The Carriage House

Ten

The woman with Andrew Thorne and his daughter had to be Tess Haviland. Richard thought she looked familiar and supposed he must have seen her in town before. She, Andrew and Dolly had gotten in an ancient Honda together, and Richard fought an urge to follow them. He had to maintain control. He couldn't indulge his emotions.

He returned home, hoping to sit in the sun with a glass of scotch. But Jeremy Carver was there in the driveway, leaning against a gleaming black car. "Mind if we have a word?"

"Of course not."

Lauren was out. Since they didn't employ full-time help, Richard poured two glasses of iced tea, cut a lemon, got out spoons and refilled the sugar bowl, all with his wife's damn poodles scurrying around at his feet. He put everything on a tray and carried it out to the back porch, shutting the door in the poodles' faces. One yelped. "Oh, sorry," he said without remorse.

"Your wife's dogs?" Jeremy Carver said.

"Yes, they're sweet little things, just always under your feet."

Richard set the tray on a side table, something Harley Beckett had restored and painted for Lauren. When they moved to Washington, Richard would insist on full-time help. Lauren could do whatever she wanted with this place, but he wasn't about to serve people when he was at the Pentagon. This was his first marriage, his life before Lauren dedicated exclusively to his education and his work, his experience with women limited to short-term relationships. He'd thought he loved her. Now he wasn't sure if he had the capacity to feel love, simply because it wasn't vital to him.

The afternoon sun was strong on the wide stretch of green lawn and its "rooms" of flower beds, which Lauren did see were properly tended to. But it was cool on the porch, out of the sun. Jeremy Carver had installed himself on the antique wicker settee. Again, the power position.

He reached over and chose a glass of tea, dropped in a slice of lemon. He didn't bother with sugar. "Excellent, Dr. Montague. Thanks."

"Please, call me Richard." He stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into his tea, sat with it on a wicker rocker with a flowery cushion. "I hope you've had a chance to enjoy our little village while you're here."

"Beacon? Yeah, it's a cute place. I headed back down to Boston last night. I have a sister who's about to become a grandmother. She's driving everyone nuts." He laughed, his ruddy face reddening. "And I thought she was bad when she had her first kid."

"I'm sure it must be an exciting time for every one," Richard said neutrally. "No kids for you, huh?" "My wife has a seventeen-year-old daughter." "Shellie Ann." Carver sipped his iced tea, no in dication he was trying to communicate anything with his comment except that he knew the name of Lau-ren's daughter. "I've got three boys myself."

"Mr. Carver-" He grinned. "Jeremy." "I'm sure you want to get back to your family.

What can I do for you?"

Carver set his glass on a coaster and rubbed his chin. "I've done a little checking of my own into your brother-in-law. Do you mind if I speak frankly?"

"No, of course not." "He's an asshole. My opinion." Richard smiled. "You're not alone in that opinion." "You were right, the police have no interest in his whereabouts. They say your wife's never asked them to look into it." "I'm sure she hasn't." "Why not?"

"You'd have to ask her, but I'd say it's because she's not concerned."

"It's not because she's heard from him and just wants to keep it mum?"

"Not that I know of, no."

"Weird." Carver picked up his tea, took a big gulp and stared out at the lawn. "Pretty flowers. I can't get anything to grow in Washington after the middle of June. Too damn hot."

Richard reined in his impatience. "My wife has an incredible green thumb."

"Yeah, so I see. Look," he went on, "the police might not have any interest in Ike Grantham, but I can't say the same for the senator. He'll feel a lot better if we can talk to the guy."

"I told you, Ike Grantham has nothing to do with me. I've been married to Lauren for less than a year, and Ike's her brother. We hardly know each other." Richard's tone was controlled, calm, neutral. Defensiveness would only raise Carver's suspicions. "I've always felt he'd come to a bad end, sooner rather than later."

"Because of his personality."

"Yes. He's reckless and inconsiderate. You've learned that yourself in your investigation."

"But people like him," Carver added. "Why is that?"

"His charisma."

Carver waved a hand in abrupt dismissal. "In Washington, you get your fill of charisma." He squinted, radiating a sharpness and ruthlessness that Richard knew he would be unwise to underestimate. "You think he's dead?"

"Personally? Yes, I do."

"What do you think happened?"

"I have no idea. Knowing Ike, I suppose he mooched a boat off a friend and went overboard in a storm because he didn't check the weather reports."

"Why wouldn't the friend report it?"

