Carla Neggers - The Carriage House

"The police are investigating," Richard said. "Don't you think it's premature to jump to conclusions?"

"You're paid to follow the facts. I'm paid to jump to conclusions." Carver was standing, pretending to study the framed photographs on Richard's wall. They were all of the seacoast, none of himself. "I've learned to trust my instincts. So has Senator Bowler."

"What are you going to do when we find Ike kayaking in Tahiti?"

"Nothing."

"My appointment's finished, then. You're bailing."

"You're a brilliant man, Dr. Montague. You'll continue to do good work here, maybe more important work than if you moved to Washington."

"It's the media," Richard said, hating the croak in his voice. "You're bailing because reporters have been asking questions."

Carver turned to him, shaking his head profoundly. "No, Doctor, I'm bailing because Tess Haviland found a goddamn dead body in her cellar, and I think it's Ike, you think it's Ike, and your wife no doubt thinks it's Ike-and you're not doing a damn thing about it. You haven't done a damn thing since Ike disappeared."

Richard could feel the blood draining from his face. "Are you suggesting we had something to do with his disappearance?"

"I'm saying I think you're a couple of weird ducks. Let's leave it at that. I've asked around about your brother-in-law. He sounds like a flaming asshole. I can see you might not want to know where he is, but it's been more than a year."

"The police are investigating-"

"Now they are. Why not six months ago?"

Richard didn't answer.

Jeremy Carver stepped closer to him. "I'll tell you why-no Tess Haviland, no skeleton in the cellar. That's why."

"She's a troublemaker."

"I don't think so. I've checked her out-so have you. Your crazy brother-in-law gave her a carriage house, and she's just figuring out what to do with it."

"Washington needs my expertise."

"It might, but Senator Bowler doesn't."

Carver left.

The door caught in a gust of wind from Richard's open window and banged shut. He jumped, as if the lid of his coffin had slammed down with him still alive, still determined to make a difference in the world.

Tess Haviland…goddamn you…

But there was time yet. Jeremy Carver was playing hardball with him, assuming Richard couldn't compete. But he could. He'd spent his entire adult life studying terrorism and the men and women who played that particular game. He had something to contribute. His work was vital to the country.

"You're a sniveling nerd, Richie. Admit it."

Ike.

God, he hated him. His only regret now was that Ike hadn't known how he'd tripped down the carriage house stairs. He hadn't seen who was responsible.

But at least he'd seen death coming.

That was something.

Tess mopped up a mouse skeleton in a corner by the avocado refrigerator.

It almost did her in.

She was debating throwing the mop in the trash when her father called on her cell phone. "I just got off the phone with some jackass reporter from up your way. He wanted to know if you're nuts."

"What did you say?"

"I said you're an artist." But he barked out the words without humor, and she knew he was offended by the reporter's question. And worried. "He wants an angle on this skeleton thing."

Tess rinsed the mop out in the sink. The mouse skeleton basically dissolved and went down the drain, but she shuddered. She'd have to scour the sink next.

"What?"

"Nothing. What else did he ask you?"

"He asked about Davey and me checking the pipes. I don't know who told him we'd been up there. You?"

"I've avoided him so far."

"This guy wants to believe Davey and me would have stepped on these bones if they'd been there."

"That's what I want to believe, too."

"You'd rather be a nut than have seen what you saw?"

"No." She set the mop on the floor and dumped cleanser into the sink. A lot of it. "I'd rather it was a trick of the light and the conditions."

"Were we close to it?"

"I didn't see, Pop. My head and stomach were still off from having found it in the first place. You could have missed it."

"We did miss it, whether it was there or not. I wouldn't have stepped on a goddamn skull and pretended it was something else, a piece of wood or something."

"I know you wouldn't have."

"The police will be calling next," he said in a rough growl.

"Pop, my finding the skeleton, whatever it was, was a freak thing. I don't think I was meant to-"

"You mean you don't think that Grantham son of a bitch set you up."

She sighed, saying nothing.

Her father bit off another growl. "You're up there now?"

"Yes."

"I can't tell you what to do. You're thirty-four years old. Get this mess sorted out. Stay safe."

"Do you think this reporter was calling Davey?"

"Next on his list."

Which meant Davey would be calling. She finished cleaning the sink. The carriage house was quiet and empty, and she imagined a tiny mouse, scurrying across the vast floors on a cold winter night. She walked over to the trapdoor and knelt on the floor next to it, pushed open the wooden latch. It creaked when she lifted it, sending shivers up her spine. She leaned over and peered into the dark cellar, smelled the cool stone and dirt, the mustiness of it.

What if some poor homeless guy had camped out in the carriage house, fallen through the trapdoor by accident, broken his neck and simply not been found?

His body would have been clothed. He wouldn't have been in a position to shovel a couple of inches of dirt over himself. And he wouldn't have come back Saturday night and carried off his own bones.

Her cell phone trilled, giving her a start. She almost dropped the trapdoor on her fingers.

"I've got my.38 loaded," Davey said. "It's right here in the glove compartment. I can get it to you within the hour. I'm in my truck on the Tobin."

"Davey, for God's sake-"

"I took you shooting that time."

"That one time. I don't trust myself with a gun."

"You in the carriage house? Thorne with you? I don't know about him. I can see him snatching a body."

"The reporter-"

"Thinks you're fruitier than a fruitcake. I gave him the plumber's blow-by-blow of my tour of your cellar, told him I could have stepped on a skull and not known it, I was focused on the pipes." He grunted, disgusted. "Reporters."

"Thanks, Davey."

"Let me know about the.38."

Tess hung up, decided she'd done enough cleaning and headed out through the side door. The air was cooler now that it was dusk. She smelled ocean and lilacs, and she stood on the driveway a moment, letting the stillness envelop her. There was no wind. That was what the newspaper description had said about the morning of the duel in 1868-there'd been no wind.

A BMW pulled into the driveway behind her car. Richard Montague gave her a curt wave and climbed out, gravel crunching under his shoes in the stillness. Tess had only met him twice during her work for Ike and the Beacon Historic Project. He wasn't handsome or easygoing, instead radiating intelligence, logic and mental toughness, qualities, she could imagine, that Lauren might have found appealing because they were such a contrast to her brother.

"I thought you might be here." He tilted his head back, appraising her. His eyes were a light gray, incisive. "Your story about the other night has caused quite a stir."

"The reporter caught up with you?"

"And my wife." He gave Tess a wry, deliberate smile. "I also understand he spoke to Muriel Cook-son. She's horrified."

"He tracked down my father, too. I've managed to avoid him so far."

"That's your good fortune." His good humor faded, and he averted his gaze from Tess. "The publicity has had an unforeseen consequence-an appointment I was expecting has been put on hold."