The Widow

by Carla Neggers

  “I can take a look at your leg-”

  “My leg’s fine.” Using her elbow, she shut off the faucet. “It’s a superficial wound. I don’t think he wanted to hurt me. I surprised him, and he wasn’t planning to stick around and explain himself.”

  “Any idea what he was doing there?”

  “It wasn’t to help me hang wallboard.” She raised up the dripping forearm and inspected her scratches. “Looks clean enough, don’t you think? Just a couple good scrapes. Kind of like a road rash. Stings a little.”

  “I can wrap it for you. It’s hard to wrap your own arm.”

  “It doesn’t need wrapping.”

  “There are ice packs in the freezer,” Owen said.

  “I don’t need ice.”

  He flipped open the first-aid kit and lifted out a nonstick bandage, a roll of gauze, tape, scissors and antibiotic ointment, laying them on the counter. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I guess I am. Not much, though.”

  “We’re wrapping your arm.”

  She grinned at him. “I’m being difficult?”

  “Not unless you try to shoot me. Otherwise you’re just someone who’s injured and doesn’t want to be.” He walked over to her and took her hand, turning her arm and taking a look at the injury. “You’ve got a couple of fairly deep scratches here.”

  “They’re about a quarter-inch long. Big deal. I think I hit a nail from my gutting project.”

  “Tetanus shots up to date?”

  She nodded. “Doyle and Lou are going to land here any second. I don’t want them to see you patching me up.”

  “Of course not.” He used a dish towel and dabbed at her arm, drying it as best he could. “Why are you so convinced it was Mattie?”

  “He left an odor.”

  “Do you think he’d been drinking?”

  “I have no idea. If he was, it didn’t slow him down any. He had to move like a jackrabbit to get out of the house and out of sight.”

  “Well, if I had you coming after me with a gun-”

  “I had to get my gun. That created a small delay.” She winced as Owen applied the antibiotic ointment, then placed the bandage over it. “I didn’t take it up Cadillac with me.”

  He wrapped gauze around her arm, covering the bandage, and secured it with tape, then glanced down at her right thigh. The bleeding there looked to have stopped. “You should go to the E.R. about your leg, at least.”

  “I get worse cuts picking blackberries. If it starts looking infected, I’ll see a doctor.”

  “You might need stitches.”

  “I don’t need stitches.” She had a perceptible limp as she walked toward the deck door, then leaned against it and sighed at him. “This isn’t going to be my finest hour. You ever do anything stupid?”

  “Me? Never.”

  She laughed. “Oh, sure. Let’s see all your scars.” But color returned to her pale cheeks, and she made a face. “Umm. Forget I said that.”

  “Sorry, Detective. I’m not letting that one go.” Owen walked over to her and slipped an arm around her waist. “I’ll drive you back to your place. Don’t argue.”

  “I won’t-I don’t know how I made it across those rocks to get here as it is. Must be the pancakes I had for breakfast.”

  “And for the record,” he said, half lifting her out to the deck, “you can see my scars anytime.”

  He’d gone and done it now, Mattie thought, feeling terrible as he slipped through the iron gate on the border between Ellis’s gardens and the woods. Ellis was at the family estate on Somes Sound. Mattie had seized upon his absence to sneak down to Abigail’s house, hoping she wouldn’t be there-hoping he’d have the window of time he needed.

  He’d taken what precautions he’d thought of. Cutting the phone line, hanging on to the drywall saw. He just couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  He crept along the fence, behind a swing that had been there since the Garrisons had owned the property. When he reached the shed he checked his trail for any footprints.

  He’d just sliced open a cop. They’d all be looking for him now.

  But he had his story ready. Doyle would believe him. Didn’t Doyle always believe him?

  You don’t have your license because Doyle didn’t believe you when you said you hadn’t been drinking.

  Mattie silenced the voices of doubt in his head and unlatched the shed door, stepping inside its crowded but ultra-neat single room of tools and garden supplies. Thankfully, he could relatch the door from the inside and wouldn’t have to leave it swinging open.

