The Vanishing Expert Read online

  Edward’s assurances were familiar to her by now. But on that morning— that final morning— Gloria remembered that even Edward’s confident tone and his familiar words had done little to diminish her sense of dread.

  Now she knew why.

  “Just be careful,” she’d called out to him as he climbed behind the wheel of his Oldsmobile. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  Edward regarded her with a sly smile. “I’m always careful,” he said cheerfully. “And you’ve always got a bad feeling about it. So everything’s normal.” He waved to her as he eased forward out of the driveway.

  It was the last time she would ever see her husband, and it would always haunt her when she remembered his final parting words to her. “Everything’s normal.” As she sat shivering aboard that Coast Guard cruiser, desperately searching for some sign of him, she was only beginning to realize how very untrue that was. Only later, when her sorrow would inevitably turn to anger, would she consider that his final words to her had been a lie.

  “There!” a voice shouted.

  Gloria was jolted by the voice and she looked up at the crewman who was now pointing at the horizon just slightly to starboard. When she squinted out over the waves in the direction in which he was pointing, she could barely make out the outline of the Chris Craft bobbing on the open water, appearing and vanishing behind the heavy swells.

  As they turned in the direction of the small craft, the wide bow and the men lining the rail obscured her view. Though she considered moving forward to get a better look, something held her back, and she remained seated where she was. She felt a sudden shiver, and she hugged the blanket more tightly around her, rocking involuntarily as they drew closer to the boat.

  She looked only once as they circled it. It was half submerged, waves periodically spilling over the sides, threatening to sink it for good. Even before she saw the license plate on the stern, she recognized it as Edward’s boat, and she could see that Edward was not aboard it. As they pulled alongside it, one of the men hooked the boat and drew it closer so they could pump out the seawater to get it stable for the long tow back to shore. When the sleek wooden hull Edward had cherished since his childhood thumped hollowly against the steel hull of the Coast Guard vessel, Gloria jumped. She sat quietly for a moment, and then quietly vomited over the stern into the dark sea below.

  The memorial service was held the following Saturday at St. Michael’s church in East Greenwich. At the foot of the alter was a small table, upon which was placed an assortment of flowers and an eight-by-ten photograph of Edward, smiling broadly for all those who filed past it to pay their respects, and to find one lasting image of Edward they could cling to. Edward’s cheerful expression gazing back at the congregation lent the proceedings a peculiar mood— uplifting to those dear friends who hoped to remember him as the vibrant young man he’d been, and strangely unsatisfying to the Catholics, who were, frankly, accustomed to seeing a corpse.

  “It’s like he’s laughing at us,” one woman remarked.

  Those who were close to Edward agreed that it would not have been his wish to interfere with anyone’s weekend plans by holding such a dreary event on a Saturday; his own weekends were so precious to him. The larger question that was discussed in hushed voices both before and after the service, was why any service honoring Edward Moody would be held at St. Michael’s, a Catholic church which Edward himself had never attended. He’d never been a religious person. No one who was there that day could remember him ever having set foot in any church except as a guest at a wedding or a funeral. Even then, he never kneeled when the congregation kneeled, and he never prayed when they prayed. He paid his respects, but he always seemed to be biding his time.

  One neighbor even joked that Edward had somehow managed to avoid coming to church for his own funeral. From the framed photograph upon the altar, Edward Moody smiled in response, as if enjoying the joke.

  When they considered it, they all understood that it was Gloria’s decision to hold her husband’s memorial service at St. Michael’s. Since most agreed that the service was more for Gloria than for Edward anyway, they forgave her this one lapse in judgment.

  Edward’s younger sister, Kate, kept to herself at the service. Those who thought to approach her and offer their condolences were greeted with a tired smile, as if she were remembering some private moment she and her brother had once shared, and not the tragedy of his death. Her husband, Kenny, and their friends were all impressed by the strength she displayed, though they couldn’t help but wonder if the poor girl was only masking her grief behind a stoic Yankee shell. For weeks, they watched her, waiting for a sudden uncontrollable gush of emotion that never came.

  The only person who was noticeably absent at the service was Tracy Kendrick, Edward’s dear friend from college, the one friend who had remained close to him when he moved back to Rhode Island after graduation and for all the years since leading up to his tragic death.

  When Tracy learned of Edward’s disappearance, her first reaction was disbelief. She was so convinced that Edward was alive that she chose not to attend the memorial service. She knew it made no sense. She was simply incapable of imagining that Edward, who was so comfortable upon his boat and so fond of the ocean, would ever allow himself to meet his end there. On the day Edward Moody’s family and friends gathered at St. Michael’s to pay their final respects, Tracy sat by the phone in her small apartment, stubbornly waiting for a call that would never come.

  In the days and weeks following the service, Kate spent much of her time with their father at the North Kingstown nursing home where he’d been living since his second stroke. From his two strokes and his bout with Alzheimer’s, Bud Moody’s mind was failing him, and although Kate and Kenny tried to explain to him that Edward was gone, Bud was never quite able to comprehend what they were telling him. Whenever they spoke of him, Bud Moody still imagined Edward as a child. When they mentioned the Chris Craft, his face flooded with delight as he considered spending an afternoon with his young son on the boat.

