Fletcher stood, his lips pursed as he held back his real thoughts about Aaron’s widow. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Thank you. She and I don’t exactly…” His words trailed off as he thought of the best phrasing.
“See eye-to-eye?” Fletcher finished euphemistically.
Tyler laughed. “Yeah. How’s Maggie?”
Fletcher stood. “As well as can be expected. Lily is staying with her. I don’t like them being in the lodge alone, however. Any chance one of your guys could camp out there for a few days?”
“Sure. The two out there now are married, and their wives wouldn’t like me much if I left them in the same house with Lily. But I’ll get one of the single guys out this afternoon.”
“Thanks.”
The two men walked toward the front of the office, and through the storefront window Fletcher noticed an older woman loading two bags of groceries into baskets that hung on either side of the back wheel of a bicycle. Two cabbages poked out of the top of one bag. He nudged Tyler. “Is that by any chance—”
“Ciotka Cookie. Yeah. You probably need to talk to her. She knows what goes on at the retreat pretty well. But good luck.” Behind them, Peg laughed.
Fletcher looked both of them over. “Am I missing something?”
Tyler shook his head. “Not yet.”
FIVE
Control, Judson insisted, was the key to any investigation. To stay in control of the evidence, the process, the interviews. As the suspects in his cases discovered, Judson was not a man to be fooled, lied to or led astray by wild tales. His ability to stay on target and on topic was legendary, much to the dismay of criminals who thought themselves more clever than the distinguished lieutenant.
Fletcher crossed the empty street with a few long strides. “Excuse me—”
Cookie finished settling her groceries on the bike. “Hello, Mr. MacAllister. I was wondering when I’d see you,” she said, without looking up.
Fletcher stopped.
Cookie grinned up at him. “Well, don’t look so surprised. It’s not like you blend in. Do you like tea, hot chocolate or cider?”
Fletcher found his feet and his tongue. “Is that cider mulled?”
The old woman’s blue eyes sparkled. “Absolutely. Wouldn’t have it any other way. Give me about thirty minutes to get all this settled, then come on by. It’s the logging road that branches off to the left just before you get to the retreat.” She fingered the end of her bright red-and-blue knit scarf. “I’ll tie this to a tree at the end so you won’t miss it. Stop and bring it with you, would you?”
Fletcher nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I will.”
“Good.” With a slow move that revealed both her age and her arthritis, Cookie mounted the bike and kicked up the stand. “Thirty minutes. Don’t be late.”
Fletcher suppressed the smile that was begging to come out. “Yes, ma’am. I won’t.”
With a nod, she was off, and Fletcher looked back at the police department to see Tyler giving him an amused thumbs-up. With a wave, Fletcher returned to his car. He drove about halfway to the retreat, then took a side road, which he knew crossed one of New Hampshire’s covered bridges and led to a small picnic area and ball field.
He parked, looking out at the color-dappled trees that edged the field. Most of the leaves had already turned and fallen, making the remaining ones stand out like dots of dark color on a white canvas. A teenager and his dad who were engaging in a little late-season batting practice were alone in the park. Fletcher rolled down the window for a bit of fresh air, and realized the only sounds he could hear were the pops of the bat and an occasional bird. He felt a far distance from New York.
Korie answered her cell on the first ring.
“Korie? This is Fletcher.”
There was a brief silence, then a dramatic sob. “Oh, Fletcher! I’m so glad you called! They won’t let me take Aaron back to New York.”
Fletcher rubbed the back of his neck. It had been a long time since he’d met a woman who made him feel so tired. “His body is evidence in a crime, Korie. After all, you’re the one who wanted this—”
“I didn’t want this!” she screeched. “Holding him hostage—”
“Stop holding court, Korie. Now. I’m not one of your subjects.”
Silence. “I’m a widow,” she said, an edge of tears in her voice. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”
“Yes, but I know more about you and Aaron than most people. Just stop the act with me. And let Tyler do his job. We’ll get you the body as soon as possible.”
