The Widow - Carla Neggers [91]
He threw his head against the tall back of the chair and thought about throwing them both out and watching television. Just not think about his work, his life, for a half hour.
Owen said quietly, “I didn’t know.”
Doyle sat forward. “‘FBI informant’ is too strong. Mattie kept his ear to the ground and told Chris what he heard. Mostly it wasn’t much of anything, but he happened onto a drug smuggling operation into Canada. The feds were on to it, but Mattie had names, a meeting place. It helped. So, Chris threw some money his way. It was all on the up-and-up.”
“Then Mattie started drinking again, and Chris pulled back.”
“Yeah. That’s pretty much the story.”
“I don’t want ‘pretty much’ the story, Doyle. I’d like to hear the whole story.”
“All right.” He put both hands on the arms of his chair just to keep himself from launching to his feet and strangling her. “That’s the whole story. Better?”
She didn’t react to his sarcasm. “And Grace Cooper. Did you know she was in love with Chris?” But when Doyle’s eyes flickered to Owen, Abigail sucked in a breath and swore. “Damn it. You all knew.”
“He was never for her,” Owen said. “We all knew that, too. And it was over a long time ago.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Doyle got heavily to his feet. “It was for Chris. Yeah, he never had a romantic interest in Grace. But for her? She’ll never get over him. Who knows, maybe he’d still be alive today if he’d fallen for her instead.”
Owen grabbed his friend’s arm. “That’s enough. You’re upset. Don’t make matters worse.”
Abigail had gone pale, which, in the mood he was in, Doyle considered something of a victory. But she didn’t raise her voice when she spoke. “If you thought Chris should be marrying someone else, why did you agree to be his best man?”
“Because he asked me, and he was my best friend. He thought I’d come around one of these days and see what he saw in you.”
“Another of his little secrets,” she said without bitterness.
A bike clattered out in the driveway, and one of the boys yelled, “Dad!”
Sean, Doyle thought, surging for the door, even as Ian called out to him. “Dad, Dad, come quick! It’s Mattie!”
Moving like a bolt of lightning, Owen shot out the front door before Doyle could get there, Abigail on his heels. He took the steps in one leap, then charged across the lawn to his driveway and detached one-car garage, where his sons were tangled up in their bikes.
Ian stood up, his knees skinned. “We tripped. We were running—” He sobbed. “I thought Sean saw the ghost!”
Owen knelt down, getting at eye level with Sean as the boy pointed at the garage. “Mattie was in there! I know he was. He made this bed…”
“We’ll check it out,” Owen said, calmer than Doyle would have been. “Did you see him?”
Ian shook his head, Owen’s presence steadying him. “He’s not here.”
The garage didn’t have an automatic door. Doyle didn’t protest when Abigail went around to the side door, still half-open from when the boys were in there. “Sean and Ian didn’t have to unlock the door,” he told her. “Lock’s busted. It’s been busted for weeks. I haven’t gotten around to fixing it.”
She nodded, going inside. He raised the main door, entering the garage a half second after she did. Katie’s sedan filled up most of the space. On various hooks and shelves were tools, supplies, snow shovels, sleds and pieces of junk that she insisted she’d use one day for various craft projects.
“Car’s locked?” Abigail asked.
“Yeah. Keys are in the house.”
At least Mattie—if the boys were right and he’d been there—hadn’t bashed in a window and made his bed in the car. Doyle walked around to the hood, where Abigail pointed to a blue tarp that had been spread out on the concrete floor, on top of it a rolled-up car blanket and a camp pad that he’d forgotten they even owned.
“Looks as if he helped himself to your pantry,” Abigail said.
Doyle saw what she meant—a box of Wheat Thins, a pop-up can of pears, a package of Oreos. Everything looked empty.