The Bay at Midnight by Diane Chamberlain

From the Publisher

Her family's cottage on the New Jersey shore was a place of freedom and innocence for Julie Bauer -- until her seventeen-year-old sister, Isabel, was murdered.

It's been more than forty years since that August night, but Julie's memories of her sister's death still shape her world. Now someone from her past is raising questions about what really happened that night. About Julie's own complicity. About a devastating secret her mother kept from them all. About the person who went to prison for Izzy's murder -- and the person who didn't.

Faced with questions and armed with few answers, Julie must gather the courage to revisit her past and untangle the complex emotions that led to one unspeakable act of violence on the bay at midnight.

With her flawless ability to craft unforgettably real characters, Diane Chamberlain gives readers a simmering, evocative novel about the secrets that families keep, and the haunting legacies they leave behind.

Publishers Weekly

Family secrets sizzle at the core of an unsolved mystery in this smooth, deceptively simple tale of romantic suspense from Chamberlain (In Her Mother's Shadow). During the summer of '62, two families vacationing at the Jersey shore, the Bauers and the Chapmans, are devastated by the murder of 17-year-old Isabel Bauer. Most affected is the victim's precocious 12-year-old sister, Julie, who feels accidentally responsible. Forty-one years later, Julie is a bestselling mystery novelist and a divorced, menopausal single mom, dealing with the demands of Shannon, her pregnant, unwed 17-year-old daughter, and Maria, her elderly mother. Then the niece of Ned Chapman, on whom Julie had a crush that fatal summer, arrives at her door bearing a letter from her uncle, recently dead of cirrhosis of the liver, claiming that the person convicted for Isabel's murder, an African-American named George Lewis, was wrongly imprisoned. Taking the letter to the police means reopening the case and shaking up the lives of both families. Through multiple points of view, Chamberlain skillfully explores the painful memories of the tragedy. The story of what really happened unfolds organically and credibly, building to a touching denouement that plumbs the nature of crimes of the heart. Agent, Elaine English at Graybill & English. (Feb.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

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The Bay at Midnight

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Chapter One

All children make mistakes. Most of those errors in judgment are easily forgotten, but some of them are too enormous, too devastating to ever fully disappear from memory. The mistake I made when I was twelve still haunted me at fifty-three. Most of the time, I didn't think about it, but there were days when something happened that brought it all back to me in a rush, that filled me with the guilt of a twelve-year-old who had known better and that made me wish I could return to the summer of 1962 and live it over again. The Monday Abby Chapman Worley showed up at my front door was one of those days.

I was having a productive day as I worked on The Broad Street Murders, the thirty-third novel in my Granny Fran series. If I had known how successful that series would become, I would have made Fran Gallagher younger at the start. She was already seventy in the first book. Now, thirteen years later, she was eighty-three and going strong, but I wondered how long I could keep her tracking down killers.

The house was blissfully quiet. My daughter Shannon, who'd graduated from Westfield High School the Saturday before, was giving cello lessons in a music store downtown. The June air outside my sunroom window wasclear and still, and because my house was set on a curve in the road, I had an expansive view of my New Jersey neighborhood with its vibrant green lawns and manicured gardens. I would type a sentence or two, then stare out the window, enjoying the scenery as I thought about what might happen next in my story.

I'd finished Chapter Three and was just beginning Chapter Four when my doorbell rang. I leaned back in my chair, trying to decide whether to answer it or not. It was probably a friend of Shannon's, but what if it was a courier, delivering a contract or something else that might require my signature?

I peered out the front window. No trucks in sight. A white Volkswagen Beetle - a convertible with its top down - was parked in front of my house, however, and since my concentration was already broken, I decided I might as well see who it was.

I walked through the living room and opened the door and my heart sank a little. The slender young woman standing on the other side of my screen door looked too old to be a friend of Shannon's, and I worried that she might be one of my fans. Although I tried to protect my identity as much as possible, some of my most determined readers had found me over the years. I adored them and was grateful for their loyalty to my books, but I also treasured my privacy, especially when I was deep into my work.

"Yes?" I smiled.

The woman's sunny-blond hair was cut short, barely brushing the tops of her ears and she was wearing very dark sunglasses that made it difficult to see her eyes. There was a pretty sophistication about her. Her shorts were clean and creased, her mauve T-shirt tucked in with a belt. A small navy-blue pocketbook was slung over one shoulder.

