The Carriage House

Twenty-One

Al Pendergast was working the ghost angle more than the Ike Grantham angle, because, he told Andrew, it was more fun. He liked the idea of a ghost of a convicted murderer trying to scare off a Boston graphic designer by putting a skull at her feet. "Maybe he goosed the cat or something to make her yowl," Pendergast said, plopping down in a chair in Andrew's office. "Would you have gone down in that cellar by yourself?"

"Have you talked to Tess yet?"

"No. Haven't caught up with her."

Pendergast seemed unconcerned. Andrew said nothing. The guy was having "fun."

"What about the duel? What's the Thorne family scuttlebutt on ol' Jed?"

Andrew kept his tone even. "We know nothing that's not already in the public record."

The young reporter made a face. "I tried to check the archives at the Beacon Historic Project. The old battle-ax at the front desk wouldn't let me in. The public library doesn't have much." He clicked his mechanical pencil a few times, an annoying habit. "I'm interested in how Jed died. Know anything?"

"He died at sea. There was a storm." "Ah. No body." "No traditional burial," Andrew corrected. But Pendergast was off and running. "Your family pretty much went to hell after the duel. You grew up in a bad neighborhood in Gloucester, but managed to do well for yourself. How's it feel to own the family homestead, rebuild the family name?"

"That's not my purpose." "Isn't it?" Andrew looked at him. "Any other questions?" Pendergast was smart enough to know the interview was over. "Your cousin, Harley Beckett. Is he at home?"

"He's picking up my daughter from school." Andrew decided not to warn the reporter. Let Al Pendergast find out about Harl on his own. "He'll be back in an hour."

The reporter left, and five minutes later, Dolly swooped into Andrew's office. "I'm mad," she announced.

"What are you mad about?" Andrew asked. "It's my school, Daddy, it's not Harl's school." "That's right, he volunteered today. How did it go?"

She was fuming, frowning with great flourish. "He made me drink my milk. He said I couldn't give my apple to my friend, I should eat it myself."

"Dolly, Harl's just trying to help Ms. Perez. Don't other kids-" Andrew stopped himself. Other kids didn't have Harl. "It was just his first day. He'll figure it out."

She huffed, the litany of Harl's offenses overwhelming her. "I hate him."

"You don't hate Harl."

"I do! He says I should lock Chew-bee in a closet. He's mean."

"Could Chew-bee get out?"

"Chew-bee can do anything."

"Maybe Harl's jealous of Chew-bee."

"What's jealous?"

"He thinks you like Chew-bee better than you like him."

"Oh, no! I love Harl!"

Tess wandered in, and Andrew gave up on getting any work done today. He noticed the shape of her and remembered the feel of her smooth skin, the taste of her. Dolly ran over to her. "Tess, I named the kittens. Do you want to hear my names? Harl says I should name the gray one Cement Mixer. That's silly."

"Cement's gray," Tess said judiciously.

Dolly rolled her eyes. "Daddy, do you think Cement Mixer's a good name?"

"I think whatever you pick will be fine. You know these are temporary names, right? The kittens' new owners will want to pick out their own names."

"I know," she said, and skipped back out to Harl.

Andrew leaned back and eyed Tess. "I gather you aren't getting any work done today, either."

"None. I tell myself projects are simmering in the back of my mind while I'm driving around, digging through Thorne family history for no earthly reason. I read through most of my e-mails from Ike last night." She was pacing, on edge. "He really was a jerk. If someone dumped him in the carriage house cellar and stole his remains after I took an interest in the place, what do I care?"

"So just say you imagined the bones."

"Right."

"Tess," Andrew said evenly, "if it was Ike, it's going to come out sooner or later. He can't stay innocently missing for much longer."

"I know." She sighed, coming to an abrupt stop within two feet of him. "The police are trying to find him."

"Maybe we should let them do their job. You reported what you saw. The rest is up to them."

"This can't be good for Richard Montague's Pentagon appointment," Tess said.

"No, I imagine not. He was angling for it when Joanna worked for him-"

"He'd probably like to dump me in the carriage house cellar for stirring up this mess. Well, I can't blame him." She focused on Andrew's office, giving it an appreciative once-over. "Nice. Pop and Davey would be hoping for a little more grease and dirt, but it's a good balance of working stiff and white-collar professional."

"It's functional."

She grinned. "That's what I mean. Shall I leave you alone so you can get back to work?"

"Give me a few minutes to wrap things up. I'll meet you back at the house."

"I thought I'd mop the carriage house floors this afternoon," she said, heading out. "It'll give me something to do while I try to shift gears. Do you really think the cops are taking this thing seriously now?"

"Hard to say. If Lauren balks, they could back off."

"And presumably they knew Ike."

Andrew nodded, picturing Ike Grantham standing in his doorway, ashen, shaken after hearing the news of Joanna's death. He'd heard it first, even before Andrew. It was the only time he'd ever seen Ike truly shattered by what had happened to someone else.

Tess left, and Andrew headed home a few minutes later.

Not wasting any time, Al Pendergast was out back by Harl's workshop, trying to talk to Harl, who wasn't cooperating. "I don't talk to reporters. Personal policy."

"But I just have a few questions-"

"Nope."

Harl went into his shop and shut the door. Pendergast dropped his arms to his sides, turning to Andrew. "Post-traumatic stress disorder?"

"Maybe you should call it a day."

"I'd like to see where Miss Haviland found the remains."

"It's not my property."

Andrew stepped past him and entered Harl's shop. Pendergast didn't follow.

"Little prick," Harl said from under the rolltop desk.

"He's just doing his job."

