Mariah Stewart - Last Look

“Aubrey, Natalie, I have to ask,” Andrew addressed both sisters, causing them to look at him instead of each other. “What are the chances your father was abusing Shannon?”

“Ridiculous,” Aubrey snapped. “How dare you!”

“Most often the abuser is someone close to the victim,” Andrew explained. “Usually a family member, or a trusted family friend.”

“Daddy never would have laid a hand on any of us that way,” Natalie told them.

“Can you think of anyone close to the family who could have?”

“No,” Aubrey said curtly. “No.”

“I guess we’ll have to ask your father if he has any thoughts on that,” Andrew added.

“Please, don’t.” Natalie touched his arm. “He’s been through so much these past few years. I’m sure my mother told you that he’s never forgiven himself for what happened with Shannon, that he wasn’t able to find her, to save her. If you accuse him of something like this”-Natalie’s eyes filled-“if he thought for one minute that anyone would suspect him of doing such a thing, it would just about kill him.”

“But surely if he understands that someone was hurting her, he’ll want to help us to figure out who it was, don’t you think?” Andrew glanced from one sister to the other. He could not gauge what either of them was thinking.

“Of course he would,” Natalie said crisply. “We all would.”

“By the way, we believe that at some point over the years, Shannon might have tried to get in touch with someone in the family. Did either of you notice a lot of hang-ups coming to your parents’ home, for example? More than what might be considered normal.”

“Everyone gets hang-up calls,” Natalie replied. “I don’t think we had more than our share.”

“No,” Aubrey agreed. “No more than most people have, I suppose.”

“About the funeral services for your sister,” Dorsey said as if it had just occurred to her. “When will they be held?”

The sisters looked as if they each expected the other to answer.

Finally, Natalie said, “I believe Paula Rose is in charge of the funeral arrangements.”

Andrew gave them each a business card. “Call me if you remember anything you think might be important. We’ll be around for a few more days.”

“Ladies, thanks for your time.” Dorsey made brief eye contact with the women, then she and Andrew walked back across the drive to the car, leaving the two sisters standing still as statues next to the pasture fence.

“They know,” Dorsey said when they got back into the car. “They know who abused Shannon back then.”

“You still think it’s Dad?”

“I think he’s the most logical suspect. But neither hesitated for a second to deny it.”

“Let’s stop off at the Randalls’ on our way back to the motel. Let’s see how he reacts when we start giving him our version of what happened that night back in 1983.”

“I think this time, you should call. I don’t think Mrs. Randall is going to be happy to see us show up twice uninvited.”

“Good point.” Andrew slipped the phone from his pocket. “Do you have the number?”

She took the phone from his hand and reached into her purse for the small notebook she’d been keeping phone numbers in. “You drive, I’ll dial.”

She entered the number on the keypad and hit send, listened for the phone to ring, then passed it over to Andrew. His conversation with Mrs. Randall was short and not so sweet.

“Reverend Randall is resting under doctor’s orders right now and is not to be disturbed,” Andrew said once he hung up. “Mrs. Randall will be sure to let him know I called as soon as he awakens.”

“I say we go over anyway.”

“I say you’re right.”

“Know what I thought was odd?” Dorsey said after a moment. “That neither Natalie nor Aubrey expressed any concern that Eric Beale was executed.”

“What’s that tell you?”

“Maybe they’re more worried about something else right now.”

Andrew drove slowly down the long winding allee.

“Shit,” he said when they reached the first bend.

Dorsey craned her neck to look ahead. At the end of the drive, a state police car blocked access to the house. News vans and cars lined both sides of the road beyond the barricade. A trooper walked up the drive toward them, and Andrew stopped and rolled down his window.

“Identification, sir?” he asked.

“Special Agent Andrew Shields, Special Agent Dorsey Collins,” he said as he pulled out his badge and Dorsey handed over hers. The trooper looked them over and returned them promptly.

“I’ll clear the way for you,” he told Andrew. “You’re going to have to be careful. We haven’t allowed anyone out of their cars-they’d be trespassing, and we’ve already made it clear we’d arrest anyone caught trespassing-but I don’t know how they’re gonna react when they see someone leaving. You’re likely to be followed, sir.”

“I can deal with that.”

“In that case, sir, have a good night.” The trooper walked away, and motioned for the car blocking the entrance to move.

Andrew slipped past the patrol car and onto the road. Several cars that had been parked began to follow him. He removed his phone from his pocket and used the speed-dial.

“John, I’m afraid we’re beginning to draw a crowd…”

The waves licked against the side of the boat, rocking it gently in the wake of a passing cruiser. Matt Ranieri sat on one of the deck chairs and stared out at the setting sun. The bay was quiet tonight, the silence broken by the engine of the occasional boat or a fish breaking the water’s plane. Overhead a heron glided toward its rookery, across the bay a family of swans sought their own shelter.

“Matt, can I bring you a beer?” the boat’s owner and skipper called from the cabin. “Wine? More coffee?”

“Nothing, thanks. I’m fine,” he called back.

Moments later she appeared on deck, a glass of wine in one hand and an unlit candle in the other.

“I thought a little soft light might be nice.” She placed the candle on the small table. “It’s supposed to have something in it to keep the mosquitoes away.” She smiled. “One could hope.”

She took a seat in the chair opposite Matt’s and pretended to watch the emerging stars. She was petite and blond-her natural color required more help these days to stay that way, but she didn’t seem to mind-and athletically built. She’d played tennis and field hockey back in school, had excelled at archery and water-skiing, and knew her way around the Chesapeake and the rivers that fed into it like an old bayman. She was tanned even this early in the season, was a gourmet cook, and had been widowed almost as long as Matt had been a widower. She was totally head over heels about Matt and made no bones about it.

She knew he’d been dating someone named Anna on and off for several years but, as she told Matt, if Anna couldn’t hold his interest, it was her own damned fault. Diane Coleman was in her late fifties, old enough, she told Matt, to make a stand when she wanted something. At this stage of her life, she wanted Matt. Her candor both amused and flattered him, and he’d found himself seeking out her company more and more. Lately, he’d been thinking about making the relationship permanent.

“So.” She crossed her legs and sipped her wine. “Have you solved your puzzle?”

“I think so.” He nodded slowly. That he’d told her about the case had surprised him, that he’d actually discussed it with her surprised him even more. “I think I know what went wrong back then. And I know what I have to do.”

“Good.” She smiled and took another sip. “Where will you start?”