  “Katy,” he said. “Go get your brother and we’ll go out on the boat.”

  Kate hesitated, her eyes pooling with tears, though it was impossible to know whether those tears were for the tragic loss of her brother or for her father who seemed to be slipping further away with every visit.

  Bud eyed her curiously until he thought he realized his mistake. “It’s okay, Katy,” he reassured her. “You can come, too.”

  At a time when Edward’s family and friends were attempting to come to terms with their grief, and to put the tragedy behind them, Bud Moody’s conviction that his son was still alive— and still a small boy— made the healing process that much more trying. Still, most considered that Bud Moody’s lapses were a kind thing for him, a gift many of them envied, Kate included.

  Growing up, her father had been an imposing figure, a big man who, through the eyes of a child who idolized him, seemed larger still. Kate remembered the size of his hands more than anything, and how, when they walked together, his hand would completely engulf her own. She remembered how safe that had made her feel. Now, when she felt his frail, tentative grasp, she wondered how this could be the same man who raised her and her brother.

  She was ten years old when their mother died, and as both Edward and Kate struggled to understand their loss, Bud Moody was their anchor. He was strong and compassionate, and he did his best to comfort them and to make them feel secure at a time when he himself felt shattered. They had no idea that what little comfort Bud Moody could find in those weeks and months after losing his wife he drew from his children.

  Kate knew her father always tried to understand her, but it was always painfully obvious that he had trouble relating to a daughter. He did his best to give her what she needed, but as she ventured into adolescence, it became clear that what she needed most was a woman’s guidance. Bud often invited his sister, Gin, to the house, usually on the pretense of a friendly visit. B
ut Kate noticed even then that Auntie Gin always seemed to arrive whenever Kate was facing a crisis that her father felt ill prepared to deal with. Without fail, after spending time with the family, Auntie Gin would manage to discreetly escort Kate away to some isolated spot where they could be alone to speak freely about anything Kate might have on her mind. It was from Auntie Gin that Kate learned all the things her mother never had the opportunity to teach her.

  Gin was generous with her counsel and unswervingly open and honest with her opinions, her blunt advice sometimes difficult for Kate to hear. She never avoided Kate’s questions, and she never tried to soft-peddle an answer when a direct response was called for. As a result, Kate would seek out her guidance frequently as she grew older; by the time she was in high school, she found she’d grown closer to Aunt Gin than she was to her own father.

  Still, she would have gladly traded places with her brother. Edward always seemed to have their father’s attention, whether it was working or cruising on the Chris Craft or throwing a baseball in the back yard. There was a bond between the two of them— between father and son— that she would never know, and it was not so much that she resented their connection as she felt she’d been cheated out of such a relationship by her mother’s death.

  It seemed all the more ironic now that it was she who was left to care for their father, to help feed him and dress him and even assist in changing his soiled sheets. If she resented that it had all fallen upon her, and at times it was difficult not to, she tried not to let it show. To all those around her, she seemed to bear up well to her latest tragedy, and to do what was expected of her. That was Kate’s position in life, she thought— to always do what was expected of her.

  Gloria Moody’s troubles seemed only to begin with the loss of her husband. As she went through his belongings, attempting to put her affairs in some sort of order, she discovered the grim truth of the life she’d shared with her husband, and the even darker realization of that with which she was left.

  There were secrets Edward had kept from her about their finances. Or perhaps he’d tried to tell her, and she chose not to hear. There was the mortgage, which was two months behind. There were the letters from the IRS demanding payment of delinquent taxes. There was the stack of bills left unpaid in a drawer of his desk. Piece by piece, she found it all, until she was finally overcome by the suffocating reality that she had no means by which to resolve any of it. Her only recourse lay in the life insurance settlement, with which she could pay their outstanding debts and keep up with the mortgage for a time, and after which, she would be left with almost nothing. She added the figures, over and over again, coming each time to the same conclusion.

  The only thing of any value that they owned outright was Edward’s beloved boat. Although Edward left everything to Gloria, he specifically left the boat to Kate, knowing that was the only way to ensure that it remained in the family. His dear, grieving wife, he correctly assumed, would only sell it. She never shared his passion for it, certainly not now that it had been, quite literally, the vehicle of his demise. Gloria wanted to be rid of it for good, and selling it would help her to pay some of her more pressing debts.

  But it was as if Edward had foreseen it all. In digging deeper into the mystery her husband had left behind, Gloria discovered that Edward had sold half the rights to the boat to Kate a year earlier for one dollar in order to ensure that no one could ever challenge her claim upon it. In his will, he left his remaining half-share to Kate. Until Gloria stumbled across the bill of sale after Edward’s death, it was an agreement only Edward and Kate knew about. It might upset Gloria one day, Edward knew, but it gave him comfort knowing the fate of the boat was settled for certain, and for good.

