The Cabin (10 page)

ing. Says she hasn’t seen you and asked if I saw signs

it was taking.”

Susanna ground pepper into her soup, carefully

avoiding Jim’s critical look. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her hell, no, it wasn’t taking. Look at you.

Head to toe in black.”

She glanced down at her black sweater and black

jeans. “I like black.”

“Wicked Witch of the East,” Davey said, humming

a few measures of “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead.”

“We never got to see the Wicked Witch of the East.”

Susanna kept her voice steady, determined not to let

these two men get the better of her. “Just her legs and

her ruby slippers. Maybe she wore red.”

Davey shook his head. “Nope. Black. All black.”

Jim waited on one of the tables, then came back be-

hind the bar. There was always a crowd on chowder night,

not that it changed his pace of operations. “You haven’t

been coming around much lately,” he told Susanna.

“I’ve been swamped.”

“All that money,” Davey said. “Must be time-con-

suming adding it up.”

“I’m ignoring you, Davey Ahearn.”

“It won’t work. That’s why you haven’t been com-

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81

ing around much. You know we’re not going to leave

you alone about that guy who killed his wife.”

Her stomach twisted, and she stared at her chowder,

suddenly no longer hungry. “Davey, for God’s sake…”

“You still haven’t told Jack,” Jim said gently.

She shook her head. “I told you, there’s no point. It’s

been over a year. The woman who screwed up the in-

vestigation is out of prison, and Jack—I don’t know,

he’s chasing escaped convicts or something. This thing’s

over. Whatever happened to me is irrelevant.” She be-

lieved that, even if Jack would want the final word—

even if Rachel McGarrity’s murder remained an open

case. She added stubbornly, “Whether I say anything or

not won’t make a difference.”

Jim dumped ice into a glass, working on drinks for

his customers. “It would to your husband.”

“Don’t you think a wife deserves to have some se-

crets from her husband?”

Davey snorted. “Only about the occasional trip on the

sly to the dog track.”

“When are you heading to the mountains?” Jim

asked her, mercifully changing the subject.

“Saturday morning.” Susanna dipped her spoon into

her soup and smiled. “I’m taking black pants, black

shirts, black socks—”

“Black underwear?” Davey asked without missing

a beat.

She couldn’t suppress a laugh, but said to Jim, “Can

I throw my soup at him?”

“No way. I gave you extra clams.” He then shifted

from one foot to the other in a rare show of discomfort.

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“Look, Susanna, before you go, especially if Iris is stay-

ing behind—you might want to meet her new friend.”

“Ah. Audrey. I’ve been meaning to. Gran says they

eat together here once in a while.”

“Two, three times a week. She’s from Texas, you

know. Houston.”

Susanna set her spoon down carefully, not wanting

her shock to show. “No, I didn’t know. Gran’s never

said, and I never thought to ask. Tell me more.”

“I don’t know much more,” Jim said. “Audrey Mel-

bourne, from Houston, small, curly red hair, lots of

makeup and jewelry. She turned up not long after New

Year’s saying she was thinking about relocating to Bos-

ton but didn’t like the high rents. She found a place to

live a few blocks from here, says it’s temporary. I’ll

admit, I didn’t think she’d come back in here after that

first night, but she and Iris have kicked up this friend-

ship…” He trailed off, eyeing Susanna. “You okay?”

“Melbourne…” She almost couldn’t get it out. She

was shaking visibly now, unable to contain her shock.

Davey eased off his stool, obviously ready to come to

her aid. She tossed her head back a little, trying to rally.

“The next time this woman comes in, will you call me?

You have my cell phone number? I want to meet her.”

“Susanna.” Jim’s blue eyes drilled into her, and she

remembered he had long experience with his own

daughter and her half-truths, including her recent dis-

sembling about her haunted carriage house and the dead

body in the cellar. He set the finished drink he’d been

making on a tray and pulled her soup bowl away, dump-

ing it into a dishpan to bring out back. “If there’s some-

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83

thing I need to know about Audrey Melbourne, you

need to tell me. Now. No screwing around.”

“She—I don’t want her near my grandmother.”

“That goes for Maggie and Ellen as well?”

Susanna stared at him dully, unable to think. “What?”

“The twins. They had soup with Iris and Audrey a

few nights ago, when you were at your tai chi class.”

“Oh, my God.”

Before she knew what was happening, Susanna had

fallen off the stool, but Davey Ahearn was there in-

stantly, bracing her with a muscular, tattooed arm.

“Easy, kid,” he said.

“I don’t usually come apart like this.” But her daugh-

ters. Maggie and Ellen. Gran. Susanna placed a shak-

ing hand on her temple, as if that somehow would help

her organize a coherent thought. “
Damn it.
I could be

wrong—I hope so. I’ve been living with a Texas Ran-

ger for so long…” She looked at Davey, managing a

weak, unconvincing smile. “It’s because of Jack I could

tell Tess about decomposing bodies.”

Davey continued his iron grip on her arm. “Susanna,

who is Audrey Melbourne?”

She didn’t answer him, instead turning to Jim. “Do

you know where she lives?”

“No,” he said, “and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. You’d

go over there and get yourself into trouble. I can see it

in your eyes. Then I’d have to call Jack and tell him.”

He picked up his drinks tray, straightening. “Answer

Davey’s question, Susanna. Who is this woman?”

“I’m not positive—really, I could be wrong. The

woman I’m thinking of is blond—”

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Carla Neggers

“The red’s a dye job,” Davey said, not letting up on

his grip.

Some of the adrenaline oozed out of her, some of the

tension in her muscles released. They deserved to know.

