Carla Neggers - The Carriage House

He shook off the memory of the feel of her. That had been his doing, too, not just hers. He had misgivings, but he couldn't manage to summon up any regrets. If Tess marched into his office at the moment, damned if he wouldn't kiss her again.

He occupied the front and back rooms left of the center hall of a 1797 clapboard building in the village. It was not owned by the Beacon Historic Project, and thus he did not have to answer to Ike Grantham or Lauren Grantham Montague, just an ordinary landlord. He checked his messages, hearing Dolly calling hello to the real estate people on the other side of the building. She often stopped by on her way home from school. Harl, who accompanied her, would avoid coming inside if he possibly could, even in a nor'easter. He did so today, standing out in the rain. Just as well. Before heading to Newbury-port, Andrew had been to see Dolly's teacher.

His daughter burst into his office, a ray of sunlight, and jumped onto his lap. She was, at least, without a crown. She beamed at him. "Daddy, I went down the big slide today at recess!"

"That's what I hear."

"You know? "

She was indignant, even at six not one who appreciated anyone stealing her thunder. Andrew decided to get straight to the point. "I had a talk with your teacher today during lunch. Dolly, Miss Perez says you've been telling other children tall tales about Harl."

She frowned. "What's a tall tale?"

She knew what a tall tale was. They'd had a version of this conversation several times in her short six years. This was a stalling tactic, and Andrew didn't plan to let her get away with it. "You told the kids at school Harl's a bank robber."

Dolly hunched her shoulders and giggled, obviously pleased with herself, yet aware the adults in her life might not feel similarly.

Harl must have sensed they were talking about him. He showed up in the doorway, but didn't say a word.

"Dolly," Andrew said, "Harl's not a bank robber."

She uncovered her mouth and leaned in close to her father. She spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "It was Chew-bee. She says he's a bank robber. She told the kids he got shot. Daddy, did Harl get shot?"

"That was a long time ago." Dolly had given up most of her make-believe friends in kindergarten, but not Chew-bee, most likely because she was handy to have around. Blaming Chew-bee was a sure sign that Dolly knew she'd stretched the truth beyond acceptable limits. "You need to stick to the truth, Dolly, okay? If you want to make up stories, that's fine, but you need to let your friends and teacher know they're made up."

"I don't make up stories. Chew-bee does." She looked next to her, as if someone was standing there, and frowned deeply, her brow furrowing. She pointed a finger. "Now, Chew-bee, don't make up stories!"

Andrew set her down, and she ran past Harl, off down the hall to visit everyone else in the building. She was a great favorite, and her people skills, Andrew hoped, would make up for her propensity for crowns and tall tales.

Harl slouched in the doorway, arms folded on his chest, tattoos showing. "Bank robber, huh? I bet Miss Perez loved that."

"Oh, yes. She did say she managed to nip the bowing and curtsying in the bud, and she appreciated not seeing Dolly in a crown today."

"Yeah, I had to peel it off her head. She was major-league pissed. I don't know what the hell's wrong with wearing a crown to school. Rita Perez is an ex-nun, you know. No sense of humor."

"She was very diplomatic." "I'm serious. An ex-nun." "Did you ask her if she's a former nun?" "No, but I can tell." "Harl, Dolly can't tell her friends you're a bank robber. She can't wear crowns to school. She can't make her friends bow and curtsy. That's got nothing to do with whether or not Rita Perez was ever a nun."

"She was," Harl said. Andrew said nothing. His cousin grinned. "Did she really think I was a bank robber?" "I don't know. Maybe." "You tell her I'm an ex-cop?" Andrew got to his feet. Some days, he wondered at the twists and turns his life had taken. How the hell did he get here, in picturesque Beacon-by-the-Sea with a six-year-old and his white-bearded, white-ponytailed, reclusive cousin? And no woman in his life?

He thought of Tess, and sighed. "I told Miss Perez you'd been in Vietnam. She thinks you should explain war to Dolly."

Harl snorted. "Forget that. That's chucklehead thinking, telling a six-year-old about war. Dolly's fine."

"Miss Perez thinks so, too. So do I."

"Then do we have a problem?"

Always cut-to-the-chase Harl. Andrew grinned at him. "Only if the cops come after you for robbing banks. God knows what Dolly's classmates are going to go home and tell their parents."

"Ha, ha, ha," Harl said, and left.

Andrew went out into the center hall to say goodbye to his daughter. She was bounding down the stairs from the lawyers' offices on the second floor, snacks she'd bummed clenched in both hands. "I'm going to Boston this afternoon," he told her. "Harl will give you dinner tonight."

"Can he make macaroni and cheese?"

"Sure."

She ran outside, and Harl, hovering at the entrance, said, "Boston?"

"Yes. Tess Haviland lives on Beacon Hill and works on Beacon Street, and her father owns a bar in Somerville. Every carpenter, plumber and electrician in metropolitan Boston knows Jim's Place."

"She'll be pissed, you spying on her."

But Harl approved, and Andrew shrugged. "I'm investigating."

"You want me to go, and you stay here and make the macaroni and cheese?"

"No, I'll go."

Harl grinned. "Yeah, I figured." He started down the street, tugged Dolly's single braid. "What's this about me being a bank robber?"

"That was Chew-bee."

"Chew-bee? That little rat. Tell her I'm going to throw her in the harbor."

"It won't matter," Dolly said dramatically. "Chewbee will swim right out of there."

"Chew-bee's a pain in the neck."

"I know, Harl. She just doesn't listen."

Harl glanced back at Andrew, knowing he was listening, and winked. Dolly might be imaginative and motherless, but two cousins from a rough section of Gloucester weren't doing such a bad job of raising her. If her first-grade teacher thought otherwise, that was her problem.

Right now, Andrew had more to worry about than Dolly's tall tales. He shut down his office, got in his truck and spread out his map of Boston on the passenger seat. He might have been to Jim's Place years ago, maybe even broken a few beer bottles and chairs there.

But maybe not. Somehow, he was sure if he'd ever met Tess Haviland before, he'd have remembered.

The early news was on the television above the bar at Jim's Place, and Davey Ahearn had just slid onto his stool. Tess had hoped she'd beat him into the pub. She tried to ignore him. Her father was taking an order at several tables pushed together, crowded with university students. She had no doubt he'd spotted her. He always knew who came in and out of his place.

She tried not to look furious, out of control and just plain frazzled. She was getting behind in her work, and it had been one of those days she was bombarded by calls, faxes and e-mails. Even her regular mail was more than usual.

But that wasn't it. What had tipped the scales was seeing Andrew Thorne down in Old Granary Burial Ground, walking among the tombstones and glancing up at her window.

Spying on her.

By the time she'd charged down her four flights of stairs, around Beacon to Park and down Tremont, into the centuries-old cemetery, he was gone. She'd packed it in for the day and headed to Jim's Place.

"You're in deep shit," Davey said, never mind that she was pretending she hadn't seen him. "A skeleton. Jesus H. Christ, Tess."

"Davey, I'm not in the mood."

"Jimmy heard last night. He's been waiting all day for you to show up and ask his advice. Me, I had an emergency kept me busy. Flooded basement. No skeletons."