The Widow - Carla Neggers [51]
She eased off her wet jacket, careful not to let it drip on any of the wares, and wandered among shelves of carved waterfowl and pottery painted with wild blueberries and cranberries, and walls crammed with original paintings and photography.
A wiry older man—he had to be at least eighty—greeted her. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for the work of a local photographer, Mattie Young.”
He seemed surprised. “Mattie? Heavens. I haven’t had anyone ask about him in ages. Yes, we do carry his work. A few pieces. We don’t have anything on display right now—we haven’t in a long, long time.”
“May I see what you do have?”
“Of course.”
But as he led her through an open doorway to a small room lined with cabinets, Abigail saw Owen entering the gallery. He waved to her as he crossed the gallery toward her.
“Fancy meeting you here, Abigail.”
She noticed the older man straighten his spine as he inclined his head in greeting.
“Mr. Garrison. We haven’t seen you in some time. I’d heard you were on the island.”
“It has been a long time, Walt. Too long.”
Abigail didn’t know why she was surprised at the exchange between the two men. The Garrisons had been fixtures on Mt. Desert Island for more than a hundred years. She wondered if Walt had known Owen’s grandfather, too.
Not that their reunion stopped her from speaking her mind. “Did you follow me?” she asked Owen.
He smiled. “Tough to miss you in that red jacket.”
It was very red. “You’re not wet. What, were you driving past the gallery, saw me and decided to pop in?”
“I was on my way to the field academy.”
“You must have had good parking karma,” she said, then turned back to Walt, who had stopped in front of a cabinet of thin, deep drawers.
“We might have one or two other pieces,” he said. “But most of what we have is in here. Do you know Mattie?”
Abigail didn’t look at Owen as she answered. “He and my husband grew up together.”
“Your husband?”
“He died seven years ago. Chris Browning.”
The man’s aged eyes settled on her a moment, any awkwardness fleeting. He nodded. “I knew your husband’s grandfather. I didn’t know Chris well. He’s the one who persuaded Mattie to display his work.”
“Mattie’s had his ups and downs over the years.”
“Yes. They started long before your husband was killed.”
And before she turned up on the scene. Although he didn’t say as much, Abigail knew Walt must have thought it. She, the FBI—they’d taken Chris away from the island and his friends. At least in their minds. But Abigail knew that Chris had always considered Mt. Desert Island home. Since she’d moved a lot growing up, that was fine with her.
Owen stood behind her, not crowding her, but not going on his way, either. “Has Mattie brought any new work in lately?” he asked Walt.
“Not recently, no. It could help us sell his older work.” The older man unlocked the drawer and opened it, gesturing at the contents. “Mattie has an incredible, unusual talent. You’ll see. These photographs are some of his best work. The earliest were taken when he was a teenager. They’re not as refined as his later work, of course, but his eye is there. Well, I’ll leave you to them.”
Walt withdrew to the outer room, and Abigail lifted a black-and-white print from the drawer. She took a breath, immediately recognizing the cliffs just down the waterfront from her house. Mattie had captured the dramatic beauty of the sheer granite face and the white-capped waves crashing onto massive rectangles of rock.
But the danger was there, too, palpable, unrelenting. The cliffs and the sea would be unforgiving of a carelessly placed foot, a reckless paddler, a poorly dressed hiker—a fourteen-year-old girl, Abigail thought, upset after a meaningless fight with a friend.
“Mattie took that picture the day Doe drowned,” Owen said.
“This picture? You’re sure?”
“He had his camera with him on the boat with Chris