The Widow (11 page)

“Linc doesn’t know. We did nothing wrong. I just don’t want to expose you to unnecessary scrutiny.”

He grinned at her. “That’s your story, huh?”

She stiffened, dropping her arms to her sides, as much of a display of emotion as he’d get from her. She’d always had remarkable self-control. A Cooper trait. Emotion was for the lower classes.

Emotion was what got Doe Garrison killed.

It was what got Chris Browning killed.

Mattie had heard Jason Cooper explain as much to his kids around the kitchen table. Doe got herself worked up over a minor squabble, and she drowned. Chris got mad because of what happened to his wife, and he was shot.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell the FBI you slept with the town drunk.” His voice caught, annoying him. He didn’t care about Grace anymore—he’d stopped caring a long, long time ago. “And I won’t tell them you were in love with one of their own.”

“You’re odious, Mattie.” She didn’t raise her voice. “I want to have sympathy for you and remember what we had those few months with affection, without regret. But I look at you, and I just want to be sick.”

“That’s it? You want to be sick? You don’t want to club me on the head with a rock or shoot me in the heart?”

“I wouldn’t waste my time.”

She crossed her arms tight over her chest and stalked back out to the road.

“Did you drive over here?” Mattie asked her calmly.

“I parked around the corner. I told my father and Linc that I was running an errand.”

“Not worried the FBI’s following you?”

“No.” She paused, giving him a long, cool look. “I have nothing to hide.”

“Say it enough times and maybe you’ll believe it.”

He watched her swallow and thought he saw a glimmer of a tear, but she turned and walked away.

The woman had everything. Brains, poise, a sense of decency. Money. A future. But she couldn’t be honest with herself.

Mattie headed up his front walk. He was no judge of character, but he could recognize another liar.

Grace lied to other people—about him, for one—but most of her lies, the worst of her lies, were to herself. Like now, he thought. She was lying to herself about just how scared she was—of him, of her own past.

Had she guessed what kind of trouble Linc was in?

Mattie told himself he didn’t give a damn. Grace Cooper didn’t care about him. Fine. He didn’t care about her, either.

He headed into his little rented house. It could fit into the Coopers’ kitchen—of their summer house. Mattie had never seen any of their other houses. Jason’s place in New York, Grace’s in Georgetown, Ellis’s in Alexandria. But as well-off as they were, Mattie didn’t envy them. He didn’t want to be a Cooper.

He wanted to be a photographer.

He wanted a fresh start.

But as he pushed open his front door, he felt a prick of guilt at how he was getting it.

“Y
our husband had secrets.”

Abigail sat up in bed, fully awake after grabbing the phone on the second ring. “Who is this?”

“Just listen. Chris’s secrets got him killed. He wouldn’t talk to you. He wouldn’t talk to anyone.”

“Tell me more. Please.” She struggled to keep her tone firm but nonthreatening. “Don’t hang up.”

“He didn’t want to see you hurt.”

“Hurt how? Physically—or emotionally?”

There was no hesitation on the other end. “Both.”

“So he didn’t tell me these secrets?”

“He couldn’t. He loved you.”

She leaned back against her pillows and headboard, the early morning sun angling into her small bedroom through gaps in the curtains. The caller’s voice was disguised, as before. “How did you get my number here?” she asked. “It’s not listed.”

“Be careful who you trust while you’re in Maine.”

“Are you here? Are you watching me?”

“You have nothing to fear from me. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. That’s all.”

“Why would anyone else get hurt? What’s going on? I need more information.”

“Your husband was an FBI agent and a Mainer. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t—I haven’t. Why don’t we meet? Just the two of us—”

The caller cut her off with a short, sarcastic laugh. “I don’t think so, Detective.”

Click.

Abigail glanced at her bedside clock. Five-oh-nine. She hung up, then picked up again and dialed Lou Beeler’s home number. He answered on the first ring. She tried smiling into the receiver. “Don’t tell me you’re already on your second cup of coffee—”

“Third,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“I had another call,” she said, and told him.

When she finished, Lou sighed. “I’ll be there in an hour. I’ll collect Chief Alden on my way. Want me to bring doughnuts?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah. I’ll bet. See you soon.”

Abigail was shivering by the time she climbed out of bed. She slept in the smallest of the three bedrooms. The largest had been Chris’s grandfather’s room, the second largest Chris’s room. She’d cleaned out all their belongings and painted the furniture, bought new rugs and lamps and picked out inexpensive artwork, but the rooms still had the feel of the Browning men. She let her renters use them.

