The Widow (14 page)

“She’s never said one way or the other, at least not to me. The Coopers aren’t ones for big emotional displays.”

“I suppose not.” Abigail remembered how she’d clawed at Owen, trying to get to Chris’s body. She’d never been repressed, but she’d learned self-control. “Mattie was just a teenager himself.”

“Seventeen.”

She glanced at the picture once more, imagining Chris and Mattie and Owen as boys, all of them trying to make sense of what had happened to pretty, gentle Doe Garrison.

“These other pictures are amazing, too,” she said, pulling out a stack of prints.

Although she wasn’t an expert in photography, Abigail could see that Mattie’s later pictures were better, technically and artistically. Presumably, he’d kept all the negatives. She flipped through the prints, seeing Mattie Young in a different light, understanding better why Chris had been so reluctant to give up on his friend.

“Look,” someone in the outer gallery said. “Sunlight!”

Abigail turned away from the photographs. Owen said, “We should dry off an outdoor table somewhere and have a drink.”

“That sounds wonderful. Then you’ll show me your new field academy?”

“It’s just a big empty building right now.” He angled a look at her, as if trying to figure out if she had an ulterior motive for wanting to see the training facility. “But I’d be happy to give you the grand tour.”

On their way out, Abigail bought a small, carved black duck, noticing Walt carefully returning Mattie’s photographs to the cabinet drawer, on top of the one he’d taken the day Doe Garrison drowned.

Linc watched Mattie lift a fat, squirming worm out of the wet dirt of a hole he’d dug in a small garden near the back gate of Ellis’s house. “Your uncle doesn’t like working in the rain.” He tossed the worm aside. He had on a half-shredded denim jacket, not warm enough for the chilly temperatures. “But he doesn’t mind me working in the rain.”

“It’s not raining now. What are you doing?”

“I’m dividing perennials. How’s that for a day’s work?”

“At least it’s an honest day’s work,” Linc said, sarcastic. He didn’t care.

Mattie rolled back onto his heels. “You’re an arrogant little fuck, Lincoln Cooper. I’m enjoying making you sweat. It’s about damn time someone did.”

“I don’t care what you think of me. I know what I’ve done and what I haven’t done.”

“You care what your family thinks of you. Those FBI agents sneaking around town, checking into your family’s business so they can give your sister the stamp of approval she needs. The local cops. Who’s that skinny guy from the state police? Lou Beeler. He’d like to know what I know about you. Get your nuts into the wringer. Find out what you were up to the day Chris Browning was murdered.”

Linc felt himself flush but refused to let Mattie see he was getting to him. “Having fun, aren’t you?”

“Oh, sure. I like cutting worms in half in the mud.”

Linc felt his stomach roll over at the thought of cut-up worms. “You’re lucky I’m not a killer. If I were, I wouldn’t be paying you to keep your mouth shut. I’d have you buried in a deep, dark hole where no one would ever find you.”

Mattie wasn’t the least bit rattled. “Doesn’t matter if you’re a killer or not. You’re a snot-nosed kid who stole from your family’s friends. Even if you didn’t break into Chris’s house and hit his wife over the head, steal her necklace, you gave whoever did the idea.”

“A copycat,” Linc said. “Except that doesn’t make sense. With all the rich people on this island in the summer, why target the Brownings?”

“Wedding money, maybe.”

“There was none.”

“Doesn’t mean the thief knew that or—” Mattie rolled onto his knees, digging with his bare hands into a tangle of greenery and roots. Linc wasn’t good with his flora and fauna. He had no idea what kind of plant it was. Without looking up, Mattie said, “Do you have my money?”

“It’s under a flowerpot next to your bicycle.”

“All of it?”

Linc hesitated. He’d done a cash advance on his credit card, cleaned out his bank accounts, hauled a bunch of stuff no one would miss to Ellsworth, the closest real town, and pawned it. He’d debated swiping a watch from his father, getting into his or Grace’s cash. But he hadn’t gone that far.

“Damn it, Linc—”

“No. I don’t have all of it. Two thousand. It’s all I could manage without drawing attention to myself. I can get more in a few days.”

