The Widow (18 page)

“Will you press charges?”

“It’s not that simple.” She thought of the two pictures the Alden boys had found on Owen’s deck. “Doyle wasn’t on the lobster boat the day you lost your sister, was he?”

“No. I don’t know where he was. Abigail—”

“He’d have been fifteen. It must have been an awful time for him, too.”

“I’m sure it was. He, Mattie and Chris were all friends. Abigail, what do you want to do? Do you want to go look for Mattie? Because I can go with you. We can take my truck.”

She banged her head back against the wall. “Sure. Yeah, we can go look. It beats climbing around in your bathroom and driving myself nuts trying to put all these disparate pieces together. But we won’t find him, not if he’s squirreled himself away somewhere and doesn’t want to be found.”

Owen traced a crooked finger along her jaw. “You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Crazy, I know. The bastard jumps me, cuts my best pair of hiking pants—okay, so my only pair of hiking pants—and humiliates me in front of a bunch of Maine cops, not to mention two very serious FBI agents—” She blinked back totally unexpected tears. “And I’m worried about him.
Damn.”

“Your father…”

“No cell service out here on the rocks and Mattie cut my phone line.” She smiled through her tears. “There you go—maybe he cut the line just to keep me from having to talk to my father. He was doing me a favor.”

“Is the line fixed now?”

She nodded. “One of Lou’s guys knew what to do. I’m not good with wires.”

Owen let his finger trail up her cheek and catch a tear, then kissed the spot where it had been. “I hate to see you cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

“And your leg’s fine, and your arm’s fine, and you can take anything.”

“I’ll take anything I have to take if it means finding Chris’s killer.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Anything. I don’t care.”

“How far will you go to find his killer? As far as you have to, regardless of the consequences?”

“There are lines I won’t cross.”

“What lines?”

“Ethical lines. Legal lines. But I won’t cover up for anyone. I won’t look the other way just to avoid hurting people. Hurting myself.”

He slipped his hand behind her neck. “You’ve thought it all through, haven’t you?”

“I’ve had seven years.”

“As much as I want to kiss you now,” he said, “and as much as I’ve wanted to kiss you for a lot of those seven years, if I could go back in time and stop Chris from leaving you that day, I’d do it.”

“Owen—” Her head spun. “Chris always said you were one of the best people he knew. He wished he’d known you better. I can see why Linc Cooper and Sean and Ian Alden idolize you. You’re one of the most highly-regarded search-and-rescue specialists in the world. But to me—” she touched the scar under his eye “—you’re also a tumbleweed and just a little reckless.”

“I’ve never fallen off the edge of a tub while sneaking through someone’s bathroom shelves.”

When they kissed, Abigail closed her eyes, hearing the ocean, smelling the salt and pine in the air. She wrapped her arms around his hard middle and drew herself tight against him, ignoring any sting of pain in her scraped arm and cut leg. Instead of putting her on her guard, scaring her, the hunger and desire—the soul-deep yearning—that surged through her energized her.

Owen caught her by the waist and lifted her, kissing her throat. She hooked her legs around his hips and gave herself up to the exquisite pleasure of his mouth and tongue on her flesh.

When she threw herself back in his arms, the strain on her thigh was too much, and she gave a small cry at the tug of pain. She immediately tried to cover it with a moan of pure desire, but the man who had her aloft was an expert in pain.

He unhooked her legs and set her back down on the floor. “Okay?’

“A little more wild abandon than my body’s ready for.”

“Part of your body, anyway.”

“Well—there’s that.” She suddenly felt self-conscious. “Is the offer of driving me around in your truck still open?”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s go, Detective.”

E
llis Cooper guessed that Abigail was trying to picture the party at his house the day her husband was killed. She stood near the gate that opened into the woods. Although she had to be tired and in pain from that morning’s confrontation, she looked focused and alert.

Owen was another matter. Ellis had no idea what he was thinking.

He pointed his walking stick at an arborvitae. “This wasn’t here seven years ago. An old maple was here. It was struck by lightning, and I had to have it removed.”

“I remember that maple,” Owen said. “Doe and I used to climb it as kids.”

Ellis tried not to show his awkwardness at Owen’s mention of his early childhood there. Throughout the gardens, there were still Garrison touches, reminders of pretty Doe’s presence. Ellis had preserved what pleased him, what meant something to him and his own memories.

He decided to ignore his neighbor’s remark and went on. “I’ve added more plants and trees and changed things around since the party. A garden’s always a work in progress. It’s never finished.”

Abigail seized on his comment. “But you’re looking forward to starting fresh somewhere else?”

“Yes, absolutely.” He refused to admit a contradiction. “I’m just tinkering here at this point.”

“I think I’d like tinkering.” She ran her fingers over the gate latch, giving no sign that her bandaged forearm hurt. “Did many of your guests that day use the gate to come and go?”

“None that I remember. I wasn’t paying that close attention.”