Moving quickly, Abigail showered, the hot streams of water calling up sensations she didn’t want to think about, of Owen’s hands on her, his mouth—her reaction. They hadn’t gone beyond their kiss last night. A bit more than a kiss, really, she thought. But afterward they’d had wine. Talked. He’d walked with her back to her house, then left with just a good-night, as if he, too, knew that was enough. Their attraction to each other was out on the table. That was plenty to get used to at least for now. She’d never brought a man here. It’d never seemed right. Too many ghosts in Maine. Too many memories. Easier, she thought, just to keep that part of herself out of reach.

Owen was different. He’d known Chris forever, and she didn’t have to explain to him what had happened, how he’d died, how she’d felt in those awful days.

And in the years since, he’d never patronized her because of her situation. He’d experienced tragedy himself, and he’d seen countless others who’d had to find a way to carry on after the worst kind of loss—babies, young children, entire families, entire communities.

Abigail switched off the water and grabbed a towel, rubbed herself dry. Never mind the rest of it, she thought. She’d responded to Owen for purely physical reasons. He felt good. The taste of him, the heat of his skin.

He’s bored.

He was a man of action with nothing to do. She’d be out of her mind if she got too far ahead of herself with him.

She pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and slipped on sports sandals, leaving her hair to dry on its own as she headed downstairs. She grabbed her gun and checked outside, but she saw no sign of spies or intruders, just cormorants diving for fish and brightly colored lobster buoys bobbing in the glistening water.

Satisfied, Abigail went back inside and put on coffee. While it brewed, she sat at her kitchen table and wrote down every word of her conversation with her anonymous caller.

“Your husband had secrets.”

She finished her transcript and returned to the back room, grabbing her sledgehammer and tackling another section of the wall while she waited for the local law enforcement officers to arrive.

Ellis couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Jordan Pond House, a tourist trap, if a pleasant one, famous for its postcard-perfect location and its tea and popovers. Day-trippers to Acadia National Park would take in the Visitors Center, Cadillac Mountain—the tallest peak on the Atlantic seaboard and the only one in the park they could drive up—and Jordan Pond House. Some would venture out along the twenty-mile Park Loop Road and stop at Thunder Hole, a favorite with its dramatic rock cliffs and crashing waves. Ellis hadn’t done the loop road in years, either.

But everything was changing, he thought. Why not his habit of avoiding tourist hot spots?

Lunch at Jordan Pond House was his brother’s idea. He and Grace already had a table out on the terrace, the sun warm and bright on a perfect Mt. Desert Island summer afternoon. Ellis noticed that his niece had put on a crisp blouse and a touch of makeup. An improvement. She’d arrived on the island exhausted—and far more tense about her appointment and the background investigation it required than she wanted to admit. She was at a crossroads in her life. Big changes were ahead.

And she preferred to have everyone think she had nothing to hide. Open nervousness would imply she did have something. Ellis, who’d been around Washington a long time, had come to believe, and accept, that everyone had something to hide. The FBI wouldn’t expect perfection.

He sat next to her, across from Jason, who seemed distracted, staring across the sloping field down to the most famous of Mt. Desert’s glacial fresh-water ponds. Mountains rose around its sparkling water. Ellis had climbed all of the park’s peaks in his day. Now, he preferred to wander in his gardens.

For as long as I can, at least.

His throat tightened at the prospect of the house selling. He’d hoped its high price would deter buyers, perhaps delay the sale until next year. He understood Jason’s reasoning. But whenever he’d convinced himself he actually liked the idea, looked forward to a smaller place, to new gardens, his stomach would twist into knots. He needed more time to adjust.

He wouldn’t be getting it. Jason had arranged for lunch with potential buyers from Connecticut. Ellis didn’t even know their names.

“Our guests will be a few minutes late,” Jason said. “I’ve ordered tea while we wait.”

“Where’s Linc?” Ellis asked.

“There’s no need for him to be here.”

Grace winced almost imperceptibly at her father’s callous tone. “He’s out there.” She nodded toward the pond. “He and Owen are hiking around the pond. Owen seems to be taking him under his wing.”

“Does he understand Linc’s limitations?” Ellis asked. “He won’t push him too hard, I hope.”

“It’ll do him good to be pushed,” Jason said. “Linc’s spent too much time in front of a video screen. I’m glad he’s finally doing something physical. And Owen’s the best.”

Jason glanced at his daughter, who pretended not to notice as she picked up a dark green teapot and filled a matching cup. Her father had long nursed the hope that she and Owen would fall for each other, but there’d never been a hint of that kind of attraction between them. And Grace was in her late thirties now. Marriage seemed more and more a remote possibility. If she minded, she never said. Ellis, who’d long ago given up the idea of marriage for himself, understood a single life could be rewarding and fulfilling. His brother, who hated being alone, would never understand—he was between marriages now, but dating. There’d be a fourth Cooper wedding before too long.

“The FBI has arrived on the island,” Ellis said, changing the subject.