“I need it by Friday.” There were no tears. Her voice was even, back to business. “There’s going to be a memorial service Saturday night at his publishers’, and they’re doing a spread in the New York Times. This is important.”
Fletcher closed his eyes. “I understand. We’ll do the best we can. But you screeching at Tyler and the M.E. does not make the process go any faster. In fact, the constant interruptions probably make it worse. Do you get my drift?”
Silence. Then, “Yes.”
“Good. I’ll keep you posted on any progress. And call me. Not them.”
“Fletcher.”
“Yes?”
“You’re even more of a jerk than Judson.”
Fletcher sighed, but the connection had broken. “I’m not Judson.”
“I’m not.”
“Who cares, me boyo?” Aaron laughed. “I gave them a name because you gave me information. Now they love you because they love Judson. You’re famous.”
“I don’t want to be famous. This work is hard enough without that.”
Aaron shrugged. “Enjoy the perks while you can. It’s fleeting. Fame is a flash-flame. Searing and brief.”
“Yours has lasted.”
“That’s partly inertia, and that I keep feeding the flame. But it’s not real.”
“So what is real?”
Aaron looked into his ever-present glass of Jack, then swallowed the last of it, ice and all. “The writing. The people.” He got up suddenly and walked out of the restaurant.
Dropping a twenty on the table, Fletcher followed him into a misty Lower East Side night. Aaron preferred this part of town, and often dragged Fletcher down to a dive off East Houston. Now the famous bestselling author walked into the still-busy traffic of North First. “This!” he screamed back at Fletcher. “This is real!” He opened his arms wide and spun around, in the midst of horn blasts from two taxis and a motorcycle.
“Were you ever with Aaron when he thought he was invincible?” Cookie asked, bringing in cider and gingersnaps on a battered wooden tray.
Fletcher sniffed. “More than once.” He looked around at the eclectic collection of photos and knickknacks as Pepper whimpered once, then lay down on Fletcher’s feet. Fletcher patted the old dog a couple of times, then leaned back in his chair. He tried to sit still, ignoring the fact that the horsehair poked through the fabric of his pants. It itched.
Cookie nodded, then set the tray on a table near his chair. She handed Fletcher a cup of steaming liquid with a clove and spice fragrance that brought back memories of Vermont snowfalls and sleigh rides. He took a snap. Then two.
Cookie settled into one of her horsehair chairs and smoothed her apron over her lap. “He reminded me of my son,” she said quietly, gesturing at one photo among the cluster on the piano. The elegant gold frame surrounded a fresh, young soldier with a sly grin and bright eyes. Cookie shook her head. “Laos.”
“I’m sorry.”
The old woman took a deep breath. “You never get over some of them, y’know? He was harder than my husband, who was harder than my parents were. Aaron will be hard for Maggie, but not as hard as some in her life. She loved him, but not in the way she will the man she marries.”
Fletcher tilted his head, puzzled for a moment, then he recognized her implication. He grinned. “I doubt that Maggie would see me as marriage material.”
Cookie laughed. “I knew you’d catch it. You’r
e good! I like that!”
The former New York policeman suddenly felt a bit less calloused. “I have a grandmother or two,” he said.
She slapped the arm of her chair. “Good for you! Good for them!” She shook her finger at him. “And you never know.” She picked up her cider and took a sip. “Now, what’s on your mind?”
“How long had Aaron been sleeping with Lily?”
Cookie leaned over and took a snap off the tray. “You don’t waste time, either. Good. Good!” She bit into the cookie. “My question for you is why do you think I would know?”
“Experience.” Fletcher nodded again at the piano, his focus on a photo to the far left, of a very young Cordelia Holokaj and her husband, who wore the dress blues of a New York City police lieutenant.
Cookie nodded in approval.
“How did he die?”
She took a deep breath. “Cancer, after all those years. Only fired his weapon twice in the line of duty.”
