“Pictures,” Sean said. “Aren’t they yours?”
“No. Let me see, okay?”
Sean handed him a clear plastic sleeve, dotted with raindrops. Inside were at least two, maybe more, eight-by-ten prints. Owen held the plastic by the edges, but it had been sitting out on his deck in the rain, Sean had handled it-any trace evidence would likely be long gone by now.
The top picture came into focus. His mind resisted taking in what he was seeing.
Doe…
“Owen?” Ian’s voice was low, panicked. “Owen, what’s wrong?”
She was lying on a blanket on the dock where the Brownings had taken her and rescue workers had tried to revive her. Only his sister-her lifeless body-was in the shot, as if she were out there all alone.
Strands of her wet hair covered her face.
Owen pictured the rest of the scene. His parents, holding each other in shock and grief. His grandmother, the indomitable Polly, her hands clasped in prayer. Chris and his grandfather, talking to the rescue workers and police, explaining what had happened. The Coopers, horrified, trying not to get in the way.
He didn’t remember seeing Mattie Young.
Sean froze, staring up at Owen. “Do you want me to call my dad?”
“It’s okay.” He forced himself to make eye contact with the two boys. “I need to look at the other picture in here. Hang on.”
The plastic sleeve had no clasp or other kind of seal, and he was able to slip his fingers inside and lift out the print that was under the one of Doe. But he didn’t need to take it all the way out. He recognized the rocks, the tall pines on the waterfront below the remains of his family’s original Mt. Desert house.
And he recognized the woman in the picture.
And himself.
“Abigail,” he whispered. “Hell.”
He had his arms around her, holding her back as the police arrived and she tried again to go to her husband.
She’d fought him with all the strength she had.
She was so young, in the grips of such terrible grief.
Ian gulped in a breath. “Owen.” The boy sobbed. “Owen, what-”
“Easy.” He slipped the pictures back into the plastic sleeve. “Let’s go inside.”
Whoever had left the pictures hadn’t broken into his house. He unlocked the door, but kept the boys close as they went inside. He put them on the high stools at the breakfast bar, then dialed Abigail’s number, letting it ring.
No answer.
He hung up. He had no idea what she’d done after he’d left her in Bar Harbor.
He dialed the local police station and spoke quickly to one of Doyle’s officers, who promised he’d send someone out there and get hold of the chief.
“Be sure to tell him his sons are fine,” Owen said.
Sean looked at him thoughtfully after Owen had hung up. “Why don’t you just leave us here and go check on Abigail?”
“I’m not leaving you here by yourselves.”
“We’ll be fine.”
Owen gave the boy a quick smile. “But I won’t be if I can’t get back here before your dad arrives.”
Neither boy laughed, and Ian, sucking in a succession of shallow breaths, said, “What about Abigail? Is she all right?”
“She’s probably out for a hike or running errands.”
Ian clutched Owen’s hand. “Go find her!”
“We can go with you,” Sean said.
Owen shook his head. “That’s not going to happen. Abigail will be all right. She’s a police officer like your dad.”
Footsteps sounded out on the deck, and the two boys jumped, even as Owen moved between them and the door.
“Owen?” Abigail’s voice. “It’s me-everything okay here?”
Ian clutched his heart in a display of drama and slumped in relief. “She’s okay.”
Owen smiled at him. “Told you.”
Sean eased down off the stool and ran to the door. “Abigail! My dad’s on the way. Someone left Owen pictures of dead people.”
When she pushed open the door and entered the cool house, Owen noticed the gun on her waist, her focused, cop-mode look as she frowned at him. “Dead people? Owen, what’s going on?”
He nodded to the plastic sleeve of pictures on his kitchen counter and tried to explain, without further alarming Sean and Ian, what had happened. Abigail listened without interruption. When he finished, Owen noticed that her cheeks had drained of any color. “Abigail? Did you come back to the same pictures?”
“Different ones,” she said. “They were inside my front door. Three shots taken at Ellis Cooper’s house the day Chris was killed.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No. No one. I checked around outside and walked over here. No sign of anyone.”
Mattie, in other words.
“Lou Beeler’s on his way.” She made an effort to smile at the two boys. “Your dad, too.”
Owen sensed her restlessness. “Where are the pictures that were left for you?”
“On my kitchen counter.” Her eyes, dark and intense, leveled on him. “There’s something I need to do. Tell Lou and Doyle I’ll be right back.”
“You’re going to confront Mattie.”
“Just because the pictures are disturbing doesn’t make it against the law to leave them on our doorsteps.”
“You know damn well the police will investigate.”
But she ignored him, saying goodbye to the boys before she slipped back out to the deck, barely making a sound as she headed back across the rocks.
Owen swore under his breath. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t leave Sean and Ian, and he sure as hell couldn’t take them with him and go after Abigail.
“Owen?” Ian slipped a cool hand into his. “I’m scared.”
He wanted to tell the boys there was nothing to be scared of, but someone had just left him a picture of his drowned sister and a picture of a terrified, grief-stricken widow. How could he say, with any degree of confidence, there was no reason to be afraid?
