The Widow - Carla Neggers [89]
She fled up the path through the roses.
Abigail didn’t follow her. Instead, she walked back into the water, the tide higher now, deeper. She spotted a bit of bright color that didn’t fit with the grays and browns of the bottom and reached one hand into the water, digging among rounded stones and rough sand until she freed it.
It was a sliver of purple seaglass, its edges rounded and softened by the salt water and sand. She rinsed it off and held it up to the sun, imagining it was from a bottle Chris had tossed into the sound as a boy. She could see him out in his grandfather’s boat, exploring the island’s nooks and crannies, pulling lobster traps from the depths, dreaming of becoming an FBI agent.
Had he ever dreamed of the woman he would marry?
She cupped the seaglass in her hand, then threw it as far out into the water as she could.
She would find out who killed him.
On her way back from Somes Sound, Abigail stopped at the diner where she’d had her fried shrimp roll with Lou Beeler and Doyle Alden the other day. It seemed like a hundred years ago. She ordered another one to go. She hadn’t eaten with O’Reilly before he headed back to Boston, after making her promise to stay in touch and behave and not do anything stupid—a whole long list.
She took the steaming roll down to the picturesque harbor and watched the working boats and the pleasure boats come and go on what was a stunningly perfect Maine summer afternoon.
The harbor was also one of the few places with cell phone service.
“Abigail,” her father said when he picked up. “Is everything all right?”
“Was Mattie Young an FBI informant?”
Silence. Her question wasn’t altogether the stab in the dark it felt like now that she could hear her father’s voice. Lou Beeler had hinted at something her father knew. And Chris and Mattie—the tension between them before the wedding. The pieces were coming together.
“Maybe we don’t have a good connection,” she said. “Let me ask again. Was Mattie Young an FBI informant?”
“It’s complicated,” her father said.
“No, it’s not complicated. It’s a yes or no question. Yes, he was. No, he wasn’t.”
“You should talk to Lieutenant Beeler.”
“I did.” She could hear the edge in her voice. But if anyone would know, it was FBI Director John March. Her father. “Have you talked to him?”
“You’re a homicide detective yourself, Abigail. You understand there are details of an investigation that you keep to yourself.”
“Lou, yes. But you? You’re not on this case. Or are you?”
He didn’t answer right away. “Mattie was Chris’s informant.” There was no hint of apology in her father’s tone. “I didn’t find out until after Chris was killed.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Lou Beeler knew.”
And that was enough as far as her father was concerned. The lead investigator had the information, even if Abigail didn’t. “Chris never said a word,” she said.
“He wouldn’t have. In his position, you wouldn’t have, either. He cut Mattie loose in the weeks before you two got married. He had other things on his mind, Abigail. He was on his honeymoon. There was no need—”
“Apparently there was a need since he ended up with a bullet in his gut, bleeding to death—since he was murdered.” She sucked in a breath. “Damn it.”
“Remember, you weren’t a homicide detective seven years ago.”
“Yes, I know.” She set her shrimp roll on the dock rail, half-covered in seagull droppings. “It’s a lot to absorb. What kind of information did Mattie provide?”
“To be honest, I think Chris was just trying to help a friend, to give him a sense of purpose, keep him busy.” She could hear the emotion in her father’s voice, not a common occurrence for him. “I can get on a plane now and be there in a couple of hours.”
“I know, Dad. Thanks. I’m okay. I just wish you’d told me about Mattie a long time ago.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I know that, too.”
After she disconnected, she fought