“Once. So far.” The warmth of the room and the cider had spread to Fletcher’s stomach.
“And?”
He set the cider aside and changed the subject. “So you also gave Aaron information about police work?”
She grinned. “You should have stayed on the force.”
“Mrs. Holokaj—”
“Cookie.”
“Cookie—”
“Yes. My Stanley talked to me a lot about the work. I listened. I remembered.”
“And?”
“And the first time I met Aaron, I told him his first book was all wrong. That the procedure was not right, the language. Told him if he knew any cops, he’d better start having a sit-down with them.”
Fletcher leaned back in his chair. “So you’re responsible for me becoming Judson.”
Cookie saluted him with her cider. “The next book was better.”
Fletcher cleared his throat. “Aaron and Lily?”
“He was a dog, wasn’t he?”
“Cookie—”
“About six months ago, Aaron and Lily started spending much more time together. Scott was going into New York a lot, supposedly to meet with his agent.”
“Supposedly?”
She grinned. “How many authors do you know who meet with their agents two or three times a month?”
“I’m not sure—”
“It’s unusual. We all knew it.”
“Another woman?”
Cookie shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time a man went hunting for scrawny squirrels when a banquet waited for him at home.”
“Lily and Aaron were retaliating?”
Cookie shook her head. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maggie knew they spent time together alone. Didn’t like it, but there’s a lot about Lily that Maggie doesn’t like right now. Still, she’s family.”
“So I gathered.”
Pausing, Cookie took a sip of her cider, watching Fletcher over the rim of the cup. As she lowered it, she cleared her throat. “You know you can trust that one to do the right thing in the long run.”
“Maggie?”
“She’s too close to God not to. Even if she tries to stray, He yanks her back.”
Fletcher pursed his lips, unwilling to comment, his mind wandering to the auburn hair, the blue eyes, the Bible on her desk.
“What about you?”
He looked up. “What about me?”
“What about you and God?”
Fletcher shook his head. “That’s personal, Cookie. I’m not going there.”
“Does it have anything to do with the one time you fired your gun?”
Fletcher sat perfectly still, determined not to provide her information at all, not even from his body language.
Cookie shifted suddenly in her chair. “Have you heard the old story about the husband and wife who were driving one day when she suddenly started yelling at him?”
Fletcher waited.
“She was ranting about how distant they’d become since the kids had come along. They didn’t even sit close to each other in the car anymore. He was patient, didn’t speak till she finished. Then he just said, ‘I’m not the one who moved over.’”
Fletcher remained silent.
“God’s not the one who moved away, you know. He’s still right where He was.”
The tug he’d felt when he’d seen Maggie glancing at her Bible strengthened, but he was not about to give up how close to the mark she’d hit.
She watched him a moment, then nodded. She knew. She bit a cookie and wiped her mouth, blithely returning to the case at hand. “I don’t think Scott knows that Aaron was sniffing around his wife. I think Lily’d be a lot worse off than she is if he did.”
“Could he know and be hiding it?”
Cookie shrugged. “Have you met Scott?” Fletcher nodded. “He’s not much of one to keep his feelings to himself, unfortunately.”
Fletcher wiped his mouth with his hand. “Did Korie know?”
Cookie coughed out a Polish curse, then spit on the floor. Fletcher sat straighter in his chair. “Like her that much, do you?” he said.
She shook her head, looking exactly like the old grandmother that she was. “Poison. Always was, always will be, unless God grasps her heart in one hand and hangs on for dear life.”
“Well, you know what they say…”
“There’s hope for everyone, I know. Korie should be thankful for that.”
“Did she know?”
Cookie sniffed. “Not that I know of.”
“And you would know.”
She laughed. “Mr. MacAllister, you can learn a great deal just by paying attention.”
“Fletcher. And, yes, ma’am, you can.”
