Carla Neggers - The Carriage House

Her father's eyes bored into her, as if to say he knew what could go on in a few minutes. "You falling for this guy?"

"Pop, I've only known him a few days."

"Like that matters."

Tess didn't answer because he had a point and she didn't want to lie. She didn't always tell him every-thing-she hadn't mentioned the skeleton-but she seldom lied outright. But to talk about her reaction to Andrew, her relationship with him, if it could be called that, was decidedly premature.

"He's got baggage, you know."

"Baggage? You mean his daughter? Is that what I was-baggage that you didn't want to inflict on another woman?"

He heaved a sigh, making it sound more like a growl. "That's not what I meant. And it wasn't like that with me and your mother. I wasn't the marrying kind to begin with. It took her to come along." He scratched his head with one hand, obviously hating having this conversation. "That doesn't mean I'm living in the past. I've had my women friends."

"Like who?"

"Never mind. For chrissake, that's not why I'm here. I'm just saying when you've been married before, you got a kid-it's not the same anymore. Don't fool yourself and think it is. You're not getting involved with someone who's never been through that."

"The investment banker," Tess said.

"Not him. Jesus, he was an asshole. He got an F on Davey's test."

"Davey's what?"

Her father was pacing, frowned at the picture of Ike and her. He looked back at her, distracted. "What? Oh, Davey. He's never told you about his test? He's got, I don't know, five or six questions he asks guys when they show up at the pub."

"Guys-you mean men I'm going out with. He doesn't ask every guy who comes into the place these questions."

"Yeah. Right. Nobody's done better than a B-minus."

Tess didn't know why, but she wasn't horrified. This was the sort of thing she expected from her father and godfather, the sort of thing her friends said didn't happen, couldn't possibly happen, she had to be exaggerating. "Has he given Andrew these questions yet?"

"I don't know."

"Tell him not to."

"What, you afraid he'll flunk or get an A-plus?"

"I'm not afraid of anything."

Her father pointed a thick finger at her. "That's your problem right there. Maybe you should be afraid once in a while. Finding a dead body. Sleeping alone in that damn carriage house in the first place with ghosts and crap."

Tess refused to let him change the subject. "Pop, Andrew Thorne is an architect. He and Davey probably speak the same language. It's not fair."

"All the questions aren't about plumbing. Jesus. Davey knows you can call him about plumbing problems."

That was all she was going to get out of him. She understood. He'd had to see for himself that she was okay, not sitting on Beacon Hill in terror of whatever was going on up on the North Shore, perhaps even in terror of Andrew.

After her father left, Tess dialed Davey Ahearn's number. "You should give me your little test. See if

I pass."

"It's a guy test."

"Davey! I'd hoped Pop was making this up. You really have five or six questions you ask men I bring to the pub? What are they?"

"None of your business. They cover the basics. Money, food, housing, career, kids. Sex."

"Damn it, Davey, I'm hanging up now. If I hit the subways right, I can be there in half an hour and beat you over the head with a rock-"

He was laughing.

She stared at the phone, realized he'd just had a hell of a good time at her expense. "Damn you," she said, and started to hang up.

But he turned serious and said, "Tess, if that was Ike Grantham you saw the other night, you need to watch yourself. Understood? We're talking murder, and you're playing with fire."

"Maybe I didn't see anything."

"Let's hope."

She hung up and returned to her laptop. Her screen saver had kicked in, and she tapped the space bar to bring up Ike's e-mails. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Ike smiling at her, reimpose his features- his smile-on the skull in the dirt. She couldn't imagine that he was dead.

But she could imagine that someone would want to kill him.

Richard walked on the path along the rocks, Lau-ren's poodles scrambling over his feet. He had a mad urge to kick them over the ledge one by one and watch their little white bodies smash on the rocks. The tide could carry them away. Lauren would be left wondering what had happened to them, the way she pretended to wonder what had happened to her brother.

She knew.

She'd always known.

That Richard had planned for this moment didn't lessen his shock at his wife's behavior. At least he knew she had Ike's body and not a stranger, an enemy.

But it wasn't him she was protecting, it was Andrew Thorne. Again, that this was part of his plan didn't ease his disgust.

A cold gust of wind penetrated his sweater, an old wool thing his mother had knitted him years ago.

When he could get away with it, he didn't pay attention to what he wore. It was early, Lauren was still in bed, the sun still low on the eastern horizon, an orange ball reflected on the water. Beautiful, really.

In the end, Andrew would be blamed for Ike Grantham turning up dead in the carriage house cellar. Lauren, unwittingly, would see to that. Richard had put all the pieces into play over a year ago.

He walked out to the edge of a massive outcropping, the ocean and more rocks fifty feet below, gulls wheeling lazily.

The best scenario, still, was for Lauren to grind up her brother's bones and use them on her daylilies. Better yet, dump them at sea.

Once she said her goodbyes, perhaps she would.

Either way, he needed to sit tight and let things play out according to plan. Ideally, no one would have touched the carriage house until long after Ike's body had turned back to dust, and his disappearance would remain a mystery. But that hadn't happened. The timing of Tess Haviland's discovery was awk-ward-even suspicious-but that couldn't be helped. And it ultimately would make no difference. Richard knew he was too important for the Pentagon to pass up because of a little scandal involving the death of his wife's brother.

People often made the mistake of thinking because he was an academic, he was incapable of action. Violence. His work, however, had shown him just how incredibly ignorant most people were, and how dangerous it was to make assumptions based on stereotype and appearances.

"Dr. Montague!"

He turned, squinted at the path up toward the house.

A young man waved excitedly. "Over here! Can I have a word with you?"

A reporter. Richard should have expected as much, but felt every muscle in his body stiffen. He frowned, looking put upon but not afraid. Never afraid. The young reporter bounded down the path, and when he was within a distance that didn't involve shouting, Richard said calmly, "This is awfully early for an interview."

"I know. I figured it was the best time to catch you and your wife at home. I'm Al Pendergast."

Richard knew the byline. Pendergast was with the local paper, not one of the Boston papers. Ordinarily Richard wouldn't give him his time, and he supposed Jeremy Carver would want him to check with him first. But today, Richard already could tell, was one for breaking his own self-imposed rules.

"Walk with me," he said. "Ask your questions."

Muriel Cookson seemed annoyed when Tess entered the Beacon Historic Project offices shortly after lunch. With pursed lips, the receptionist informed her that Lauren Montague wasn't in. "I will tell her you stopped by."

"Actually," Tess said, "I was hoping to look at the archives on the Jedidiah Thorne carriage house. Lauren invited me to-"

"Yes, she told me." Reluctantly, Muriel Cookson directed Tess to the second floor. "Many of the files are quite old and delicate. If you need help, please ask."