“Hey, guys,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get a fire going.”
Abigail parked in front of Mattie’s house, walked up to his front door and rang the doorbell, just the way she was supposed to. It was after four. He would have knocked off work by now. She noticed bent vertical blinds hanging in a picture window of the small, one-story bungalow. He hadn’t planted flowers in his own yard.
When the door didn’t open, she pounded on it, its white paint chipped and yellowed. “Mattie, it’s Abigail. Abigail Browning. I’d like to talk to you.”
She waited two beats. Still no answer. She tried the knob.
The door was unlocked.
“Mattie.”
She called him again as she pushed open the door. Before entering, she heard the clatter of a bicycle behind her on the walk and turned, sighing at Mattie. “There you are. Don’t you lock your doors?”
“What for? I don’t have anything worth stealing.” He waved a hand at her, showing no indication of surprise or irritation at her visit. “Go ahead. Go inside if you want.”
“Thank you, I will.”
She stepped into a simply furnished living room, surprisingly neat and clean given Mattie’s general appearance. He followed her in and flopped down onto the couch. “Okay. What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk to you about your photography.”
“My photography? Why?”
“I was at a gallery in Bar Harbor today. The owner, a man named Walt-”
“Oh, yeah.” Mattie grinned, putting his feet up on a coffee table. “Good old Walt. He’s full of shit, isn’t he? Pompous ass.”
“He thinks you’re very talented.”
“See what I mean?”
“Where do you keep the negatives of the pictures you’ve taken?”
“I burned them.”
Abigail wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. “When?”
“One night when I was drunk and feeling
sorry for myself. Well.” He gave a fake laugh, no hint of self-deprecation. “I guess that describes a lot of nights. It was sometime after Chris was killed. I was living in Bar Harbor-it feels like civilization compared to living out here.”
“Did you destroy all your negatives?”
He hesitated. “I don’t remember.”
“You remember, Mattie. You’re a photographer. Those negatives are your life’s work.”
“I don’t know why I let you in here.”
“You didn’t burn the negatives of the pictures you took the day Dorothy Garrison died,” Abigail said.
He shot to his feet, bolting for the front door, but she intercepted him, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back.
He squealed. “Hey!”
“Just calm down.” She eased off. “Running isn’t going to solve anything.”
“You have no right-”
She released him and stepped back. “I want to know about the pictures, Mattie.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Abigail didn’t answer him. She walked into the adjoining dining room, where a dusty faux-crystal chandelier hung above a scratched and nicked dark-stained pine table. “You have a decent setup here.” She ran her fingers over the table. “Keep your day job and work on your photography on your off-hours. That’s your plan, isn’t it?”
He rubbed his arm where she’d tackled him. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the plan.”
“Why sneak off to the old Garrison foundation to drink in the dark with the mosquitoes?”
He shrugged. “Why drink?”
“Good point.”
“You used to be nicer. When you and Chris were together.”
“Maybe so.”
She started toward the kitchen, off the dining room, but noticed a fat envelope tucked under a clear glass vase on the sideboard, which matched the table. She walked over to it and lifted the vase with one hand and picked up the envelope with the other hand.
“Hey-that’s mine. You need a warrant to search my place-”
“I’m not here as a police officer. I’m here as a friend.” She could see the stack of green bills inside the envelope and fanned them with her thumb. Most were fifty-and hundred-dollar bills. “How much is in here? A thousand?”
“It’s not against the law to have cash in my own house.”
“I thought you said there was nothing here worth stealing. Do the Coopers pay you in cash?”
He snapped his mouth shut. “Get out.” He pointed toward the front door. “Now go, before I call Doyle.”
Abigail made a show of checking her watch. “By my calculations, he should be here soon.”
“What?”
“Doyle and Lieutenant Beeler. I wouldn’t be surprised if they come together.” She replaced the envelope under the vase. “Feel free to tell them we’ve talked.”
Mattie swore at her. He got himself onto a roll and kept swearing, calling her a long, not particularly inventive string of names, but Abigail ignored him as she walked past him to the front door. She held it open with one hand and looked back at him. Something about her expression worked, because he shut up.
She said, “Tell ChiefAlden and Lieutenant Beeler everything you know, Mattie. Whatever you’re hiding, whatever angle you’re playing, isn’t worth the risks you’re taking.”
He held up both his hands, splaying his fingers. “Look at these. Look at the dirt and the dried blood. The calluses. You think I’m playing an angle? You’re fucking crazy. I get up in the morning and I ride my bike to rich people’s houses, and I work my ass off. I’m doing the best I can to pull my life together.”
“Lie to yourself all you want. And to me, if you have to. Just don’t lie to the police.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
On that lofty note, Abigail left, getting to her car and back onto the main road without running into any of her colleagues in law enforcement.
But they were waiting for her at her little house on the Maine coast. Lou Beeler, Doyle Alden and Special Agents Capozza and Steele.
“Lucky me,” she said aloud.
