The Widow (21 page)

“He must have used the drywall saw to dig into the wall and hook the necklace.” She pushed a hand through her hair.
“Damn
him.”

Bob frowned at the heap of dust, mouse droppings, mouse fur, pearl and cameo. “Why go after it now? Why not seven years ago?”

“Because I was gutting walls. He knew I’d find it. I’ll call Doyle and Lou.” She caught her breath and faked a smile. “Heck. Now maybe they’ll want to talk to me.”

If Lou Beeler wanted to smack his detectives or himself for having missed the pearl, he never let on. But he obviously wasn’t happy about it. He looked as if he could kick out the rest of the half-gutted wall, a feeling Abigail well understood. She leaned against the doorway to the front room, her house filling up with local and state cops. Doyle Alden was still en route—she had no desire to see him. Mattie Young was a lifelong friend, and discovery of the necklace would just be another implication for Mattie, another blow for Doyle to absorb.

And somehow Abigail felt responsible. If she hadn’t come along, would Chris still be alive? Would Mattie have straightened out and become the kind of photographer everyone believed he was meant to be?

She hadn’t sat down since Lou had arrived, tight and preoccupied but also, she thought, energized. Discovery of the pearls and the cameo pendant were breaks. Although she hadn’t been a detective for as long as he had and didn’t have a seven-year cold case, Abigail thought she understood how he felt.

If anyone could identify with Detective Lieutenant Beeler, it was Bob O’Reilly, but he was staying out of the way—if not, Abigail noticed, out of earshot.

Owen had excused himself as soon as Lou had told him he could go or stay. She’d known he would leave. He would consider his presence an unnecessary distraction.

Lou shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “It never occurred to me the thief dropped your necklace into the wall,” he said. “Doyle Alden was the responding officer when it was stolen, but I did a walk-through here after your husband was killed. And I did the final walk-through yesterday.”

Abigail pictured the back room and the descriptions she’d written so many times in her journals of how she’d heard the clatter of tools, felt the breeze, smelled the salt and roses in the air. Every detail of what had happened.

“I’ve looked at that wall for seven years,” she said. “Some of the best detectives in Boston have looked at that wall for seven years. It never occurred to us, either.”

That didn’t mollify Lou. “Why toss the damn thing into the wall?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I figure the thief—”

“Mattie,” she said.

Lou wasn’t going that far. “It looks that way, I know, but it’s possible the real thief confessed to Mattie, or he saw what happened and just has never said.”

“I suppose.”

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and eyed her, not without sympathy. “Must be tough for you right now.”

“I’m just trying to wrap my head around what happened.” She had no intention of getting into her emotions right now. “I interrupted you. You figure the thief what?”

Lou sighed, then went on. “I figure he didn’t expect you. He already had the necklace when you woke up from your nap, and once he hit you, he knew he didn’t want to get caught with it. He panicked and did the first thing that came to his mind.”

“Dropped it in the wall and ran.”

“It’s logical, not that I think he was using logic.”

“There’s a perfectly good ocean right out my door. If he wanted to get rid of it, why not toss it in the ocean? Much less likely to be found there.”

“You could have come to and seen him. If he’d tried to run with it, he could have been caught. Ellis Cooper’s guests were down this way during the party to check out the cliffs. A wonder he wasn’t spotted as it was.”

But Lou and his detectives had questioned every one of Ellis’s guests that day, and no one had seen anyone.

Then again, would anyone have noticed Mattie Young?

“We’ll go through every piece of dust in that wall, Abigail,” Lou said, moving past her into the front room. “And we’ll keep an open mind.”

She gave him a grudging smile. “If you’re reminding me of the dangers of jumping to conclusions, your point is well taken. I shouldn’t have dug into the wall. I should have waited for the crime scene guys.” She glanced back at her fellow BPD detective in the entry. “O’Reilly, why didn’t you stop me?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t seem like a good idea at the time.”

“I just…”

She couldn’t go on. She saw herself on her wedding day, putting on the pearl-and-cameo necklace with her grandmother and mother watching her, happy for her, none of them ever imagining the horror and tragedy that would come their way in a matter of days.

And not because of the necklace.

The thief—the person who’d attacked her seven years ago—had never been after the necklace.

It was nothing she needed to tell either detective with her.

“Lou, what else do you know?” She spoke quietly, saw him stiffen as he stopped, his back to her. She went on. “What haven’t you told me all these years?”

He turned back to her. “Lab guys will be here any sec—”

She swallowed. “I should talk to my father, shouldn’t I?”

“You should always talk to your father.” He cleared his throat and nodded to Bob. “Good to meet you, finally.”

