Shoot him, probably, he thought, and smiled to himself.
Abigail almost didn’t answer her cell phone when she saw Bob O’Reilly’s number on the readout. She could pretend she was back at her house, where there was no cell service, instead of standing in front of the Abbe Museum in downtown Bar Harbor, crowded with scores of rained-out tourists.
“Hey, Bob,” she said.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Bar Harbor watching a seagull devour the remains of an ice-cream cone some kid threw on the sidewalk. Too cold for ice cream if you ask me. Is it raining there?”
“Pouring. What’re you doing in Bar Harbor?”
“I just toured the Abbe Museum. Have you ever gone through it? It’s dedicated to the Native Americans of Maine. Fascinating.” She brushed raindrops off her hair. She didn’t have a hat or umbrella, but the rain had tapered off to an intermittent drizzle. “And I just bought a moose sweatshirt.”
“You’re not playing tourist,” Bob said. “What’s in Bar Harbor that you think might lead you to your anonymous caller?”
“Nothing specific. I’m casting a wide net.”
“Owen Garrison’s new field academy is setting up in Bar Harbor.”
“So it is.” She’d stopped by on her way into town, and no one was there. “Katie Alden’s going to be its director. The chief of police’s wife.”
“Good for her. What about the FBI? They poking around in Bar Harbor?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
Bob sighed. “I wish I had something to report on my end. Now that you’ve had a second call, we’re taking another look at the one you got on Newbury Street. Nothing but dead ends so far.”
“I gave Lucas a list of people who know I frequent that particular restaurant.”
“We’ve already gone through the list. The truth is, anyone could know. Wasn’t it in the papers one year? Some reporter said how you spend your wedding anniversary having dinner alone there-”
“That was at least five years ago. Who’d think I still went there? And why wait until now to act?”
“Because ‘things are happening’ now,” Bob said, a bite of frustration in his voice. “Craziness. We’ll figure this out, Abigail. You just keep your eyes open and stay safe.”
“I will, Bob. Don’t worry about me.”
“Oh, no, why should I worry? You’re up on an island in the rain, all alone, with some maniac calling you at five o’clock in the morning, and you’re going to museums and buying moose sweatshirts. Who the hell would worry?”
By the time he finished, he had her laughing. “Goodbye-”
“And Owen Garrison. Let’s not forget the studly rich guy. I’ve seen him, you know. I’m doing my homework-guy’s in Maine resting up after a year of nonstop rescue and recovery work. Guys like that, they don’t rest.”
Fair warning, that, Abigail thought, suddenly feeling warm. “Are you done now?”
“Yeah. No-” He bit off a sigh. “If you need anything-anything-you know I’ll be there. Scoop, too. Just say the word.”
“Thank you. I do know that. And I appreciate it.”
But Bob couldn’t resist. “Anything you need, kiddo. Bail money, a spare set of handcuff keys-”
She laughed and disconnected, slipping her cell phone into her jacket pocket. She hadn’t lied to him. She had visited the museum and bought a moose sweatshirt. But she’d also asked around about MattieYoung, making up a story about having heard that his old photographs were in demand. A woman in the sweatshirt store had pointed to a small gallery that, she believed, had some of Mattie’s work in stock.
Abigail walked down the street and ducked into the gallery, its display window offering the obligatory watercolor of the rockbound coast and a red-and-white striped Maine lighthouse-and she could understand why. If she could have afforded the painting, she’d have bought it herself. On a bad day in Boston, she would close her eyes and conjure up just such an image, of bright sky, rocks and glistening ocean. Why not add a picturesque lighthouse?
She eased off her wet jacket, careful not to let it drip on any of the wares, and wandered among shelves of carved waterfowl and pottery painted with wild blueberries and cranberries, and walls crammed with original paintings and photography.
A wiry older man-he had to be at least eighty-greeted her. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for the work of a local photographer, Mattie Young.”
He seemed surprised. “Mattie? Heavens. I haven’t had anyone ask about him in ages. Yes, we do carry his work. A few pieces. We don’t have anything on display right now-we haven’t in a long, long time.”
