Dan put up one hand. “Oh, no. When everything got quiet, we snuck out the downstairs door. There wasn’t anyone out there, on the deck or the steps.”
“Maggie was still in the kitchen. We could hear her doing dishes. But we didn’t want to take a chance that Aaron would come back.”
“Thanks, guys.” Fletcher shook hands with both of the young writers, then looked around the room again, not wanting to be any more obvious than he already felt. The noise of the crowd was starting to make casual conversations more difficult. It was definitely turning into an Aaron kind of party—boisterous and fun.
Fletcher spotted Tim sitting alone, staring at the floor. Fletcher pulled up a chair next to the young groundskeeper, who looked up. There were tears in his eyes.
“Are you all right?” Fletcher asked.
Tim shook his head. “We should all be here. Out of respect.” He paused and crossed his arms. “I’m a fan, y’know? It’s why I took the job.”
Fletcher nodded. “It must have been hard finding him like that—”
Tim’s head snapped around. “She didn’t do it. Miss Maggie. She couldn’t have.” Fletcher had never heard him sound quite so Southern. “Miss Korie,” Tim started, his voice choked. “Miss Korie had no right to say stuff like that. Both those ladies, Miss Lily and Miss Maggie, they loved Mr. Jackson. They was like his only family. Like they was his sisters. You don’t go about hurting family.”
“Tim, how did you wind up in New Hampshire?”
Tim wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands and sniffed. He ran his left hand through his limp light brown hair. “You mean, how did I get from Tennessee to New England?”
Fletcher nodded.
“A girl. Isn’t that always the way it is?”
“Sometimes.”
“I followed a girl.”
“Is she still around?”
Tim shrugged. “Yes and no. She’s still around, but she’s married. I have no right to her. But Mr. Jackson was good to me so I stayed on.”
Click. Fletcher took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Tim, Dan and Patrick heard someone arguing that night. Did you hear it?”
Tim shook his head. “I usually take a walk after dinner, kind of a security thing, like the one I do later, if you know what I mean.”
Fletcher did.
“Anyways,” Tim went on, “I get pretty far from the house at times. I didn’t hear anything. When I got back, it was just Miss Maggie, so I got a cup of coffee and went to my room.”
The detective frowned. Click. “Aaron was already gone?”
“Yes, sir. And he wasn’t dead yet, neither, ’cause I came in the back way, up those steps, so Miss Maggie would know I was in my room.”
“So he came back.”
Tim nodded. “Must have.”
Fletcher sat up straight and patted Tim on the arm. “Thank you, Tim. And I’m sorry.”
Tim looked closely at him. “You’ll find who did this, won’t you?”
Fletcher’s jaw tightened. “I will, Tim, I promise.” Fletcher walked away from the publishing house, needing some fresh air, his feet pounding the sidewalk. It helped, the motion, the cold. He’d been a fool, had gotten too close to Maggie. She had to have heard that fight outside the back door, yet she never mentioned it. Edward didn’t think she knew about the will, but her reaction was one of numbness, not surprise. No one gets told they’re going to unexpectedly inherit millions of dollars without showing some reaction. She already knew; everything in his gut told him she did.
It was not quite ten o’clock, but he had no urge to spend any more time out, and he had no desire to go back to New Hampshire. He needed to talk all this over, lay it out before someone who was objective. But his main sounding board, the one man he’d talked to for almost fifteen years, was dead.
After a moment, Fletcher dug out his cell phone and dialed a number. A short conversation later, Fletcher waved down a cab and gave the driver an address in Brooklyn.
Maggie stood at the window of her darkened bedroom, staring out into the night. She hadn’t bothered to undress; she knew sleep would be impossible tonight. She had planned to stay in the city with an old friend, but after the service, all she wanted to do was come home. She was glad she’d decided at the last minute to drive; yet, the trip back to New Hampshire had been five of the most miserable hours of her life. Her stomach cramped, and the grief of the past week seemed to be a living beast clawing through her chest. She’d tried to keep the tears to a minimum but hadn’t always succeeded. She’d had to pull off the road several times.