Richard shrugged. "Maybe he borrowed the boat without asking, or the friend didn't think anything of it when Ike didn't return it. Who knows? This is just one theory. He could have fallen in a remote area, and some hiker will find his remains twenty years from now."

Carver drank more tea, draining his glass. "But you don't suspect foul play?"

This wasn't a conversation, Richard knew. It was part of Jeremy Carver's investigation into a man his boss would go to bat for. Senator Bowler's judgment and reputation were on the line. Richard sipped his tea, wishing he could add a third spoonful of sugar; but he didn't want to come across as a man who needed excessive amounts of sugar to get down a glass of iced tea. It was the little things that counted.

"Of course not," he said, smooth and unconcerned.

"Well, I suppose you wouldn't, or you'd have been hounding the police, trying to find the bastard."

"That's exactly right."

Jeremy Carver rose. "Thanks for the tea. Do you mind if I walk through the gardens on my way out?"

"Please do. If my wife were here, she could show you around. I can try-"

"That's okay. I've taken up enough of your time. You want me to help with the cleanup?"

Bile rose up in Richard's throat. "No, thanks. I'll handle it."

After Jeremy Carver finished his tour of the gardens, and his car finally pulled out of the driveway, Richard's guts clamped down on him, fiercely, painfully. He knew he wouldn't make it inside. He ran out into the yard, plunged into the herb garden and fell on his knees, puking up everything in his stomach. Then came the dry heaves. One after another. Thank God Lauren wasn't there.

Finally, reeling, spent, he stumbled back to the porch. He dumped the last of the ice cubes from his tea down the front of his shirt, rubbed one over his face and tongue.

"I swear to God, I'll kill you before I let my sister marry you."

Ike's words. He'd had his chance. And failed.

Richard had to keep his focus. He couldn't think about the past, what was done. Who was the Haviland woman? What did she want? And why now?

He had to know. The stakes were too high to leave anything to chance.

The afternoon turned warm, almost summerlike. Andrew gave up on getting anything done and sat on the front porch with a glass of lemonade he and Dolly had made together. She dragged out an army of dolls and stuffed animals. She wanted him to play with her. He could be the daddy.

If only the guys he'd beat up in a string of Gloucester bars could see him now, he thought as Dolly ran up to her room for one last, totally necessary stuffed animal. The rest of the gang were heaped on a blanket in a corner of the porch.

Tess Haviland had not asked for help repairing her cellar window. He'd decided it was best if he didn't think too much about her and her blue eyes, her artistic hands, why she kept lying about what she'd seen last night.

Across the street, over the rocks and across the narrow, sandy beach, the ocean beckoned. He was already teaching Dolly how to sail, and he wondered if a love of the sea was in Thorne blood. He doubted it. They'd been a pragmatic lot. To most of them, the sea was probably just where they'd made their living. It was what they knew.

Except, perhaps, for Jedidiah. He'd been a romantic, a man who'd accused a prominent local citizen of beating his wife, of cowardice and a lack of honor. He'd been an outsider in Beacon-by-the-Sea, the upstart who'd just finished building his small estate on a point near the village. Whatever else he was, Jedidiah had loved the sea. Andrew was sure of it.

Lauren Montague's cream-colored Mercedes pulled alongside the road in front of his house. The Mercedes was an older model, no doubt because Lauren wouldn't want to look ostentatious. She climbed out of the driver's seat and waved at him over the hood, the sunlight catching the highlights of her hair.

Andrew got to his feet and walked over to the porch steps, wanting to avoid having to ask her to have a seat. It wasn't gracious of him, but Lauren wasn't high on his list of people he wanted popping over for a visit.

She tucked strands of her straight, windblown hair behind her ears as she came up the walk, skirting Dolly's bicycle. "I hope I'm not interrupting-I'll only be a minute."

"Not a problem. What's up?" She smiled. "It's a gorgeous day, isn't it?" "I suppose." "Oh, Andrew. You're such a Puritan." Not bloody likely, he thought. "I brought a present for Dolly," she said. She stood at the bottom of the steps, as if not sure she should proceed further. She was always self-con-sciously cheerful and energetic around him, worse since Ike's abrupt departure last year. Although they'd never discussed it, Andrew knew she felt guilty over her brother's role in Joanna's decision to climb Mount McKinley, blaming herself in part for not reining him in. Periodically, she'd show up with gifts for Dolly, as if they could provide absolution for herself.

