Before it reaches the clearing, Hemingway is up on all fours barking for attention.
Mick stands and waves his arms, hoping not to be a lightning rod in the wicked storm.
“Kära Gud!” Niall says, scrambling out of the all-terrain vehicle.
“I don’t think she has any broken bones,” Mick responds. “I’m going to lift her and lay her in the backseat. Then I’ll get in and hold her for support.”
“She’s got to be freezing in this wind and rain,” Niall says. “Libby sent a wool blanket.”
“Thank God for Libby. She thinks of everything. Niall, I don’t want to bump Cynthia’s head, so help me guide her in and bundle her up, then Hemingway can ride up front with you. Instead of heading straight east the way you came, let’s head south. I know it’s a longer route, but in this weather, it’ll be faster and smoother.”
Niall looks puzzled. “I didn’t know there’s another route,” he shouts over the roaring wind.
“It’s more of a wide path, but wide enough for the ATV. The trees there are younger so there aren’t as many exposed roots. I used to take my wheelchair through there.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
As the all-terrain moves forward, the bluff falls behind, leaving the mysterious scene in its wake. Mick calls ahead to say they’re on their way and adds an ambulance to his original request of police and vet.
With his guidance, they enter the property just south of Austen cottage. Then, like a switchback on a mountain trail, they head north on the smooth, wet pathway between the copse of blue elderberry trees and the main house.
Around the next bend, welcoming light from the main house emerges ahead. As they connect with the circular drive, they’re greeted by flashing blue, red, amber, and white lights from a patrol car, ambulance, and what seems sedate in comparison, a pickup truck and horse trailer with Fairhaven Veterinary Hospital stenciled on the side.
Someone in the main house must have been on the lookout because their arrival doesn’t go unnoticed. As the all-terrain enters the circular drive, a wave of umbrellas bears down on them at once—Libby, two paramedics, two police officers, the vet, Emma, and Fran.
The paramedics transfer Cynthia from the all-terrain to the ambulance on a stretcher board. Mick hops in beside her as they pepper him with questions and check her vitals.
Skip, a seasoned paramedic with silver hair that commands respect, breaks open what looks like a glow stick. He wafts it back and forth under Cynthia’s nose as several pairs of curious eyes watch from the back end of the well-lit, efficient space.
Her forehead draws into a puckered frown and her nose wrinkles. She coughs, splutters, then coughs again. Cynthia’s eyes fly open, and she tries to sit up, but can’t. Gripping Mick’s hand she looks him straight in the eyes and says, “It was Jason. He fell over the cliff and he’s dead.” Then she passes out cold.
CHAPTER 17
“When you write suspense, you have to know where you’re going because you have to drop little hints along the way. With an outline, I always know where the story is going.”
—JOHN GRISHAM
Libby hears rapid-fire conversation coming from the kitchen as muffled voices rise and fall like the rhythmic ebb and flow of a tide, punctuated now and then by a sharp staccato as someone slaps the well-worn pine table for emphasis.
Different from the comfortable atmosphere of conversation and laughter that usually fill their home, the air is charged with a prickly edge born of interrogation as the two police officers, Herb and Chris—short for Christine—ask and re-ask their questions, trying to piece together the evening’s events after briefly checking Thoreau cottage to verify that Jason isn’t there.
Niall is one of the warmest people on earth, and Libby knows with certainty that he, ever the diligent host, is in the kitchen dispensing Scottish coffee—an antidote as effective as any.
When his mother passed away, he told Libby, “Sometimes it’s the rituals that get us through.”
She remembers how he looked. Niall had a dish towel fisted on one hip as he explained—his Scots burr coming thicker—“Scottish coffee is a wee bit different than the Irish kind. The main difference is that Irish whiskey is distilled three times, whereas scotch, only twice. That means we use half again as much. Are you followin’ the mathematics of it all darlin’?” he’d ask her with a big smile and a deep wink.
As if in a classroom instead of a kitchen he’d continued, “Now we start by brewin’ a pot of espresso. You know, espresso is as much an art as it is a science.” This bit of knowledge he’d delivered while using the dish towel to wipe an imaginary smudge from his shiny espresso machine.
“Now measure the scotch and sugar together in warmed glass mugs with handles. Add the espresso and stir until the sugar’s completely dissolved. Don’t skip this step,”—he’d lifted a warning finger—“even if you don’t normally put sugar in your coffee. You see, lass, the sugar helps the cream to float above the coffee. Then top it off with a big dollop of freshly whipped cream. Once the cream’s in place, don’t stir. It’s imperative to drink the coffee through the cream.” He’d ended with a flourish, bending at the waist and handed her a delicious cup of freshly made Scottish coffee.
Libby shakes her head to clear her mental reverie. Given the gravity of the situation, she knows that to soothe frayed nerves, the doses in Niall’s coffee this evening are more liberal than usual. And as sure as the sun will rise, she also knows that she’ll soon smell the heavenly goodness of his homemade biscuits, as much to ease himself as everyone else. The warmth of this knowledge helps dispel the chill she felt moments before.
Sitting on the tiles in the first-floor bathroom with
