The Widow (3 page)

Owen wasn’t soft or refined or even what Abigail would call traditionally handsome. But he was certainly good-looking.

And he was the only Garrison who still had a presence in Maine.

His family sold their house on Mt. Desert Island to Jason Cooper, who also owned a beautiful estate on Somes Sound. His younger half brother, a prominent Washington consultant, spent five months a year at the old Garrison house. Also a well-known amateur landscaper, Ellis Cooper had converted the yard into impressive gardens. He’d held a party there the day Abigail was attacked and, later that night, Chris was killed. They’d been invited but didn’t go.

After the break-in, when she was on her way to get checked out at the local hospital, Chris had stopped briefly at the party. Abigail knew he was looking for her attacker. But the party had broken up, and somehow—for reasons she still didn’t understand—he’d ended up down on the rockbound waterfront below Ellis’s delphinium and roses, where, early the next morning, Owen Garrison had found his body.

The Garrisons and the Coopers presented a complicated set of problems for Abigail. They’d known Chris and his grandfather far longer than she had. They’d had both a direct and indirect impact on the lives of the two Browning men. Will Browning, Chris’s grandfather, had moved into the former Garrison caretaker cottage after he’d helped stop the fire that had destroyed their original house, the first Edgar’s pride and joy. Police believed Chris’s killer had hidden in its skeletal remains.

And Abigail had long believed that Doe Garrison’s tragic death and the helplessness Chris, only fifteen himself, had felt at the loss of his friend and neighbor had helped propel him into the FBI.

To find out what happened to him and why—who killed him—Abigail had become increasingly convinced that she needed to better understand Chris’s relationship with his wealthy friends and neighbors on Mt. Desert.

Polly Garrison, Owen’s colorful grandmother, seldom turned up there anymore. Five years ago, Abigail had found her way to Polly’s home in Austin, Texas, on a hot July weekend. She remembered her surprise at how simple and classic the house was, and the smell of the shade and the gentle spray of a sprinkler that reached just to her ankles.

Polly answered the door herself, silver-haired, striking.

“Abigail? I didn’t realize you were in Austin.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Garrison. May I have a minute? I’d like to talk to you about your family’s relationship with the Coopers.”

Her lovely gray eyes settled on Abigail. “Why?”

“Curiosity.”

The older woman smiled. “That’s what makes you a good police officer. Your curiosity. You’ll be a detective one day, I do believe.”

“Maybe. It’s hot here. Are you ever tempted to spend the summer in Maine?”

“I’m often tempted, but the memories…” She took a small breath. “I sometimes visit my grandson there. It’s not easy for me, but Owen—he embraces adversity.”

No surprise there. “You’re not from Austin.”

“West Texas. My husband and I moved here after we were married. We kept houses in Maine and Boston for many years. Our son eventually took over the Boston house. But he lives here now, too.”

“Because of your granddaughter.”

Polly Garrison’s eyes misted. “Yes. Because of Doe.”

“The Coopers bought your house on Mt. Desert Island after she drowned.”

“That’s right.”

“But you kept land there, and eventually Owen built his own place there.”

“Owen couldn’t bear for us to leave Maine altogether. It was as if to do so would be to betray Doe. He was only eleven when we lost her.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“None of us can.”

“But Austin’s home for him?”

“I’m not sure anywhere’s home for him. Abigail…” The older woman extended a hand. “My dear, we all understand your need for answers, but don’t you think Chris would want you to be happy?”

“I am happy. But I want to know who killed my husband.”

As a line of cars passed behind her on Beacon Street and children squealed on Boston Common, Abigail realized her throat had tightened with the onslaught of memories, the July heat, the awareness of what she meant to do.

After her chat with Polly Garrison, who had revealed little about her family’s relationship with the Coopers, Abigail had returned to her modest Austin motel. She took a shower. Her hair had been long then, dripping into her clingy camisole top when Owen turned up at her door.

Just out of the army, he was rugged and hard-edged and not very pleased with her.

“You’re out of your jurisdiction, Officer Browning. And you’re not a detective.”

“Astute of you.”

“Next time you want to come down here and ask my grandmother about her dead granddaughter—don’t. Deal with me instead.”

Abigail didn’t defend herself. She simply pointed to the two-inch scar under his eye. “Where did you get that scar—a search-and-rescue mission?”

“Bar fight.”

On his way out, he paid for her motel stay. She didn’t know until she packed up the next day for Boston. It wasn’t kindness on Owen’s part. It was his way of telling her she was on his turf, and out of her league.

Except she didn’t give a damn. Then or now.

“Things are happening on Mt. Desert. Again.”

If so, were the Garrisons and the Coopers involved? Abigail had no idea, but she meant to find out.