Cookie set aside her cup and smoothed her apron again. Her gravelly voice softened some as she asked, “Have you started following the money yet?”
Fletcher returned his cup to the tray and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He put his hands together and met her gaze straight on. “Cookie, what is it that you’re not telling me? What is it that you don’t want to tell me?”
She pushed her glasses up on her nose and sniffed. “Aaron had been trying to give up drinking lately. Did you know?”
“I’d noticed. I didn’t ask why.”
She sniffed, her eyes glassy. “You should have. But before he did, he drank. A lot.”
Fletcher nodded. “And when he drank, he talked.”
Cookie’s eyes grew a little brighter, a little wetter. “I know you’ll talk to everyone over there, Fletcher, all the baby writers, and they’ll tell you a lot. And there’s Lily, and Maggie.” She hesitated and clutched her fingers together. They were trembling.
Fletcher reached over and took her hands, grasping them firmly. “I know you don’t want to say this. But it’s for Aaron. And I know you loved him just as much as the rest of us.”
She looked away for a moment, at the pictures on top of the piano. “I think you’ll find this has nothing to do with love—or who was in whose bed.”
“Money.”
She looked back at him, her expression solemn. “And a lot of it. And it’s not going to the one you think it is.”
“Korie doesn’t inherit?”
Cookie shook her head. “Some, but not all. Not the bulk.”
“Then who?”
Cookie bit her lip, and Fletcher felt his chest tighten. She didn’t have to say. As he stared at the old woman’s face, he knew.
Maggie.
SIX
Maggie slid her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. The room spun a bit, so she grabbed the edge of the mattress and braced herself. Her face ached and there was a dull throb at the back of her skull, but the painkillers kept most of the agony at bay. Of course, they were also the reason she was dizzy.
She could hear Lily in the kitchen, banging drawers and overseeing the arrival of the food for the evening meal. Maggie was grateful for her sister’s assistance, but the hovering was beginning to make her feel claustrophobic. And now one of Tyl
er’s men was going to camp out in the spare room, right across the hall from the one Tim used. The walls were closing in.
Help me, God. Please. Show me what to do. She closed her eyes, once again letting all she knew play out in her mind. Aaron’s murder. Lily’s bottle. Wouldn’t the same person who killed him have planted the bottle? She’d been flippant about answering Fletcher’s question, but the truth was she didn’t know anyone who’d really want to kill Aaron. Hurt him, yes. She probably could have done that herself.
Maggie smiled, then grimaced. Obviously, smiling was out of the question for a bit. Feeling steadier, she stood up and shuffled to the bathroom. Her whole body felt stiff, and she rolled her shoulders, trying to ease out some of the kinks. The floor tile felt almost refreshingly cool to her feet, and she paused at the mirror…and groaned.
Her face was swollen, with dark splotches edging out from under each bandage. She pressed gently on the puffy areas; they weren’t sore, but the closer to the wounds she pressed, the more painful it was. No wonder my head hurts. Why would anyone want to do this?
The obvious answer is that he or she thinks I know who killed Aaron. But why would I? Do they think I saw something? Or that I know—
“Why are you out of bed?”
Maggie cringed. She hadn’t heard Lily come in. She shifted slightly so she could see her indignant sister in the mirror. “Because I’m not about to start using a bedpan,” she replied.
Lily grinned and held up her hands. “Okay, okay. I just came in to see if you wanted turkey or beef.”
“Beef,” Maggie replied, then shut the bathroom door.
After supper, Maggie lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She had switched from the prescribed painkillers to ibuprofen, which meant that her face still ached, but the pain was manageable. The grogginess had worn off, however, leaving her awake, her mind buzzing. At first she’d just listened to the sounds of the evening drifting through her open door and a window that was raised slightly. Her bedroom was one door down the hall from the dining room, and she heard the snippets of subdued conversation, counterpointed by sounds of the night outside. No one stayed very long afterward, although they had all popped in to see how she was doing. Except Fletcher.
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