Finding Mrs. Ford Read online

  Advance Praise for

  Finding Mrs. Ford

  “In this absorbing debut, Deborah Goodrich Royce takes readers on a twisty, mesmerizing journey between the rarefied world of Watch Hill, Rhode Island and the warring gangsters of 1970s suburban Detroit, as a grieving widow is forced to confront the consequences of a fateful summer thirty-five years earlier. Brimming with vivid characters and emotional insight, Finding Mrs. Ford tackles big themes of identity, friendship, and loss, spinning out the suspense right to the last page. A total triumph.”

  —Beatriz Williams, New York Times bestselling author of

  The Summer Wives

  “In her literary debut, Deborah Goodrich Royce has given us the sort of thriller that wants to be devoured in one sitting. Written from start to finish with crisp and poignant prose, compelling characters and setting, Finding Mrs. Ford entertains as much with imagery as with its masterful plot twists. I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Jeanne McWilliams Blasberg, author of Eden and The Nine

  “Deborah Royce’s first novel, Finding Mrs. Ford is a treat—an exquisitely written literary thriller that compels the reader forward right to the last page and makes one hope she is writing a second and a third novel.”

  —Patricia Chadwick, author of Little Sister: A Memoir

  A POST HILL PRESS BOOK

  Finding Mrs. Ford

  © 2019 by Deborah Goodrich Royce

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-64293-172-3

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-64293-173-0

  Cover art by Cassandra Tai-Marcellini and Becky Ford

  Interior design and composition by Greg Johnson/Textbook Perfect

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  “Last Dance”

  Words and Music by Paul Jabara

  Copyright © 1977 EMI Blackwood Music Inc. and Olga Music

  Copyright Renewed

  All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC,

  424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville TN 37219

  International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved.

  Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard LLC

  Post Hill Press

  New York • Nashville

  posthillpress.com

  Published in the United States of America

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

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  22

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  25

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  33

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  36

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  40

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  42

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  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

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  52

  53

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  72

  73

  Acknowledgments

  To Kathy and Earl, Chuck,

  Alexandra, and Tess—

  thank you for inspiration

  past, present, and abiding.

  FINDING MRS. FORD

  Susan

  “The most important thing about a person

  is always the thing you don’t know.”

  —The Lacuna, Barbara Kingsolver

  1

  Thursday, August 7, 2014

  Watch Hill, Rhode Island

  A single gunshot cracks the air.

  Seagulls flutter and levitate above the sand as Mrs. Ford’s dogs rise, barking. She, too, jumps just a little in her Adirondack chair and her feet lose their perch on the seawall. The echo reverberates across the sea and back to her at its edge. Mrs. Ford reaches down to pat the dogs.

  Sound dissipates. Birds land. Dogs settle.

  She doesn’t know why she startles every time this happens. She should know better. She does know better. This is the eight-a.m. shot signaling the raising of the flag at the Watch Hill Yacht Club, a short distance from her house. But even after all these years, she is rattled by the sound of gunfire.

  Before her is the lighthouse at the tip of the peninsula. Its lawn slopes back from verdant green to jagged rocks as it rises to meet the mound that gives Watch Hill its name. From this lookout, Americans kept vigil for English vessels in the War of 1812.

  Lighthouse Point, nearly surrounded by water, is the place from which both Atlantic Ocean and Long Island Sound are visible. It is where they meet in a cocktail of currents that, with some frequency, foils even the strongest swimmer. It is the end of the peninsula, the end of the line. Next stop: water. From here, all lands are reachable. Aim the bow of your ship east, you’ll eventually hit Europe; aim it southeast, Africa. Keep going, and you’ll circumnavigate the globe.

  It is an early summer morning. Watch Hill is a summer town. Built by the summer people for the summer people. They came from Cincinnati, St. Louis, Detroit, these people, titans of industry from the Midwest, to Rhode Island to build their retreats, fifteen-bedroom “cottages” on this narrow spit of land. Not to Newport, Watch Hill’s famous cousin to the east. Some say it was because many of them were Catholic and Newport would not welcome them. Whatever their reasons, they came. They came in the Victorian age, the Edwardian age, the turn of the last century.

  Mrs. Ford is an example of those who come to Watch Hill still. She smiles to herself when she thinks of the lapel buttons that circulate in Watch Hill among the cognoscenti. Every summer they reappear, although she does not know who makes them. I Am Watch Hill one of them states. I Married Watch Hill announces another. In recent years, the Millennials have added a new twist—I Partied Watch Hill. Everyone knows who is who. The buttons aren’t really necessary, but they serve to amuse. Mrs. Ford knows where she fits in in this button order.

