack of beer and a five-dollar scratch ticket. Antoinette was alive, on Martha’s Vineyard. Kayla laughed in the check-out line.

Later, she sat at the breakfast bar and drank two beers with her lunch. A cream cheese and grape jelly sandwich and eight Lay’s potato chips. Val had known the whole time. There wasn’t a doubt in Kayla’s mind. She scraped the silver film off her scratch ticket with her thumbnail. Nothing. She used to find old scratch tickets all over Theo’s room. He’d bought them at the Islander Liquor Store, back when he used to hang out with his friends. Back when he was a normal kid. The word that filled Kayla’s mind was outrageous, because at the center of that word was rage. Antoinette is fucking alive. On the fucking Vineyard. And Valerie knew. Now things started to make sense. Val pretended that Antoinette had drowned so no one would suspect otherwise. She threw Kayla to the police to keep the police from investigating any deeper, but she knew Kayla wouldn’t get into any serious trouble because a body would never be found. Kayla had left Great Point for at least half an hour when she went to call the police. There was plenty of time for Antoinette to crawl out of the water and escape. Maybe she’d left her bike somewhere along the way, maybe she rode to Val’s house and hid out there until morning when the ferry left for Martha’s Vineyard, which on Labor Day weekend would have been filled with tourists. Or Antoinette could have taken a motor boat; she knew how to operate one-Kayla remembered the trip to Tuck-ernuck with Theo years before. It mattered very little at this point how Antoinette got to the Vineyard. Once there, she was safe. The Vineyard was the perfect place to hide. It was too close, too obvious, and for these very reasons it was the last place anyone would have looked.

But why, Antoinette? Why run away?

Kayla had to go see for herself.

With the kids at school and Raoul at work on his huge new project, it was easy to slip away the next day. There was one ferry to the Vineyard in the morning, and one ferry home in the afternoon. Kayla was one of three people on the boat. She hunkered down in a window seat and inventoried the damage that Antoinette had caused-Theo’s heart, for starters; Kayla’s good reputation; Kayla and Raoul’s marriage; Kayla and Val’s friendship; Ting. If Kayla did find Antoinette on the Vineyard, what could she possibly say? Only this: You ruined everything. Outrageous.

Martha’s Vineyard was much bigger than Nantucket; it had seven towns to Nantucket’s one. The town of Vineyard Haven, though, had the same slow pace of Nantucket in winter. When Kayla arrived, there was a line of taxis, each with a Christmas wreath tied to the grille, and the drivers were clustered together, warming their hands around cups of coffee. Kayla stood by the passenger door of the first taxi in line until the driver, a man with long, deep lines in his face, tore himself away from the group. He wore jeans, a gray hooded sweatshirt.

“Where you headed?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. The paper said: 52 Painted Rock Road, between Chilmark and Aquinnah. When they climbed into the car, she handed it to the driver.

His face creased into more lines. “Well, I know where Chilmark and Aquinnah are, but I’ve never heard of Painted Rock Road. You sure that’s the right name?”

“No,” Kayla said. “This is just an address someone gave me. A… a friend of mine lives there.”

“I’ve lived here twenty-six years,” the driver said. “Been driving cab fourteen and I have never heard of any Painted Rock Road.”

That sounds like Antoinette, Kayla thought. She was forever stumping the taxi drivers on Nantucket. Even with the address they couldn’t find her house.

“Can you take me out that way?” Kayla asked. “You can drop me off, maybe, and I’ll look for it?”

The driver shrugged. Kayla saw on his license that his name was Eddie.

“Okay,” Eddie said. He shifted his car into gear. “We’ll give it a whirl.”