The Widow (16 page)

But he felt her tears, dripping onto his cheek, hot, and pulled back, his heart breaking for her. “Abigail—I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you.”

He knew it wasn’t. But he was sorry, anyway, and didn’t know how to explain it even to himself.

Without a word, she fled from the kitchen.

Owen stared at the simmering bisque. What the hell was wrong with him? Why not carry her upstairs and make love to her? He wouldn’t be taking advantage of her. It was what she wanted as much as he did.

He walked into the front room and stood in the doorway of the torn-apart back room where she’d been attacked so long ago. “Bisque’s going to get cold.”

She kicked at the debris on her floor. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, making this mess. I should get Bob and Scoop up here.” She smiled over her shoulder at Owen. Self-deprecating. Tears dried. “Have you met Bob and Scoop?”

“Cops?”

She nodded. “My upstairs neighbors.” She gestured to her pile of debris. “They’d be like Doyle and want me to stay out of trouble, to keep knocking out walls. Well, maybe I will. I’ll head to the hardware store in the morning and order some wallboard. Buy a new hammer.”

As if she wasn’t going to think about the call, the articles, the pictures. Mattie Young. As if she would just switch off her cop mind, her sense of obligation to her murdered husband.

Owen kept his expression neutral. “Sounds like a plan.”

She blew out a breath and angled a look at him. “I was this close—” she held up two fingers, a quarter inch apart “—to throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you upstairs. You know that?”

He laughed. “It would have been a fight, then, for who carried whom.”

“Nah. I’d have let you win.”

But when she hooked her arm into his and walked him back into the kitchen, Owen realized what had just happened.

Abigail wanted to make love to him.

But not here, he thought. Not in the same house where she’d spent her short-lived honeymoon.

“Owen…”

“It was a very nice kiss, Abigail. We’re not just distractions for each other. We both know that much now, don’t we? But let’s leave it at that.”

He could see the relief wash over her.

After their lobster bisque, he walked back to his house and started a fire in the woodstove to take the chill out of the air, to hear the crackle of a fire and feel its warmth and coziness. DidAbigail worry about staying in her house alone tonight? He reasoned she was a police officer, and a widow, and she’d spent more nights alone than not.

Once he got the fire going, he walked outside, the stars and the moon guiding him out to the far end of the point, waves crashing on three sides of him.

He looked back toward the old foundation of his family’s original house and saw a solitary silhouette.

Abigail.

No way was she out there contemplating life. She was checking to make sure Mattie Young hadn’t returned to his party spot.

Owen gave a loud whistle and waved to her.

She waved back.

But he thought he heard her call him a jackass, presumably for startling her but who knew—who cared? It made him laugh, which, he decided, was a good way to end such a day.

A
bigail woke before dawn and drove out to Cadillac Mountain and up the twisting access road to its pink granite summit. She jumped out of her car, the wind brisk at almost sixteen hundred feet, the sky awash in the lavenders, pinks and oranges of the Maine sunrise.

Below her, ocean, bay and islands came into view, and she could hear murmurs of pleasure from other early risers. She emptied her mind as she walked along the well-traveled granite trails, enjoying her surroundings and the feel of the crisp mountain air. But thoughts of last night crept in. Lou Beeler had stopped by her house before heading home. Mattie had declined to tell the state police anything, either, and denied all knowledge of the pictures or how they’d ended up on Owen’s and Abigail’s doorsteps.

On Lou’s way out, Mattie asked him to demand Abigail stay away from him.

She had sensed the senior detective’s frustration—and his misgivings. The calls could have come from a faraway crank with nothing better to do. The pictures were another story. They’d come from someone on the island. Lou admitted he’d never seen any of the shots taken at Ellis’s party, nor the one of her and Owen at the murder scene.

He definitely had never seen the shot of Dorothy Garrison’s body.

That picture, even more than the others, clearly troubled the older detective.

Abigail had dreamed about the drowned teenager. She’d awakened with a start, unable to breathe. She’d been a little kid getting ready to move to Boston twenty-five years ago, but the scene she’d created in her nightmare of the Brownings, the Coopers and the Garrisons on the dock that awful day was so vivid, so real, that she might have been there herself.

Why leave such a photograph for Owen? To get under his skin?

Why?

On her way back from Cadillac, Abigail stopped at a popular roadside restaurant on impulse and took herself out to breakfast. Wild blueberry pancakes, pure maple syrup, bacon, far too much coffee. She was wired on caffeine and sugar by the time she turned onto her shared driveway.