  The sun bounces back from the straight line of gold it casts across the bay from its low angle to her left, catching a few pale strands of hair that have escaped from her ponytail, and deepening the lines around her eyes. Mrs. Ford, whose age is somewhere in the middle years, is dressed in white jeans and dark glasses, a striped fisherman’s shirt, and Keds—tribal costume of the natives.

  She inhales deeply, willing the return of her equilibrium. She smells the beach roses that separate her lawn from her neighbor’s, the salt of the sea, the coffee in the mug that rests on the arm of her chair. She sees her dogs sitting at her feet, patiently waiting for her to finish this morning ritual of quiet contemplation before they begin the routine much dearer to their hearts: the morning walk.
With one hand, she reaches down to touch them, one sweet little doggy body after the other. She lingers there for the comfort the feel of them gives her.

  Showtime.

  She grabs the double lead and attaches it to her Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, but not before kneeling down to bury her face in their red and white spotted fur. They will always smell like puppies to her—sweet, salty, milky—no matter how old they get. She submits to their kisses, laughs, and gets up. She leaves her coffee and heads toward the porte-cochère of the gatehouse that marks the edge of her property.

  The proscenium arch of this entrance creates an irresistible invitation for passersby all summer long. The tourists can’t help themselves. Looking through the porte-cochère at the roses, the lighthouse and the sea, centered so perfectly, people wander through it, like entering the frame of a painting, to take a photograph. These trespassers alarmed her when she first came here, when she married Jack and began to spend her summers in Watch Hill. She still doesn’t like finding strangers on her land, but she has come to accept the fact of them.

  This morning, it is still too early for tourists. She steps out of her driveway and, as is her custom, is about to turn to the right. She almost does not see the car, non-descript, late-model American, parked to the left of her house. She starts off, the dogs are pulling her, but something makes her freeze. Some old fighter’s instinct, nearly buried by years of comfort, but not quite dead.

  She stops. She turns back. She considers the car.

  A Crown Victoria?

  The sun glints off of its windshield—mirroring back an image of the scene she already knows—the green of the trees, the blue of the sky, the silent glide of a lone, white gull. A place for everything and everything in its place.

  Once again on this perfect summer day, she has conjured past ghosts come to haunt her. Deliberately, she shakes off her nerves and slackens her grip on the dogs that she has been holding back. She turns to begin her walk.

  The car shifts into gear and rolls after her.

  Mrs. Ford sets off at a brisk pace past Lighthouse Road. She rounds the bend and nods to the security guards who protect the pop star who lives in the old Harkness House. From the days when Mrs. Harkness invited her ballet dancers to practice here to now, when the pop star has her celebrity friends visit, that house has always attracted attention. Too much attention, she thinks. She also considers where the pop star would fit on those little Watch Hill buttons. No category for her, she muses.

  She nears the Ocean House Hotel and pauses to take in its yellow clapboard, just now absorbing and reflecting back the morning sun. The mass of it, invisible until she clears a stand of trees and is almost upon it, never fails to surprise her. She continues along Niantic Avenue, pulling her dogs back from flattened frog bodies—frogs that should have stayed in the reeds and off the road the night before when their adventurousness betrayed them.

  She doubles back on Ninigret, past the shingle houses, the turn-of-the-century cottages built for those captains of industry, long since gone from this seaside paradise. She follows Watch Hill Road to Bay Street to complete her circle.

  The Crown Vic cruises several car lengths behind her. It is hard to tell if the car is following her or if the driver is simply lost. Though the summer people of Watch Hill are not disposed to ostentatious vehicles, a Crown Victoria would not be typical. It could belong to a day-tripper in search of beach parking or a gawker, ogling the fancy houses. The color of the car is too neutral to name—something of a beige leaning to grey—champagne, you might call it euphemistically. Mrs. Ford, having stifled her own anxiety, hardly notices it. The dogs are focused forward on passing butterflies and the occasional squirrel; they are no help to their mistress.

  She continues along the quay. As she passes, boats barely move in the bay, their halyards flap in the slight breeze with an occasional soft clang of a bell. There is not much surf on this still day, but the vague whisper of water hitting the sand can be heard on the other side of the cabanas that line Napatree Point. Later in the day, the noise level will rise as the carousel organ cranks up, children squeal, parents scold, dogs bark.

  But not yet.

  The morning sky sparkles. There is no fog at all and the air is crisp, giving a feeling of September. New York’s Fishers Island is visible, as is Stonington, Connecticut. From other angles, Montauk and Block Island wink in the distance. The peninsula of Watch Hill affords views of many approaches. But this morning, Mrs. Ford is not looking.