"Mrs. Bauer?" she asked, confirming my suspicion. Julianne Bauer, my maiden name, was also my pseudonym. Friends and neighbors knew me as Julie Sellers.

"Yes?" I said.

"I'm sorry to just show up like this." She slipped her hands into her pockets. "My name is Abby Worley. You and my father - Ethan Chapman - were friends when you were kids."

My hand flew to my mouth. I hadn't heard Ethan's name since the summer of 1962 - forty-one years earlier - yet it took me less than a second to place him. In my memory, I was transported back to Bay Head Shores, where my family's bungalow stood next to the Chapmans' and where the life-altering events of that summer erased all the good summers that had preceded it.

"You remember him?" Abby Worley asked.

"Yes, of course," I said. I pictured Ethan the way he was when I last saw him - a skinny, freckled, bespectacled twelve-year-old, a fragile-looking boy with red hair and pale legs. I saw him reeling in a giant blowfish from the canal behind our houses, then rubbing the fish's white belly to make it puff up. I saw him jumping off the bulkhead, wings made from old sheets attached to his arms as he attempted to fly. We had at one time been friends, but not in 1962. The last time I saw him, I beat him up.

"I hope you'll forgive me for just showing up like this," she said.

"Dad once told me you lived in Westfield, so I asked around. The bagel store. The guy at the video-rental place. Your neighbors are not very good at guarding your privacy. And this is the sort of the thing I didn't want to write in a letter or talk about on the phone."

What sort of thing?" I asked. The serious tone of her voice told me this was more than a visit from a fan.

She glanced toward the wicker rockers on my broad front porch.

"Could we sit down?" she asked.

"Of course," I said, pushing open the screen door and walking with her toward the rockers. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, I'm fine," she said, as she settled into one of the chairs. "This is nice, having a front porch."

I nodded. "Once the mosquitoes are here in full force, we don't get much use out of it, but yes, it's nice right now." I studied her, looking for some trace of Ethan in her face. Her cheekbones were high and her deep tan looked stunning on her, regardless of the health implications. Maybe it was fake. She looked like the type of woman who took good care of herself. It was hard for me to picture Ethan as her father. He hadn't been homely, but nerdishness had invaded every cell of his body.

"So," I said, "what is it that you didn't want to talk about over the phone?"

Now that we were in the shade, she slipped off her sunglasses to reveal blue eyes. "Do you remember my uncle Ned?" she asked.

I remembered Ethan's brother even better than I remembered Ethan. I'd had a crush on him, although he'd been six years older than me and quite out of my league. By the end of that summer, though, I'd despised him.

I nodded. "Sure," I said.

"Well, he died a couple of weeks ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," I said mechanically. "He must have been -" I did the math in my head "- around fifty-nine?"

"He died the night before his fifty-ninth birthday," Abby said.

"Had he been ill?"

"He had cirrhosis of the liver," Abby said, matter-of-factly. "He drank too much. My father said he ... that he started drinking right after the summer your ... you know." For the first time, she seemed a little unsure of herself. "Right after your sister died," she said. "He got really depressed. I only knew him as a sad sort of person."

"I'm sorry," I said again. I couldn't picture handsome, athletic Ned Chapman as a beaten-down, fifty-nine-year-old man, but then we'd all changed after that summer.

"Dad doesn't know I've come to see you," Abby said. "And he wouldn't be happy about it, but I just had to."

I leaned forward, wishing she would get to the point. "Why are you here, Abby?" I asked.

She nodded as if readying herself to say something she'd rehearsed. "Dad and I cleaned out Uncle Ned's town house," she said. "I was going through his kitchen and I found an envelope in one of the drawers addressed to the Point Pleasant Police Department. Dad opened it and ..." She reached into her pocketbook and handed me a sheet of paper. "This is just a copy."

I looked down at the short, typed missive, dated two months earlier.

To Whom it May Concern:

I have information about a murder that occurred in your jurisdiction in 1962. The wrong person paid for that crime. I'm terminally ill and want to set the record straight. I can be contacted at the above phone number.

Sincerely, Ned Chapman

Continues...

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