  It was, as Gloria would discover, the only issue in Edward’s life that he’d bothered to settle. As she sorted through what remained of the life that was left her, she often wondered to herself where the money had gone. The delinquent bills, the unpaid mortgage, the back taxes— it was all so unlike him. He’d always been so meticulous in his record keeping, and almost obsessive about paying his bills on time. At least, that was what she believed. It made no sense. And yet each receipt, each unopened letter, each scrap of paper only served to add to the mystery and to the revelation of how dire her situation had become.

  Over time, she began to resent Edward, not so much for the financial situation she found herself in, but more for being so careless as to die, leaving it all to her to resolve on her own.

  2

  Love And Work

  At the age of fifty-two, Peter Langston was a large man, closely resembling his father. Peter had played football in high school, when he’d been fit and powerfully built. Now his barrel chest and his round belly consumed the athlete he’d once been. His arms broad shoulders and muscular arms came from years of hauling lumber and from clinging to ladders and Maine’s typically steep-pitched roofs, and his enormous hands wrapped around every tool, engulfing them as if they were children’s toys. His neck was thick and his big head was covered with a full crop of wavy brown hair that seemed forever in need of a trim. When he smiled, which he did often and easily, his eyes narrowed and his white teeth emerged from behind his thick brown beard— now laced with flecks of gray— like sunlight breaking through a dense Maine fog.

  Just as his father had been before him, Peter Langston was a well-established contractor in Bar Harbor, Maine. He was considered a craftsman— one of the last— and he was in great demand by both the locals and the summer people. During the warmer months, which were few and unpredictable on the Maine coast, he occasionally accepted some exterior work, mostly siding and roofing, though he now only accepted those jobs as favors for friends.

  "It's young man's work," he proclaimed. "And I haven't been one of those for a long time."

  Had Peter Langston simply come out and proclaimed that he was a craftsman and above such work, no one would have argued. But Peter would never disparage any aspect of his trade, even if in his heart, he knew it to be true.

  "It's not beneath me," he once replied to that suggestion. "It's just behind me."

  The winter was, by far, his busiest season for interior renovations when the many big homes and inns, along with those businesses that catered primarily to the tourists, stood vacant. There were always a handful of kitchens to remodel and several old homes in need of restoration, and Peter Langston always seemed to have his pick of those jobs. Those who would be staying on the island throughout the winter preferred to put off such inconvenient renovations until after Christmas, but there were enough seasonal residents whose homes would be empty before the first snowfall that there was plenty of work to keep him busy through the end of the year.

  Peter Langston could easily have built his business into a large operation. He could have supported twenty men and owned a fleet of trucks and equipment with all the work that was offered him. But growing his business didn’t interest him. He didn’t like taking on a project that he couldn’t work himself. He wouldn’t feel comfortable taking on a job, particularly from a neighbor, only to delegate it to someone else. It simply wasn’t in his nature to consider having others do his work for him. And so he kept his operation small, usually just himself and one or two local boys who worked at his side, which meant he had to turn away far more jobs than he accepted.

  He had a habit of hiring local boys after his own boys were grown and gone. He hired the sons and nephews of his friends and neighbors, often as favors, and he gave them good hands-on experience. But Peter worked hard and at an almost frenzied pace, and many of the boys quickly tired of the job, finding it impossible to keep up with him. Over time, as that reputation spread throughout Mount Desert Island, it became more difficult for Peter Langston to find help from the local boys for anything more than a few months, which made his own job infinitely more difficult.

  In the spring of 1990, he hired Mitch Blanchette, a local boy who seemed to show both an interest in and a talent for the trade. Pe
ter imagined that he’d finally found an apprentice, someone to whom he could impart his wisdom, and eventually pass on the business. He spent all summer working with Mitch, and never knowing until just before Labor Day that the boy was planning to leave him to go to the University. Mitch broke the news over lunch on a Wednesday, and by the following Monday, he was gone. Peter felt betrayed, though he was more hurt than angry. That Mitch left him just as he was about to begin a sizeable restoration of a house on Eden Street followed by an off-season remodel of Jean Berkhardt’s gallery on Mount Desert Street concerned him greatly, and he set himself to the task of finding an assistant he could train quickly, someone he could rely on.

  His wife, Annie, smiled at Peter over the evening meal on the night Mitch Blanchette gave his notice. “I don’t know who you’re gonna find,” she told her husband. “You’ve gone through every able body on the island. You work them too hard.”

  “I’ll find somebody,” Peter grumbled. “But no more kids! They’re not reliable. They have no loyalty.”

  “Well, you’re gonna have to bring somebody in from outside, then,” Annie told him. “Somebody who doesn’t know you.”

  Peter smiled at his wife, a big, broad toothy smile.

  It was of no fault of his own that Peter Langston worked so vigorously. His father had instilled in him a good Yankee work ethic. “A day’s work for a day’s pay,” he liked to say until Peter often heard the words echoing in his brain as he drifted off to sleep each night.

  His father, Daniel Langston, was the only man Peter had ever known who could work harder and faster than he could. Daniel Langston was a true craftsman, and he poured himself into his work with a joy which Peter learned early on came only from the perfection of one’s craft and a hard-nosed Yankee resolve to seeing a job through to the end.