He ignored her. “You get involved with a guy like Scoop, nothing changes. You’re both a couple of working stiffs, never mind who your father is. You rent out one of your apartments, put his TV set and stereo system in with your IKEA stuff, and that’s it. You’re done. With Owen Garrison-” Bob squinted out at the rocks. “Do you know who the Garrisons are? Who he is?”
“Yes, Bob, I know who the Garrisons are, and I know who Owen is. And why come up with Scoop for your hypothetical? Why not that cute guy in narcotics?”
“Abigail, the Garrisons used to own this island.”
“Not all of it.”
“The half the Rockefellers didn’t own.”
“His grandmother grew up dirt-poor in Texas. She kept chickens up here. She wanted to keep pigs, but her husband-”
“The guy throws himself into the mouth of danger every chance he gets.”
Maybe that described why he made love to her, she thought. He’d gotten turned on by the risk of having a relationship with her. The forbidden woman. But she found herself smiling at the thought.
As Owen crossed her narrow strip of yard, Bob elbowed her, still not letting her get past him in the doorway. “He’s even better-looking than that guy in narcotics.”
Owen trotted up the porch steps. Abigail could have smacked Bob for successfully stalling her long enough to make sure she didn’t get a word with Owen alone first.
Bob opened up the door as if he owned the place, and Abigail, with no other real option, stepped back out of the way and made polite introductions. She didn’t explain why Bob was there. She didn’t ask why Owen was there.
Owen, casually dressed, as good-looking as ever, handed her a small paper bag. “You left these at my house.”
She gave him a questioning look.
“Your socks.”
Avoiding Bob, Abigail snatched the paper bag and dumped it on a chair. “Thanks.”
“Doyle stopped by,” Owen said. “They found Mattie’s bike in the woods. It was hidden off a hiking trail behind Ellis’s place. No sign of him. Lou Beeler asked Doyle to let you know, and Doyle asked me-”
Bob snorted. “Sounds like no one wants to talk to you, Abigail.”
“Everyone’s busy.” She sighed, then addressed Owen. “Bob’s humor takes some getting used to. I should get rolling. I want to help search for Mattie.” She turned, motioning at her mostly gutted room. “Never mind that everyone would rather I stay here and work on my walls.” She frowned, but her mind had gone elsewhere. “What’s that?”
Before either man could respond, Abigail was across the room, kneeling on the floor, picking up a tiny white ball. She held it up in the light. “It’s a pearl.”
Bob was there instantly, and she placed the pearl into his big hands.
“How did the crime scene guys miss this yesterday?” Bob asked.
“We all missed it. We weren’t looking for pearls.”
“The wall,” Owen said.
He didn’t need to explain further. They all recognized it as the same wall that she and Chris had worked on the morning before she was attacked and robbed.
Abigail, still on her knees, leaned into the gutted portion and reached down inside the wall, lowering her arm as far as she could, wiggling her fingers for any more pearls. “That pearl didn’t jump out onto the floor by itself,” she said, touching something soft and dry with her fingers. “Gross. I think I hit mouse pooh.”
Neither man smiled at her attempt at humor. She dug through a ball of fuzzy gunk of some kind, scraping her already bloodied arm on a two-by-six.
“Let me do that,” Bob said.
“Your arm’s too big. Owen’s, too.”
She scooped up a brown-and-gray heap and dumped it onto the floor.
Another pearl, covered in dust, rolled out.
And, in the middle of the fuzz, Abigail saw her grandmother’s cameo pendant.
She dropped back onto her heels, her arm stinging, her cut leg aching. “My necklace was in the wall all this time. And Mattie-” She took in a breath, calming herself. “That bastard knew.”
Owen lowered a hand to her and helped her to her feet. “That’s what he was after yesterday.”
“He must have used the drywall saw to dig into the wall and hook the necklace.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “Damn him.”