When she got back to her triple-decker, she pulled a six-pack of Otter Creek Pale Ale out of the refrigerator, microwaved a bag of popcorn, sharpened three pencils, unwrapped three fresh yellow legal pads and put everything out on her little kitchen table.

Then she phoned her upstairs neighbors, and they came.

Scoop Wisdom had a shaved head and a ferocious, unbridled demeanor, but he’d adopted two stray cats. Abigail didn’t believe anyone who had cats could be all that scary.

The cheerful blues and yellows of her kitchen—even the beer and popcorn—had no apparent effect on either man.

“I need your help,” she told them.

Scoop’s dark eyes narrowed on her. Bob just scowled.

She raked a hand through her short curls. “I got a call last night.”

Bob snorted. “About goddamn time you came clean.”

“What? Lucas told you? When?”

Scoop grabbed a beer, opened it and took a long drink. “He called me on his way to meet you at the restaurant. I called Bob.”

“And none of you said anything? Lucas, you two—”

“We don’t butt into other people’s business,” Bob said.

Abigail had to laugh. “You’re detectives. You butt into other people’s business all the time.” But not hers, she realized. “All right. I should have told you myself. I needed today to get my head together. Burning my journals helped.”

Scoop frowned at her. “You burned your journals?”

“They weren’t evidence.” She shrugged. “They’re where I dumped my emotions.”

“Oh. Okay, then.” Obviously not wanting more details, Scoop pointed with his beer at the stack of files. “These your files on your husband’s murder?”

“My notes, newspaper articles, photographs, sketches. Everything I could pull together on my own, without stepping on toes.”

Bob grabbed a beer for himself. “You tell the Maine police about the call?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Unimpressed but investigating.”

“What about Daddy?”

She looked at the stack of files. She’d never asked her father to go through them with her. He’d never offered. He wouldn’t want to encourage her to investigate Chris’s death on her own. “No. I haven’t talked to him.”

Scoop took a seat at the table and lifted a file from the pile.

Abigail swallowed. “It’s been a long time. It’s a very cold case.”

“Then let’s heat it up and see what happens.”

“Guys…are you sure?”

Bob slung an arm over her shoulder. “That’s the thing you still have to get through your head, kid.” He winked at her. “You’re not alone.”

O
wen Garrison wasn’t one for suntan lotion and picnic baskets and lazy days on a beach. After forty-five minutes on Sand Beach, he was restless. The horseshoe-shaped beach was a rare stretch of sand carved out of Mt. Desert Island’s granite coastline, the water turquoise on the sunny early July afternoon.

Compared to Maine’s more expansive beaches to the south—York, Ogunquit, Wells—it wasn’t crowded at all.

But Owen paced in the sand, which clung to everything, as he kept an eye on Sean and Ian Alden, eleven and nine, towheaded boys who’d known no other home but the fourteen-mile-wide island. Their father was the local police chief. Owen had complicated Doyle and the boys’lives when he’d asked KatieAlden to head up the proposed Fast Rescue field academy in Bar Harbor. He wanted it up and running by fall, and Katie, a paramedic and search-and-rescue specialist, had taken on the challenge. She’d left for six weeks of training in London two days ago. The boys were doing fine, but Doyle was still sulking about not having her around for most of the summer.

Owen was just off a two-week operation in South Asia following a 7.5-magnitude earthquake and figured the least he could do was help watch the boys once in a while.

A kid—maybe Sean or Ian—squealed. Before Owen realized what was happening, he was jerked back into the past, remembering his sister on this same beach, running into the water and out again, squealing in delight, flapping her arms against the power of the waves and the shock of the cold water.

“Come on, Owen. Don’t be a chicken! You get used to the cold.”

But you didn’t, he knew. You might not feel it, but the cold would wear on your body, weaken it.

The day his sister drowned, the water temperature was fifty-five degrees. Early-stage hypothermia had tired her more quickly, shortening the time she could tread water amid the waves and wait for rescue.

Owen, helpless to save her, had watched Doe slip under the water.

Enough.

He snatched up two towels from the heap of stuff the Alden boys had insisted on carting down to the beach. He waved to them. “Time to warm up.”

They didn’t argue, although Owen had no idea whether they cooperated because of something they heard in his tone or because they’d had their fill of waves. Unlike most of their fellow beachgoers, Sean and Ian were wet from head to toe—and they were blue-lipped and shivering. Owen draped towels over them and opened up a blanket, spreading it out on the sticky sand.

“Sit. Wrap up good. Give yourselves a chance to warm up.”

Ian, the younger boy, skinnier than his brother, sat on the blanket and tucked his knees up under him, encasing his entire body in the oversized towel.

