The Kill (10 page)

Dress for dinner?
That was a joke. Abigale looked down at her jeans. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d dressed for anything. She drew her arms tight across her chest. “I’m afraid my wardrobe options are pretty limited: khaki or black slacks, white or black blouse.”

Margaret waved a hand, as though batting away the notion. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. You’ll look lovely in whatever you wear. Just relax and settle in. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

“Shouldn’t we discuss the funeral arrangements? I’ve written down some thoughts, my mother’s wishes. And I have so many more questions about what happened to Uncle Richard.” Margaret had told Abigale the sheriff had identified a suspect—a “person of interest”—in her uncle’s murder, but she still hadn’t filled her in on many of the details.

“I know, dear. There will be plenty of time for all of that tomorrow. The funeral’s not until Monday. Tonight is just about being together with family and friends. Why don’t you try to get some rest before dinner.”

As soon as the door closed behind Margaret, Abigale flopped on her back across the patchwork quilt tucked neatly on the four-poster bed. She kicked off her shoes, let them clunk to the floor, and bent her knees to ease her throbbing back. She inhaled deeply, let the air escape slowly. Was there a muscle in her body that didn’t ache? She stretched, wincing at the muscle spasms in both calves, the sharp pang that shot from her neck across her right shoulder. Her eyes burned with a grit that reminded her of the hot-white Iraqi sands. She rubbed her closed lids, knowing that would only make it worse.

The knot that had hung like lead in Abigale’s stomach since landing at Andrews Air Force Base flared into a fiery cramp that almost took her breath away. She massaged the tender spot just below her breastbone, trying to ease the burn that shot up her chest. It seemed surreal, being back here. Like a time warp. Margaret’s farm, Fox Run, looked almost exactly the way she remembered it. Yet an ugly truth—murder—lurked beneath the serenity. It left a gaping hollow space where her uncle should be. She’d lived with death, witnessed it almost every day for the last five years, yet the fact that her uncle had been murdered—here—was almost beyond comprehension.

Abigale blew out a ragged breath. How was she going to make it through this? Laying Uncle Richard to rest. Handling his affairs. Performing the role her mother would play, if she weren’t bedridden almost four thousand miles away.

And how was she going to face Manning?

M
argaret heard the slam of the back door. “I’m in the dining room,” she shouted in the direction of the kitchen.

She tucked in the final fold on the last of the white linen napkins she’d arranged at the top of each Pimpernel placemat, then stepped back and surveyed the table with a critical eye. The cherry wood was badly in need of refinishing, but the gleam of the Spode china and Waterford crystal drew attention away from the sad state of the table. She nodded her approval. It would do.

Margaret lugged the silver chest out of the bottom cabinet of the china hutch and rested it on a chair. The brass nameplate on top was tarnished and scratched, the elegantly engraved “Southwell” nearly indecipherable, but the Tiffany sterling inside was so well polished she could almost see her reflection. Margaret removed the carving knife with the hound handle and set it beside the place setting at the head of the table, then placed the fox-handled serving fork next to it.

“Something smells good. What’re we having?”

She turned and saw Manning standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He held a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a folded necktie in the other. The collar of his white dress shirt was unbuttoned beneath his navy blazer.

“Pot roast.” She ran her eyes over him. “You look nice.”

Manning extended his hand that held the tie. “I wasn’t sure about the dress code, so I brought this along in case.”

“You’re fine as you are. It’s casual.” Margaret inspected the bouquet in his hand. There were a half-dozen or so sunflowers, accompanied by stalks of lavender and willowy branches with shiny green leaves. “Sunflowers. What an unusual choice. They’re beautiful.”

Manning’s face reddened. “They’re Abby’s favorite. Or were, anyway.” His eyes darted toward the ceiling. “Is she upstairs?”

“Yes.”

His expression tightened and he glanced away, waving the flowers. “What should I do with these?”

“There are some large vases in the cupboard in the pantry. Select one that you like. There’s a cerulean Baccarat that would complement the china nicely.”

“All right.”

He turned toward the kitchen.

“Manning.”

“Yeah?” he said, looking over his shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Seeing Abigale, after all these years. Dredging up the past.”

Manning turned away. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

T
he mirror over the sink was clouded with steam from the shower. Abigale wiped a circle with her palm and frowned at the pale reflection that stared back at her. Bluish shadows hung like half-moons beneath her dark-brown eyes, making her look as exhausted as she felt. When had those tiny lines popped up? She rummaged through her cosmetic kit, found an old stick of concealer, and dabbed it around her eyes, then finger-combed her hair. She wrinkled her nose as she studied her reflection in the mirror. No matter how many hairdressers told her how lucky she was to have “natural body,” she regarded her mane of curls as a curse. Sure, given proper time and a blow dryer she could tame it into soft waves, but more often than not she simply pulled it back. Tonight, her fingers moved swiftly as she wove it into a French braid. Abigale twisted around, looked over her shoulder at the mirror, and tucked in few wayward hairs. “Guess that’s as good as it’s going to get.”