Mattie sat on his butt in the wet grass and leaned back, spots of blood where he’d nicked his mud-encrusted hands. He’d worked in the rain. He wouldn’t care. “I don’t have a lot of patience left.”

“It won’t do either of us any good if I’m caught. My father’s not stupid. He’ll ask questions—he’ll see through me—”

“All right, all right. We don’t want Daddy getting all suspicious and pissy. Just get it done. I want my money. I deserve it.”

Linc could feel his blood roaring into his face, pounding in his ears. He noticed a scratcher lying in the grass and pictured it embedded in Mattie’s head, silencing him forever. But he couldn’t picture himself doing the embedding.

It had to be easier just to shoot someone, he thought. The coward’s way out. Just close your eyes and pull the trigger. If the target wasn’t moving, it wasn’t that hard to do.

He couldn’t picture himself shooting someone, either.

“I’ll do what I can to get you the rest as soon as possible.” Linc straightened, aware of Mattie’s amusement, and realized how frightened and sickened he must look. “Then it’s over. You can threaten me until you choke. There’ll be no more money, not from me.”

“I just want the ten grand. I’ll keep my word. Your secrets will be safe with me.”

His secrets. What did a creep like MattieYoung know about his secrets?

Linc saw the sun breaking through the clouds, felt a cold breeze against his back. Why did he want to hear Mattie say he didn’t believe he’d killed Chris? Why did it matter?

He gave the scratcher a little push with his toe. “Like I said, I know what I’ve done and what I haven’t done.”

“Yeah?” Linc grinned at him, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. “I know what you’ve done and haven’t done, too. Best to keep that in mind.”

S
ean and Ian Alden scrambled out of Owen’s truck and onto his rain-soaked deck. He appreciated their energy after a full day of camp. Doyle had called him on his cell phone, while Owen was having iced tea and chowder with Abigail, watching the skies clear under a yellow umbrella at a table overlooking Bar Harbor’s famous waterfront. They’d never made it to the academy building. Doyle was bogged down and needed Owen to pick up the boys and keep an eye on them until evening.

By the time Katie got back, Owen figured Doyle would have worked out how to manage without her.

Sean bent down and picked up papers—something—propped up against the French door. He made a face. “Gross. Owen, is she one of the people you couldn’t rescue in time?”

Ian leaned into his brother and took a peek. “Oh, yuck. She’s dead.”

Owen leaped onto the deck. The sun sparkled on the small puddles left by the rain, and he could hear the tide washing onto the rocks, seagulls, the engine of a far-off lobster boat. Not wanting to panic the boys, he said carefully, “What do you have there?”

“Pictures,” Sean said. “Aren’t they yours?”

“No. Let me see, okay?”

Sean handed him a clear plastic sleeve, dotted with raindrops. Inside were at least two, maybe more, eight-by-ten prints. Owen held the plastic by the edges, but it had been sitting out on his deck in the rain, Sean had handled it—any trace evidence would likely be long gone by now.

The top picture came into focus. His mind resisted taking in what he was seeing.

Doe…

“Owen?” Ian’s voice was low, panicked. “Owen, what’s wrong?”

She was lying on a blanket on the dock where the Brownings had taken her and rescue workers had tried to revive her. Only his sister—her lifeless body—was in the shot, as if she were out there all alone.

Strands of her wet hair covered her face.

Owen pictured the rest of the scene. His parents, holding each other in shock and grief. His grandmother, the indomitable Polly, her hands clasped in prayer. Chris and his grandfather, talking to the rescue workers and police, explaining what had happened. The Coopers, horrified, trying not to get in the way.

He didn’t remember seeing Mattie Young.

Sean froze, staring up at Owen. “Do you want me to call my dad?”

“It’s okay.” He forced himself to make eye contact with the two boys. “I need to look at the other picture in here. Hang on.”

The plastic sleeve had no clasp or other kind of seal, and he was able to slip his fingers inside and lift out the print that was under the one of Doe. But he didn’t need to take it all the way out. He recognized the rocks, the tall pines on the waterfront below the remains of his family’s original Mt. Desert house.

And he recognized the woman in the picture.

And himself.

“Abigail,” he whispered. “Hell.”

He had his arms around her, holding her back as the police arrived and she tried again to go to her husband.

She’d fought him with all the strength she had.