“Maybe some were tempted to take a walk on one of the hiking trails,” she said.

Ellis shrugged. “Perhaps.” He shifted his attention to Owen. “What’s this all about?”

But Abigail moved on toward the garden shed, and Owen didn’t answer, instead motioning to Ellis that they might as well follow her. Their take-charge manner irritated him. They were on
his
property.

Well, his brother’s property.

They came to an old cedar-wood swing, a true treasure that hung from a massive red oak tree. Abigail gave the swing a little push. “Must be a nice spot to sit and read a book.”

“I have very little time to read,” Ellis said stiffly.

“I love to read. Helps keep me sane.”

“My sister used to read here.” Owen touched the chain holding the swing to a thick branch. “She must have read
Anne of Green Gables
a dozen times.”

Abigail’s tight control faltered. “I’m sorry to remind you—”

“Don’t be. It’s a good memory.”

When Owen smiled at her, Ellis was taken aback by the affection he saw. The physical attraction. He’d never anticipated a bond forming between Owen Garrison and Abigail Browning. What would Jason say? And Grace. Despite her protestations, she’d always believed Owen was there for the taking. He’d had fleeting relationships but there’d never been anyone with any threat of permanence. It was obvious to Ellis that so long as Owen was available, Grace would assume she could have him if she wanted him.

Ellis quickly returned to the subject at hand. “Most of my guests at the party stayed over by the patio. Some used the steps to go down to the water and check out the cliffs—”

Abigail moved away from the swing, past a mass planting of pink and white astilbes. “Did you turn over all the pictures you took that day to the police?”

“Of course. I didn’t take many myself, but I had disposable cameras available for guests. Some snapped pictures and left the cameras. I turned them all over to the police—voluntarily. They didn’t have to ask. I’m quite sure they were of no help whatsoever in their investigation. I wish they had been.”

“Was Mattie here taking pictures?”

“I didn’t hire him to, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What about on his own?”

“He could have been. Abigail, please—what’s this all about?”

She gave him a quick smile. “I know I’m asking a lot of questions. Something’s going on around here, and it obviously involves me.” She came to the shed. “Mind if I take a look inside?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Don’t let us keep you from your dinner.”

Ellis sighed, resigned to the intrusion. “I don’t mind. You’re welcome to join us.”

Jason, Grace and Linc were in his kitchen. They were to have dinner together and discuss what was going on with their yardman and Chris Browning’s widow—John March’s daughter. If word of the attack on Abigail that morning reached the media—and Jason was convinced it would—then all bets were off concerning Grace’s appointment. A cold murder case of a friend was a difficult enough public-relations hurdle. But a hot, immediate investigation would be impossible. Ellis had counseled enough Washington types to know her appointment would get pulled at that kind of whiff of scandal. They’d find a graceful way out, but they’d be done with it. She’d worked hard and developed a solid reputation for her expertise in international affairs but none of that would matter.

Owen stepped in front of Abigail and unlatched the shed door, but she went in first. As she moved, Ellis noticed the weapon under her lightweight jacket. He didn’t blame her. After that morning, he wouldn’t take any chances, either. He followed them inside, more bored than irritated.

“I keep my garden supplies in here,” he said. “Mattie’s in and out all day when he’s working, but—”

Abigail put up a hand. “Hang on.”

She drew her weapon. Owen, right behind her, said nothing, as he followed her through the garden materials back to a stack of lobster pots.

Ellis saw now. The pots had been moved. Someone had been back there.

Mattie.

“Is everything okay?” Ellis asked, hearing the note of panic in his voice.

Using one foot, Abigail shoved one of the old wooden pots aside. A wave of fresh air blew into the stuffy, enclosed space, and he realized that the plywood covering the chicken door had been removed.

Owen said quietly, “My grandmother kept chickens.”

Abigail bent down and peered through the two-foot opening. “Hell, an ostrich could get through here.”

“She wanted to have pigs. My grandfather balked.”

“Do you have any eccentric hobbies, other than fast-roping out of helicopters?” But she didn’t look around at him, her attention focused on her task as she squatted down and peered through the opening. “Looks as if he crawled through here and made good his escape.”

Ellis felt his heartbeat increase. “I haven’t seen him. I can’t recall hearing anything out of the ordinary.”

She stuck her head out the small door and looked around, then pulled it back in, standing up. “I’m not going out there. I don’t want to disturb any tracks. Ellis—I need to use your phone and get the police up here.”

“Of course.” His throat was constricted now; he hoped he wasn’t having a heart attack. “But Mattie’s in and out of here all the time…”

“Through the chicken door?”

“No. I imagine not.”

Owen pushed past him to the front door, but Ellis couldn’t move. He leaned on his walking stick, feeling deflated—embarrassed. Had Mattie been hiding in the shed all day? His brother and his niece and nephew would witness Abigail Browning calling the authorities from his phone.

She touched his arm. “Ellis?”

