Gone With the Woof (25 page)

Julia closed her eyes and shook her head, as if she wanted to block me out completely.

“That's why Sherm's been so helpful since Andrew died, checking up on you and bringing you gifts,” I said. “Sherm is happy that Andrew's gone. Now he can have you all to himself.”

“You're wrong,” Julia replied. “It's not what you think.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

“Sherm . . .” She stopped and blew out a breath. “Okay, maybe he has a little crush on me. But that's not my fault. I've never encouraged him, not even once. Sherm was just always around. It seemed like we could never get rid of him. Sometimes he used to tell me things. That's how I found out about Miranda. Sherm told me.”

“It sounds to me like he was trying to drive a wedge between the two of you.”

“I don't know. Maybe he was. I never thought about it before. I guess I always hoped that Andrew would be a little jealous when Sherm paid attention to me, but he never was. He just thought it was funny.”

Julia stopped and frowned. “That night when Andrew and I argued and he told me to get out? I said, ‘It's cold and dark out there. Where do you expect me to go?' But Andrew just laughed. He said, ‘Why don't you go to Sherm? You know he'll take you in.' ”

“But you didn't.”

“No, of course not. I would never have done that. I called Charlotte. She let me sleep on her couch.”

“The morning that Andrew was killed, do you know where Sherm was?”

Julia chewed on her lip, considering her reply. “Right before he left the cottage, Andrew took out his phone and called Sherm. That was his way of ending the argument, of telling me that he didn't want to talk to me anymore. All I know is that Sherm was on the other end of the line. He could have been anywhere.”

“He could have been at the end of the driveway,” I said.

Julia didn't disagree with me. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest, clasped her shoulders in her hands, and shivered.

I
was back in my car once again when my phone rang. It was Charlotte.

I couldn't hear what she was saying. For some reason, she was whispering.

“You have to speak up,” I said. “I'm driving, and I can't hear you.”

“You have to come,” she said. “It's important.”

Oh Lord,
I thought. We'd been here before.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Westport.”

Only one town over. That was good. I was beginning to feel like I lived in my car.

“You're with Edward?”

“Not exactly.”

I sighed and pulled over onto the shoulder. “Charlotte, tell me what's going on.”

“I have something to show you. Something you really need to see.”

“What is it?”

“
Please,
” she implored. “I can't do this over the phone. You have to come here.”

I hadn't planned on making another stop, but considering that I was already in Norwalk, this wouldn't be too far out of my way. Besides, even though only two days had passed since I'd last talked to March, a lot had happened in the meantime. It seemed to me that it was time for him to call Detective Wygod and arrange another meeting. After I saw Charlotte, I'd sit down with March and bring him up to speed.

Plan made, I pulled back out onto the road.

“Tell me where you are,” I said to Charlotte.

“I'm at Andrew's cottage. You know where it is, right? We saw it the other day, when we were out walking.”

“Got it,” I said. “Sit tight. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

The agitation I'd heard in Charlotte's voice made me nervous, and I made the trip in ten. I'd never used Andrew's driveway before, but I'd seen it on earlier visits. Like the main entrance to the property, it was at least a quarter mile long and lined with mature trees whose naked branches snaked upward like gnarled fingers reaching toward the gray sky.

Charlotte had told me that Andrew liked his privacy, and he certainly would have had it here, I thought when the cottage finally came into view. The small home was tucked into a remote corner of the expansive property. Whoever had built it—possibly Andrew himself—must have wanted to put as much distance between it and the main house as possible.

The driveway came to an abrupt end just outside the front door. A dark blue SUV was parked to one side, and I pulled the Volvo up next to it.

The cottage was made of stone, with beveled-glass windows framed by thick wooden shutters. The red oak door looked equally solid. When I lifted my hand and knocked, I couldn't hear a sound from within.

Nor did Charlotte answer. I knocked a second time and waited another minute. Even sheltered in the hollow, I still felt the bitter cold. A north wind, blowing down off the hill, rattled the branches high above me. I had left my gloves and hat in the car and thought briefly about going back for them.

Instead, I reached out and tried the doorknob. To my surprise, it turned easily. I pushed the door open and let myself inside.