She was so young, in the grips of such terrible grief.

Ian gulped in a breath. “Owen.” The boy sobbed. “Owen, what—”

“Easy.” He slipped the pictures back into the plastic sleeve. “Let’s go inside.”

Whoever had left the pictures hadn’t broken into his house. He unlocked the door, but kept the boys close as they went inside. He put them on the high stools at the breakfast bar, then dialed Abigail’s number, letting it ring.

No answer.

He hung up. He had no idea what she’d done after he’d left her in Bar Harbor.

He dialed the local police station and spoke quickly to one of Doyle’s officers, who promised he’d send someone out there and get hold of the chief.

“Be sure to tell him his sons are fine,” Owen said.

Sean looked at him thoughtfully after Owen had hung up. “Why don’t you just leave us here and go check on Abigail?”

“I’m not leaving you here by yourselves.”

“We’ll be
fine.
”

Owen gave the boy a quick smile. “But
I
won’t be if I can’t get back here before your dad arrives.”

Neither boy laughed, and Ian, sucking in a succession of shallow breaths, said, “What about Abigail? Is she all right?”

“She’s probably out for a hike or running errands.”

Ian clutched Owen’s hand. “Go find her!”

“We can go with you,” Sean said.

Owen shook his head. “That’s not going to happen. Abigail will be all right. She’s a police officer like your dad.”

Footsteps sounded out on the deck, and the two boys jumped, even as Owen moved between them and the door.

“Owen?” Abigail’s voice. “It’s me—everything okay here?”

Ian clutched his heart in a display of drama and slumped in relief. “She’s okay.”

Owen smiled at him. “Told you.”

Sean eased down off the stool and ran to the door. “Abigail! My dad’s on the way. Someone left Owen pictures of dead people.”

When she pushed open the door and entered the cool house, Owen noticed the gun on her waist, her focused, cop-mode look as she frowned at him. “Dead people? Owen, what’s going on?”

He nodded to the plastic sleeve of pictures on his kitchen counter and tried to explain, without further alarming Sean and Ian, what had happened. Abigail listened without interruption. When he finished, Owen noticed that her cheeks had drained of any color. “Abigail? Did you come back to the same pictures?”

“Different ones,” she said. “They were inside my front door. Three shots taken at Ellis Cooper’s house the day Chris was killed.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No. No one. I checked around outside and walked over here. No sign of anyone.”

Mattie, in other words.

“Lou Beeler’s on his way.” She made an effort to smile at the two boys. “Your dad, too.”

Owen sensed her restlessness. “Where are the pictures that were left for you?”

“On my kitchen counter.” Her eyes, dark and intense, leveled on him. “There’s something I need to do. Tell Lou and Doyle I’ll be right back.”

“You’re going to confront Mattie.”

“Just because the pictures are disturbing doesn’t make it against the law to leave them on our doorsteps.”

“You know damn well the police will investigate.”

But she ignored him, saying goodbye to the boys before she slipped back out to the deck, barely making a sound as she headed back across the rocks.

Owen swore under his breath. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t leave Sean and Ian, and he sure as hell couldn’t take them with him and go after Abigail.

“Owen?” Ian slipped a cool hand into his. “I’m scared.”

He wanted to tell the boys there was nothing to be scared of, but someone had just left him a picture of his drowned sister and a picture of a terrified, grief-stricken widow. How could he say, with any degree of confidence, there was no reason to be afraid?

“Hey, guys,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get a fire going.”

Abigail parked in front of Mattie’s house, walked up to his front door and rang the doorbell, just the way she was supposed to. It was after four. He would have knocked off work by now. She noticed bent vertical blinds hanging in a picture window of the small, one-story bungalow. He hadn’t planted flowers in his own yard.

When the door didn’t open, she pounded on it, its white paint chipped and yellowed. “Mattie, it’s Abigail. Abigail Browning. I’d like to talk to you.”

She waited two beats. Still no answer. She tried the knob.

The door was unlocked.

“Mattie.”

She called him again as she pushed open the door. Before entering, she heard the clatter of a bicycle behind her on the walk and turned, sighing at Mattie. “There you are. Don’t you lock your doors?”