“Do you boys know what to do if you get stuck out in cold water?” Owen asked. He was in jeans and a polo shirt. Nice and dry.

Sean, his teeth chattering, sat cross-legged on the blanket. “Yell for help?”

“You should have a whistle with you if you’re out in the woods or on the water, kayaking, canoeing, whatever. If you get into trouble, you blow the whistle to alert people you need help. You should also have a life vest when you’re in any kind of boat. You almost never want to try swimming to shore.”

“Why not?” Sean asked.

“Swimming uses up your body’s heat faster. You want to conserve heat.”

Ian frowned. “Why?”

“So you don’t get hypothermia. That’s when your body temperature drops. At first you get blue lips and start shivering. But it gets worse—you get confused, you slur your words, your muscles get weak. You end up in a world of hurt.”

“Oh, right.” Sean nodded knowledgeably. “Mom told us. She says people don’t dress right on a hike, and they end up dying of the cold. Even in summer.”

“And in water, your body loses heat even faster. Try to keep as much of your body out of water as you can. If you can reach an overturned boat, hang on to it. If you can’t, keep your head out of water and stay as still as possible. Tread water if you’re in a life vest, get into the ‘heat escape lessening position’ or H.E.L.P.—you cross your arms high up on your chest and draw your legs up toward your groin. Huddle with other people in the water.”

“Have you ever been stuck in cold water?” Sean asked.

“No.”

“Have you ever rescued anyone who had hypo—” Ian frowned. “What is it?”

“Hypothermia. Yes. I’ve rescued lots of people with hypothermia.”

And he’d recovered bodies of people who’d died of it, too.

Both boys’ color had improved, and they’d stopped shivering. Owen knew they’d warm up fast, but he probably shouldn’t have let them stay out in the chilly Maine water that long. Their father, though, wouldn’t care—Doyle had grown up on Mt. Desert Island and had a healthy respect for the elements, but he wasn’t afraid of them. And he wouldn’t want his boys to be afraid.

Sean and Ian pulled on sweatshirts and sweatpants but balked at wearing shoes because of the sand stuck between their toes. They ran ahead of Owen up to the parking lot and his truck. He wrapped the extra stuff in the blanket—untouched chocolate bars and water, sunscreen, bug spray, shoes, extra towels—and followed the boys. He could still feel the adrenaline that had sustained him through the past two weeks of nonstop work. It’d be a while before he could relax.

This had been a long year of disasters. He knew he needed to rest.

He tossed the blanket in the back of his truck. He had a full range of emergency supplies and equipment there. If anything had happened down on the beach, he’d have been prepared.

He liked being back on Mt. Desert. A third of the island’s 82,000 acres formed the bulk of Acadia National Park, protecting its glacial landscape of pink granite mountains, finger-shaped ponds, evergreen forests and rockbound coast. Owen was a part-time resident, often away for long stretches, but he knew a part of his soul would always remain there.

The boys had fallen asleep by the time Owen reached the private drive off Route 3 where his great-grandfather, a visionary and an eccentric, had built a stunning “cottage” in 1919 that burned in the great fires of 1947. The mammoth conflagration consumed thousands of acres and hundreds of summer mansions, its path still marked by younger deciduous forests. After the fire, Owen’s grandparents built a smaller house on the ledge behind the original site, above the Atlantic. Now it was eccentric Ellis Cooper’s summer home. But when his family sold their Mt. Desert property after Doe’s death, Owen had talked his grandmother into saving a chunk of waterfront for him. It was where he’d built his own Maine place, working on it on and off over the past ten years.

He turned down the narrow gravel road that led to his house and, up the headland, the Browning house. Will Browning had often helped Owen work on his house. When he was home, Chris would pitch in. He’d lost his parents to the sea as a toddler, and his grandfather, a solitary man, had raised him.

Originally, the Browning house had been a guest cottage, but Owen’s great-grandfather had sold it to Will after he’d worked tirelessly, for days, trying to save the island during the great fires.

Now, the house belonged to Chris’s widow.

Abigail.

Owen pushed her out of his mind and parked at his house. The boys, re-energized from their car nap, ran down to the rocks to investigate what the outgoing tide had left behind in the quiet pools of periwinkles, mussels, lichens and seaweed. But the temperature was even cooler out on his granite point, and Owen filled up the woodbox and rummaged in the cupboards for something hot for the boys to have for dinner.

No one believed he’d last the summer in Maine. If a disaster didn’t call him away, Owen would usually find something that did.