“You, too, Lieutenant,” Bob said, stepping aside for Lou to pass him.

After Lou headed outside to meet more arriving officers, Abigail frowned at O’Reilly. “‘Finally?’ What does that mean? Have you two talked behind my back more than I think you have?”

“Probably.”

“I don’t like being thought of as a complication.”

“Well, you are. Tough. You’re also a damn good detective. If not for you, Boston would have a few more cretins on the street.”

She hadn’t expected any kind of compliment, not today. “Thanks for that, Bob.”

“I’m just stating the facts. I’m not trying to be nice.” His big frame took up most of the doorway. “Abigail. Detective Browning. You get burned up here—you cross the line—I can’t help you.”

“Understood.”

“Having a father who’s the director of the FBI isn’t a point in your favor. It’s not why you’re a detective today. Neither is having the unsolved murder of a loved one in your background. These are liabilities.”

“I like to think I’m a detective today because of my own hard work.”

“You are. You didn’t let your liabilities sink you.” He made a face, as if he’d been planning what to say to her but, now that he was saying it, didn’t like it. “I’m being blunt here, but I have to be. Your liabilities set you apart. They make people look at you and wonder, and that’s not good. I’ve stood up for you because you should have a chance to prove yourself on your own merits. And you have.”

“Your faith in me means a lot.”

“Yeah. That’s great. I’ll tell Scoop that we need to keep that in mind when reporters are camped out on our front stoop.” But O’Reilly wasn’t finished. “Tell me, kid. What are you going to do if you come face-to-face with Chris’s killer? Have you thought about that?”

“Every day for the past seven years.”

He wasn’t satisfied. “Do you see yourself calling 911?”

“Bob, I know what you’re getting at.”

“Or do you see yourself taking out your Glock and pulling the trigger and blowing this guy’s head off?”

“I see Chris.” Abigail crossed her arms on her chest and refused to look at her friend and mentor, a man with almost thirty years of law enforcement experience. “I see him nodding and saying, ‘That’s the one, babe. That’s the one who killed me.’”

Bob had no response. He walked into the front room and stood next to her. Lou had posted troopers at the porch and hall doors. No one was touching his seven-year-old crime scene wall.

“Beautiful spot,” O’Reilly said, looking out at the ocean. “I’m starving, though. Anyone up here serve lobster this early?”

G
race picked at a wild raspberry scone on the screen porch overlooking Somes Sound, possibly her favorite spot on earth. Mattie had wanted to make love to her out there when she’d slipped away from Washington for a long off-season weekend with him, months before Chris’s death, but she’d refused. She’d known, even then, at the height of their affair, that she and MattieYoung weren’t meant to last.

But Chris had met Abigail by then, and when Grace had seen them together, she’d known he was lost to her.

It was late morning now, the sunlight and shade shifting with the wind on the lush grass that Mattie so carefully, so grudgingly, tended, and as beautiful as the scene was, she would have preferred to be anywhere else.

Her father and uncle watched her from their seats at the round table, set with the breakfast dishes her mother had picked out long ago and decorated with a crystal vase of delphinium Ellis had brought down with him.

How, Grace asked herself, could she explain to them that she didn’t give a damn anymore what they thought?

Let them try to read her mind. Let them try to manipulate her. She just didn’t care. Her father knew he’d asked her the impossible. He knew he’d asked her to cross a line she wouldn’t cross.

Maybe it would have been easier if he’d been oblivious, but he wasn’t. Jason Cooper never spoke without knowing exactly what he was going to say and the impact it would have.

“I’m not telling Linc to leave the island.” Grace wrapped her long, baggy sweater more tightly around her, although she wasn’t cold. “I can’t do that. I won’t do it.”

Her father inhaled audibly, one of his tricks to show his displeasure. It was a cue. They were all supposed to understand what he was thinking and feeling without him actually having to say so. “Your brother listens to you.”

“That’s why I’m not telling him. I can’t ask him to leave because of me.”

Ellis, in one of his country-squire outfits, broke off a piece of his scone but didn’t eat it. None of them had eaten much. He’d picked up the scones in Northeast Harbor and arrived while they were still warm. He said, “Whatever Linc’s hiding could cost you this appointment.”

His tone was patient, not at all condescending. Grace abandoned her scone. “He’s not going to cost me anything. If the appointment gets pulled, it will be because of me and who I am—not because of my brother.”

“But you don’t deny he’s hiding something,” Ellis asked quietly. “Do you know what it is?”