“What for? I don’t have anything worth stealing.” He waved a hand at her, showing no indication of surprise or irritation at her visit. “Go ahead. Go inside if you want.”

“Thank you, I will.”

She stepped into a simply furnished living room, surprisingly neat and clean given Mattie’s general appearance. He followed her in and flopped down onto the couch. “Okay. What do you want?”

“I’d like to talk to you about your photography.”

“My photography? Why?”

“I was at a gallery in Bar Harbor today. The owner, a man named Walt—”

“Oh, yeah.” Mattie grinned, putting his feet up on a coffee table. “Good old Walt. He’s full of shit, isn’t he? Pompous ass.”

“He thinks you’re very talented.”

“See what I mean?”

“Where do you keep the negatives of the pictures you’ve taken?”

“I burned them.”

Abigail wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. “When?”

“One night when I was drunk and feeling sorry for myself. Well.” He gave a fake laugh, no hint of self-deprecation. “I guess that describes a lot of nights. It was sometime after Chris was killed. I was living in Bar Harbor—it feels like civilization compared to living out here.”

“Did you destroy all your negatives?”

He hesitated. “I don’t remember.”

“You remember, Mattie. You’re a photographer. Those negatives are your life’s work.”

“I don’t know why I let you in here.”

“You didn’t burn the negatives of the pictures you took the day Dorothy Garrison died,” Abigail said.

He shot to his feet, bolting for the front door, but she intercepted him, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back.

He squealed. “Hey!”

“Just calm down.” She eased off. “Running isn’t going to solve anything.”

“You have no right—”

She released him and stepped back. “I want to know about the pictures, Mattie.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Abigail didn’t answer him. She walked into the adjoining dining room, where a dusty faux-crystal chandelier hung above a scratched and nicked dark-stained pine table. “You have a decent setup here.” She ran her fingers over the table. “Keep your day job and work on your photography on your off-hours. That’s your plan, isn’t it?”

He rubbed his arm where she’d tackled him. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“Why sneak off to the old Garrison foundation to drink in the dark with the mosquitoes?”

He shrugged. “Why drink?”

“Good point.”

“You used to be nicer. When you and Chris were together.”

“Maybe so.”

She started toward the kitchen, off the dining room, but noticed a fat envelope tucked under a clear glass vase on the sideboard, which matched the table. She walked over to it and lifted the vase with one hand and picked up the envelope with the other hand.

“Hey—that’s mine. You need a warrant to search my place—”

“I’m not here as a police officer. I’m here as a friend.” She could see the stack of green bills inside the envelope and fanned them with her thumb. Most were fifty-and hundred-dollar bills. “How much is in here? A thousand?”

“It’s not against the law to have cash in my own house.”

“I thought you said there was nothing here worth stealing. Do the Coopers pay you in cash?”

He snapped his mouth shut. “Get out.” He pointed toward the front door. “Now go, before I call Doyle.”

Abigail made a show of checking her watch. “By my calculations, he should be here soon.”

“What?”

“Doyle and Lieutenant Beeler. I wouldn’t be surprised if they come together.” She replaced the envelope under the vase. “Feel free to tell them we’ve talked.”

Mattie swore at her. He got himself onto a roll and kept swearing, calling her a long, not particularly inventive string of names, but Abigail ignored him as she walked past him to the front door. She held it open with one hand and looked back at him. Something about her expression worked, because he shut up.

She said, “Tell ChiefAlden and Lieutenant Beeler everything you know, Mattie. Whatever you’re hiding, whatever angle you’re playing, isn’t worth the risks you’re taking.”

He held up both his hands, splaying his fingers. “Look at these. Look at the dirt and the dried blood. The calluses. You think I’m playing an angle? You’re fucking crazy. I get up in the morning and I ride my bike to rich people’s houses, and I work my ass off. I’m doing the best I can to pull my life together.”

“Lie to yourself all you want. And to me, if you have to. Just don’t lie to the police.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

On that lofty note, Abigail left, getting to her car and back onto the main road without running into any of her colleagues in law enforcement.

But they were waiting for her at her little house on the Maine coast. Lou Beeler, Doyle Alden and Special Agents Capozza and Steele.

“Lucky me,” she said aloud.

She pulled over into the grass and parked.