Andrew walked down and joined her on the walk. He could hear the tide going out, seagulls crying as they hunted for easy food. "She's upstairs looking for a stuffed animal."

"I can just leave it with you." She opened her expensive leather tote and withdrew a clear plastic bag. Through it, Andrew could see purple and red flowers, frothy white flowers, a bit of pink ribbon. Lauren handled it gently. "It's a garland. I was in a crafty mood and made it myself, with flowers from my garden. Dolly can wear it as a crown. I know she loves her crowns."

She thrust the garland at Andrew and stepped back quickly, as if she didn't dare get too close. He eyed the flowers. "I'll give it to her when she comes downstairs."

"Don't make her write a thank-you note like last time. It was adorable, but, Andrew, she's only six. She can't be expected to write thank-you notes."

After Lauren's last gift, Dolly had scrawled "Thank you" in milky pink gel ink and had drawn a picture of a cat. She'd spent a lot of time on the cat. Andrew shrugged. "Okay. No thank-you note."

A knowing smile lifted the corners of Lauren's mouth. She was an odd mix of contrasts. Elegant, breezy, gracious, often tactless. Andrew hoped her need to give Dolly little gifts would run its course.

She shifted, glancing out at the street. She could hold her own with high-powered executives, at fundraisers and cocktail parties, with her husband's brainy friends, but Andrew and his six-year-old daughter put her at a loss. "I suppose I should be running along."

"Thanks for stopping by."

She gave him a chiding smile. "Always so polite."

"Not always."

She left, and Andrew gave Dolly the garland when she burst back onto the porch with a stuffed whale he'd forgotten she had. Of course, she loved the garland. She gasped in delight, and after he helped her open the bag, she put the flower crown on her head.

"Oh, Daddy, I am a princess!"

He laughed, and they set about pouring more lemonade and playing stuffed animals. Dolly tried to boss him around, wanting him to do precisely what she wanted him to do when she wanted him to do it, but he held his own.

When she got home, Lauren grabbed the poodles and let them chase her around the yard until she was panting and sweating. The dogs collapsed in the shade, their little chests heaving. She wished she could lie there with them in the grass, knowing nothing more than they did.

She didn't know where Richard was. She didn't care.

This was her problem, and hers alone.

She sank onto a teak bench, surrounded by rhododendrons and white lilacs. She could hear the trickle and gurgle of the nearby waterfall fountain, a new addition to her gardens, carefully constructed of stone and water plants. Ordinarily she would have found its sounds soothing, but today they were irritating, everything setting her on edge.

After leaving Andrew's house, she'd turned around on the dead-end side street where Jedidiah Thorne had built his carriage house. Tess Haviland's car was parked in the driveway. She was out of sight, probably calculating whether she'd do better selling the place as is or fixing it up first. As is wouldn't cause Lauren a problem: she could snap it up herself. But if Tess decided to fix it up, or if she took an interest in the carriage house and kept it for herself, that could be a disaster.

Lauren brushed away tears that were hotter even than her flushed skin. If only she could go back a year, arrive at the carriage house sooner…and stop Andrew Thorne from killing her brother.

It must have been an accident, an act of passion and pent-up rage. Oh, God, she thought, who could blame him? He was raising his and Joanna's little girl alone. Ike had infected his wife like a virus, insidiously eroding all her defenses.

What must Andrew think now, with Tess next door?

He hadn't looked concerned when Lauren had brought him the garland. Despite his rough upbringing, he was nothing if not stoic, losing control only that one time in the carriage house, with tragic results.

The thought of him propelled Lauren to her feet. All her life, she'd been the one in the background doing what needed to be done to protect her brother, cleaning up after he'd been rude, impulsive, reckless or otherwise impossible.

She'd always made sure his excesses didn't hurt anyone else. She would do so again, no matter how unappealing her options, how much she still loved her brother and always would, and missed him-no matter how much she hated what she'd known for a year.

Her beautiful, outrageous brother was dead.

She had to concern herself with the living, with what was right.

Marcy, her favorite of the three poodles, rolled onto her back, and Lauren laughed, sinking onto the grass and rubbing the animal's stomach. "You know just what I need, don't you?" She felt the dog's quick heartbeat, let it strengthen her resolve. Marcy had been hit by a car two years ago, and yet, as tiny and broken as she was, she'd pulled through. "Let a little of your luck rub off on me, sweetheart, okay? Don't be stingy, because I'll need it."