The Widow

CHAPTER 10

Mattie Young jammed his shovel into a two-foot hole he’d dug and hit rock. He laid the shovel next to him and got down on his hands and knees, digging into the hole with one hand, but he couldn’t find the edges of whatever he’d just struck.

“It’s ledge,” he said.

Ellis Cooper peered into the hole. “That’s not ledge. That’s just a rock. Dig it up. The hole’s not deep enough.”

Mattie wanted to take the shovel to Ellis’s head, except Ellis had always treated him well. Mattie knew his nerves were frayed, and he hadn’t been sleeping well. Drinking too much, smoking too much. And Linc. The money. The tension of whether the kid would crumple under the pressure and tell someone about the blackmail.

I should have demanded the ten grand all at once.

For the Coopers, ten thousand dollars was a minuscule amount. Even Linc could manage to scare up that much without drawing too much attention to himself-if he tried. He just needed the right motivation.

For Mattie, ten thousand dollars was a fresh start.

A new life.

“We need at least another eight inches,” Ellis said, pulling on his doeskin work gloves, not that he’d be doing any of the work. “You’ll try, won’t you?”

Mattie nodded, rancid-smelling sweat pouring down his face and back, dampening his armpits. He could taste the booze and cigarettes from last night. He’d scared the hell out of Doyle’s sons, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Even half in the bag, he’d known he didn’t want Sean and Ian to see him. They’d tell their father-and Owen. Possibly Abigail, too. He didn’t need anyone’s scrutiny right now.

Let them think he was a ghost.

He’d only brought enough beer to keep himself from dehydrating after a long day digging and hauling and snipping for the Coopers. He knew his limits, never mind what anyone else said. He’d hoped the cigarettes would help with the mosquitoes. He didn’t like the smell of bug repellant.

Angling the blade of his shovel, he jabbed it into the hole and carved around the edges of what turned out to be a rock, not ledge. But it was a big damn rock. Mattie dropped the shovel again and dug both hands into the hole, trying to get his fingers around one end of the rock. He didn’t wear gloves. His hands were so callused that new nicks and scratches didn’t bother him.

Ellis leaned over him. “Use your shovel for leverage.”

Ignoring him, Mattie got his hands under an edge of the rock and squatted down, putting his legs into it as he pulled hard, grunting. That end of the rock came loose, but it was too big for him to just pry it up out of the hole. He sat back on his butt, catching his breath.

Ellis was still hovering. Mattie wiped his mouth with the back of his dirt-encrusted hand. “You can go do something else,” he said. “This is going to take a while.”

“That’s all right. I’ll stay here in case you need me. I don’t mind.”

Mattie almost burst out laughing. Ellis, help him? The guy liked to work in his gardens, but he only did jobs that amused him. Digging up rocks wasn’t one of them.

Getting back up onto his knees, Mattie grabbed his shovel and stabbed it onto the other end of the rock, dislodging it, too. Using both hands and shovel, he managed to get hold of the entire hunk of granite and heave it out of the hole and onto the pristine grass.

“That’s a good-looking rock.” Ellis rolled it over with his foot. “Clean it up. I might find a use for it.”

How ’bout I bash you over the head with it?

But Mattie coughed, nodding, then sat on the grass, his muscles jittery, his head pounding. Maybe he’d had one more beer than he should have last night.

“The hole’s deep enough now,” Ellis said. “We need to get that hydrangea into the ground as soon as possible. It’s late in the season for transplanting shrubs. I don’t want the roots to dry out in this sun.”

What would you do, boss man, if I barfed into your hydrangea hole?

“I’m on it,” Mattie said.

Ellis nodded, satisfied. “Don’t strain yourself.”

The guy meant well, Mattie reminded himself as he dug back into the hole. Ellis provided steady work and often made up stuff for Mattie to do on slow days, just to be sure he had a paycheck. That he was a perfectionist came with the territory. Occasionally, Mattie fitted in small jobs at other places on the island, but he’d never encountered anyone more dedicated, more passionate about his gardens than Ellis Cooper. That he could give them up without a whimper was hard to believe.

On the other hand, Ellis would never let anyone know if he was displeased with his big brother Jason.

He might not even be able to admit his displeasure to himself.

Jason had the power, the reputation, the charisma, the money. Ellis had the talent, the vision, the discretion, the empathy for others. He had done well. He was a trusted Washington consultant-he’d advised his niece on her rise to power within very tough circles. He’d never married, but he was sociable, always on everyone’s guest list. In Maine, he liked showing off his gardens.