Bob frowned at the heap of dust, mouse droppings, mouse fur, pearl and cameo. “Why go after it now? Why not seven years ago?”
“Because I was gutting walls. He knew I’d find it. I’ll call Doyle and Lou.” She caught her breath and faked a smile. “Heck. Now maybe they’ll want to talk to me.”
If Lou Beeler wanted to smack his detectives or himself for having missed the pearl, he never let on. But he obviously wasn’t happy about it. He looked as if he could kick out the rest of the half-gutted wall, a feeling Abigail well understood. She leaned against the doorway to the front room, her house filling up with local and state cops. Doyle Alden was still en route-she had no desire to see him. Mattie Young was a lifelong friend, and discovery of the necklace would just be another implication for Mattie, another blow for Doyle to absorb.
And somehow Abigail felt responsible. If she hadn’t come along, would Chris still be alive? Would Mattie have straightened out and become the kind of photographer everyone believed he was meant to be?
She hadn’t sat down since Lou had arrived, tight and preoccupied but also, she thought, energized. Discovery of the pearls and the cameo pendant were breaks. Although she hadn’t been a detective for as long as he had and didn’t have a seven-year cold case, Abigail thought she understood how he felt.
If anyone could identify with Detective Lieutenant Beeler, it was Bob O’Reilly, but he was staying out of the way-if not, Abigail noticed, out of earshot.
Owen had excused himself as soon as Lou had told him he could go or stay. She’d known he would leave. He would consider his presence an unnecessary distraction.
Lou shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “It never occurred to me the thief dropped your necklace into the wall,” he said. “Doyle Alden was the responding officer when it was stolen, but I did a walk-through here after your husband was killed. And I did the final walk-through yesterday.”
Abigail pictured the back room and the descriptions she’d written so many times in her journals of how she’d heard the clatter of tools, felt the breeze, smelled the salt and roses in the air. Every detail of what had happened.
“I’ve looked at that wall for seven years,” she said. “Some of the best detectives in Boston have looked at that wall for seven years. It never occurred to us, either.”
That didn’t mollify Lou. “Why toss the damn thing into the wall?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I figure the thief-”
“Mattie,” she said.
Lou wasn’t going that far. “It looks that way, I know, but it’s possible the real thief confessed to Mattie, or he saw what happened and just has never said.”
“I suppose.”
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and eyed her, not without sympathy. “Must be tough for you right now.”
“I’m just trying to wrap my head around what happened.” She had no intention of getting into her emotions right now. “I interrupted you. You figure the thief what?”
Lou sighed, then went on. “I figure he didn’t expect you. He already had the necklace when you woke up from your nap, and once he hit you, he knew he didn’t want to get caught with it. He panicked and did the first thing that came to his mind.”
“Dropped it in the wall and ran.”
“It’s logical, not that I think he was using logic.”
“There’s a perfectly good ocean right out my door. If he wanted to get rid of it, why not toss it in the ocean? Much less likely to be found there.”
“You could have come to and seen him. If he’d tried to run with it, he could have been caught. Ellis Cooper’s guests were down this way du
ring the party to check out the cliffs. A wonder he wasn’t spotted as it was.”
But Lou and his detectives had questioned every one of Ellis’s guests that day, and no one had seen anyone.
Then again, would anyone have noticed Mattie Young?
“We’ll go through every piece of dust in that wall, Abigail,” Lou said, moving past her into the front room. “And we’ll keep an open mind.”
She gave him a grudging smile. “If you’re reminding me of the dangers of jumping to conclusions, your point is well taken. I shouldn’t have dug into the wall. I should have waited for the crime scene guys.” She glanced back at her fellow BPD detective in the entry. “O’Reilly, why didn’t you stop me?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t seem like a good idea at the time.”
“I just…”
She couldn’t go on. She saw herself on her wedding day, putting on the pearl-and-cameo necklace with her grandmother and mother watching her, happy for her, none of them ever imagining the horror and tragedy that would come their way in a matter of days.