Grace nodded. “Yes, I know. I’m afraid—” She faltered, quickly setting the teapot down. “Father, why don’t you tell him?”

“We don’t know much,” Jason said. “The two agents stopped by the house before we headed over here. They didn’t say what’s going on but it’s clear something’s up.”

“Abigail.” Grace picked up her earthenware teacup. “I got the impression it has to do with Abigail. The agents had no real reason to stop by. I think they were just checking on us—I don’t know. Something’s going on. That’s for sure.”

Ellis frowned. “With Abigail? Nothing’s happened to her, I hope, but I can’t see why her presence on the island would have any bearing on your background check.”

Grace sipped her tea, avoiding his eye. They’d never openly discussed her relationship with Chris Browning, but she and Ellis had arrived nonetheless at the unspoken understanding that he was aware of the feelings she’d had for their murdered friend.

“Her father is these two agents’ boss,” Jason said, apparently oblivious to the look exchanged between his daughter and half brother. “Abigail has never come up here this close to the anniversary of her wedding and Chris’s death. I’m sure that alone is enough to put Agents Capozza and Steele on alert. We just have to be patient. It’ll all sort itself out in due course.”

Ellis nodded. “I agree.” He reached for the teapot, wondering if his brother even gave a damn what he thought. But Grace would. They’d always had a good relationship, in part because of her father’s womanizing. Ellis provided a steady, relatively dull presence in her life. He smiled across the table at her. “No popovers?”

“When our guests arrive,” she said with a smile. “You know I can’t resist.”

But Jason stiffened. “Damn it,” he said under his breath, nudging Ellis with his elbow. “Look. Just what we need.”

Abigail Browning ducked past a waiter with a massive tray and arrived at their table. “Well, hello,” she said breezily. “Fancy meeting you all here. It’s a perfect day for tea and popovers, isn’t it?”

“Actually,” Jason said, “we’re meeting guests for lunch.”

“I can’t think of a better spot.”

A muscle worked in Jason’s tight jaw. He’d lost patience with Abigail a long time ago and made no secret of it. Ellis got to his feet. “Do you have a table yet? Perhaps—”

“I’m sitting out on the lawn. The flowers are gorgeous, aren’t they? Not as spectacular as yours, of course, but still, very beautiful.”

Grace sat back in her chair and eyed the younger woman. “Abigail—are you all right? Is something wrong?”

“What could be wrong?”

“I’m hoping you’ll tell us, because obviously—” Grace stopped, shifting her gaze from Abigail to her tea. “Oh, dear. It’s the second Thursday in July. Chris was found—” She looked up, her face pale. “I’d forgotten.”

Ellis could smell the strong tea and see his niece’s distress, but she hadn’t forgotten what today was.

Jason pushed back his chair. “Abigail, please—”

“I’m fine,” she said.

Putting a hand on his brother’s arm, Ellis nodded toward Owen and Linc as they made their way across the sprawling lawn, dotted with stray hikers, onto the terrace. People at the sturdy wooden outdoor tables glanced at the pair—or, Ellis thought, more specifically, Owen. Without trying, he commanded attention just by the way he moved.

Linc, on the other hand, favored his right side, all but staggering toward his father’s table.

His son’s presence only added to Jason’s frustration. Ellis understood. His brother was losing control of his carefully planned lunch. “Owen, Linc,” Jason said tightly, rising. “Did you have a good hike?”

Linc grinned, nodding proudly. “Yeah, it was great. It’s more of a haul around the pond than I expected. It gets rocky on the back half. I’d never gone that far.”

“Well, good for you,” Jason said, quietly handing his son a napkin. “You’ve worked up quite a sweat.”

“Yeah.” Linc wiped his brow with the napkin. “I didn’t expect to find you guys here. What’s up?”

Grace started to answer, but Abigail said, “They’re meeting guests for lunch.”

“Oh. All right, then.”

Owen, who wasn’t sweating at all, seemed to read the situation. “I’ll see Linc home—”

“No, it’s okay,” Linc said, “I’ll manage. I don’t mind walking, actually. It’ll help loosen me up after clambering over all those rocks. Abigail—good to see you.” He spun off before anyone could stop him.

“Father,” Grace whispered. “It’s too far for him to walk. Can’t he stay? He could get cleaned up in the men’s room—”

“He’d be bored.” Obviously expecting no further argument from her, Jason turned his attention to Owen. “You don’t look as if you went on that hike at all. I’d invite you to join us—”

“You didn’t invite me,” Abigail said.

Jason took a half step back. “What?”

She smiled at him. “Just getting under your skin, Jason. Who’re you meeting for lunch? Washington power brokers? Advisers? Private investigators? Sometimes people hire their own investigators to conduct a background check at the same time as the FBI.”