If Linc confided in anyone, it wouldn’t be his father-it’d be his uncle or his sister.

Grace.

Mattie reached for the hydrangea, whose roots were in no danger of drying out. He couldn’t think about Grace Cooper. Not now, not ever again.

He thought about his money instead, and his new life.

Think what you could do with twenty grand.

Linc could get another ten, easy. And he would pay it, given the right leverage.

Abigail…

Mattie dropped the hydrangea into the hole, which, because of the size of the rock he’d just dragged out of it, was actually too big. If Ellis noticed, he was keeping his mouth shut.

And that’s what you should do, Mattie thought. Keep your mouth shut. Mind your own business.

“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.”

She wasn’t digging into her soul with Jason Cooper. She regretted having gone as far as she had with him. “You could be right, but painting’s got to be a good sign, don’t you think?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Is Mattie Young here by any chance?”

“He’s working up at Ellis’s all day. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“What’s he driving these days?” she asked, thinking of his party out in the old foundation. What had he done with his car? Had anyone seen it? Had he driven home under the influence?

“A bicycle,” Jason said. “Mattie lost his license over the winter.”

“DUI?”

He nodded. “Unfortunately. The dark winters and isolation got to him. He goes to meetings. He’s making an effort.”

Not a consistent one, Abigail thought, picturing the beer cans. Unless they weren’t Mattie’s. She had no real evidence they were. “He’s still living in the same place?”

“He rents a house around the corner from Doyle Alden. That’s how he got caught drinking and driving-Doyle saw him scream past his house. Why?”

“Just curious.”

Jason smiled, but his eyes remained cool. “Always curious, aren’t you, Abigail?”

“It’s a March family trait.”

The reminder of her father obviously didn’t sit well with Jason Cooper. “I suppose it is. If you won’t come in-”

“No, thanks. I should get back. Nice to see you.”

“Likewise.”

Before she could get out another word, he was walking onto the porch, snapping his fingers at his little dog.

When she arrived at her house, Abigail pulled on shorts, a T-shirt and her good running shoes and jogged up the private drive and out onto the main road, finding her pace, telling herself she needed stay in shape. But she could feel her restlessness building into frustration, questions and threads of conversations, new possibilities, coming at her all at once.

And memories. They jumped at her with every stride-and not just her own memories, of her short-lived marriage, of her widowhood, filled with seven years of prodding and pushing for answers to her husband’s unsolved murder. Chris’s memories came at her, too. The stories he’d told of his childhood on the island that had taken shape in her mind over the years, until they were as real to her as the images of her own past.

Chris and Doyle Alden…Mattie Young…the three of them going off on a lobster boat with Chris’s grandfather, the old man teaching them what he knew about tides, currents, hidden dangers, good stewardship of the land and sea that had sustained their families for generations.

Abigail could picture them on Will Browning’s lobster boat when they’d realized a girl was in the water. Doe Garrison, a wealthy summer resident. A pretty girl, by all accounts. Happy. A nature lover like her great-grandfather.

The local boys were just teenagers themselves. At seventeen, Mattie was the oldest. Doyle, fifteen. Chris was fourteen, like Doe.

They’d pulled her out of the water, but it was too late.

“I could see her brother up on the cliffs watching us try to save her. I’ll never forget his face, Abigail. Never.”

Will Browning raced to the harbor, an ambulance waiting.

“The Garrisons and the Coopers were on the dock. Polly Garrison, Doe’s parents, Owen. They were in shock. They knew that she was gone. Jason Cooper, Ellis. They tried to stay out of the way. But Grace-she was thirteen years old, and her best friend had just drowned.”

As she maintained her steady pace, Abigail pictured the horror of that beautiful summer afternoon and wondered how much of it Owen remembered.

Every second, probably.

She could understand how he could keep coming to Maine, build a house a few hundred yards from where his sister had drowned. It wasn’t just out of a stubborn need to appreciate what Doe had loved but out of a knowledge that, in order to be whole, he had to embrace that loss and make it a part of him, not run from it, cut it out of him or drag it behind him.

But was she really thinking about Owen’s behavior…or her own? What, really, did she understand about Owen Garrison?

When she trotted back up her driveway, Abigail was almost relieved to find a black government car and a well-dressed, straight-backed man and woman knocking on her front door.

FBI agents.

They introduced themselves as Special Agent Ray Capozza and Special Agent Mary Steele and declined Abigail’s invitation to go inside, instead joining her on the driveway. Capozza, a compact, no-nonsense man, insisted on showing her his credentials. “We’re here on routine business, Mrs. Browning.”

