Carla Neggers - The Widow

“I’ll get the hose,” Ellis said.

Mattie nodded. “Thanks.”

He gulped in air as he shoved dirt into the hole and patted it around and under the hydrangea roots. If he didn’t get control of himself, someone would be shoving dirt around his dead body, burying him in the cold, rocky ground.

Who the hell would miss him?

Not a soul. And for damn good reason.

Abigail took the last three steps of her porch in a single leap and ran into the back room to grab the phone. “Hello-”

Dial tone.

She was too late.

She slammed the receiver onto the old base and cursed herself for not having bought a portable phone by now. There was no cell service out here, but she could have had a portable phone on the porch and reached it before whoever was calling hung up. Instead, she’d adopted the “if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it” mentality of the Browning men and hadn’t replaced the working phone that came with the place.

Nor had she added an answering machine. How often was she here to need one? And vacationers didn’t want one. They came to Mt. Desert Island to escape such trappings. Even Bob O’Reilly and Scoop Wisdom.

Maybe it was Bob who’d just tried to reach her.

She debated calling him to tell him about the Alden boys’ “ghost” and the cigarette butts and beer cans.

If Sean and Ian hadn’t told their father about last night, Owen would have, and Doyle, if he was any kind of police chief, any kind of friend, would talk to Mattie and confront him about what he was doing on Garrison property. What he was doing drinking.

Abigail locked her back door and went out the front door, locking it, too. She’d tucked her gun back into her safe. She’d gone out to the old Garrison foundation that morning. Nothing had changed. The beer cans and cigarette butts were still there. In daylight, she hadn’t found any other evidence of interest. Someone-in all likelihood, Mattie Young-had been smoking and drinking out there.

And, perhaps, spying on her or Owen, or both.

Abigail jumped in her car and took off up the driveway, rolling down the windows, hot all of a sudden. And it wasn’t because of the missed call and thinking about Mattie Young.

It was because of Owen Garrison.

Thinking about him.

She’d spotted him out on the rocks in his jeans and untucked, weathered polo and could almost feel his desire to be alone, his burnout and fatigue after a grueling year of responding to one disaster after another.

Had Doyle told him about the anonymous call?

Her reaction to Owen, Abigail knew, wasn’t just neighborly-and it had nothing whatsoever to do with her being a detective, her vow to find Chris’s killer. It was far more elemental than that.

The guy was sexy as hell, and she’d have had to be a rock not to notice.

She drove through picturesque Northeast Harbor, relatively quiet for such a beautiful summer day, and out to Somes Sound, the only fjord on the east coast. Its finger of salt water almost cut the island in two. Thirty years ago, Jason Cooper, then a young tech entrepreneur, bought a modest house on a coveted stretch of the sound. He’d added to it over the years, transformed it into one of the most stunning properties on Mt. Desert.

The security gate was open. Abigail drove down the paved driveway to the stone-and-clapboard house, secluded among tall evergreens and mature maples. Its understated landscaping soothed more than awed, and as she parked behind Grace’s silver Mercedes, she noticed bright turquoise and orange kayaks leaned up against the garage. The Coopers owned a yacht as well as a smaller sailboat and speedboat. Jason, if not his two children, loved to be out on the water.

As she got out of her car, Abigail smelled roses in the warm early afternoon air. She followed a stone path around to the front porch, a small white poodle running down the steps to greet her. “Hey, girl,” she said, bending down to pet the dog. “Cindy, right?”

“Actually, it’s Sis. We had to have Cindy put down over the winter.”

Abigail looked up at Jason Cooper as he walked down from the porch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“She was eighteen. It was time.”

He snapped his fingers at the little dog, who immediately scurried to his side and sat, panting as she watched Abigail, as if jealous of her freedom to ignore Jason Cooper. He smiled, reminding her of Grace. He looked younger than sixty-two-too young, certainly, to have a thirty-eight-year-old daughter.

“How are you, Abigail?” he asked.

“Doing just fine, thanks. And you?”

“Enjoying the beautiful day.” He nodded at her. “You look as if you’ve been painting.”

She glanced at her paint-spattered shirt. Her shoes were covered, too. Fortunately, they were the cheap ones. Jason, of course, was casually but impeccably dressed, not a thread out of place in his dark slacks and golf shirt. She grinned at him. “I did get some on the walls. I painted the entry. Now everything else looks shabby.”

“That’s often the way it is with any kind of renovation.”

“I imagine so. I just got here on Monday. How long have you been here?”

“A little over a week. Grace and Linc came up on the weekend.” He scooped up Sis, cupping her in one arm as he straightened. “Is this a social visit, or are you investigating something?”

“Not my jurisdiction.” She gestured toward the stone urns of well-behaved plants. “Everything looks so beautiful. I was up at Ellis’s yesterday. I’ve never seen his gardens this perfect. I understand you’re putting his place on the market?”

“It’s not his place any more than this is my place.”

“You’re co-owners?”

“We’re a family.” Jason gave her an indulgent smile. “Ask all the questions you want, Abigail. I know any change in our lives up here puts you on alert.”

Especially, she thought, when coupled with a weird phone call. She ignored the edge in his tone, and how he’d avoided a direct answer to her question. “Why sell now? I’m curious, that’s all.”

“It’s just a matter of timing. Would you care to come inside?”

The invitation was his way of ending the conversation. She was supposed to recognize it as such and leave, but she was tempted to call his bluff and accept. Instead, she chose not to give him a direct answer. “You all must be thrilled about Grace’s appointment. Does it make for any additional scrutiny?”

“Not really. She has to go through the background check, of course, but that’s of no concern. Abigail-”

“FBI turn up yet?”

His expression turned cool. “Not that I know of.”

“They’ll want to talk to me, Jason. Because of Chris.”

“And because of who your father is.”

Abigail said nothing.

Sis fidgeted, and Jason finally set her back on the walk, snapping his fingers again. The little dog shot up the stairs onto the porch without a backward glance at her master. He watched her, as if he thought she might do something unexpected, out of control.

“It’s hard to believe it’s been seven years,” he said finally. “Grace and Chris met when they were eight years old. His death was a terrible tragedy. The lingering questions-” He broke off, shifting back to Abigail. “I’m sorry Grace’s situation has to stir up the past for you, but it’s out of our hands.”

“Until I know who killed Chris, the past is always stirred up for me.”

“Even after seven years? Abigail.” He seemed genuinely distressed. “You have to live your life.”

“I am living my life.”

“Maybe that’s what you believe, but if you were, you’d have sold your house a long time ago. You don’t belong here.” His tone wasn’t unkind. “You only keep that house because of Chris. Because of the past.”