She parked at her house, debating how she’d tackle Mattie Young today. Unless ordered to do so, she had no intention of staying away from him—and Lou had all but given her the green light to get under his skin a little more. Get out of him whatever it was he knew and wasn’t telling.

She thought of the cash in the envelope. Did it mean anything? Had to. Mattie wasn’t one for saving his money.

As she climbed out of her car, she noticed a robin perched on a high branch of the spruce tree at the corner of her driveway. Why couldn’t she sit on her porch and watch the birds?

“You could,” she said aloud. “You absolutely could.”

No one would blame her if she did.

The spruce branches rustled in a strong breeze off the water. The robin fluttered off.

Abigail unlocked her front door, immediately feeling the fresh breeze off the water blowing through the house. She’d left the windows open all night. It’d gotten chilly, but she didn’t care. She wanted to get rid of the last of the paint fumes, any mustiness, anything that would slow her down and clog her mind.

In the entry, she remembered that she’d left the porch door open, too.

Not much point locking the front door and leaving the back door unlocked, but she hadn’t given it a second’s thought before heading up to Cadillac.

With no pockets in her lightweight hiking pants, she dropped her keys on the stepladder, still set up in the entry, and headed to the back room. She could see specks of plaster dust suspended in the sunlit air.

The smell of the room was off. Different.

Sweat.

She heard a sound behind her, in the short hall leading from the back room to the cellar door and kitchen. But even as she reacted, the blow came to the outside of her right thigh. She went with it, didn’t fight it, putting out her arms as she dropped forward, allowing them to absorb the force of her fall. She hit hard, the rough floorboards scraping her left forearm, then rolled instantly to her feet.

But no one was there.

She heard her front door bang open and shut.

Damn it.

Her thigh ached, stinging, slowing her pace as she grabbed a crowbar and charged through the front room. She realized whatever she’d been struck with had managed to rip through her pants and bloody her. It wasn’t her sledgehammer. A knife? Hell, had she been stabbed?

She reached the front door, tore it open.

No one. Nothing.

She turned to get her car keys off the stepladder, but they were gone. She shot outside, hobbling as fast as possible down the steps and out to her car.

No one was there, either.

She shuddered at the pain in her thigh and felt warm blood oozing down her leg. She’d never catch up with her intruder, even if he was on foot.

Mattie.

That was his sweat she’d smelled.

“Damn.” Abigail gulped in a breath and cupped a hand over her injured leg. “Damn, damn, damn.”

What killed her wasn’t that she’d been caught off guard or that she’d been cut. She’d had no reason to suspect anyone was in the house until it was too late. And if her assailant had sliced at her again, she’d have tackled him.

No, she thought. What killed her was having to explain her stolen car keys to Owen Garrison, Doyle Alden, Lou Beeler, the FBI agents in town, Bob, Scoop, her father and whoever the hell else would find out about them.

Owen had worked with enough victims of accidents, violence and disaster to recognize those who found their sudden vulnerability more difficult to deal with than the pain of their injuries.

Abigail was one who hated her vulnerability. Hated having to ask for help.

She leaned over his stainless-steel sink with her sweater on the floor in a heap as she stuck her scraped arm under cold running water. Despite her bloodied leg, she’d staggered across the rocks from her house, burst in from his deck and gone for his phone, not explaining, just calling Lou Beeler, then Doyle Alden. She hadn’t bothered with 911.

She told Beeler she was at Owen’s house because the phone line at hers had been cut, presumably before she’d arrived back from her trip up Cadillac Mountain.

Owen sat on a tall stool at the counter. He’d gotten out his first-aid kit. He tapped its plastic box. “You’re welcome to help yourself to whatever you need.”

“I don’t need anything. Thanks.” She glanced back at him, her color slightly improved since she’d called in the law and got the cold water running on her arm. “I didn’t even know anyone was in the house until I had a drywall saw slicing through my pants leg.”

“How do you know it was a drywall saw?”

“Because he dropped it in the entry on his mad dash out. I’m never going to live that one down.”

“You’re positive it was Mattie?”

“I am. Enough to question him, if not convict him. Assuming we can find him. He must have taken off on his bike. If my damn leg…” She scowled and turned back to the sink. “And my car keys. I could have followed him in my car.”

“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.”