The room I entered was lit only by the weak sunlight filtering in through the windows, but I could see that it was comfortably furnished. Two plump love seats faced each other in front of a stone fireplace, and a rough-hewn coffee table sat between them. There was a dining area on one side of the room. An arched doorway beyond that appeared to lead to the kitchen. One wall was lined with bookshelves; another held an enormous flat-screen TV.

A fine layer of dust covered every visible surface, and there was a faintly musty smell in the air. The temperature inside the cottage wasn't much warmer than that outside. I knew that the police had been there and had performed a search; it looked as though the place had simply been closed up and left alone ever since.

“Charlotte?” I called out. “It's Melanie. Are you here?”

“Coming! I'll be right down.”

A narrow stairway led to an upper floor. Even as Charlotte replied, she was already running down the steps. I stared at her as she approached; I couldn't seem to help it. Even knowing her bond with Edward March, I still couldn't see any trace of him within her.

“That was quick.” Charlotte's cheeks were flushed, and her gaze quickly shifted away. “You made good time.”

“You said it was important. What were you doing upstairs?”

“Just looking around.”

The cottage had belonged to Charlotte's half brother. Not that she'd ever known that. Under other circumstances—in a more normal family—she might have been a frequent visitor.

“Have you been here before?” I asked.

“Only when I let the police in. I waited outside until they were finished. I'd never been upstairs.”

Charlotte's eyes were bright. Like me, she still had her coat on and fastened shut. Her hands were bare; she was twisting and untwisting her fingers together in front of her. I hadn't imagined her agitation on the phone; she still seemed ill at ease.

Something didn't feel quite right. I just couldn't figure out why. I nodded toward the stairway. “What's up there?”

“Andrew's bedroom. And another room, that he turned into a home office. I asked Mr. March last week if he wanted me to start packing things up, but he said to just leave it alone. He didn't even want to think about it.”

“So why are we here?” I asked.

“I wanted someplace where we could talk in private. I have something to show you.”

Charlotte reached into her pocket and withdrew a cell phone. She held out her hand and offered it to me. I took the phone and pushed a few buttons, trying to turn it on. Nothing happened. The battery was dead.

Charlotte was watching me closely, as if something momentous had happened and I was supposed to form an appropriate response. I had no idea what that might be. Without access to what the device contained, I might as well have been holding a lump of lead.

“Whose phone is this?” I asked.

Charlotte dropped her voice to a whisper, even though we were the only two people there. “It's Andrew's.”

It took a moment for the information to register. When it did, I drew a sharp breath.

“This is the
missing
phone?” I said, wanting to be absolutely clear. “The one that was supposed to have been with him when he died?”

Charlotte dipped her head in a nod.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

A frisson of shock rippled through me. This changed everything.

“Where did you find it?” I asked. “Was it upstairs? You have to tell the police.”

“I can't,” said Charlotte.

“Of course you can. This is huge. They need to know right away.”

My thoughts pinballed in several directions at once. If the phone was still in the cottage, why hadn't the police found it during their search? And why had Julia told me that Andrew had been talking on the phone when he left to go running?

“That's why I asked you to come,” said Charlotte. “I want you to take it to Detective Wygod.”

“I'm not the one who found the phone,” I told her. “The detective will want to talk to you, not me.”

“That's the problem. I have nothing to say.”

“Charlotte, think for a minute. One of the reasons the police assumed that Andrew's death wasn't an accident was because his phone—which should have been with him—was missing. But if it was never there to begin with—”

“I can't,” she said again. She looked like she might be on the verge of tears.

I slowed down and tried to summon more patience than I felt. “All you have to do is tell Detective Wygod how you came to have Andrew's cell phone in your possession.”

She shook her head stubbornly.

What was going on? What was Charlotte so afraid of?

“How about this?” I said. “I'll go with you.”

She looked up hopefully. “You'll tell them that you found the phone?”

“No, I can't do that.” My tone was absolutely firm. “I'm not going to lie to the police.”

“But they know that you've been asking questions. So now you can tell them that you found something.”

I blew out a long breath. In the cold, the vapor floated in front of me like a cloud. “Charlotte, what is this all about? Is this really Andrew's phone?”

“Of course it is. Just like I told you.”

“Then why won't you take it to the police? This is information they're looking for. Detective Wygod will be happy to hear from you.”