Doyle Alden arrived at dusk to collect his sons. A big, fair-haired man, he and Owen had become friends as boys, when they’d go off hiking and fishing together, when where they were from and who their families were didn’t matter. Sometimes, Chris Browning would join him and Doyle. Chris had always been driven, determined not to live the life his father and grandfather had. As much as Owen knew he respected his family, Chris didn’t want to be a lobsterman or a handyman, and he’d worked hard to have a different future. He’d gone to law school and become an FBI agent, and he’d married the daughter of a man everyone had known would become the next director of the FBI.

And if Chris had chosen another spot for their honeymoon, he might still be alive. Instead, he’d taken his bride home to Mt. Desert Island.

Doyle had been Chris’s best man. Sean had been the ring-bearer.

Owen had arrived in Maine on a two-week leave from the army three days after the wedding.

In time to find Chris’s body.

Doyle’s voice brought Owen back to the present.

“Katie e-mailed me,” Doyle said, staring out the French doors at the water. The boys, finished with dinner, had gone back out. “She says she’s settling in. Says the flowers in England are beautiful right now.”

“She’d notice,” Owen said.

“The six weeks will be up before we know it.”

Owen could hear the struggle in Doyle’s tone to hide his resentment. He’d put the decision to do this training in Katie’s hands, saying it was hers, not his, to make. She’d pleaded with him to discuss his feelings with her, but he’d refused. And now he was irritated, because deep down he’d wanted her to stay.

It was all more complicated than Owen could get his head around, but Doyle and Katie had been together since they were teenagers. As ornery as Doyle could be, he would know that if his wife didn’t need his permission to go to England, she at least deserved his support.

“Summer’s my busiest season,” he said. “Katie could have picked a better time to learn how to save the world.”

“She didn’t pick the time. I did.”

Doyle gave him a faint smile. “Yeah? Well, screw you.”

The boys pounded onto the deck and burst inside with a frenzied energy that seemed to lift their father’s mood. Ian’s fingers were blue-red, a sign he’d been into the tide pools. He had his mother’s curiosity and affection for living things. Sean got more pleasure from scrambling over granite boulders.

“What’s going on?” Doyle asked at their obvious excitement.

“Nothing,” Sean said, his cheeks reddening as he warmed his hands in front of the woodstove, the fire glowing behind the screen.

“Nothing’s got you all excited, huh?”

Ian started to speak, but Sean shot him a warning look. “Dad, can we stay here tonight?”

“Not tonight. Let’s wait until a night I have a meeting, if that’s okay with Owen.”

Owen shrugged. “That’d be fine.” But he could see that Sean and Ian had something they were keeping from their father. “Did you notice the fog on the horizon?”

“Uh-huh.” Ian nodded, but he was watching his older brother, presumably for another warning look if he strayed too close to spilling whatever it was they were hiding. “It’s coming closer. Sean calls it The Blob. We pretend it’s a monster.”

Ian roared and stretched out his arms, pretending he was The Blob. Sean rolled his eyes. Owen followed them and their father out to the car. Sean said he wanted the front seat, Ian said it was his turn—the fight was on. Doyle settled it by making them both sit in back.

“They don’t fight that much,” he told Owen, then gave a tight smile as he opened the car door. “Katie’s doing. They’re more likely to act up around me.”

In the back seat, his window open, Sean had grown pensive. “Dad, do you believe in ghosts?”

Doyle didn’t hesitate. “No. Why? You boys think you saw a ghost?”

Ian’s eyes widened, and he elbowed his brother. “Sean, Dad’ll know what to do.”

Sean snapped his seat belt. “We didn’t see nothing.”

“Anything,” Doyle said. “You didn’t see anything.”

“That’s what I said.”

Doyle started the car. “Forget it.” He looked exhausted, overwhelmed without Katie at his side. “Wouldn’t surprise me if you saw a ghost out here. It’s been that kind of day.”

But as Doyle backed out of the driveway, Owen noticed Ian in the back seat, pale, his blue eyes unblinking, and felt his stomach twist.

They know about Chris Browning.

Owen knew Doyle avoided mentioning his childhood friend in front of Sean and Ian and never discussed the details of a long-unsolved murder that had deeply affected him. Their father’s silence had created a void that the boys, apparently, had filled on their own.

But what had made them think they’d seen a ghost?

Doyle Alden pulled into the short driveway of the little house he and Katie had bought six weeks before Sean was born and fixed up themselves. It was on a side street near the police station, a few miles from Owen’s place. Bar Harbor, where the Fast Rescue Field Academy would be located, was about twelve miles up and across the island, a picturesque drive that his wife would have to start making every morning once the construction was finished.

An unmarked Maine State Police car eased in behind him. Doyle recognized Lieutenant Lou Beeler behind the wheel, and knew it couldn’t be good news.

“Go on inside, guys,” Doyle told his sons. “I’ll be a couple minutes.”