This was their neighborhood, Iris was their friend. “The

man I told you about who killed his wife,” she said,

pausing for a breath, feeling the clam chowder churn-

ing in her stomach. Davey remained at her side, steady,

not interrupting for once. She tried again. “The local po-

lice officer who found her—the wife—ended up in

prison for official misconduct. Witness tampering. She

got out on New Year’s Eve. She took off a few days later.

She was obsessed with Australia, and everyone

thought—”

“Melbourne,” Jim said. “That’s in Australia.”

Davey released his grip now that Susanna was stead-

ier on her feet. “I knew that was a phony name.” He gave

her a hard look. “Are you going to call Jack, or do you

want to leave that to me and Jimmy?”

Meaning Jack would get called, one way or the other.

“I’ll call him,” she said. “Just first let me make sure I’m

right about this woman.”

Alice knew something was wrong the minute she

walked into Jim’s Place. It was chowder night, and she

deliberately arrived after Iris would have come and

gone. Alice didn’t want to draw too much attention to

their friendship and tried to stagger their visits, not make

it obvious the old woman was her focus.

With freezing rain forecast for the evening, the bar

was relatively quiet, the television tuned to a repeat of

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85

an old Red Sox game. Davey Ahearn was staring up at

it, his broad back to Alice as she eased onto a stool at

the bar. Jim Haviland put a bowl of chowder in front of

her even before she’d ordered it.

Definitely, something was up.

She’d never had particularly good instincts, but

prison had taught her to tune in to her environment, no-

tice the undercurrents, see trouble before it happened—

not wait to get her ass kicked. She’d been trying to show

her best side in Boston. She found herself wanting Iris

Dunning to think well of her. It was as if she were adopt-

ing the new persona she would use in Australia—letting

her real self out. That was what she used to tell herself

about her parents. When they were sober and straight,

that was their real selves. That was who they really

were. Not perfect, but decent, interested in her.

When they were drunk or high on drugs, they weren’t

their real selves. Her grandma said it was the devil, but

Alice didn’t believe that. She could never see the devil

in her mother and father, even when they were passed

out in their own vomit. They weren’t mean, just a cou-

ple of no-accounts.

She wasn’t like them.

Her real self was pleasant, optimistic, empathetic,

kind to old people and not one to hold a grudge. Sure,

she was still trying her damnedest to extort fifty thou-

sand dollars from a murderer, but she’d also learned in

prison that she had to be practical, use what she had. At-

tainable goals. She hated to involve Iris and the Galway

women in her scheme, but that just couldn’t be avoided.

If she had to sit in judgment of herself—well, she’d

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Carla Neggers

opt for forgiveness. She’d see a woman who’d been

through a lot and was just trying to get to a point where

she could make a fresh start, maybe put the screws to a

murderer who was otherwise getting off scot-free. That

wasn’t so bad.

Beau was still dragging his heels—but he’d crack. He

was getting close. He asked questions about Susanna

Galway. He repeated things he’d said to her in the kitchen

that day, insisting he hadn’t said anything bad. But he

wasn’t sure—he wanted to hear what was on that tape.

Every week, Alice told herself, okay, one more week.

She had to stick to her guns, because it wasn’t a good

idea to waffle with Beau. She couldn’t give up too soon

or he’d wonder, and that’d make him dangerous. He’d

wondered what she and Rachel were up to, wondered

if they were plotting to kill him and get his money—

wondered about Alice’s remark about smothering him.

Boom. Next thing, Rachel was dead, and Alice’s

monogrammed change purse was floating in her blood.

What Beau needed was some encouragement—

maybe she just needed to get on with it, break in to Iris’s

house, search Susanna’s room and pretend she’d found

the tape. Then tell Beau she was bringing it to him or

the Texas Rangers, either one. Maybe the media. Some-

thing that’d rattle his cage.

She was dillydallying, she knew, because of Iris and

clam chowder nights at Jim’s Place, fooling herself into

thinking she could start over here, in Boston, and maybe

not have to go all the way to Australia. That was her

greatest weakness, always looking for the easy way out.

She’d fall short of her goals and say it was good enough.

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87

Why be a Texas Ranger when she could be a small-town

cop? Rachel McGarrity used to tell her to recognize

that tendency and fight it. If she wanted to be a small-

town cop, great—mission accomplished. If not, then

go after what she wanted.

Alice hadn’t touched her soup. The pat of butter had

already melted. She tore open her packet of oyster

crackers. She had the most awful feeling of foreboding.

She tried smiling at Davey Ahearn, but he wasn’t look-

ing at her.

“I didn’t want to believe it.”

Alice recognized Susanna Galway’s voice and felt a

little like she did that day Lieutenant Galway had pulled

her aside to ask her a few questions about the Rachel

McGarrity investigation. A Texas Ranger, on her case.

She knew it’d only be a matter of time before she was

charged with official misconduct, or worse.

But this time, Alice didn’t bother trying to hide what

she’d done. “Mrs. Galway, please, I know this looks

bad.” Alice kept her voice respectful, but wondered if

her cheeks were red or pale, revealing anything about

how frightened and awful she felt. “I don’t mean you

or your family any harm.”

Susanna tilted her head, her long black hair hanging

down her back, her green eyes half-closed, but Alice

could see she was rattled, scared. “You used a false name.”

“I’m in the process of legally changing my name to

Audrey Melbourne. I want a fresh start.”

“Here? You didn’t just happen to show up in the same

neighborhood as the family of the Texas Ranger who put

you in prison—”

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Carla Neggers

“Lieutenant Galway didn’t put me in prison,” Alice

said. “I put myself there through my own actions.”

Jack Galway’s wife inhaled sharply. She was so tall

and limber—Alice felt tiny next to her. She’d always