The long drive did help some, even though her mind continued to replay memories faster than she could process them. Aaron’s body. Talks with Lily. The strange feelings she felt whenever she tried to talk to Fletcher. Her discoveries about Aaron, here and at his house.
Her torn loyalties lay like a hot weight on her chest. “God, please help me,” she whispered. Maggie stood a little straighter and tried to slow down her breathing; she was almost panting. Must not hyperventilate. But the very act of holding her breath released another wave of tears, and Maggie’s knees gave way. She slid down the window, sobbing. Leaning her head against the windowsill, she let the waves flow over her, the tears flooding her entire being. Her heart felt shredded.
And not just by Aaron’s death. There was so much more. Bank records, falsified credit cards. The copy of his will on the computer. The manuscripts that were clearly Scott’s, but with Aaron’s extensive edits; the versions of those on Aaron’s computer, already typed in. He had stolen them. Them, and so much more. Her identity. Her future.
What was wrong with him?
Maggie’s nose clogged hard, and she started to choke. Making herself stand up, she stumbled into her bathroom for a tissue. She blew her nose, the sobbing finally easing up. Taking another handful of tissues, she went back to the window, wishing the dark would simply surround her, absorb her.
“Lord,” she whispered. “Please help me. Heal my heart. Open my mind and lead me to see what happened more clearly. Please give me the wisdom to know what to do next.”
Maggie sighed. She knew what the answer to that prayer was, even as she whispered it. It was common sense. The right thing to do. Tell Fletcher. But she couldn’t. Not him. Not now.
“I do need to tell someone, though, don’t I?”
Taking a deep breath, Maggie pushed away from the window and picked up her coat off the bedside chair. She dug her largest flashlight out from under the bed and left the room, the tissues clutched in the other hand.
She needed to be in the fresh air. To be in her refuge. Most of all, she needed Cookie.
Jason MacAllister loved Brooklyn, which was something Fletcher had never understood. To him, Brooklyn must have been dropped onto earth from some other planet. Still…here he was in the middle of it. His cell phone rang, and Fletcher jumped, annoyed by the interruption. He checked the numbers, thinking it might be Maggie. But Korie’s number glowed under his finger. Muttering something rude, he turned the phone off and dropped it in his pocket, then looked back up at the ancient brownstone, thinking about the man who’d lived in the same third-floor walk-up for more than twenty-five years. He’d married there, raised three kids in the same five rooms he’d rented when first landing in New York. Cousins that Fletcher never saw.
“How are they?” he asked, as his uncle brought him a cup of coffee. They settled into comfy, overstuffed chairs that had seen much better days. His aunt’s carefully tatted doilies still decorated the arms and backs of the chairs, while one, starched and permanently shaped like a tiny doll’s hat, hung on the wall behind Jason’s head.
Jason snorted. “Do I know?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Since Alice died, they don’t come around like they used to. One’s in Atlanta, two in California. They don’t like flying, so they say.”
Fletcher glanced at the wall of family photos near the front door, lovingly collected, framed and hung by his aunt Alice. Most were several years old.
One was of him in his police blues, at his academy graduation. His uncle was the reason he had become a cop, the reason he was in New York.
“So what brings you back after all this time, and this late at night?”
“Sorry about that. A case.”
“What else is there. Aaron Jackson?”
Fletcher shifted in his chair. “You heard?”
“My nephew is one of the most famous literary figures in the world. I pay attention.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t start. Tell me what happened. I assume you’ve fully retired off the force.”
Fletcher nodded. “Official the first of this month.”
“Can’t say I’m thrilled, but I understand.” The older man sniffed, then pinched his nose with his left hand. “So, fill me in.”
Fletcher took out his notebook and pen. He flipped through the pages and explained everything he knew so far, starting with Aaron’s death and ending with the memorial service. Just the facts.