“May I see what you do have?”
“Of course.”
But as he led her through an open doorway to a small room lined with cabinets, Abigail saw Owen entering the gallery. He waved to her as he crossed the gallery toward her.
“Fancy meeting you here, Abigail.”
She noticed the older man straighten his spine as he inclined his head in greeting.
“Mr. Garrison. We haven’t seen you in some time. I’d heard you were on the island.”
“It has been a long time, Walt. Too long.”
Abigail didn’t know why she was surprised at the exchange between the two men. The Garrisons had been fixtures on Mt. Desert Island for more than a hundred years. She wondered if Walt had known Owen’s grandfather, too.
Not that their reunion stopped her from speaking her mind. “Did you follow me?” she asked Owen.
He smiled. “Tough to miss you in that red jacket.”
It was very red. “You’re not wet. What, were you driving past the gallery, saw me and decided to pop in?”
“I was on my way to the field academy.”
“You must have had good parking karma,” she said, then turned back to Walt, who had stopped in front of a cabinet of thin, deep drawers.
“We might have one or two other pieces,” he said. “But most of what we have is in here. Do you know Mattie?”
Abigail didn’t look at Owen as she answered. “He and my husband grew up together.”
“Your husband?”
“He died seven years ago. Chris Browning.”
The man’s aged eyes settled on her a moment, any awkwardness fleeting. He nodded. “I knew your husband’s grandfather. I didn’t know Chris well. He’s the one who persuaded Mattie to display his work.”
“Mattie’s had his ups and downs over the years.”
“Yes. They started long before your husband was killed.”
And before she turned up on the scene. Although he didn’t say as much, Abigail knew Walt must have thought it. She, the FBI-they’d taken Chris away from the island and his friends. At least in their minds. But Abigail knew that Chris had always considered Mt. Desert Island home. Since she’d moved a lot growing up, that was fine with her.
Owen stood behind her, not crowding her, but not going on his way, either. “Has Mattie brought any new work in lately?” he asked Walt.
“Not recently, no. It could help us sell his older work.” The older man unlocked the drawer and opened it, gesturing at the contents. “Mattie has an incredible, unusual talent. You’ll see. These photographs are some of his best work. The earliest were taken when he was a teenager. They’re not as refined as his later work, of course, but his eye is there. Well, I’ll leave you to them.”
Walt withdrew to the outer room, and Abigail lifted a black-and-white print from the drawer. She took a breath, immediately recognizing the cliffs just down the waterfront from her house. Mattie had captured the dramatic beauty of the sheer granite face and the white-capped waves crashing onto massive rectangles of rock.
But the danger was there, too, palpable, unrelenting. The cliffs and the sea would be unforgiving of a carelessly placed foot, a reckless paddler, a poorly dressed hiker-a fourteen-year-old girl, Abigail thought, upset after a meaningless fight with a friend.
“Mattie took that picture the day Doe drowned,”
Owen said.
“This picture? You’re sure?”
“He had his camera with him on the boat with Chris and his grandfather. This was later, after they’d gotten Doe to the harbor. He went back to the cliffs.”
“But there are no police-”
“They’d gone. Everyone had gone by then.”
“Were you with him?”
Owen shook his head, staring at the stark photograph. “No.”
“Then how do you know-”
“Chris told me years later. He didn’t want Mattie to put this particular photograph out into the public.”
“Mattie?”
“He didn’t agree.”
“But no one’s ever bought it,” Abigail said, setting the photograph on top of the cabinet and digging back into the drawer for more of Mattie’s work.
Owen touched a corner of the old photograph. “Would you buy it, if you knew the circumstances of when it was taken?”
“No. I wouldn’t. But you never know what some people will do. Besides, most tourists wouldn’t have a clue.”
“I suppose so.” He kept staring at the scene of the cliffs. “I convinced myself I wasn’t alone out there that day. I thought someone followed Doe and me to the cliffs, or was there already, hiding in the trees.”