  Sunlight angled through the small, paned windows, somehow making him feel more claustrophobic, more trapped.

  He worked his way past bags of fertilizer, peat moss and dried cow manure to the back of the shed, where he pushed aside a stack of old wooden lobster pots and got down on his hands and knees.

  Using his fists, he banged on the piece of plywood he himself had tacked onto the opening the chickens had used. It was bigger than necessary, really, for chickens, but that could help him in a pinch. The wood came free easily, but he left it leaned up against the hole. It was unlikely anyone would notice it, one way or the other, but he’d taken enough chances already.

  If he had to, he could crawl out the tiny door and get into the woods, disappear.

  He’d expected to have to disappear at some point, just not until he had his money. The whole ten grand. More. Damn it, Linc could spare it. He deserved to pay up for what he’d done. For the secrets he’d kept. The blackmail would help cleanse his soul.

  Excuses. You should have told Doyle everything last night.

  Mattie shook his head. He couldn’t afford to let any doubts creep in, undermine him. Not now. Not when he’d gone past the point of no return.

  He sat on the floor, his back against a lobster pot. Was it one of Will Browning’s old pots? Pa, Mattie used to call him. Ol’ Pa Browning. He was the Browning who’d lived a long life.

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right. Remember that, Mattie.”

  Ah, Pa.

  “I’m trying,” Mattie whispered. “I’m trying hard.”

  At least Pa Browning hadn’t lived to see his grandson murdered. A small blessing, at least.

  Mattie didn’t know if he fell asleep, or if he’d simply gone into some kind of trance, but he became aware of the shed door creaking open. He went very still, silently reassured himself that he couldn’t be seen from the door. If it was Ellis, returned from paying homage to his brother, he’d never come this far into the shed.

  The door shut-Mattie could hear it, feel more than see the change in light.

  “It’s me,” Linc Cooper said. “I’m alone.”

  Mattie got to his feet, but stayed close to the little chicken door. “Ellis isn’t back yet, is he?”

  Linc shook his head, making his way to the rear of the shed. “The cops have gone out to talk to him and my father. They’re looking for you. They think you attacked Abigail Browning.”

  “I didn’t attack her-that’s not what happened.”

  “Then tell that to Chief Alden. He knows you. He won’t want to believe you’d deliberately hurt anyone. Running just makes you look guilty. What about your bike? Mattie, they’ll find you-”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  He’d hid his bike in the woods, where no one would find it, but he had no intention of giving Linc that information-that much power over him.

  Linc sneered at him. “Always innocent, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Mattie felt a surge of impatience. “You’d better hope our Detective Browning doesn’t think you attacked her.”

  “Me? Why would I?” The kid squared his shoulders and gave Mattie an icy, superior look. “I’m not playing your game.”

  “This isn’t a fucking game.”

  “Whatever.” Linc stepped closer to him, holding out an envelope to him. “Here’s another two thousand. That’s four thou
sand, total. Take it, Mattie, and get out of here. Before you go too far. What if you’d killed Abigail today? She’s the daughter of the director of the FBI. She’s a cop-”

  “You’re a bastard, Linc, you know that?” Mattie kept his voice calm, never mind the lousy situation he was in. He hadn’t meant for things to go this way. “You’re just like your father. Don’t think you’re different, because you’re not. You’re a cutthroat son of a bitch just like he is. A chip off the old block.”

  Linc’s cheeks flamed red. “Better than being a foul-smelling drunk who betrays his own friends.”

  Mattie snatched the envelope from him and inspected the contents, the mix of green bills. A new beginning. But his eyes welled up with tears. He coughed, covering for himself. “I want the rest.”

  “I can’t-”

  “I have Abigail’s necklace.”