He gave himself a mental shake. “The potential consequences for Grace—”

“Because Mattie Young hid in your garden shed? People aren’t that shallow, Ellis, and we still don’t have Mattie’s side of the story.”

Despite her conciliatory words, Abigail’s expression told him she didn’t need Mattie’s side of the story. “Go ahead,” he said, motioning for her to move past him.

She shook her head. “You first.”

“What? Oh.” He inhaled through his nose, irritated now. “You want to be the last one out. You don’t want to risk that I might tamper with evidence.”

She didn’t answer.

Ellis walked out into the beautiful evening air and stood next to Owen. “Abigail won’t care who she catches in the cross fire,” he said, more to himself than to the man next to him. “She never has.”

“She cares. She just can’t let it stop her.”

“How can you be so calm?”

Never one to overreact, Owen gave him a wry smile. “I don’t know about you, Ellis, but I’m having a hard time thinking anyone who’d crawl out of a chicken door is all that dangerous.”

Ellis tried to return the smile and match his neighbor’s sense of humor, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have Owen’s knack for distancing himself from a difficult situation in order to maintain his composure. Owen had learned to thrive in a crisis. Ellis was different. He did what he had to do, but he didn’t look for adrenaline highs. He preferred a quiet life. He didn’t need to get out there like Grace and subject himself to the scrutiny of a background check, political gamesmanship, having his every decision examined and politicized. Nor did he need to put his life on the line the way Owen did.

And Abigail.

She was complicated, and yet, right now, her mission was simple and straightforward. Find Mattie. Figure out if he was Chris’s killer.

But as he used his walking stick to make his way back across the yard, all Ellis could think was that his own life was spinning out of control. It had been for a long time. He’d taken too long to see what was happening. Now he was beginning to realize that the only way to stop it—to bring his life back into balance—was to be bold.

He wasn’t like Abigail and Owen, he thought. Boldness and courage weren’t in his nature.

“You’re a behind the scenes type, Ellis,” Jason had told him a thousand times. “You get other people to do what needs to be done.”

He’d meant it as a compliment.

Ellis glanced back at the shed, the door swung wide open.
Where are you, Mattie? What have you done?

Spinning, spinning.

Calming himself, Ellis placed a palm on his rapidly beating heart and took a deep breath. He hated being thrust in the limelight, but now he had no choice. The police would arrive in droves. They’d have search teams, dogs—who knew what.

Out of control.

It wasn’t his brother or his niece who needed his counsel this time.

This time, it was his turn to listen to his own good advice.

Evening fog rolled in over the island, unexpected, impenetrable, as if Mattie Young had conjured it up himself, willed it to cover his tracks and slow the search for him.

As he took his plate to the sink in his uncle’s perfect kitchen, Linc realized he was rooting for Mattie, and not just because of the blackmail and how terrified he was to have anyone find out about it.

He was rooting for Mattie because the guy was such a loser, and everyone was against him. Everyone was after him. Linc had seen cops go off through the gate, into the woods, with a German shepherd the size of a tiger.

The stupid bastard didn’t stand a chance.

Maybe he’d take the four grand and start fresh. Maybe he’d hit bottom this time, finally, and blackmailing Linc over something he’d done at thirteen would turn him around.

Attacking Abigail. Hiding in a garden shed. Crawling out of a chicken door.

He’d see what a creep he was and decide he wanted a different life for himself.

And, Linc realized, he was rooting for Mattie because of his father’s attitude.

The great Jason Cooper, who’d been born to privilege, who’d never had to fight alcoholism—who’d never lost a friend to murder.

Linc knew his father had never cared about Chris Browning. That his murder remained unsolved and Chris’s widow stayed on the case, relentless, not giving a damn who she pissed off, was just an annoyance to him.

“Linc?” A note of concern had crept into his father’s voice, but Linc had no illusions that it was about him. His father would only worry that his afterthought of a son would do something to attract police attention. “Son, why don’t you have a cup of tea with us. Then we’ll go home. Mattie will have an explanation for why he was in the shed.”

To pressure me with Abigail’s missing necklace.
Linc rinsed off his plate. It was handmade pottery, as carefully chosen as everything else in his uncle’s kitchen—the cool tile floors, the muted colors, the custom cabinets. Dinner had been clay-pot chicken with rosemary from the garden, locally grown early peas, crusty bread from a Bar Harbor bakery. Linc had shoved his food around his plate, pretending to eat.

“I don’t want tea,” he said, turning from the sink.

Grace sighed, her reserves worn thin. “Oh, Linc. This day’s been difficult enough without you getting sullen.”

“I’m going to look for Mattie.”

“No!”

His sister jumped up, but their father shook his head, saying calmly, “Let him go. The mosquitoes will chase him inside soon enough.”

“But Mattie
attacked
someone today.”

“Abigail,” Jason said, as if that explained everything.

Grace spun around at him. “You make it sound as if she deserved what she got.”