"So was the SS."

That was a hyperbole, but Harl hadn't liked the way the local paper handled the bank robbery in which he'd been shot. He tended to lump all reporters in with the one who'd done him wrong. It made his life simpler. Sometimes Andrew envied his cousin his black-and-white views.

"Where's Dolly?"

"Up in the loft watching The Three Stooges." Harl scooted out from under the desk. "Two episodes, max. She's still mad at me for showing up at her class. I thought kids liked adults they knew volunteering."

"Maybe she's secretly pleased."

"That's a secret she's buried deep, then, let me tell you. Although I don't know how long I'll last with these kids. I helped out at activity period. That's what we used to call recess. All those six-year-olds crawling over me. There's one, I swear, I'd like to tie a rock to her foot and dump her in the ocean. Save the taxpayers her upkeep when she goes to the slammer at sixteen."

"Jesus, Harl, I hope you don't talk like that in front of them."

He adjusted his white ponytail. "I'm venting." He made a face and shook his head. "That's what Rita Perez calls it. Venting. She says you have to get your frustrations out in the open in order for you to be nice to the little monsters. I'm with Dolly. I'd make them all bow and curtsy to me if I could get away with it."

"You're a lot of hot air, Harl."

"Yeah, you volunteer at Dolly's school. Then we'll talk."

Andrew grinned. "You're just doing it because you're sweet on Ms. Perez."

"She is an ex-nun, you know."

"What, you asked her?"

"Sure, why not? She left the convent five years ago. She says it wasn't her destiny. She has that chucklehead way of talking."

"Maybe you're her destiny."

"Watch it, Thorne, or Tess'll be finding another damn body in her cellar."

Andrew ignored him and collected Dolly, who was only persuaded to leave in the middle of The Three Stooges because of the kittens. They were squirming in their box in the pantry, and one had its eyes open.

Dolly covered her mouth to keep herself from screaming in surprised delight. Tippy Tail, who looked generally annoyed with motherhood, climbed out of the box and ate some of the food in her new dish.

"Can I pet them?" Dolly asked.

"Carefully."

She knelt beside the box and gently petted each of the squirming kittens, totally absorbed in what she was doing. "I forgot to tell Tess that we moved the kittens," Andrew said. "I should go over there. Do you want to go back to Harl's shop or play up in your tree house?"

"Can I bring the kittens up to my tree house?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

She nodded sagely. "They might fall. There's no glass in my new window."

"Dolly, we're not putting glass in your window."

Harl was taking a break in the shade, and Dolly opted for the tree house. Andrew took the long way around the lilacs. The air was still and very warm, the lilac blossoms drooping, fading fast. He'd let them grow wild, creating an impenetrable hedge between his property and the carriage house. It wasn't just because of Jedidiah and ghosts. It was because of Ike, too. Andrew had moved on with his life and didn't blame Ike Grantham for Joanna's death, but that didn't mean he had to like the guy or want him living next door.

Tess, however, was another matter.

She was out on the kitchen steps with her new mop. "I should have gotten an old-fashioned rag mop instead of this sponge thing." She spoke without looking at him, a coolness to her tone. "The floors'll tear it up."

"Harl and I moved the kittens," Andrew said.

"I figured as much."

"I didn't think to tell you. We thought it best under the circumstances-"

"Yes, with the new neighbor finding skeletons in her cellar, I would, too. I understand."

She did, he thought, but that didn't mean she liked it. He eased around the back of her car and stood at the bottom of the steps. She was a physically fit woman, he realized, with a flat stomach, strong legs. He could see her charging over the rocks, racing into the ocean on a hot summer day.

"Tess-"

"You couldn't have Dolly sneaking over here to see the kittens on her own, not until we know it's safe. Even then. No one's here a lot of the time." She sighed and leaned the mop against the house, then walked down the steps. She raked a hand through her hair and squinted back at the carriage house. "What was I thinking, taking this place?"

"You tell me," Andrew said quietly.

She sighed again, more resigned. "Ike made me jump the gun on my dream of owning a place up here. I wasn't ready. That's what he does, I think- pushes people to do what they really want to do, whether or not they're ready."

"Call a Realtor. Put up a For Sale sign."

"Sure. Before or after the police find out Ike's not hiking the Australian Outback and bring in forensics to comb through the carriage house cellar?" She had her hands on her hips and was turned toward the carriage house, eyes still squinted, cheeks flushed from the heat and exertion. He could see where her shirt had stuck to her back. "It was Ike. Damn it, we both know it was Ike."

"Tess-"

She swung around at him. "He was murdered."

"You can't stay here tonight." Andrew stood close to her, feeling her intensity. "You can't go back to your apartment, not alone. Stay at my place. Stay with your father."

"I haven't done anything."

"You found a dead body that wasn't meant to be found."

"Ghosts," she whispered. "I wish it had been ghosts."

"So do I."

The air went out of her, and her shoulders sagged, but only for a moment. She shot him a quick, brave smile. "You'll make dinner?"

"I'll even open a bottle of wine."

"Good," she said, rallying. "I hate making dinner after I've been mopping floors. And you forgot Tippy Tail's litter box. Trust me, Thorne, that's something you want."

"I think it was your brother-in-law in that cellar."

Richard listened to Jeremy Carver with outward calm, but inside, he wanted to vomit. He couldn't, not here in his own office. The North Atlantic Center for Strategic Studies occupied an attractive, low-key restored Victorian house in a pleasant section of Gloucester. Rumor had it a Thorne used to live here. Maybe that was his problem, Richard thought. He was haunted by Thornes.

"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.