CHAPTER 18
There were three color photographs in Abigail’s clear plastic sleeve.
The top one-the one she saw through the plastic-was of a thirteen-year-old Linc Cooper standing by the iron gate in his uncle’s garden with his shirt half untucked and a martini glass in his hand.
Abigail knew it was taken at Ellis’s party seven years ago because of Linc’s age, the little umbrella in his drink and the decorative lights on the fence. She’d seen many other pictures of the party.
The second photograph was of Grace Cooper in the shade at the top of the steep zigzag of steps that led up to Ellis’s house from the private drive.
On the step just below her, almost out of view, was Chris, his hands balled into fists, a tight look of anger on his face.
There was no fear, Abigail had decided after studying his expression.
No premonition that he was about to be murdered.
He’d gone up to Ellis’s after finding her unconscious, obviously intent on finding whoever had attacked his wife. Just the Coopers and the caterers and a few stragglers were still at the party. Grace had told the police that she had seen Chris at her uncle’s house, but never indicated they had spoken.
But how could they not have, with him coming up the steps and her right there?
The third photograph was of Owen, on Ellis’s stone terrace, clearly later-after Linc had snuck his martini, after Grace and Chris had said whatever they’d said to each other.
Hours before Owen had gone down to the rocks and found Chris’s body.
Abigail had jotted down detailed descriptions of each photograph before Lou Beeler could send them off to the lab. The prints were fresh, probably run off an inkjet printer. She’d suggested to Lou that he check to see if Mattie had put his negatives onto a computer disk before burning them, or put the ones he hadn’t burned-if he’d burned any-onto a disk, but the Maine CID detective had already covered all the bases.
Her fellow law enforcement officers were gone now, off to find Mattie, having taken her and Owen, separately, through their paces, all of them trying to make sense of the pictures and why they’d been left, what they meant.
Abigail was restless. There wasn’t much she could do for the moment, other than take out her frustration on her walls.
She tied a purple bandanna over her hair and lifted her sledgehammer, the wind gusting off the water, blowing through her porch door and stirring up more plaster dust. There seemed to be no end to it, no matter how much she swept.
One more to go, and she’d have the room gutted. Then she could put up new wallboard and tape, slap on primer, pick out a paint color-something bright, but that didn’t clash with the lupine-blue in the entry.
Thinking about wallboard and paint colors gave everything else a chance to simmer. The calls, the pictures, Mattie’s parties in the old Garrison foundation, the stash of money under his vase.
The Maine cops, the frightened Alden boys.
Owen.
Abigail jumped.
The man who’d just been in her thoughts stood in the doorway to her front room, watching her angle her sledgehammer at the final section of wall. It was dusk, but night was coming fast. “You should wear goggles and a mask,” Owen said.
“I’ve got some in my trunk.”
He didn’t offer to go fetch them. “You rent this place to cops most of the time. I bet you could get a half dozen of them together to help you tear down walls and put up new ones. Throw a few lobsters in a pot, buy a couple of six-packs-they’d be thrilled.”
She grinned at him. “Are you implying we cops come cheap?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. “Stand back. I don’t want to nail you in the head with this thing.”
“Abigail-”
Her first whack penetrated the wallboard. “Hey, I’m getting good at this.” Before she lost her steam, she heaved the sledgehammer twice more, then gave up and set it against an exposed support beam. “That’s enough. Best to pace myself before I tear my rotator cuff or something.”
“You’ve got a dead body there.”
“Mouse skeleton.” Using her toe, she dragged it out of a corner. “It’s the one I missed earlier.”
“Where there’s one dead mouse, there’s another.”
“It’s live mice I don’t want to run into.”
Owen stepped into the room and walked over to her, running his thumb under her eye. “Don’t want to get plaster in your eyes.”
“That wouldn’t be good.” She took a breath. “Owen…I’m sorry you and Sean and Ian had to see those pictures.”
“It’s not your fault-”
“I could have stayed in Boston. I didn’t have to come up here.”
Doyle Alden appeared on her back porch. “That’s right,” he said, opening the screen door. “You didn’t.”
Abigail ignored his sour tone. “Did you find Mattie?”
“Yeah. We found him. Beeler’s talking to him.” Doyle glanced at her array of tools, as if he wanted to take a crowbar to her himself. “Maybe you should talk to the Coopers about including this place in with the sale of Ellis’s. Jason’s a smart guy. Shrewd. He’d probably get you a better price than you could get on your own.”
“Probably would. How are Sean and Ian?”
“They’re fine. My next-door neighbor’s watching them while I deal with this mess.”
“Listen, Doyle, if I’d known about the pictures-”
“No way for you to know,” he interrupted. “The bastard who left them could have stuck a piece of paper in front of them. Instead…” He trailed off. “Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
“Have they talked to their mother?” Abigail asked. “That might help.”
Doyle stiffened. “I don’t need you to tell me how to raise my sons.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“Doyle,” Owen said, “nobody wanted the boys to see those pictures. I’ve had the image of my sister burned into my brain for twenty-five years-of Chris for seven years. I’d have done anything to keep Sean and Ian from having to see that. We all would have.”
All the air seemed to go out of the chief of police. He swore under his breath, but quickly pulled himself together, pointing a finger at Abigail. “You need to remember what your role here is and what it isn’t. Understood?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Knock out all the walls in this whole damn house, Abigail. Paint. Decorate. If we learn anything about the phone calls and the pictures, we’ll let you know.”
Abigail gave him a cheeky smile. “Lou told me the same thing.”
Doyle managed a grudging smile back at her. “Smart guy, that Lou.”
Doyle climbed into his car, the window down, mosquitoes thick in the cool, salt-tinged air. Owen had followed his friend outside and could feel Doyle’s frustration and resentment-his powerlessness. “Let me know if you want me to talk to the boys about what happened.”
“Some days, I swear-” Doyle shoved the key into the ignition with more force than was necessary. “I swear Katie and I should just pack up the boys and get off this damn rock. I should find another line of work.”
“Your work didn’t cause what happened today.”
“I’m not talking about today.”
Owen knew he wasn’t. “You’re a small-town cop, Doyle. You’re good at what you do. You enjoy it. You just never thought you’d have to investigate the murder of your best friend.”
“You’d think after seven years…”
“What, that we’d all have forgotten? I’d think after seven years we’d be itchy and irritated that Chris’s murder was still unsolved, and worried that other people might be at risk.”