She dressed quickly in her black slacks and blouse. A dark, spicy aroma wafted up from downstairs and her stomach grumbled, reminding her that it had been over twenty-four hours since she’d last eaten a meal. In spite of her misgivings about the evening, she was suddenly grateful to Margaret for going to the trouble of cooking dinner.

Abigale paused at the top of the stairs. She heard voices below, coming from the library, and thought of the last time she’d been in that room. “That was then, this is now,” she whispered as she gripped the stair railing and started down the steps. “You can do this.”

As she stepped off the last stair, the front door swung inward and a man’s voice called out, “Knock-knock. Anyone home?”

An attractive brown-haired man, probably in his mid-to-late thirties, breezed inside and quickly closed the door. He had on a gray wool overcoat, buttoned up the front, beneath which she caught a glimpse of a blue shirt and red-and-blue striped bow tie. He turned in her direction and his dark eyes lit up. “You must be Abigale.”

“Yes.”

He grasped her hand firmly between both of his. “I’m Thompson James. Your uncle was a close friend of mine. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

Thompson gave her hand a quick squeeze before releasing it. “It’s freezing out there,” he said, exaggerating a shiver as he unbuttoned his overcoat and hung it on the coatrack by the front door. “When did you arrive?”

“Just a couple of hours ago.”

He straightened his bow tie as he turned back to her, his mouth curved down in a sympathetic smile. “You must be exhausted. That’s a grueling journey from Afghanistan.”

“Have you been?”

“Not Afghanistan. But I’ve been to Iraq.”

Margaret poked her head around the corner and waved her arm, gesturing them into the room. “Abigale, I thought I heard your voice. Hello, Thompson. Both of you, come on into the library. Everyone’s gathered in front of the fire.”

Thompson held out his hand. “After you.”

Abigale was smothered by the scent of pipe tobacco as a stout, older gentleman grabbed her in a bear hug. After squeezing her so hard she let out a groan, he released her, a broad grin crinkling his face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. What a beautiful woman you turned out to be! Not that I’m at all surprised, mind you.”

“Smitty?”

He winked. “You betcha. Still kickin’ after all these years.”

Abigale leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

Margaret grabbed her elbow and tugged her over to the stone hearth. “Come closer to the fire, Abigale. It’s colder than a you-know-what tonight. Now let’s see, I think you know most of these folks, except Wendy Brooks.” She nodded in the direction of a plump, pleasant-looking woman wearing wire-framed glasses, who was seated on the sofa.

The woman smiled and tucked a strand of short brown hair behind her ear. “Hi, Abigale. I’m the hunt secretary. I’ve had the pleasure of riding to hounds with your uncle since I moved here from Michigan about ten years ago.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

An attractive, slim blond seated next to Wendy waved her hand. “Hey, Abigale. It’s me, Julia.”

Abigale’s eyes widened. “Julia Farleigh?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, my God. I wouldn’t have recognized you. You used to have brown hair.”

Julia flashed a smile, revealing a perfect row of unnaturally white teeth. “And braces. Not to mention an extra thirty pounds. In
all
the wrong places.” She ran a hand down her sweater and smoothed away the wrinkles, showing off her flat abdomen and voluptuous curves.

Abigale laughed. “Not anymore. You look fabulous.”

“Thanks. You too.”

A man leaning against the hearth straightened and held out his hand. “Percy Fletcher. Long time no see.”

Abigale fought to hide her shock at Percy’s appearance. His athletic build had turned soft, and a barrel chest strained against his shirt buttons. A receding hairline added years to his portly appearance.

“Wait, you’re not still going to pay me back for that swimming pool incident, are you?” He raised an arm across his face in mock defense as Abigale reached for his hand.

She arched an eyebrow. “You know what they say: ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’”

Percy pumped her hand and raised his glass. “Touché. Fair warning.”

Laughter floated through the room and Abigale breathed out a sigh. Perhaps she’d get through this after all.

Margaret patted her arm. “Now let’s see, that’s everyone, except Manning, whom you know, of course.”

Abigale’s eyes followed Margaret’s gaze to the man who stood beside a liquor cart in the far corner of the cozy room. There he was, a grown-up version of the boy she remembered. The years had hardened Manning’s muscles and added bulk to his broad shoulders; no hint of a middle-aged pouch on him. His wavy hair, more sandy now than blond, was shorter, and his face harder, accentuating his high cheekbones and strong jaw. But there was a different air about him. His eyes, blue as a summer sky, showed no hint of the naughty-boy gleam she remembered. The gaze he leveled at her seemed clouded with weariness. Or was it wariness?

Manning stepped forward. “Hello, Abby.”

She had expected the moment to be uncomfortable, but she wasn’t prepared for the rush of sadness that seemed to suck the air out of the room. Her father’s angry shouts whirled in her head, as vividly as the day seventeen years ago when he’d paced this same room, hurling hateful accusations at Manning.

Abigale knew she should cross to him, but she didn’t move. She just stood there. She managed a smile. “You look great.”

Manning snorted softly, giving her a look that seemed to say,
So that’s how we’re going to play it—just make small talk?

His blue eyes hardened as he raised his glass to his mouth. “So do you.”