“Someone who could have helped her,” Abigail said.
He shrugged. “At least someone who could have screamed for help. I couldn’t-I tried, and no sound came out.”
“What an awful memory to live with.”
“I know now it wouldn’t have made a difference. Doe hit her head on a rock, and had early-stage hypothermia. She fell in a tough place to get to by land or by boat. Help wouldn’t have arrived in time.” He pulled his gaze from the picture, his gray eyes taking on the color of the gloomy afternoon. “Doe was a gentle soul. She never liked difficult, scary hikes. The cliffs terrified her. She never meant to fall.”
“But she was upset that day, wasn’t she?”
“Grace Cooper had teased her about backing out of a hike up the Precipice Trail.”
“It’s not my favorite trail, either,” Abigail said. “If I have to use rungs, it’s too vertical for me.”
“Not going to turn you into a rock-climber, are we?”
“No way.” She saw that her humor had broken through his darkening mood. “Did your sister go down to the cliffs to prove herself somehow? Or just because she was upset and wanted to get away from everyone?”
“I don’t know why she went down there. She was used to Grace teasing her. Doe would tease her back.” He shook his head. “It’s been twenty-five years. Hard to believe. The truth is, what happened wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Grace must feel guilty, even if she knows your sister’s death was an accident.”
“She’s never said one way or the other, at least not to me. The Coopers aren’t ones for big emotional displays.”
“I suppose not.” Abigail remembered how she’d clawed at Owen, trying to get to Chris’s body. She’d never been repressed, but she’d learned self-control. “Mattie was just a teenager himself.”
“Seventeen.”
She glanced at the picture once more, imagining Chris and Mattie and Owen as boys, all of them trying to make sense of what had happened to pretty, gentle Doe Garrison.
“These other pictures are amazing, too,” she said, pulling out a stack of prints.
Although she wasn’t an expert in photography, Abigail could see that Mattie’s later pictures were better, technically and artistically. Presumably, he’d kept all the negatives. She flipped through the prints, seeing Mattie Young in a different light, understanding better why Chris had been so reluctant to give up on his friend.
“Look,” someone in the outer gallery said. “Sunlight!”
Abigail turned away from the photographs. Owen said, “We should dry off an outdoor table somewhere and have a drink.”
“That sounds wonderful. Then you’ll show me your new field academy?”
“It’s just a big empty building right now.” He angled a look at her, as if trying to figure out if she had an ulterior motive for wanting to see the training facility. “But I’d be happy to give you the grand tour.”
On their way out, Abigail bought a small, carved black duck, noticing Walt carefully returning Mattie’s photographs to the cabinet drawer, on top of the one he’d taken the day Doe Garrison drowned.
Linc watched Mattie lift a fat, squirming worm out of the wet dirt of a hole he’d dug in a small garden near the back gate of Ellis’s house. “Your uncle doesn’t like working in the rain.” He tossed the worm aside. He had on a half-shredded denim jacket, not warm enough for the chilly temperatures. “But he doesn’t mind me working in the rain.”
“It’s not raining now. What are you doing?”
“I’m dividing perennials. How’s that for a day’s work?”
“At least it’s an honest day’s work,” Linc said, sarcastic. He didn’t care.
Mattie rolled back onto his heels. “You’re an arrogant little fuck, Lincoln Cooper. I’m enjoying making you sweat. It’s about damn time someone did.”
“I don’t care what you think of me. I know what I’ve done and what I haven’t done.”
“You care what your family thinks of you. Those FBI agents sneaking around town, checking into your family’s business so they can give your sister the stamp of approval she needs. The local cops. Who’s that skinny guy from the state police? Lou Beeler. He’d like to know what I know about you. Get your nuts into the wringer. Find out what you were up to the day Chris Browning was murdered.”
Linc felt himself flush but refused to let Mattie see he was getting to him. “Having fun, aren’t you?”
“Oh, sure. I like cutting worms in half in the mud.”