“Maybe I can explain things better.”

I whipped around at the unexpected sound of another voice, this one coming from behind me. Charlotte's mother, Maribeth, was standing at the top of the stairs.

So much for thinking that we were alone. And for believing that Charlotte had wanted to talk in private.

“I'm the one who found Andrew's phone.” Maribeth's hand trailed along the banister as she walked down the steps to join us. “But given my past history with Edward, I have no intention of getting involved. That's why I asked Charlotte to deliver it to you.”

I held out my hand, the cell phone nestled in my palm. “Then you're the one who needs to talk to Detective Wygod.”

Maribeth glanced down at my outstretched hand. She made no move to take the phone from me.

Charlotte was staring hard at her mother. “What past history?” she asked. “I thought you and Mr. March used to be friends.”

“It's nothing you need to worry about, sweetie. Melanie spoke with a friend of mine this morning. I'm afraid she was given information that should have been kept private.”

“What information are you talking about?”

“Really, Charlotte, don't be tiresome. It's none of your concern.” Maribeth stepped over to her daughter's side, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and squeezed gently. “It's time for you to go now. I'm sure Edward must be wondering where you are. Melanie and I have a few things to discuss, and then I'll be on my way, too.”

Maribeth walked Charlotte past me to the door. She stood in the doorway and watched as her daughter began to walk away, tramping through the snow up the incline, toward the meadow that led to March's house.

So the car belonged to Maribeth, I thought. And she was the one who had had the missing cell phone. Seeing the device in Charlotte's hand, I'd assumed that she had found it in the cottage earlier.

Idly, I flipped the phone end over end in my palm. For a minute it felt as though my thoughts were tumbling and resetting, as well. The picture I thought I'd been looking at disappeared. A new one emerged in its place.

Abruptly, my breath caught in my throat as I realized how wrong that earlier assumption had been. Julia wasn't the one who had lied to me. Andrew
had
taken his phone with him when he left that morning. And the person who had picked it up on the road outside and had taken it away with her was right here with me now in Andrew's cottage.

Maribeth waited until Charlotte had disappeared over the top of the rise. Then she came inside and shut the door.

“It was you,” I said.

“Pardon me?” Maribeth inclined her head to one side. Her expression was one of polite bafflement. I wasn't buying it for a minute.

“It was your car that hit Andrew. That was why you had his cell phone. You've had it all along.”

I half expected Maribeth to tell me I was wrong, but she didn't. Instead she sighed. “Ah, Melanie, things would have been so much easier if you could have just done what Charlotte asked you to do.”

“Take the phone and lie to the police? I don't think so.”

“That's your problem. You think too much.”

She walked past me toward the fireplace and sat down on one of the love seats. Her hand gestured toward the second sofa opposite. “Have a seat. Let's see what we can do to fix this.”

Fix this?
I thought incredulously. How was that even remotely possible? Could Maribeth seriously think that murder was an event that could be mended, like a broken bicycle chain or a lost electric bill?

Apparently she did. Maribeth was looking very relaxed, settled in the far corner of the love seat. Her shoulders reclined against the sofa's cushioned back; her hand was draped casually over its high-curved arm.

Judging by her demeanor, she truly seemed to believe that we were going to discuss the problem and come up with a solution. And if Maribeth wanted to talk, I was game. I had questions that needed answers.

She watched with a small smile as I sidled in her direction and took a seat in the near corner of the other love seat. Maribeth might have been relaxed, but I was not. I sat up straight and kept my feet on the floor. I perched on the edge of the cushion and rested my hands in my lap.

There was a coffee table and several feet of distance between us. That seemed like a safe enough margin.

“I know why you were angry at Edward,” I said. “But what was your grievance with Andrew? Why would you want to harm him?”

“I didn't,” Maribeth replied. “I didn't mean for any of that to happen. All I wanted to do was talk to Andrew.”

I lifted a brow skeptically. “Outside, on the road? In the middle of winter?”

“That's where he was when I arrived,” Maribeth said with a small shrug. “I can hardly be blamed for that. I was on my way here, to this cottage. I had hoped to catch him before he left for work. And then, suddenly, there he was, running along the road.”

I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but I asked, anyway. “What did you want to talk to Andrew about?”