“Your husband had secrets.”
Abigail sat up in bed, fully awake after grabbing the phone on the second ring. “Who is this?”
“Just listen. Chris’s secrets got him killed. He wouldn’t talk to you. He wouldn’t talk to anyone.”
“Tell me more. Please.” She struggled to keep her tone firm but nonthreatening. “Don’t hang up.”
“He didn’t want to see you hurt.”
“Hurt how? Physically-or emotionally?”
There was no hesitation on the other end. “Both.”
“So he didn’t tell me these secrets?”
“He couldn’t. He loved you.”
She leaned back against her pillows and headboard, the early morning sun angling into her small bedroom through gaps in the curtains. The caller’s voice was disguised, as before. “How did you get my number here?” she asked. “It’s not listed.”
“Be careful who you trust while you’re in Maine.”
“Are you here? Are you watching me?”
“You have nothing to fear from me. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. That’s all.”
“Why would anyone else get hurt? What’s going on? I need more information.”
“Your husband was an FBI agent and a Mainer. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t-I haven’t. Why don’t we meet? Just the two of us-”
The caller cut her off with a short, sarcastic laugh. “I don’t think so, Detective.”
Click.
Abigail glanced at her bedside clock. Five-oh-nine. She hung up, then picked up again and dialed Lou Beeler’s home number. He answered on the first ring. She tried smiling into the receiver. “Don’t tell me you’re already on your second cup of coffee-”
“Third,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I had another call,” she said, and told him.
When she finished, Lou sighed. “I’ll be there in an hour. I’ll collect Chief Alden on my way. Want me to bring doughnuts?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yeah. I’ll bet. See you soon.”
Abigail was shivering by the time she climbed out of bed. She slept in the smallest of the three bedrooms. The largest had been Chris’s grandfather’s room, the second largest Chris’s room. She’d cleaned out all their belongings and painted the furniture, bought new rugs and lamps and picked out inexpensive artwork, but the rooms still had the feel of the Browning men. She let her renters use them.
Moving quickly, Abigail showered, the hot streams of water calling up sensations she didn’t want to think about, of Owen’s hands on her, his mouth-her reaction. They hadn’t gone beyond their kiss last night. A bit more than a kiss, really, she thought. But afterward they’d had wine. Talked. He’d walked with her back to her house, then left with just a good-night, as if he, too, knew that was enough. Their attraction to each other was out on the table. That was plenty to get used to at least for now. She’d never brought a man here. It’d never seemed right. Too many ghosts in Maine. Too many memories. Easier, she thought, just to keep that part of herself out of reach.
Owen was different. He’d known Chris forever, and she didn’t have to explain to him what had happened, how he’d died, how she’d felt in those awful days.
And in the years since, he’d never patronized her because of her situation. He’d experienced tragedy himself, and he’d seen countless others who’d had to find a way to carry on after the worst kind of loss-babies, young children, entire families, entire communities.
Abigail switched off the water and grabbed a towel, rubbed herself dry. Never mind the rest of it, she thought. She’d responded to Owen for purely physical reasons. He felt good. The taste of him, the heat of his skin.
He was a man of action with nothing to do. She’d be out of her mind if she got too far ahead of herself with him.
She pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and slipped on sports sandals, leaving her hair to dry on its own as she headed downstairs. She grabbed her gun and checked outside, but she saw no sign of spies or intruders, just cormorants diving for fish and brightly colored lobster buoys bobbing in the glistening water.
Satisfied, Abigail went back inside and put on coffee. While it brewed, she sat at her kitchen table and wrote down every word of her conversation with her anonymous caller.
She finished her transcript and returned to the back room, grabbing her sledgehammer and tackling another section of the wall while she waited for the local law enforcement officers to arrive.
Ellis couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Jordan Pond House, a tourist trap, if a pleasant one, famous for its postcard-perfect location and its tea and popovers. Day-trippers to Acadia National Park would take in the Visitors Center, Cadillac Mountain-the tallest peak on the Atlantic seaboard and the only one in the park they could drive up-and Jordan Pond House. Some would venture out along the twenty-mile Park Loop Road and stop at Thunder Hole, a favorite with its dramatic rock cliffs and crashing waves. Ellis hadn’t done the loop road in years, either.
But everything was changing, he thought. Why not his habit of avoiding tourist hot spots?
Lunch at Jordan Pond House was his brother’s idea. He and Grace already had a table out on the terrace, the sun warm and bright on a perfect Mt. Desert Island summer afternoon. Ellis noticed that his niece had put on a crisp blouse and a touch of makeup. An improvement. She’d arrived on the island exhausted-and far more tense about her appointment and the background investigation it required than she wanted to admit. She was at a crossroads in her life. Big changes were ahead.
And she preferred to have everyone think she had nothing to hide. Open nervousness would imply she did have something. Ellis, who’d been around Washington a long time, had come to believe, and accept, that everyone had something to hide. The FBI wouldn’t expect perfection.
He sat next to her, across from Jason, who seemed distracted, staring across the sloping field down to the most famous of Mt. Desert’s glacial fresh-water ponds. Mountains rose around its sparkling water. Ellis had climbed all of the park’s peaks in his day. Now, he preferred to wander in his gardens.
His throat tightened at the prospect of the house selling. He’d hoped its high price would deter buyers, perhaps delay the sale until next year. He understood Jason’s reasoning. But whenever he’d convinced himself he actually liked the idea, looked forward to a smaller place, to new gardens, his stomach would twist into knots. He needed more time to adjust.
He wouldn’t be getting it. Jason had arranged for lunch with potential buyers from Connecticut. Ellis didn’t even know their names.
“Our guests will be a few minutes late,” Jason said. “I’ve ordered tea while we wait.”
“Where’s Linc?” Ellis asked.
“There’s no need for him to be here.”
Grace winced almost imperceptibly at her father’s callous tone. “He’s out there.” She nodded toward the pond. “He and Owen are hiking around the pond. Owen seems to be taking him under his wing.”
“Does he understand Linc’s limitations?” Ellis asked. “He won’t push him too hard, I hope.”
“It’ll do him good to be pushed,” Jason said. “Linc’s spent too much time in front of a video screen. I’m glad he’s finally doing something physical. And Owen’s the best.”
Jason glanced at his daughter, who pretended not to notice as she picked up a dark green teapot and filled a matching cup. Her father had long nursed the hope that she and Owen would fall for each other, but there’d never been a hint of that kind of attraction between them. And Grace was in her late thirties now. Marriage seemed more and more a remote possibility. If she minded, she never said. Ellis, who’d long ago given up the idea of marriage for himself, understood a single life could be rewarding and fulfilling. His brother, who hated being alone, would never understand-he was between marriages now, but dating. There’d be a fourth Cooper wedding before too long.