But his uncle was no fool. “So you think the fact that you care for this woman is clouding your judgment?”
Fletcher paused. “That’s outside what I—”
“Answer the question.”
The younger detective leaned back in his chair, his left hand absentmindedly clicking the pen. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“And that’s what’s driving you nuts. That you don’t know.”
Fletcher shifted in the chair. “Yeah.” Click.
The older man took a long drink of his coffee, then let out a long breath from the heat of it. “Would you hesitate to cuff her if you thought she had killed the man?”
“No. Of course not.” Click.
“Then don’t worry about it.”
Fletcher was silent, and Jason grinned at him. “Look, boy, your hormones are going to do weird stuff to you all the time. It doesn’t stop, not even at my age. And it sounds like this one is special to boot. Hard to deal with, which I think you like. Spunky women always did get your attention. But right now, she’s probably as messed up as you are about it. He was her friend, too. So is whoever killed him, if it ain’t her. This is driving her nuts. She won’t know where her loyalty is. If you can get her to give it to you, this will likely fall into place, and she’ll tell you what she knows. If you can’t see things clearly, it’s not because of her. It’s because you haven’t finished the investigation. You still need to do some prowling around, but my guess is that she’s your key. She knows all the players, and probably more of the secrets than she realizes. You know people always do.”
“But if she’s the killer, then who took a shot at her? Was it revenge?” Click.
“Who says they were trying to kill her? There were three of you on the porch. Maybe they were just a bad shot.”
Fletcher thought for a second. “No, I don’t think so.”
Jason sat back in his chair. “Then you have a woman with no alibi and all the motive, but someone’s trying to whack her.”
“Yeah.” Click.
“Then the next attack on her will give you more clues.”
“Oh, thanks.” Click.
Jason grinned. “You know how it works. You know if she’s the target, they won’t give up.” At Fletcher’s silence, he leaned forward. “Look, Fletcher. You’ve done a good job so far, but there’s still too much to learn to make a guess right now. In the morning call that girl, the one on the business card, then call Korie. Then get yourself back up to New Hampshire. You’re wrong about where the answers are. You may find clues here in New York, but whatever you really need to know is there, not here.”
Fletcher nodded. “I know.”
Jason paused for a second. “Who else have you talked to about this?”
Shaking his head, Fletcher clicked the pen.
“What about God?”
The clicking stopped abruptly. “What?” Fletcher said.
“Have you prayed about this?”
“I don’t—”
“You should.”
“Jason—”
“Don’t talk back to me, boy.” Jason’s voice softened a bit. “You came here for advice, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“So I’m giving it. You need to think about this. You’re letting that shooting go too deep, if you let it get between you and God.”
Fletcher stood up suddenly and turned for the door.
“Don’t walk away from me!” Jason stood, sounding like the precinct commander he’d once been.
Fletcher pivoted slowly. “This is none of your business.”
Jason didn’t relent. “You are my business, ever since your mother died. Don’t backtalk me on this. You’re too young to know everything, even about yourself.”
Crossing his arms, Fletcher leaned all his weight on his left leg.
His uncle nodded, taking that as assent. “Sit down, drink your coffee. I’m not going to pry. I just want you to think about some things.”
Fletcher hesitated, then stepped forward and sat, his thumb finding its home again. Click.
“And stop clicking that pen!”
Fletcher laughed, slipped the pen back into his pocket and finally took a sip of his coffee.
“It was a mistake, Fletcher,” Aaron said, his voice somber and even. “There was no intent in what you did. Internal Affairs cleared you. You have to find a way to let this go.”
“Yeah, right. No one blames me.”
“Except yourself.”
Fletcher jerked out of the chair, pacing the same ten steps over his apartment carpet he had every day for a week. “Don’t lecture me, Aaron. You don’t know.”
“I know that you are harder on yourself than anyone else is. You didn’t know that guy was a cop. He was undercover.”