She pulled over into the grass and parked.
No way did she want to block the driveway and prevent any of the cop cars from leaving.
CHAPTER 18
There were three color photographs in Abigail’s clear plastic sleeve.
The top one-the one she saw through the plastic-was of a thirteen-year-old Linc Cooper standing by the iron gate in his uncle’s garden with his shirt half untucked and a martini glass in his hand.
Abigail knew it was taken at Ellis’s party seven years ago because of Linc’s age, the little umbrella in his drink and the decorative lights on the fence. She’d seen many other pictures of the party.
The second photograph was of Grace Cooper in the shade at the top of the steep zigzag of steps that led up to Ellis’s house from the private drive.
On the step just below her, almost out of view, was Chris, his hands balled into fists, a tight look of anger on his face.
There was no fear, Abigail had decided after studying his expression.
No premonition that he was about to be murdered.
He’d gone up to Ellis’s after finding her unconscious, obviously intent on finding whoever had attacked his wife. Just the Coopers and the caterers and a few stragglers were still at the party. Grace had told the police that she had seen Chris at her uncle’s house, but never indicated they had spoken.
But how could they not have, with him coming up the steps and her right there?
The third photograph was of Owen, on Ellis’s stone terrace, clearly later-after Linc had snuck his martini, after Grace and Chris had said whatever they’d said to each other.
Hours before Owen had gone down to the rocks and found Chris’s body.
Abigail had jotted down detailed descriptions of each photograph before Lou Beeler could send them off to the lab. The prints were fresh, probably run off an inkjet printer. She’d suggested to Lou that he check to see if Mattie had put his negatives onto a computer disk before burning them, or put the ones he hadn’t burned-if he’d burned any-onto a disk, but the Maine CID detective had already covered all the bases.
Her fellow law enforcement officers were gone now, off to find Mattie, having taken her and Owen, separately, through their paces, all of them trying to make sense of the pictures and why they’d been left, what they meant.
Abigail was restless. There wasn’t much she could do for the moment, other than take out her frustration on her walls.
She tied a purple bandanna over her hair and lifted her sledgehammer, the wind gusting off the water, blowing through her porch door and stirring up more plaster dust. There seemed to be no end to it, no matter how much she swept.
One more to go, and she’d have the room gutted. Then she could put up new wallboard and tape, slap on primer, pick out a paint color-something bright, but that didn’t clash with the lupine-blue in the entry.
Thinking about wallboard and paint colors gave everything else a chance to simmer. The calls, the pictures, Mattie’s parties in the old Garrison foundation, the stash of money under his vase.
The Maine cops, the frightened Alden boys.
Owen.
Abigail jumped.
The man who’d just been in her thoughts stood in the doorway to her front room, watching her angle her sledgehammer at the final section of wall. It was dusk, but night was coming fast. “You should wear goggles and a mask,” Owen said.
“I’ve got some in my trunk.”
He didn’t offer to go fetch them. “You rent this place to cops most of the time. I bet you could get a half dozen of them together to help you tear down walls and put up new ones. Throw a few lobsters in a pot, buy a couple of six-packs-they’d be thrilled.”
She grinned at him. “Are you implying we cops come cheap?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. “Stand back. I don’t want to nail you in the head with this thing.”
“Abigail-�
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Her first whack penetrated the wallboard. “Hey, I’m getting good at this.” Before she lost her steam, she heaved the sledgehammer twice more, then gave up and set it against an exposed support beam. “That’s enough. Best to pace myself before I tear my rotator cuff or something.”
“You’ve got a dead body there.”
“Mouse skeleton.” Using her toe, she dragged it out of a corner. “It’s the one I missed earlier.”
“Where there’s one dead mouse, there’s another.”
“It’s live mice I don’t want to run into.”
Owen stepped into the room and walked over to her, running his thumb under her eye. “Don’t want to get plaster in your eyes.”
“That wouldn’t be good.” She took a breath. “Owen…I’m sorry you and Sean and Ian had to see those pictures.”
“It’s not your fault-”
“I could have stayed in Boston. I didn’t have to come up here.”
Doyle Alden appeared on her back porch. “That’s right,” he said, opening the screen door. “You didn’t.”
Abigail ignored his sour tone. “Did you find Mattie?”
“Yeah. We found him. Beeler’s talking to him.” Doyle glanced at her array of tools, as if he wanted to take a crowbar to her himself. “Maybe you should talk to the Coopers about including this place in with the sale of Ellis’s. Jason’s a smart guy. Shrewd. He’d probably get you a better price than you could get on your own.”
“Probably would. How are Sean and Ian?”
“They’re fine. My next-door neighbor’s watching them while I deal with this mess.”
“Listen, Doyle, if I’d known about the pictures-”
“No way for you to know,” he interrupted. “The bastard who left them could have stuck a piece of paper in front of them. Instead…” He trailed off. “Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
“Have they talked to their mother?” Abigail asked. “That might help.”
Doyle stiffened. “I don’t need you to tell me how to raise my sons.”
The Widow Page 14