The Widow (8 page)

“We’re sorry, Mrs. Browning,” Sean mumbled, not waiting to be asked.

“Sorry for what? I like having company. Next time you’ll definitely have to come in for hot chocolate. And it’s Abigail. Not Ab, either. Or Abbie. Just Abigail.” She winked at both boys, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, “But you might want to apologize to Owen about the bedsheet thing.”

They’d all but forgotten that one and turned to him, wide-eyed. “Are you going to tell Dad?” Ian asked.

Owen grinned. “Depends how much work I can get out of you two before he shows up. Of course, you could always read those books—”

“We’ll read,” Sean said.

His brother nodded. “We’ll read all night!”

Abigail laughed, and as she started into the trees, Owen called to her, “If you need us, give a yell.”

“I will.” She glanced back at him. “And the same here. If you need me, give a yell.”

They were, after all, neighbors.

On the way back across the rocks to his place, Sean and Ian peppered Owen with questions about Abigail and what she was doing out here by herself, and why wasn’t she married—and why was she a detective?

“Sorry, guys,” Owen said. “I don’t know all that much about Abigail.”

A true statement, as far as it went. And as long as he was being honest with himself, he admitted he’d like to change that.

The boys ran up onto the deck and back into the house.

Owen lingered out in the cool night air. He did want to know his neighbor across the rocks better.

He had for a long time.

M
attie Young jammed his shovel into a two-foot hole he’d dug and hit rock. He laid the shovel next to him and got down on his hands and knees, digging into the hole with one hand, but he couldn’t find the edges of whatever he’d just struck.

“It’s ledge,” he said.

Ellis Cooper peered into the hole. “That’s not ledge. That’s just a rock. Dig it up. The hole’s not deep enough.”

Mattie wanted to take the shovel to Ellis’s head, except Ellis had always treated him well. Mattie knew his nerves were frayed, and he hadn’t been sleeping well. Drinking too much, smoking too much. And Linc. The money. The tension of whether the kid would crumple under the pressure and tell someone about the blackmail.

I should have demanded the ten grand all at once.

For the Coopers, ten thousand dollars was a minuscule amount. Even Linc could manage to scare up that much without drawing too much attention to himself—if he tried. He just needed the right motivation.

For Mattie, ten thousand dollars was a fresh start.

A new life.

“We need at least another eight inches,” Ellis said, pulling on his doeskin work gloves, not that he’d be doing any of the work. “You’ll try, won’t you?”

Mattie nodded, rancid-smelling sweat pouring down his face and back, dampening his armpits. He could taste the booze and cigarettes from last night. He’d scared the hell out of Doyle’s sons, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Even half in the bag, he’d known he didn’t want Sean and Ian to see him. They’d tell their father—and Owen. Possibly Abigail, too. He didn’t need anyone’s scrutiny right now.

Let them think he was a ghost.

He’d only brought enough beer to keep himself from dehydrating after a long day digging and hauling and snipping for the Coopers. He knew his limits, never mind what anyone else said. He’d hoped the cigarettes would help with the mosquitoes. He didn’t like the smell of bug repellant.

Angling the blade of his shovel, he jabbed it into the hole and carved around the edges of what turned out to be a rock, not ledge. But it was a big damn rock. Mattie dropped the shovel again and dug both hands into the hole, trying to get his fingers around one end of the rock. He didn’t wear gloves. His hands were so callused that new nicks and scratches didn’t bother him.

Ellis leaned over him. “Use your shovel for leverage.”

Ignoring him, Mattie got his hands under an edge of the rock and squatted down, putting his legs into it as he pulled hard, grunting. That end of the rock came loose, but it was too big for him to just pry it up out of the hole. He sat back on his butt, catching his breath.

Ellis was still hovering. Mattie wiped his mouth with the back of his dirt-encrusted hand. “You can go do something else,” he said. “This is going to take a while.”

“That’s all right. I’ll stay here in case you need me. I don’t mind.”

Mattie almost burst out laughing. Ellis, help him? The guy liked to work in his gardens, but he only did jobs that amused him. Digging up rocks wasn’t one of them.

Getting back up onto his knees, Mattie grabbed his shovel and stabbed it onto the other end of the rock, dislodging it, too. Using both hands and shovel, he managed to get hold of the entire hunk of granite and heave it out of the hole and onto the pristine grass.