  He relished watching the shock seize Linc, turn him ashen, force him to take a step back, stumble on a bag of cow manure. “Mattie…Christ…”

  “You remember her necklace. It was her grandmother’s. Abigail wore it on her wedding day. The ‘something borrowed.’ Pearls, with a cameo pendant. You grabbed it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You thought no one was at the house. I’ll give you that. But she was there, and you hit her on the head-”

  “Show it to me.” Linc had recovered slightly, his cockiness, his natural arrogance, rising to the challenge. “If you’ve got the necklace, show it to me.”

  Mattie shook his head. “I don’t trust you not to hit me over the head.”

  “If I stole it, how did you end up with it?”

  “I know where you stashed it.”

  Linc looked as if he’d throw up any second. “I don’t know how you can sleep at night. A six-pack of cheap beer makes all the difference, though, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re not helping yourself.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not paying you another dime. If you’ve got evidence that ties me to Chris’s murder, take it to the police. I don’t care anymore.”

  He cared. Mattie could see the fear-the self-loathing-in the kid’s eyes. “I’m not greedy.”

  Linc snorted. “You’re such a creep, Mattie.”

  “You should have thrown the necklace in the ocean. That’s what you’re thinking now, isn’t it? But you panicked.”

  “I’m leaving.” Linc straightened, looking less green. “I’m not going to turn you in. Sink in your own slime. But I’m through, Mattie. Do what you want to do with the necklace. I didn’t steal it. I didn’t kill Chris. I don’t know who did.”

  He spun on his heels and marched out of the shed, latching the door behind him.

  Mattie sank back onto the cold concrete floor. He had four thousand dollars on him, in his possession. When had he ever had this much cash? Why not take it and go?

  Let it be enough. Make it be enough.

  He’d just attacked Abigail Browning. Chris’s wife. His friend’s true love.

  “You should have been at our wedding, Mattie. It was something.”

  But Mattie hadn’t been able to see beyond his outrage at his friend the FBI agent cutting him off.

  “You’re drinking again. I’m through.”

  Mattie got out his cigarettes, tapped one out and stuck it on his lip. He didn’t dare light it. He sank his head against the stack of lobster pots.

  “Hell, Chris. I’ve done it now, haven’t I?”

  And there was no going back.

  CHAPTER 20

  Owen stood on the rock cliffs where his sister had fallen to her death. A family of black ducks bobbed in the outgoing tide below him. Tall firs and spruces grew along the edge of the vertical rock face, their roots bulging out of the thin soil, some of them hanging over the water.

  Linc stayed two paces behind him. “You’re not worried about falling?”

  “No. It’s not slippery.” Owen grinned at him. “And I’ve got one hand on this tree.”

  “I don’t like hanging my toes over the edges of cliffs.” Leaning forward, very tentatively, Linc peered down at the water, then pulled back, his cockiness-a cover for everything-returning. “I’ve never spent much time out here. What’s the point? There’s nothing to do. Maybe if I were into rock climbing.”

  “Or bird-watching.”

  “Bird-watching?”

  Owen stepped back from the cliffs. “Never mind.”

  “Oh.” Linc seemed slightly embarrassed. “Your sister. I remember Grace saying she was into birds. I wasn’t thinking about…” He grimaced. “I wasn’t thinking this is where she, you know, fell.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  The five wooded acres of waterfront were included in the property Jason Cooper was selling, and presumably would go to the new owners. Linc, obviously, wouldn’t care. But he’d looked anxious and preoccupied since he’d arrived on Owen’s deck an hour ago. Owen had suggested walking out to the cliffs as much to burn up some of Linc’s nervous energy as to see if they could pick up the trail of Abigail’s attacker.

  After dropping her off at her house, Owen had left the law enforcement officers and returned to his deck, dragging a chair close enough to the rail that he could put his feet up and stare out at the water and think. He’d gotten about two minutes of thinking done when Linc had turned up.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Mattie’s worked for my family for years. I can’t believe he’d hurt anyone. Abigail pushes his buttons, but she pushes everyone’s buttons.”

  “Let’s see what Mattie says when the police catch up with him.”

