Carla Neggers - The Widow

And it was why she was on Mt. Desert.

It was always why she was there.

Abigail dropped onto the wooden bench in a booth across from Lou Beeler, who’d arrived at the tiny harbor restaurant ahead of her. He already had a mug of black coffee in front of him. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

“I’m glad you called. I’d just finished trimming the entry.”

“Painting?”

She nodded. “Helps me think.”

“Keeps you out of trouble, too.”

There was that. A waitress with the face of a heavy smoker came for Abigail’s order. “I’ll have whatever Lou here’s having,” she said.

The woman raised her eyebrows. “The fisherman’s platter?”

Abigail looked at the older detective. “How do you stay so thin eating a fisherman’s platter, ever?” She shifted back to the waitress. “A shrimp roll with fries and iced tea will do it. Thanks.”

The waitress retreated without a word, and Lou sat back, eyeing Abigail with a frankness she’d learned to expect from him. Major crimes outside the cities of Portland and Bangor fell under the jurisdiction of the Maine State Police Criminal Investigative Division. Lou Beeler had been dedicated to his job almost as long as she’d been alive, and he knew what he was doing. They got along. He was sympathetic to her position as the widow of a murder victim and respectful of her expertise as a homicide detective-neither of which meant he would open his file on Chris for her.

She doubted Lou had held back much. Ballistics-he’d never give up what he had on the murder weapon. In his place, Abigail wouldn’t, either. But she had a fair idea that the killer had used a handgun, not an assault rifle, despite the distance and the accuracy of the shot.

The two crimes that day seven years ago-the break-in and Chris’s murder-had always created a discordant note for her. Whacking her on the head, stealing her necklace. Shooting a man after lying in wait for him. They didn’t seem to go together. And yet how could they not?

If nothing changed, Lou Beeler would retire with the murder of Mt. Desert Island native and FBI Special Agent Christopher Browning unresolved.

That fact couldn’t sit well with him, and Abigail hoped that she could play into his potential desire to tie up loose ends this summer.

“I don’t have anything to report on your call,” Lou said.

“I’m not surprised. Whoever it was went to some trouble to cover his tracks. Or hers. I still can’t even tell you if it was a man or a woman.”

The waitress returned with a glass of tea and a pot of coffee, refilling Lou’s mug. Abigail added a packet of sugar to her tea, which looked strong and not particularly fresh. “I’ve been here for less than a day and already have heard about a million things going on around here. Owen Garrison’s on the island. His organization, Fast Rescue, is opening up a field academy in Bar Harbor. Grace Cooper’s been appointed to a high-level State Department position, pending an FBI background check. Linc Cooper’s here. Jason Cooper’s selling his brother’s house out from under him.”

“You’ve been busy,” Lou said.

“Actually, I’ve just taken a couple walks and said hello to the neighbors.”

“If you want a green light to look into this call of yours, you’ve got it. You know what lines you can and can’t cross.”

Their lunches arrived, Lou’s plate of fried seafood so full, a shrimp fell off onto the table. He stabbed it with his fork, coated it in homemade tartar sauce and popped it into his mouth. “Unbelievable. You can’t fry seafood this way at home.”

“Just as well, don’t you think? We don’t need any more temptation.” Her own shrimp roll was decadent enough, a once-a-year treat. “Is Doyle Alden up to speed on the call?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’ll be here any minute. I should warn you-he’s not in the best mood.”

“When has Doyle ever been in a good mood? What’s it this time?”

“Katie’s out of town. Fast Rescue hired her as director of the new academy. She’s in England for six weeks of training.”

“Good for her,” Abigail said. “I know it’s Doyle’s busy season, but he’ll survive.”

“Here he is now.” Lou nodded toward the door. “He doesn’t think your call’s going to amount to anything, either. If there was something specific to go on-”

“I know. There’s nothing but mush.”

Lou scooted over, and Doyle sat on the bench next to him and shook his head at the two plates of fried seafood, never mind that Abigail’s was smaller. “I can’t eat that stuff anymore. Gives me heartburn.”

“Good,” Lou said with a grin. “I was afraid I was going to have to share.”

Doyle settled his gaze on Abigail. “I haven’t seen you since last summer. You’re looking good.”

“You, too, Chief.”

“You got here yesterday?”

“In the fog. I’m painting my entry lupine-blue. So far as I know, it’s always been white.”

Doyle scoffed. “You’re not up here to paint.”

“Well, no. Finding out who interrupted my wedding anniversary dinner the other night would be more important than painting. I assume Lou told you about the call.”

“We’re looking into it,” Doyle said. “If we learn anything, we’ll let you know in due course.”

Abigail bit into her shrimp roll, just to keep herself from throwing a few piping hot native Maine shrimp at Alden. She wouldn’t be getting any green light from him to poke around his town.

Lou tackled a big piece of fried haddock. “You two. Come on. We’re all on the same page here.”

Doyle kept his gaze pinned on Abigail, who was seated across from him. “I don’t know about that, Lou. You and I know the call’s most likely bullshit. Abigail does, too, but she doesn’t care-she’ll use it to stir people up. Doesn’t matter who gets caught in the crossfire. Chris’s killer could be long gone and maybe hasn’t stepped foot in Maine in seven years, but she can’t deal with that. She wants it to be one of us.”

“There are too many secrets among your husband’s friends and neighbors.”

Chris hadn’t had a better friend than Doyle Alden, and yet, Abigail thought, she’d gotten on Doyle’s nerves right from the start-because marrying her meant Chris was never coming back to Mt. Desert to live.

Lou started to speak, his anger and shock at Doyle’s bluntness obvious, but Abigail reached across the table and touched her fellow detective’s hand. “It’s okay. Doyle has a point. I haven’t given anyone here a moment’s rest since Chris died. To say I want Chris’s killer to be someone from the area isn’t fair. I don’t.”

“But you believe it is,” Doyle said.

“I’m keeping an open mind. So should you.”

Before Doyle could launch himself across the table and go for her throat, Lou dipped a fry into his little tub of ketchup and handed it over to him. “Eat up, Doyle. If one fry gives you heartburn, see a doctor. If I get heartburn from listening to you two, I’m going to knock both your heads together before I go for the Rolaids. Got it?”

Abigail didn’t doubt that Lou Beeler could, and would, do exactly what he promised. “I understand your wife’s in England, Chief,” she said. “My caller said things were happening up here-”

“Leave my wife out of your guessing.”

“It’s not a guess. It’s a fact that she’s not here.”

“It’s also a fact that a lobsterman up on Beals Island caught a blue lobster last week.”

“No kidding? What did he do with it?”

Lou picked up his coffee mug. “I should have ordered a beer when I had the chance. He donated the lobster to the Mt. Desert Harbor Oceanarium. I read about it in the paper. Abigail, we’re on your side-all of us. Doyle, me, the entire Maine State Police. We all want to solve your husband’s murder as much now as we did the day it happened. We’ll pursue any and all leads with vigor.”