“That’s a good-looking rock.” Ellis rolled it over with his foot. “Clean it up. I might find a use for it.”

How ’bout I bash you over the head with it?

But Mattie coughed, nodding, then sat on the grass, his muscles jittery, his head pounding. Maybe he’d had one more beer than he should have last night.

“The hole’s deep enough now,” Ellis said. “We need to get that hydrangea into the ground as soon as possible. It’s late in the season for transplanting shrubs. I don’t want the roots to dry out in this sun.”

What would you do, boss man, if I barfed into your hydrangea hole?

“I’m on it,” Mattie said.

Ellis nodded, satisfied. “Don’t strain yourself.”

The guy meant well, Mattie reminded himself as he dug back into the hole. Ellis provided steady work and often made up stuff for Mattie to do on slow days, just to be sure he had a paycheck. That he was a perfectionist came with the territory. Occasionally, Mattie fitted in small jobs at other places on the island, but he’d never encountered anyone more dedicated, more passionate about his gardens than Ellis Cooper. That he could give them up without a whimper was hard to believe.

On the other hand, Ellis would never let anyone know if he was displeased with his big brother Jason.

He might not even be able to admit his displeasure to himself.

Jason had the power, the reputation, the charisma, the money. Ellis had the talent, the vision, the discretion, the empathy for others. He had done well. He was a trusted Washington consultant—he’d advised his niece on her rise to power within very tough circles. He’d never married, but he was sociable, always on everyone’s guest list. In Maine, he liked showing off his gardens.

If Linc confided in anyone, it wouldn’t be his father—it’d be his uncle or his sister.

Grace.

Mattie reached for the hydrangea, whose roots were in no danger of drying out. He couldn’t think about Grace Cooper. Not now, not ever again.

He thought about his money instead, and his new life.

Think what you could do with twenty grand.

Linc could get another ten, easy. And he would pay it, given the right leverage.

Abigail…

Mattie dropped the hydrangea into the hole, which, because of the size of the rock he’d just dragged out of it, was actually too big. If Ellis noticed, he was keeping his mouth shut.

And that’s what you should do, Mattie thought. Keep your mouth shut. Mind your own business.

“I’ll get the hose,” Ellis said.

Mattie nodded. “Thanks.”

He gulped in air as he shoved dirt into the hole and patted it around and under the hydrangea roots. If he didn’t get control of himself, someone would be shoving dirt around his dead body, burying him in the cold, rocky ground.

Who the hell would miss him?

Not a soul. And for damn good reason.

Abigail took the last three steps of her porch in a single leap and ran into the back room to grab the phone. “Hello—”

Dial tone.

She was too late.

She slammed the receiver onto the old base and cursed herself for not having bought a portable phone by now. There was no cell service out here, but she could have had a portable phone on the porch and reached it before whoever was calling hung up. Instead, she’d adopted the “if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it” mentality of the Browning men and hadn’t replaced the working phone that came with the place.

Nor had she added an answering machine. How often was she here to need one? And vacationers didn’t want one. They came to Mt. Desert Island to escape such trappings. Even Bob O’Reilly and Scoop Wisdom.

Maybe it was Bob who’d just tried to reach her.

She debated calling him to tell him about the Alden boys’ “ghost” and the cigarette butts and beer cans.

If Sean and Ian hadn’t told their father about last night, Owen would have, and Doyle, if he was any kind of police chief, any kind of friend, would talk to Mattie and confront him about what he was doing on Garrison property. What he was doing drinking.

Abigail locked her back door and went out the front door, locking it, too. She’d tucked her gun back into her safe. She’d gone out to the old Garrison foundation that morning. Nothing had changed. The beer cans and cigarette butts were still there. In daylight, she hadn’t found any other evidence of interest. Someone—in all likelihood, Mattie Young—had been smoking and drinking out there.

And, perhaps, spying on her or Owen, or both.

Abigail jumped in her car and took off up the driveway, rolling down the windows, hot all of a sudden. And it wasn’t because of the missed call and thinking about Mattie Young.

It was because of Owen Garrison.

Thinking about him.

She’d spotted him out on the rocks in his jeans and untucked, weathered polo and could almost feel his desire to be alone, his burnout and fatigue after a grueling year of responding to one disaster after another.