  She and the car, some distance behind her, advance down Bay Street, the commercial district. Its shops are unopened. She passes St. Clair Annex, a lone hive of activity, serving pancakes, eggs, and bacon. The menu hasn’t changed for generations, with the exception of the egg-white omelet, a solitary nod to modern dietary concerns. The hungry wait outside for tables. As she moves through the crowd, children tug on parents’ sleeves, asking if they might pet her dogs. Parents, in turn, ask Mrs. Ford. “Of course,” she says. “They are friendly.”

  Farther along, Mrs. Ford stops at the kiosk of the Flying Horse Carousel. The horses hang motionless, real horsehair manes, genuine leather saddles, exactly where they were abandoned by a traveling carnival in 1879. Next to the kiosk, newspapers lie bundled. She has to wait a minute or two until the clock strikes nine, for an adolescent to arrive and cut the plastic that binds the stack. The girl hands her the top copy, mounts the rest in the newspaper rack and throws open the ticket window, signaling the start of a new day at the beach.

  Mrs. Ford glances at headlines, skimming over words—Jihadists, ISIS, Mosul, Yazidis, Chaldeans, Kurds. She tucks the paper and its warnings from far-away-places firmly under her arm to continue on her way.

  The Crown Vic waits, moving only when she does.

  Mrs. Ford, the dogs, and the car continue up the road in a gap-toothed caravan. Seconds after she has turned into her driveway, unleashed her dogs, and followed them onto the lawn, the Crown Victoria rolls through the porte-cochère. It crunches tentatively up the gravel drive and stops. Two men in dark suits emerge.

  Wrangling a crab claw from the mouth of a dog, for one final moment, Mrs. Ford remains innocent. She does not see them yet. It is only when she hears one of the men say, “Susan Ford?” that she freezes, just for an instant, before she rises and turns to face them.

  She drops the crab claw, wipes her hand on the edge of her folded newspaper and finds her voice. “Yes. May I help you?”

  “FBI, ma’am.” He flashes a badge. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  At this, Susan Ford casts a quick glance over her shoulder at the lighthouse, the lookout point. She does not make a motion to retreat, but the sharp turn of her head betrays her longing to flee. She considers, for one frantic moment, heading in the opposite direction, toward the water and away from these men. But she does not do so. Instead, she looks back at them and smiles.

  “Please come in,” she says, her composure regained—she hopes—before its loss was visible. “I’ll make some tea.”

  And just as if they were expected guests, she leads them to the door of Gull Cottage, her pretty shingle house by the sea, as a sudden gust tips over the cup she had left on the arm of her chair.

  2

  Susan closes the door behind her and turns to face her visitors. The dogs bolt, as one, past the men’s legs, headed for the kitchen and their water bowls. Dropping the leash and newspaper on a bench, she motions with her left hand. “After you,” she says, allowing the FBI agents to precede her into the living room so that her body does not obscure the full view of the sea beyond.

  The effect is dazzling. Light glints off of the water and streams through the un-curtained windows at the far end. The walls, covered with intricately coffered paneling, are painted glossy white. There are ceiling beams, three-foot deep doorways, and floors of highly lacquered wood, like that used by boat builders. The layers of varnish must number in the dozens. Teak, mahogany, and fir fill the room and the subtle variations of colo
r and grain draw the eye from one to the other.

  Susan’s husband, Jack, spent six years building the house, re-working every architectural detail to perfection. His fondness for interior windows is in full play in this room with views open to the dining room, sunroom, even to the master bedroom upstairs through a startling window cut into the ceiling. Good furniture, good rugs, and good pictures are casually, though meticulously, placed. The focal point, jutting out from the wall opposite the water, is a ship’s figurehead: a dark-haired woman, leaning out above the mantle, her gaze fixed inscrutably on the sea.

  The FBI agents have stopped short, as Susan knew they would. The subtle details are overwhelming and difficult to absorb on first look. Susan recognizes, from her own original visit to the house in the early months of dating Jack, that people are both amazed and humbled to come upon such a wonder. It is like boarding a yacht from a century past that has taken root on dry land, while the figurehead looms, pointing them in the direction of the water, beckoning them to turn the wheel and head out to sea.

  Susan gives the agents a moment to take it in. When she senses that they are sufficiently intimidated, she speaks.

  “Please take a seat. I’ll ask Helen to bring us some tea.”

  “No tea, ma’am.”

  “Are you sure? It really is no problem. I’ll just…”

  “No tea.”

  “Of course. No tea. Why don’t you sit here?”

  Susan directs the men, both of them, to a sofa facing the water. She takes her place on a blue and white striped armchair looking back at them. Sitting together on the sofa is awkward and each of the agents must readjust his posture, crossing and re-crossing his legs in an effort to find distance from his partner. They squint to see Susan with the halo of sunshine backlighting her form. She has regained control of the situation. As she has learned from her husband over the years, she says nothing. “Let the other person feel uncomfortable,” Jack always told her. “Wait for him to talk. Just wait.”