The Widow - Carla Neggers [26]
Nature was slowly, but inexorably, reclaiming the land where Owen’s great-grandfather had built his summer place almost a hundred years ago, no doubt never imagining that a killer would one day hide in its remains and lie in wait in order to commit murder. Most of the charred rubble was long removed. Now, trees and brush grew in the sunken chunks of foundation, and only parts of the original stonework could be distinguished from the surrounding landscape.
Owen kept the boys close to him. Their talk of a ghost had kicked the cop in Abigail into gear. He watched her push ahead on the path through low-growing wild blueberry bushes and junipers.
Feet-flat-on-the-floor Abigail Browning didn’t seem the type to believe in ghosts. So, what did she think she’d find out here?
Obviously she had something on her mind, Owen thought as she squeezed between a fir tree and a six-foot section of chimney that had broken off its base. She stabbed her flashlight beam into the dark.
“What does she see?” Ian asked, taking Owen’s hand.
“I don’t know. Abigail?”
She visibly relaxed. “Well, well. I like to keep an open mind, but I’ll bet ghosts don’t smoke cigarettes and drink beer.” She shifted her flashlight, taking in more corners of the little hideout and then pointed the beam back at Owen and the boys. “Come see.”
Owen let Sean break off from him and run ahead. Ian looked up at him for a cue, and he nodded, the younger boy immediately pulling his hand free and scooting after his brother.
Using her flashlight as a pointer, Abigail explained the scene to the boys. “Someone used that rock over there as an ashtray,” she said. “See the cigarette butts? And there. A squished empty pack of Marlboros.”
“I can still smell the cigarettes,” Ian said.
“Did you smell smoke when you were out here?” she asked.
Sean shook his head. “No. Look at those beer cans. How many of them are there?”
“Let’s count them. One, two, three—”
“Eight,” Ian said. “There are eight!”
Owen walked on the dark path behind them, shifting into a steady rhythm. He’d hiked in Acadia with Linc Cooper earlier that day, but Linc had gone inside himself, trudging along a mountain trail, preoccupied and unwilling—perhaps unable—to explain what was on his mind. To be twenty and that caught up in his own demons didn’t seem right to Owen. But if he’d skipped the hike, he might have been less preoccupied and caught the boys sneaking out the window, sparing Abigail a trek out to investigate a ghost.
He stood behind her, noticing the shape of her back, hips. She kept herself in good physical condition. He said, “Seems someone had himself a party out here.”
“More than one party, I’d say.” She gestured into the shadows with her flashlight. “There are more butts and beer cans over there.”
“That’s what we heard?” Sean snorted in disgust. “Some drunk?”
“We don’t know whoever it was got drunk,” Abigail said. “It’s tempting to jump to conclusions, but we don’t have all the facts. Anyone you know smoke Marlboros and drink Budweiser?”
Mattie Young.
Owen could see Abigail had already considered Mattie as a possibility, if not a likelihood. The boys shook their heads. They knew Mattie, who’d grown up with their parents, as well as anyone, but they wouldn’t pay attention to what he smoked and drank.
Without warning, Abigail put her hand on Owen’s upper arm and smiled at him. “I’m not taking any chances of falling in front of you again,” she said as she stepped back from the chimney, then jumped lightly back onto the path, in no more need of a steadying hand than he was. She returned her focus to the boys. “What night did you first think you heard this ghost of yours?”
Owen answered, coming up behind her. “It was Sunday night.”
She nodded. “Do you think whoever was out here heard you? Were you talking to each other, making noise playing on the rocks or anything?”
“Oh,” Sean said, as if just figuring out what she was asking. “Well—yeah, we made noise. But when