“You’re running a background check on Grace Cooper, yes, I know. And, please, call me Abigail. Did my father tell you I was here?”

“No.” Capozza wasn’t going any further.

Steele, a sharp-featured brunette who looked as if she expected a bear to jump out of the trees, nodded vaguely out toward the water. “Pretty spot. I can see now why you hung on to this place. Your husband-” She broke off, looking awkward, then plunged ahead. “We’re aware of what happened to him, Mrs. Browning-Abigail. No one’s forgotten. No one will forget.”

Capozza nodded in agreement, even if he wasn’t ready to be that frank. “We’re not here to investigate his murder, but we’re in close touch with Maine CID. If we learn anything new, we’ll let them know.”

“Of course. Thanks.” A courtesy call, Abigail realized. That was what this visit was. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“We’ll want to talk to you about your relationship with Grace Cooper at some point,” Capozza said.

And Chris’s relationship with her, no doubt. He and Grace had known each other most of their lives. If he’d died of natural causes seven years ago, he’d be a footnote, if that, in the two FBI agents’ investigation. Now, they’d be prepared for anything-they’d hope, if not expect, to run across some new, telling tidbit. Abigail could see it in Capozza’s and Steele’s faces. They would love to stumble on the one missed fact that would solve the cold case of Chris’s murder and turn their routine background investigation into something more.

“Anytime,” she said. “I’ll be here for the rest of the week and through the weekend, at least.”

Special Agent Steele opened up the driver’s door of their car and glanced back at Abigail. “Why are you up here this week? Vacation?”

Capozza toed a loose rock in the driveway. “Funny coincidence, isn’t it?”

“You’ve talked to Lieutenant Beeler and Chief Alden,” Abigail said.

They nodded. Leaning against the open car door, Steele said, “We know about the call.”

“You want me to take you through it?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Abigail smiled, watching her fellow law enforcement officers slap at mosquitoes at almost the exact same moment. “Now would you care to come inside?”

Abigail sank into the old leather chair in her catch-all back room and felt the cold air off the water blow in through the open door. The wind had picked up with the incoming tide. She liked the sound of it, the taste of the ocean on it, but she’d have to get up and close the door eventually. The temperature was supposed to drop down into the forties overnight.

Would Mattie sneak into the old foundation tonight for a secret party?

The FBI agents had listened carefully to her story about the call. They’d asked the same follow-up questions that Lucas, Bob, Scoop and Lou had also asked-that she’d asked herself. She’d half hoped answering them again would bring new insight, but it hadn’t.

After Capozza and Steele left, Abigail had gone into the musty cellar and dragged tools up to the back room and laid them out on the floor. A set of screwdrivers and a set of wrenches, two different kinds of hammers, chisels, scrapers, level, a crowbar, a utility knife, a drywall saw, a sledgehammer.

The Browning men had taken good care of their tools. She’d left the electric drill and saw in the cellar, and other tools that were either unfamiliar to her or looked dubious. Chris and his grandfather weren’t big on throwing things away. They’d recycle broken bits of one thing and use them to fix something else.

The back room needed more than a fresh coat of paint. It needed gutting. New wallboard, new wiring, new flooring. Abigail had collected do-it-yourself books over the years. Surely there was a chapter on gutting a room. How hard could it be? She just had to be careful not to drop anything on her head or electrocute herself.

The wind picked up, gusting through the open door. A light plastic chair scraped across the porch floor and fell over backward, landing with a bang that, although she’d seen it coming, startled her.

She shot out of her chair and grabbed the sledgehammer, lifting it with both hands, remembering Chris grinning at her as he’d held it himself so long ago. What had he been doing? She couldn’t even remember.

She saw the section of wall where they’d fixed the leak on their last morning together. The job had never been finished properly. She could see the edges of tape and dried spackling, and the paint over the repair work didn’t match the white of the rest of the wall.

Abigail could do the work herself, or ask friends, or hire it out, but she simply hadn’t gotten around to it.

“Oh, Chris.”

Her voice caught on the wind and seemed to echo out on the darkening rocks.

She drew the sledgehammer back and, on an exhale, smashed it not into the haphazardly repaired wall, but the narrower wall next to the porch door.

The plaster cracked. White dust puffed out from where the sledgehammer had struck.

She smashed the wall again. This time, the head of the massive hammer broke through the plaster.

Tears mixed with plaster dust in her eyes.

“I owe you, my friend.”

Seven years…

“I owe you all I am.”