And not because of the necklace.
The thief-the person who’d attacked her seven years ago-had never been after the necklace.
It was nothing she needed to tell either detective with her.
“Lou, what else do you know?” She spoke quietly, saw him stiffen as he stopped, his back to her. She went on. “What haven’t you told me all these years?”
He turned back to her. “Lab guys will be here any sec-”
She swallowed. “I should talk to my father, shouldn’t I?”
“You should always talk to your father.” He cleared his throat and nodded to Bob. “Good to meet you, finally.”
“You, too, Lieutenant,” Bob said, stepping aside for Lou to pass him.
After Lou headed outside to meet more arriving officers, Abigail frowned at O’Reilly. “‘Finally?’ What does that mean? Have you two talked behind my back more than I think you have?”
“Probably.”
“I don’t like being thought of as a complication.”
“Well, you are. Tough. You’re also a damn good detective. If not for you, Boston would have a few more cretins on the street.”
She hadn’t expected any kind of compliment, not today. “Thanks for that, Bob.”
“I’m just stating the facts. I’m not trying to be nice.” His big frame took up most of the doorway. “Abigail. Detective Browning. You get burned up here-you cross the line-I can’t help you.”
“Understood.”
“Having a father who’s the director of the FBI isn’t a point in your favor. It’s not why you’re a detective today. Neither is having the unsolved murder of a loved one in your background. These are liabilities.”
“I like to think I’m a detective today because of my own hard work.”
“You are. You didn’t let your liabilities sink you.” He made a face, as if he’d been planning what to say to her but, now that he was saying it, didn’t like it. “I’m being blunt here, but I have to be. Your liabilities set you apart. They make people look at you and wonder, and that’s not good. I’ve stood up for you because you should have a chance to prove yourself on your own merits. And you have.”
“Your faith in me means a lot.”
“Yeah. That’s great. I’ll tell Scoop that we need to keep that in mind when reporters are camped out on our front stoop.” But O’Reilly wasn’t finished. “Tell me, kid. What are you going to do if you come face-to-face with Chris’s killer? Have you thought about that?”
“Every day for the past seven years.”
He wasn’t satisfied. “Do you see yourself calling 911?”
“Bob, I know what you’re getting at.”
“Or do you see yourself taking out your Glock and pulling the trigger and blowing this guy’s head off?”
“I see Chris.” Abigail crossed her arms on her chest and refused to look at her friend and mentor, a man with almost thirty years of law enforcement experience. “I see him nodding and saying, ‘That’s the one, babe. That’s the one who killed me.’”
Bob had no response. He walked into the front room and stood next to her. Lou had posted troopers at the porch and hall doors. No one was touching his seven-year-old crime scene wall.
“Beautiful spot,” O’Reilly said, looking out at the ocean. “I’m starving, though. Anyone up here serve lobster this early?”
CHAPTER 25
Grace picked at a wild raspberry scone on the screen porch overlooking Somes Sound, possibly her favorite spot on earth. Mattie had wanted to make love to her out there when she’d slipped away from Washington for a long off-season weekend with him, months before Chris’s death, but she’d refused. She’d known, even then, at the height of their affair, that she and MattieYoung weren’t meant to last.
But Chris had met Abigail by then, and when Grace had seen them together, she’d known he was lost to her.
It was late morning now, the sunlight and shade shifting with the wind on the lush grass that Mattie so carefully, so grudgingly, tended, and as beautiful as the scene was, she would have preferred to be anywhere else.
Her father and uncle watched her from their seats at the round table, set with the breakfast dishes her mother had picked out long ago and decorated with a crystal vase of delphinium Ellis had brought down with him.
How, Grace asked herself, could she explain to them that she didn’t give a damn anymore what they thought?
Let them try to read her mind. Let them try to manipulate her. She just didn’t care. Her father knew he’d asked her the impossible. He knew he’d asked her to cross a line she wouldn’t cross.