Linc felt his stomach roll over at the thought of cut-up worms. “You’re lucky I’m not a killer. If I were, I wouldn’t be paying you to keep your mouth shut. I’d have you buried in a deep, dark hole where no one would ever find you.”
Mattie wasn’t the least bit rattled. “Doesn’t matter if you’re a killer or not. You’re a snot-nosed kid who stole from your family’s friends. Even if you didn’t break into Chris’s house and hit his wife over the head, steal her necklace, you gave whoever did the idea.”
“A copycat,” Linc said. “Except that doesn’t make sense. With all the rich people on this island in the summer, why target the Brownings?”
“Wedding money, maybe.”
“There was none.”
“Doesn’t mean the thief knew that or-” Mattie rolled onto his knees, digging with his bare hands into a tangle of greenery and roots. Linc wasn’t good with his flora and fauna. He had no idea what kind of plant it was. Without looking up, Mattie said, “Do you have my money?”
“It’s under a flowerpot next to your bicycle.”
“All of it?”
Linc hesitated. He’d done a cash advance on his credit card, cleaned out his bank accounts, hauled a bunch of stuff no one would miss to Ellsworth, the closest real town, and pawned it. He’d debated swiping a watch from his father, getting into his or Grace’s cash. But he hadn’t gone that far.
“Damn it, Linc-”
“No. I don’t have all of it. Two thousand. It’s all I could manage without drawing attention to myself. I can get more in a few days.”
Mattie sat on his butt in the wet grass and leaned back, spots of blood where he’d nicked his mud-encrusted hands. He’d worked in the rain. He wouldn’t care. “I don’t have a lot of patience left.”
“It won’t do either of us any good if I’m caught. My father’s not stupid. He’ll ask questions-he’ll see through me-”
“All right, all right. We don’t want Daddy getting all suspicious and pissy. Just get it done. I want my money. I deserve it.”
Linc could feel his blood roaring into his face, pounding in his ears. He noticed a scratcher lying in the grass and pictured it embedded in Mattie’s head, silencing
him forever. But he couldn’t picture himself doing the embedding.
It had to be easier just to shoot someone, he thought. The coward’s way out. Just close your eyes and pull the trigger. If the target wasn’t moving, it wasn’t that hard to do.
He couldn’t picture himself shooting someone, either.
“I’ll do what I can to get you the rest as soon as possible.” Linc straightened, aware of Mattie’s amusement, and realized how frightened and sickened he must look. “Then it’s over. You can threaten me until you choke. There’ll be no more money, not from me.”
“I just want the ten grand. I’ll keep my word. Your secrets will be safe with me.”
His secrets. What did a creep like MattieYoung know about his secrets?
Linc saw the sun breaking through the clouds, felt a cold breeze against his back. Why did he want to hear Mattie say he didn’t believe he’d killed Chris? Why did it matter?
He gave the scratcher a little push with his toe. “Like I said, I know what I’ve done and what I haven’t done.”
“Yeah?” Linc grinned at him, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. “I know what you’ve done and haven’t done, too. Best to keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER 17
Sean and Ian Alden scrambled out of Owen’s truck and onto his rain-soaked deck. He appreciated their energy after a full day of camp. Doyle had called him on his cell phone, while Owen was having iced tea and chowder with Abigail, watching the skies clear under a yellow umbrella at a table overlooking Bar Harbor’s famous waterfront. They’d never made it to the academy building. Doyle was bogged down and needed Owen to pick up the boys and keep an eye on them until evening.
By the time Katie got back, Owen figured Doyle would have worked out how to manage without her.
Sean bent down and picked up papers-something-propped up against the French door. He made a face. “Gross. Owen, is she one of the people you couldn’t rescue in time?”
Ian leaned into his brother and took a peek. “Oh, yuck. She’s dead.”
Owen leaped onto the deck. The sun sparkled on the small puddles left by the rain, and he could hear the tide washing onto the rocks, seagulls, the engine of a far-off lobster boat. Not wanting to panic the boys, he said carefully, “What do you have there?”
The Widow Page 13