Her father, an elegant man, always composed, studied her as he and her uncle awaited her answer. At that moment, she hated them both. Her most trusted confidants, her biggest supporters. She could turn to them with anything—but not, she thought, this. Not Linc. They would sacrifice him to save her appointment. They wouldn’t believe they were hurting him because they were convinced he’d never amount to anything, anyway.

What would they do if they knew she’d slept with Mattie Young?

What would they do if they knew she’d lied to the local police, the Maine State Police, the FBI—herself?

“I have no idea what Linc’s hiding,” she said, finally. “He’s gone to see Owen.”

“Owen.” Her father grimaced, pushing aside his plate. “He’s part of the problem. I admit that I liked the idea of him taking Linc under his wing at first. Now, I don’t know. Linc needs baby steps. Owen’s not a man for baby steps. As much as I respect him, he must see that Linc isn’t seriously interested in search-and-rescue.”

Grace could feel herself growing warm at her father’s almost clinical way of discussing her brother. “He’s getting some positive attention from Owen. That can’t be a bad thing.”

“Linc gets plenty of attention from everyone. Including me.”

Grace had to stop herself from snorting in disbelief. Did he actually believe he gave Linc any attention at all? She lifted her napkin off her lap and placed it next to her plate. “I’m going for a walk,” she said, getting up from the table.

She ripped open the screen door and pounded down the stone steps, picking up her pace as she ran across the lawn to the water’s edge. Sprawling beach roses formed a thick border between the yard and the shoreline, the morning dew glistening on their pink blossoms.

As she calmed herself, she watched a lone kayaker out on the water. How long had it been since she’d kayaked? She’d been so wrapped up in her work for so long. She’d hoped some time in Maine with her family would be a good break, that she’d have a chance, finally, to do things just for fun—never mind the damn background check.

She became aware of her uncle behind her. “I know what you and my father are doing,” she said. “You’re not worried about Linc. I’m not even sure you’re worried about me. You’re worried about Abigail Browning. Bad enough for the FBI to be right here on the island, digging into our lives. But Abigail—having her know our dirty little secrets…”

“Grace, Grace.” Ellis stood next to her, leaning on his walking stick. He didn’t look at his niece but out at the sound, the kayaker, the seagulls, the mountains, as if he were trying to absorb their beauty through his skin. Finally, he sighed. “I don’t care about Abigail or the FBI. Neither does your father. We’re worried about you. About what’s best for you.”

She blinked back tears. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Listen to me.” He touched her elbow through her heavy cable sweater, too warm for the conditions. “Please, Grace. Listen carefully.”

He waited for her reaction. She nodded. “All right. I’m listening.”

“Abigail only cares about finding her husband’s killer. Her only interest in any of us is related to that desire—that commitment. She wants closure.”

“And justice. Don’t you think she also wants justice?”

Ellis seemed untroubled by her sharp tone. “Right now, I would say justice isn’t on the top of her list of concerns. I’ve no doubt she tells herself it is. Do you believe it’s any coincidence this drama with Mattie is going on this week? It’s the seventh anniversary—”

“I know what week it is.”

“Yes,” he said, without inflection. “I know you do. Grace, Abigail is stirring up people, and she’s doing it on purpose. You saw her last night at the house, when she realized Mattie had been in my garden shed. She has no boundaries.”

“She’s a detective, for heaven’s sake.”

“And that makes what difference?” This time, he didn’t wait for an answer. “I like Abigail. We all do. That doesn’t mean I can’t see the dangers her obsession poses.”

“What if she finds Chris’s killer?” Grace turned into a sudden gust of wind that burst up the sound and hoped Ellis would blame it if he saw any tears. “As far as I’m concerned, then all her pushing will have been worth the aggravation.”

“Even if you suffer needlessly?”

“I don’t think any suffering of mine matters—or is needless.”

“Grace,” her uncle said, and now she could feel his eyes on her, probing, knowing. His style was different than his much older half brother’s, but he could be as ruthless when he wanted to be. “It’s time to get over Chris.”

She gulped in a breath. “Don’t.”

“Someone has to say to you what you already know in your heart. Chris was never real to you. He was always a fantasy. It’s time to break free of him.”

“He’s dead. Don’t you think I know that?”

“Intellectually, yes. Emotionally…I don’t know, Grace.” He didn’t relent. “Do you? In a way, his death makes it easier for you to hold on to him.”

She dropped her arms to her sides and spun around at him, the wind blowing at the back of her head, sending her hair every which way. “Ellis. Stop. I’m not some weak-kneed, lovesick nitwit. I refuse—”

“You refuse what, Grace? To face the reality that you’re thirty-eight years old—seven years older than Chris was when he died—and unmarried? To face the reality that with him gone, you don’t have to deal with the fact that he was in love with another woman?”