Had Doyle told him about the anonymous call?

Her reaction to Owen, Abigail knew, wasn’t just neighborly—and it had nothing whatsoever to do with her being a detective, her vow to find Chris’s killer. It was far more elemental than that.

The guy was sexy as hell, and she’d have had to be a rock not to notice.

She drove through picturesque Northeast Harbor, relatively quiet for such a beautiful summer day, and out to Somes Sound, the only fjord on the east coast. Its finger of salt water almost cut the island in two. Thirty years ago, Jason Cooper, then a young tech entrepreneur, bought a modest house on a coveted stretch of the sound. He’d added to it over the years, transformed it into one of the most stunning properties on Mt. Desert.

The security gate was open. Abigail drove down the paved driveway to the stone-and-clapboard house, secluded among tall evergreens and mature maples. Its understated landscaping soothed more than awed, and as she parked behind Grace’s silver Mercedes, she noticed bright turquoise and orange kayaks leaned up against the garage. The Coopers owned a yacht as well as a smaller sailboat and speedboat. Jason, if not his two children, loved to be out on the water.

As she got out of her car, Abigail smelled roses in the warm early afternoon air. She followed a stone path around to the front porch, a small white poodle running down the steps to greet her. “Hey, girl,” she said, bending down to pet the dog. “Cindy, right?”

“Actually, it’s Sis. We had to have Cindy put down over the winter.”

Abigail looked up at Jason Cooper as he walked down from the porch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“She was eighteen. It was time.”

He snapped his fingers at the little dog, who immediately scurried to his side and sat, panting as she watched Abigail, as if jealous of her freedom to ignore Jason Cooper. He smiled, reminding her of Grace. He looked younger than sixty-two—too young, certainly, to have a thirty-eight-year-old daughter.

“How are you, Abigail?” he asked.

“Doing just fine, thanks. And you?”

“Enjoying the beautiful day.” He nodded at her. “You look as if you’ve been painting.”

She glanced at her paint-spattered shirt. Her shoes were covered, too. Fortunately, they were the cheap ones. Jason, of course, was casually but impeccably dressed, not a thread out of place in his dark slacks and golf shirt. She grinned at him. “I did get some on the walls. I painted the entry. Now everything else looks shabby.”

“That’s often the way it is with any kind of renovation.”

“I imagine so. I just got here on Monday. How long have you been here?”

“A little over a week. Grace and Linc came up on the weekend.” He scooped up Sis, cupping her in one arm as he straightened. “Is this a social visit, or are you investigating something?”

“Not my jurisdiction.” She gestured toward the stone urns of well-behaved plants. “Everything looks so beautiful. I was up at Ellis’s yesterday. I’ve never seen his gardens this perfect. I understand you’re putting his place on the market?”

“It’s not his place any more than this is my place.”

“You’re co-owners?”

“We’re a family.” Jason gave her an indulgent smile. “Ask all the questions you want, Abigail. I know any change in our lives up here puts you on alert.”

Especially, she thought, when coupled with a weird phone call. She ignored the edge in his tone, and how he’d avoided a direct answer to her question. “Why sell now? I’m curious, that’s all.”

“It’s just a matter of timing. Would you care to come inside?”

The invitation was his way of ending the conversation. She was supposed to recognize it as such and leave, but she was tempted to call his bluff and accept. Instead, she chose not to give him a direct answer. “You all must be thrilled about Grace’s appointment. Does it make for any additional scrutiny?”

“Not really. She has to go through the background check, of course, but that’s of no concern. Abigail—”

“FBI turn up yet?”

His expression turned cool. “Not that I know of.”

“They’ll want to talk to me, Jason. Because of Chris.”

“And because of who your father is.”

Abigail said nothing.

Sis fidgeted, and Jason finally set her back on the walk, snapping his fingers again. The little dog shot up the stairs onto the porch without a backward glance at her master. He watched her, as if he thought she might do something unexpected, out of control.

“It’s hard to believe it’s been seven years,” he said finally. “Grace and Chris met when they were eight years old. His death was a terrible tragedy. The lingering questions—” He broke off, shifting back to Abigail. “I’m sorry Grace’s situation has to stir up the past for you, but it’s out of our hands.”