Maybe it would have been easier if he’d been oblivious, but he wasn’t. Jason Cooper never spoke without knowing exactly what he was going to say and the impact it would have.
“I’m not telling Linc to leave the island.” Grace wrapped her long, baggy sweater more tightly around her, although she wasn’t cold. “I can’t do that. I won’t do it.”
Her father inhaled audibly, one of his tricks to show his displeasure. It was a cue. They were all supposed to understand what he was thinking and feeling without him actually having to say so. “Your brother listens to you.”
“That’s why I’m not telling him. I can’t ask him to leave because of me.”
Ellis, in one of his country-squire outfits, broke off a piece of his scone but didn’t eat it. None of them had eaten much. He’d picked up the scones in Northeast Harbor and arrived while they were still warm. He said, “Whatever Linc’s hiding could cost you this appointment.”
His tone was patient, not at all condescending. Grace abandoned her scone. “He’s not going to cost me anything. If the appointment gets pulled, it will be because of me and who I am-not because of my brother.”
“But you don’t deny he’s hiding something,” Ellis asked quietly. “Do you know what it is?”
Her father, an elegant man, always composed, studied her as he and her uncle awaited her answer. At that moment, she hated them both. Her most trusted confidants, her biggest supporters. She could turn to them with anything-but not, she thought, this. Not Linc. They would sacrifice him to save her appointment. They wouldn’t believe they were hurting him because they were convinced he’d never amount to anything, anyway.
What would they do if they knew she’d slept with Mattie Young?
What would they do if they knew she’d lied to the local police, the Maine State Police, the FBI-herself?
“I have no idea what Linc’s hiding,” she said, finally. “He’s gone to see Owen.”
“Owen.” Her father grimaced, pushing aside his plate. “He’s part of the problem. I admit that I liked the idea of him taking Linc under his wing at first. Now, I don’t know. Linc needs baby steps. Owen’s not a man for baby steps. As much as I respect him, he must see that Linc isn’t seriously interested in search-and-rescue.”
Grace could feel herself growing warm at her father’s almost clinical w
ay of discussing her brother. “He’s getting some positive attention from Owen. That can’t be a bad thing.”
“Linc gets plenty of attention from everyone. Including me.”
Grace had to stop herself from snorting in disbelief. Did he actually believe he gave Linc any attention at all? She lifted her napkin off her lap and placed it next to her plate. “I’m going for a walk,” she said, getting up from the table.
She ripped open the screen door and pounded down the stone steps, picking up her pace as she ran across the lawn to the water’s edge. Sprawling beach roses formed a thick border between the yard and the shoreline, the morning dew glistening on their pink blossoms.
As she calmed herself, she watched a lone kayaker out on the water. How long had it been since she’d kayaked? She’d been so wrapped up in her work for so long. She’d hoped some time in Maine with her family would be a good break, that she’d have a chance, finally, to do things just for fun-never mind the damn background check.
She became aware of her uncle behind her. “I know what you and my father are doing,” she said. “You’re not worried about Linc. I’m not even sure you’re worried about me. You’re worried about Abigail Browning. Bad enough for the FBI to be right here on the island, digging into our lives. But Abigail-having her know our dirty little secrets…”
“Grace, Grace.” Ellis stood next to her, leaning on his walking stick. He didn’t look at his niece but out at the sound, the kayaker, the seagulls, the mountains, as if he were trying to absorb their beauty through his skin. Finally, he sighed. “I don’t care about Abigail or the FBI. Neither does your father. We’re worried about you. About what’s best for you.”
She blinked back tears. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Listen to me.” He touched her elbow through her heavy cable sweater, too warm for the conditions. “Please, Grace. Listen carefully.”
He waited for her reaction. She nodded. “All right. I’m listening.”
“Abigail only cares about finding her husband’s killer. Her only interest in any of us is related to that desire-that commitment. She wants closure.”
The Widow Page 20