“He married that other woman.”

“You can pretend he didn’t, or that it wouldn’t have worked. You don’t have to see him and Abigail have children. You don’t have to watch their children grow up, learn to drop lobster buoys, climb on the rocks, hike—”

“I was over Chris before he was married.” She tried to sound convincing, mature, not as if she was churning inside. “I was well over him before he was killed.”

“No, Grace, you weren’t. You aren’t over him now.”

She couldn’t stand Ellis’s scrutiny any longer and took off down a narrow path between the roses, their prickly branches slapping at her hips and thighs, soaking them with dew. A thorn scratched the top of one hand. The bank was short, fairly steep, but that didn’t deter her; she’d walked this path since she was a child. She and Doe Garrison would play dolls on the shore and wave to Chris and his grandfather as they puttered by in their lobster boat.

She’d loved Chris then, even as a girl.

To her relief, her uncle didn’t follow her down to the water. She looked up the hill and saw him heading back to the house, and she wondered if he regretted his bluntness. He was wise and understanding, in part, she thought, because he’d never married and had children of his own. She’d come to rely on his advice, his keen observations of other people. His patience. Who else could watch his own brother sell his beloved Maine house out from under him and not complain?

Yet Ellis had always lived in his brother’s shadow—just as Linc was living in her shadow. And as much as she adored her uncle, Grace didn’t want her brother to end up like him.

Owen walked up a sandy path through the junipers and low-lying blueberry bushes below the remains of his family’s original Mt. Desert house, pine and spruce saplings popping up here and there in the thin soil. He’d caught a movement up at the foundation and was off to check it out. He wasn’t practicing any measure of stealth. He was just tramping up the path.

Linc Cooper stood up from the spot where Mattie Young had drunk beer and smoked cigarettes, unwittingly terrorizing two young boys.

When he saw Owen, Linc gasped audibly and bolted, climbing over the chunk of foundation and scrambling for the woods behind it.

Owen shot out after him. He knew the kid’s capabilities—he wasn’t worried about catching up with him.

A few yards into the woods, on a rough path, Linc tripped on an exposed tree root and fell onto one knee, crying out in pain as he picked himself up and continued running.

Owen thought he heard the twenty-year-old sob.

“Linc—hold up,” he called.

But he ran faster, unimpeded by his bruised knee, grunting as he gasped for air.

Since he had to know who was after him and still didn’t slow down, Owen decided he was through with niceties. He barreled in behind Linc and knocked his feet out from under him, buckling him with one well-placed kick.

Owen pounced, pinning his wannabe protégé facedown on the ground, so that he couldn’t kick, thrash, bite or otherwise move. “Be still. I’m not going to hurt you. I just need you to calm down. Understood?”

“Let me go. I’ll press charges.”

“Fine. The police are at Abigail’s house right now. I’ll take you to them.”

Linc’s body went slack, and he squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out the corners. “Just leave me alone,” he said.

Owen eased up on his hold. “Don’t bolt. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” He didn’t explain why. “I don’t want to chase you.”

“You ran like a maniac.” Linc sniffled, sitting up, pine needles in his fair hair. “I thought you were going to kill me. I forgot you were in the military.”

“Why did you take off?”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m walking out here on my land. How did that scare you?”

He picked a bit of bark off his lip, his natural arrogance returning fast. “I don’t know. I’m jumpy.”

“You were looking for Mattie, weren’t you?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“You saw him out here Sunday night, didn’t you? Did you meet him, or did you just follow him here?”

It was like all the air went out of him. His shoulders slumped. Snot and tears ran into his mouth. “Shit. Owen.”

“You’re in over your head, Linc. The only way out is to tell the truth.”

“You don’t know what my life is like. My father. My sister. Even my uncle. I’m the low man on the totem pole around here. If I screw things up for them, I’m screwed.”

“You have to do what you believe is right and let the rest of it fall into place.”

“Or not.”

For the past couple of hours, since Abigail had spotted that dusty, lint-looking pearl on her back room floor, Owen had been trying to let the new pieces of what had happened seven years ago fall into place.

And one of them was right here, torturing himself.

“Linc, you were the burglar seven years ago, weren’t you?”

He sobbed, crying openly now.

“Chris knew,” Owen said, making it a statement.

He snorted in a lungful of air and coughed, pulling himself together. “He found me the night before he was killed—before Abigail was attacked.” As he spoke, Linc stared at the trees, as if he were seeing himself at thirteen, Chris Browning at thirty-one, confronting him. “He read me the riot act. And I quit. I didn’t want to disappoint him.”