The Widow - Carla Neggers [57]
But they were waiting for her at her little house on the Maine coast. Lou Beeler, Doyle Alden and Special Agents Capozza and Steele.
“Lucky me,” she said aloud.
She pulled over into the grass and parked.
No way did she want to block the driveway and prevent any of the cop cars from leaving.
CHAPTER 18
There were three color photographs in Abigail’s clear plastic sleeve.
The top one—the one she saw through the plastic—was of a thirteen-year-old Linc Cooper standing by the iron gate in his uncle’s garden with his shirt half untucked and a martini glass in his hand.
Abigail knew it was taken at Ellis’s party seven years ago because of Linc’s age, the little umbrella in his drink and the decorative lights on the fence. She’d seen many other pictures of the party.
The second photograph was of Grace Cooper in the shade at the top of the steep zigzag of steps that led up to Ellis’s house from the private drive.
On the step just below her, almost out of view, was Chris, his hands balled into fists, a tight look of anger on his face.
There was no fear, Abigail had decided after studying his expression.
No premonition that he was about to be murdered.
He’d gone up to Ellis’s after finding her unconscious, obviously intent on finding whoever had attacked his wife. Just the Coopers and the caterers and a few stragglers were still at the party. Grace had told the police that she had seen Chris at her uncle’s house, but never indicated they had spoken.
But how could they not have, with him coming up the steps and her right there?
The third photograph was of Owen, on Ellis’s stone terrace, clearly later—after Linc had snuck his martini, after Grace and Chris had said whatever they’d said to each other.
Hours before Owen had gone down to the rocks and found Chris’s body.
Abigail had jotted down detailed descriptions of each photograph before Lou Beeler could send them off to the lab. The prints were fresh, probably run off an inkjet printer. She’d suggested to Lou that he check to see if Mattie had put his negatives onto a computer disk before burning them, or put the ones he hadn’t burned—if he’d burned any—onto a disk, but the Maine CID detective had already covered all the bases.
Her fellow law enforcement officers were gone now, off to find Mattie, having taken her and Owen, separately, through their paces, all of them trying to make sense of the pictures and why they’d been left, what they meant.
Abigail was restless. There wasn’t much she could do for the moment, other than take out her frustration on her walls.
She tied a purple bandanna over her hair and lifted her sledgehammer, the wind gusting off the water, blowing through her porch door and stirring up more plaster dust. There seemed to be no end to it, no matter how much she swept.
One more to go, and she’d have the room gutted. Then she could put up new wallboard and tape, slap on primer, pick out a paint color—something bright, but that didn’t clash with the lupine-blue in the entry.
Thinking about wallboard and paint colors gave everything else a chance to simmer. The calls, the pictures, Mattie’s parties in the old Garrison foundation, the stash of money under his vase.
The Maine cops, the frightened Alden boys.
Owen.
Abigail jumped.
The man who’d just been in her thoughts stood in the doorway to her front room, watching her angle her sledgehammer at the final section of wall. It was dusk, but night was coming fast. “You should wear goggles and a mask,” Owen said.
“I’ve got some in my trunk.”
He didn’t offer to go fetch them. “You rent this place to cops most of the time. I bet you could get a half dozen of them together to help you tear down walls and put up new ones. Throw a few lobsters in a pot, buy a couple of six-packs—they’d be thrilled.”
She grinned at him. “Are you implying we cops come cheap?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. “Stand back. I don’t want to nail you in the head with this thing.”
“Abigail—”
Her first whack penetrated the wallboard. “Hey, I’m getting good at this.” Before she lost her steam,