The Widow - Carla Neggers [50]
Rain pelted on Owen’s hat, dripping off the brim, turning into a downpour.
He walked back to his house and filled the woodbox, wondering what Abigail would do if he knocked on her door and said he was at a loose end on a rainy day.
Shoot him, probably, he thought, and smiled to himself.
Abigail almost didn’t answer her cell phone when she saw Bob O’Reilly’s number on the readout. She could pretend she was back at her house, where there was no cell service, instead of standing in front of the Abbe Museum in downtown Bar Harbor, crowded with scores of rained-out tourists.
“Hey, Bob,” she said.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Bar Harbor watching a seagull devour the remains of an ice-cream cone some kid threw on the sidewalk. Too cold for ice cream if you ask me. Is it raining there?”
“Pouring. What’re you doing in Bar Harbor?”
“I just toured the Abbe Museum. Have you ever gone through it? It’s dedicated to the Native Americans of Maine. Fascinating.” She brushed raindrops off her hair. She didn’t have a hat or umbrella, but the rain had tapered off to an intermittent drizzle. “And I just bought a moose sweatshirt.”
“You’re not playing tourist,” Bob said. “What’s in Bar Harbor that you think might lead you to your anonymous caller?”
“Nothing specific. I’m casting a wide net.”
“Owen Garrison’s new field academy is setting up in Bar Harbor.”
“So it is.” She’d stopped by on her way into town, and no one was there. “Katie Alden’s going to be its director. The chief of police’s wife.”
“Good for her. What about the FBI? They poking around in Bar Harbor?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
Bob sighed. “I wish I had something to report on my end. Now that you’ve had a second call, we’re taking another look at the one you got on Newbury Street. Nothing but dead ends so far.”
“I gave Lucas a list of people who know I frequent that particular restaurant.”
“We’ve already gone through the list. The truth is, anyone could know. Wasn’t it in the papers one year? Some reporter said how you spend your wedding anniversary having dinner alone there—”
“That was at least five years ago. Who’d think I still went there? And why wait until now to act?”
“Because ‘things are happening’ now,” Bob said, a bite of frustration in his voice. “Craziness. We’ll figure this out, Abigail. You just keep your eyes open and stay safe.”
“I will, Bob. Don’t worry about me.”
“Oh, no, why should I worry? You’re up on an island in the rain, all alone, with some maniac calling you at five o’clock in the morning, and you’re going to museums and buying moose sweatshirts. Who the hell would worry?”
By the time he finished, he had her laughing. “Goodbye—”
“And Owen Garrison. Let’s not forget the studly rich guy. I’ve seen him, you know. I’m doing my homework—guy’s in Maine resting up after a year of nonstop rescue and recovery work. Guys like that, they don’t rest.”
Fair warning, that, Abigail thought, suddenly feeling warm. “Are you done now?”
“Yeah. No—” He bit off a sigh. “If you need anything—anything—you know I’ll be there. Scoop, too. Just say the word.”
“Thank you. I do know that. And I appreciate it.”
But Bob couldn’t resist. “Anything you need, kiddo. Bail money, a spare set of handcuff keys—”
She laughed and disconnected, slipping her cell phone into her jacket pocket. She hadn’t lied to him. She had visited the museum and bought a moose sweatshirt. But she’d also asked around about MattieYoung, making up a story about having heard that his old photographs were in demand. A woman in the sweatshirt store had pointed to a small gallery that, she believed, had some of Mattie’s work in stock.
Abigail walked down the street and ducked into the gallery, its display window offering the obligatory watercolor of the rockbound coast and a red-and-white striped Maine lighthouse—and she could understand why. If she