The Widow - Carla Neggers [58]
“You’ve got a dead body there.”
“Mouse skeleton.” Using her toe, she dragged it out of a corner. “It’s the one I missed earlier.”
“Where there’s one dead mouse, there’s another.”
“It’s live mice I don’t want to run into.”
Owen stepped into the room and walked over to her, running his thumb under her eye. “Don’t want to get plaster in your eyes.”
“That wouldn’t be good.” She took a breath. “Owen…I’m sorry you and Sean and Ian had to see those pictures.”
“It’s not your fault—”
“I could have stayed in Boston. I didn’t have to come up here.”
Doyle Alden appeared on her back porch. “That’s right,” he said, opening the screen door. “You didn’t.”
Abigail ignored his sour tone. “Did you find Mattie?”
“Yeah. We found him. Beeler’s talking to him.” Doyle glanced at her array of tools, as if he wanted to take a crowbar to her himself. “Maybe you should talk to the Coopers about including this place in with the sale of Ellis’s. Jason’s a smart guy. Shrewd. He’d probably get you a better price than you could get on your own.”
“Probably would. How are Sean and Ian?”
“They’re fine. My next-door neighbor’s watching them while I deal with this mess.”
“Listen, Doyle, if I’d known about the pictures—”
“No way for you to know,” he interrupted. “The bastard who left them could have stuck a piece of paper in front of them. Instead…” He trailed off. “Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
“Have they talked to their mother?” Abigail asked. “That might help.”
Doyle stiffened. “I don’t need you to tell me how to raise my sons.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Doyle,” Owen said, “nobody wanted the boys to see those pictures. I’ve had the image of my sister burned into my brain for twenty-five years—of Chris for seven years. I’d have done anything to keep Sean and Ian from having to see that. We all would have.”
All the air seemed to go out of the chief of police. He swore under his breath, but quickly pulled himself together, pointing a finger at Abigail. “You need to remember what your role here is and what it isn’t. Understood?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Knock out all the walls in this whole damn house, Abigail. Paint. Decorate. If we learn anything about the phone calls and the pictures, we’ll let you know.”
Abigail gave him a cheeky smile. “Lou told me the same thing.”
Doyle managed a grudging smile back at her. “Smart guy, that Lou.”
Doyle climbed into his car, the window down, mosquitoes thick in the cool, salt-tinged air. Owen had followed his friend outside and could feel Doyle’s frustration and resentment—his powerlessness. “Let me know if you want me to talk to the boys about what happened.”
“Some days, I swear—” Doyle shoved the key into the ignition with more force than was necessary. “I swear Katie and I should just pack up the boys and get off this damn rock. I should find another line of work.”
“Your work didn’t cause what happened today.”
“I’m not talking about today.”
Owen knew he wasn’t. “You’re a small-town cop, Doyle. You’re good at what you do. You enjoy it. You just never thought you’d have to investigate the murder of your best friend.”
“You’d think after seven years…”
“What, that we’d all have forgotten? I’d think after seven years we’d be itchy and irritated that Chris’s murder was still unsolved, and worried that other people might be at risk.”
Doyle gripped the wheel, shaking his head. “We’re never going to find the killer. That’s the truth, Owen. Abigail knows it. She’s trying to create leads where there are none. For all we know, she planted those pictures herself. She’s been collecting her own stash of evidence for years. She’s—” He eased off the wheel and turned the key in the ignition, starting the engine. “I’ve said too much.”
“Forget it.”
But Doyle looked at him through the open window. “She’s not going to tell you anything she doesn’t want to tell you. She’s got a tight lid on herself. Never mind those dark