“He was a kid!”
“He was dirty!”
“I didn’t know that!”
“You also didn’t know he was reaching for a badge. You saw a perp reaching for a gun. He should have known better.”
“I should have waited.”
“And if it had been a gun? Would you have let him kill you?”
“I should have followed procedure.” Fletcher shoved his hands in his pockets, his left one closing around a pen he’d forgotten was there.
“So should he. He should have identified himself, told you where the badge was. Right?”
Silence reigned.
“Have you talked to anyone about this besides me?”
“They want me to talk to a counselor. Never.”
Aaron shifted in his chair. “I meant Someone a little higher up.”
Fletcher stopped pacing. “You mean God?”
“It could help.”
An involuntary snort escaped Fletcher, and he wiped his eyes, then his mouth. “God wasn’t there,” he pronounced. “Don’t talk to me about God ever again. God doesn’t hang out in the back alleys of New York.”
Aaron leaned back, his gaze distant. Silent.
It was the first night Fletcher had clicked his pen.
It was the last time Aaron had ever mentioned God to him.
After about twenty yards into the woods, Maggie shut off the flashlight. The final leaves of the season had been ripped out of the trees by last night’s storm and now gathered in wet clumps on the mushy ground. The moon was full and there were enough clouds that the reflective light illuminated the woods in silvery shades that were broken up by the dark, spidery image of the empty branches overhead. She’d walked this path hundreds of times, and the flashlight was more a distraction than a help. Without it, she looked ahead, far beyond where its beam could reach, and she let her feet find their way.
She inhaled deeply, relishing the cold air. It made her feel more alive, as if she were intimately aware of everything around her. Her fingers buzzed with the chill, but she didn’t care. This…this…had always helped. The movement of the air, the smells of the trees and plants, the feel of the earth beneath her boots. It grounded her, and right now she craved tha
t.
She knew it was late; she also knew Cookie wouldn’t mind. Not now. Not with all this going on. Still, she was surprised to see the porch light on, and the smell of ginger oozing from the cottage. She knocked lightly, and Cookie opened the door, her robe wrapped tightly around her and a cup of hot chocolate in one hand. Pepper waited behind her, a shaggy tail wagging a slow greeting.
“Ah,” Cookie said, a few extra gravels clogging her throat, “there you are.”
Maggie stared at her as she stepped into the cottage. “How did you know?”
Cookie grinned and handed her the cup. “Because I know you. Because I know the memorial service was tonight. Still, I wasn’t too far from giving up on you. I was watching a talk show but it was annoying, so I’d switched to an old rerun of Speed.”
“Speed?” Maggie couldn’t believe it.
“Hey,” Cookie explained as she went into the kitchen. “It’s good for keeping me awake, and they’re both fun to watch jump around.”
Maggie smiled, infinitely pleased that she’d come. Cookie came out carrying her own cup of chocolate and a plate of steaming, chewy cookies.
“If I keep coming over here, I’m going to get fat,” Maggie said, taking a cookie.
“There are worse things in life than getting fat, I can tell you that,” her friend said. She settled in a chair, wriggling her broad behind back into the cushions. “All right. Talk. I want to hear it all. Start with what Korie did at the service.”
Maggie’s mouth fell open, and Cookie looked at her over the glasses. “Baby, I didn’t get this old by being stupid. The announcement of the memorial service was in the New York Times. It was getting press coverage. I could smell a drama-queen fit in the making. Tell me.”
Maggie took a deep breath. “I need to start with yesterday. I went over to the house, and I figured out what Aaron’s password was….” Maggie covered it all, the documents, the manuscripts, the accusations Korie had made. Cookie’s frown deepened as she went on. “I couldn’t stay, Cookie. I couldn’t. Not with him there and all that—” Maggie’s voice broke, and she pulled her tissues out of her sleeve, where she’d tucked them during the walk over.
A Murder Among Friends Page 15