current won’t be our problem.”
“The explosives have been planted. When you turn on the radio to call for help, you’ll have forty seconds to jump. Will that be enough?”
“Much more than I’ll need. Helen can’t go with me, not now. We’ll have to risk someone seeing her.” Stephen didn’t elaborate, nor did Paul ask. Her shock alone would be reason enough.
Stephen waited until Elizabeth joined them before spreading a Maine road map on the table. He pointed to a crossroads a few miles from the ocean. “I’ll meet Elizabeth and Helen here one hour after the yacht explodes.”
“I’m not going until you agree to two things,” Helen said, walking stiffly into the room. Stephen looked up from the map, surprised by her presence and the resolve of her tone. “I won’t go unless you agree to have someone tell Hillary the truth—about how her father died and about us.”
Stephen glanced at Elizabeth who nodded her approval. “All right,” Stephen replied.
“And I want her supported until she can live on her own. I’ll pay for it.”
“I’ll make the arrangements for her care,” Paul said. “And let me provide the support. It will arouse too much suspicion if the money came from your estate.”
“That will do,” Helen said and looked down at the map. “Someone should see us—both of us—go out to the boat, shouldn’t they?” she asked in a soft voice as if her demands had depleted most of her strength.
“It would be a good idea,” Dick said and added, “The sheriff should get Helen’s statement first. Otherwise there will be too many questions about the accident.” Dick turned to his niece. “Will you be up to giving one tomorrow?” Helen nodded and Elizabeth added one more suggestion.
As he sat and schemed with the others, Dick found himself enjoying the plotting. It took his mind off the day’s tragedy, and as he watched Helen fighting her lethargy, he thought that, given time, she would be all right.
The sheriff talked to Helen the next afternoon. She sat composed and thoughtful, looking far younger than her years in a dark green sundress. She answered the questions evenly, shuddering only when she lied about how she’d discovered the body. Afterward the sheriff took her and Stephen around to the dock. He gave them a friendly warning about the current close to shore and watched them row to the yacht before driving away. Had he stayed he might have seen the yacht veer close to the cliff beneath the Stoddard beach house so Helen could swim to shore where Elizabeth was waiting to help her make the difficult climb up to the deck.
Then the two women sat, their minds merged and separated from their bodies, following Stephen’s progress north from the bay. An hour after dark, they broke with him and drove to the rendezvous in Stephen’s car. No one had seen it so no one missed it.
Minutes after they’d turned onto the main road, the Coast Guard received a frantic Mayday from the Stoddard yacht. The crew of their cutter saw the explosion four miles out.
The bodies were never found.
The deaths of Stephen Austra, one of the foremost glass artists of the twentieth century, and Helen Wells, a promising young painter from Ohio, made news across the world. No pictures ran with the stories because there were none to print. Their obituaries even made the front page in the Cleveland morning paper. That afternoon, it was moved to page two to make way for a second auspicious death. Vincent Carrera had died of a cerebral hemorrhage a few hours after returning to Cleveland from his meetings in New York.
His last act had been to hang the Helen Wells painting in his office on the wall facing his desk. “The sand and the sky remind me of the hills in Sardinia,” he told his son. “A man should always remember where he comes from.”
II
Carol Wells cried at her cousin’s service and later, harder, after she heard a workman had come from AustraGlass to repair last summer’s damage to
“The explosives have been planted. When you turn on the radio to call for help, you’ll have forty seconds to jump. Will that be enough?”
“Much more than I’ll need. Helen can’t go with me, not now. We’ll have to risk someone seeing her.” Stephen didn’t elaborate, nor did Paul ask. Her shock alone would be reason enough.
Stephen waited until Elizabeth joined them before spreading a Maine road map on the table. He pointed to a crossroads a few miles from the ocean. “I’ll meet Elizabeth and Helen here one hour after the yacht explodes.”
“I’m not going until you agree to two things,” Helen said, walking stiffly into the room. Stephen looked up from the map, surprised by her presence and the resolve of her tone. “I won’t go unless you agree to have someone tell Hillary the truth—about how her father died and about us.”
Stephen glanced at Elizabeth who nodded her approval. “All right,” Stephen replied.
“And I want her supported until she can live on her own. I’ll pay for it.”
“I’ll make the arrangements for her care,” Paul said. “And let me provide the support. It will arouse too much suspicion if the money came from your estate.”
“That will do,” Helen said and looked down at the map. “Someone should see us—both of us—go out to the boat, shouldn’t they?” she asked in a soft voice as if her demands had depleted most of her strength.
“It would be a good idea,” Dick said and added, “The sheriff should get Helen’s statement first. Otherwise there will be too many questions about the accident.” Dick turned to his niece. “Will you be up to giving one tomorrow?” Helen nodded and Elizabeth added one more suggestion.
As he sat and schemed with the others, Dick found himself enjoying the plotting. It took his mind off the day’s tragedy, and as he watched Helen fighting her lethargy, he thought that, given time, she would be all right.
The sheriff talked to Helen the next afternoon. She sat composed and thoughtful, looking far younger than her years in a dark green sundress. She answered the questions evenly, shuddering only when she lied about how she’d discovered the body. Afterward the sheriff took her and Stephen around to the dock. He gave them a friendly warning about the current close to shore and watched them row to the yacht before driving away. Had he stayed he might have seen the yacht veer close to the cliff beneath the Stoddard beach house so Helen could swim to shore where Elizabeth was waiting to help her make the difficult climb up to the deck.
Then the two women sat, their minds merged and separated from their bodies, following Stephen’s progress north from the bay. An hour after dark, they broke with him and drove to the rendezvous in Stephen’s car. No one had seen it so no one missed it.
Minutes after they’d turned onto the main road, the Coast Guard received a frantic Mayday from the Stoddard yacht. The crew of their cutter saw the explosion four miles out.
The bodies were never found.
The deaths of Stephen Austra, one of the foremost glass artists of the twentieth century, and Helen Wells, a promising young painter from Ohio, made news across the world. No pictures ran with the stories because there were none to print. Their obituaries even made the front page in the Cleveland morning paper. That afternoon, it was moved to page two to make way for a second auspicious death. Vincent Carrera had died of a cerebral hemorrhage a few hours after returning to Cleveland from his meetings in New York.
His last act had been to hang the Helen Wells painting in his office on the wall facing his desk. “The sand and the sky remind me of the hills in Sardinia,” he told his son. “A man should always remember where he comes from.”
II
Carol Wells cried at her cousin’s service and later, harder, after she heard a workman had come from AustraGlass to repair last summer’s damage to
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