  “It’s not good that they can’t find him, is it?” Linc asked.

  “Depends.” Owen noticed dark smudges under Linc’s eyes. “Are you sleeping okay? Did I push you too hard on our hikes?”

  “No, no. I’m fine. I’m sleeping okay. It’s just-” He shrugged, looking out at the horizon, sky and water the same clear blue. “I guess with my sister and everything she’s got going on, and then Abigail showing up-I’m just on edge.”

  “Where’s Grace today?”

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me what she’s doing. She’s probably at the house.” He paused, clearing his throat, then asked abruptly, “Does Abigail think that Mattie killed Chris?”

  “That hasn’t come up between us.”

  “In a way, it’d be easier if he did and we knew it, could prove it. Then it’d be over. The not knowing.”

  “You were just thirteen when Chris died,” Owen said. “That’s a tough age to be a part of something like that.”

  “He was my friend.” Link blinked rapidly, keeping any tears at bay. “I remember the morning he was found. No one wanted to tell me. My father-he just said Chris was hurt. I didn’t find out for hours what’d really happened.”

  “Who told you?”

  “My dad, finally. Chris…” His voice cracked. “He believed in me. After he was killed, I learned I don’t need anyone to believe in me in order to believe in myself.”

  “We all want someone to believe in us-”

  “Wanting’s different from needing.”

  “Maybe so.”

  Linc brushed the back of his hand across his cheeks. “I should get back.”

  Owen eyed the younger man. “Linc, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s getting to me is all.”

  They headed back along the path through the woods and out to the private drive. When they reached Owen’s house, Grace Cooper was on the deck, arms crossed on her chest as she paced, preoccupied, oblivious to her surroundings. She saw her brother and gave a small gasp of relief. “There you are. Your car’s at Ellis’s-”

  “I know. I left it up there and walked down here. What difference does it make?”

  “We were worried.”

  Linc rolled his eyes. “We?”

  “Yes, we. Father, Ellis.” She dropped her arms to her sides. She had on expensive-looking sailing clothes-white slacks, a navy
-and-white top-that somehow made her look older than she was. “With this attack on Abigail, who knows what’s next.”

  “I’m not afraid.” Linc sounded more belligerent than convincingly unafraid. “It wasn’t a random attack. Whoever went after her isn’t going to beat me over the head.”

  Her brother’s confrontational tone didn’t seem to get to Grace. “That’s a good point. You don’t believe it was Mattie? The police are looking for him.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I believe.”

  She turned to Owen, her poise faltering slightly, but she managed a polite smile. “I don’t imagine you’re getting the rest you thought you would this week.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “No, I suppose it wouldn’t be for you.” Her smile faded, offering a glimpse of the emotions she kept so tightly under wrap. “Everything’s a mess right now.”

  “Her appointment,” Linc said, as if Owen couldn’t guess that was what she meant. “It’s all-important, you know.”

  His sister swung around at him. “That’s not fair!”

  He flushed. “I guess not. I’m sorry.” He shrugged, self-deprecating all of a sudden. “Being a jerk helps me not think about everything else.”

  Grace nodded, instantly accepting her brother’s explanation. “It’s okay. Forget it. Owen-we’ll run along. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do. I hope Abigail’s all right.”

  As she and Linc headed off the deck and back to her car, DoyleAlden pulled into the driveway, Abigail in the front seat next to him. When they got out, they greeted the Coopers, who mumbled quick hellos before continuing on their way.

  “Two of Lou’s guys are up at Ellis’s house,” Doyle said as he stepped up onto the deck. “They’ll be talking to Grace and Linc next. It’s Mattie’s day off. No reason for them to know where he is, I suppose.”

  Abigail walked up to the deck, her limp less noticeable. She’d put on fresh clothes, but blood had seeped through her khaki pants where she’d been cut with the drywall saw. Not a lot, Owen noted, but enough. She paid no attention, taking in a deep breath. “We could hit eighty degrees today. Imagine that.”