Absolutely, Positively (21 page)

Aiden was dressed in his suit and tie—his standard work uniform. His shoes were gleaming perfection. I’m not sure how he managed that with all the snow and slush outside. Sunlight spilled into the room, and I could hear the drip, drip, drip of melting snow from the eaves. Maybe spring would come after all. I had begun to harbor doubts.

“Official visit?” I asked, grabbing a mug of coffee for me. I should really have eaten something but still lacked an appetite.

The feather swished from side to side. Grendel thumped after it, reaching out with extended claws to grab hold. “Sean called. He asked me to swing by and check on you. He said he had some things to wrap in town but would be back with Thoreau by suppertime.”

My head was fuzzy with not enough sleep and plenty of worry. I was having trouble remembering how I’d found my way into bed in the first place.

“I heard you had a visitor yesterday.” He let Grendel catch the feather for a second before pulling it away.

“Tristan Rourke.” I sipped the coffee. It burned the back of my throat, made the ache in my stomach worse. I put it down. I told Aiden everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, right down to the fact that my father had bought paintings from the black market.

“I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Tristan said he’d be in touch. I’m sure he wants to swap the paintings, and possibly Rufus, for Meaghan Archibald’s phone number and address.”

“If Meaghan
wants
to meet with Tristan, why not?” He’d had a long talk with Sean if he knew Meaghan was in Tristan’s corner.
I
hadn’t told him.

“Technically, I shouldn’t be involved at all anymore. She’s no longer my client. It’s not my place to make any kind of trade.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m trying to protect her. She’s so googly-eyed over seeing him again, she’s completely overlooking the fact that he’s wanted by the FBI. And is wanted by the police for killing a man.”

“Don’t you think that’s her call? She’s old enough to make her own decisions. Protect herself.”

He was right, but I didn’t want to admit it.

“I have good instincts, right?”

He smiled. “The best.”

“I completely believe Tristan is a criminal mastermind.”

“But?” Grendel swatted at the feather to remind Aiden he’d stopped swinging it.

“I don’t know if he’s a killer.”

Aiden leaned forward. “The motivation is there. As is the witness.”

“I know. That’s why I’m having a hard time with it.”

Blowing out a thin thread of air, he said, “I trust your instincts, Lucy. Let me talk with the detective in charge of Spero’s case. See if there were any other witnesses.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Have you heard anything else about Mac?”

He chuckled. “It took you long enough to ask.”

“I’m tired. Synapses aren’t firing right.”

“The investigator on Mac’s case admitted he never followed up on Christa Hayes’s report about the phone call she’d overheard the night before Mac went missing. He thinks Mac killed himself by jumping off the bluff near his house and considers the case closed, though he hasn’t made an official announcement.”

“Why does he think that? Does he have any evidence?”

“Beyond Mac having a terminal illness, Rufus was found wandering
inside
Mac’s compound. The front gate was closed, and the property is fenced. If Mac had taken Rufus for his usual walk and disappeared along the way, there would have been no way Rufus would have been able to get back up to the house on his own.”

I tried to process this. “Mac disappeared from his
own
property.”

“Right.”

“Do we know for certain Mac had even taken Rufus for a walk that day?”

“There were several sightings of Mac and Rufus, and the family housekeeper also verified Mac had taken Rufus out. They had a scheduled routine.”

“When Rufus came back without Mac,” Aiden said, “the housekeeper knew something must have happened.”

“So, let’s get this straight. Mac takes Rufus for a walk, comes back to the house, and jumps off a cliff?”

Aiden let Grendel have the feather. He swatted it a few times before growing bored and walking away. “That’s the investigator’s theory.”

“Was the house ever processed?” There could be evidence inside, though I hated thinking Mac had met with a violent end.

“No. The local police never suspected foul play.”

Rick Hayes was hurting for money—would he go so far as to hire someone to kill Mac? Push him off a cliff? “What do you know about Rick Hayes?”

“Why?”

I explained about the insurance policy, Christa’s inheritance, and Rick’s TV show.

He whistled low. “I don’t know much, Lucy. Washed-up rock star—that’s about it. I’ll share your information with the lead investigator. Along with that phone call Christa overheard, it might make him change his mind about declaring the case closed. I finally got my hands on Mac’s phone records, and using the information Christa gave you, I was able to track the number to Fred Ross.”

Fred was Mac’s poker partner, not to mention a pillar of the community. He and Dovie had been friends for years.

“I wanted to go pay him an informal visit,” Aiden said, “verify Christa’s story. It’s a loose end I want to tie up. Did you want to come along?”

Technically, this wasn’t Aiden’s case. He was going above and beyond to help me out. “Definitely.”

Ten minutes later, we were heading to Fred’s house. At the bottom of Aerie’s drive, my heart caught in my throat. A
LOST DOG
sign was taped to my mailbox post. As we drove, I saw signs everywhere. Tears clogged my eyes, stung my nose. Sean had been busy. And I had a feeling he had help from Dovie and Preston, since neither had been around when I woke up.

Aiden tapped his hand against the curve of his steering wheel. The car smelled strongly of wintergreen, thanks to the mints he popped into his mouth every other minute.

Mr. Ross lived a couple miles down the road, right across the street from Mac. I thought about the day he’d disappeared. It was amazing anyone had seen him walking Rufus. These weren’t well-traveled streets—not this time of year, at least. All too often, no one ever saw anything, heard anything. People had an annoying habit of minding their own business. It was as if Mac had gone out of his way to be seen—or maybe it had been his way of saying good-bye.

I dropped my visor, blocking the sun. Beams reflected off the snow, making it sparkle brilliantly.

Aiden tossed another mint into his mouth and offered me one from his Tic Tac container.

“No, thanks.” With the way my stomach hurt, I might not ever eat again.

He glanced my way, then looked back at the road. Again, he glanced my way, then looked at the road.

“What?” I asked.

At forty-two, Aiden had been with the Massachusetts State Police since graduating from Boston College with a criminal-justice degree. It wasn’t luck that had propelled him to the rank of Detective Lieutenant, head of his own unit. His hunches were legendary, his work ethic unquestionable. He was extremely loyal—something I’d learned firsthand over the last few months. And it wasn’t like him not to come out and say what he was thinking. Which had me believing whatever was on his mind was more of a personal nature.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Something,” I countered.

“It’s just that…”

“What?” I was too tired for this. Bone-aching fatigue had settled in. I had too much on my mind, and I needed to get some of it sorted out before I went into a coma.

Finally, he said loudly—as though it wasn’t a big deal at all, “I haven’t seen Em around in a while.”

Ah. Em. Now his hesitation made sense. “She’s been busy with school, and now she’s on spring break. She left for Hawaii yesterday.”

Aiden stared at me. The car swerved before he yanked the wheel hard to the left. I clutched the door handle.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “When will she be back?”

“Nine days.”

Lost in thought, he turned into Fred’s estate, which was located on the inland side of the street. The stone house, which technically should be called a mansion, sat tucked into surrounding woods, looking every bit like a storybook cottage on steroids. The paved driveway narrowed into a small bridge that spanned a swath of frozen marshland before widening into a courtyard in front of the house.

Fred Ross greeted us as we got out of the car. He gave me a kiss and asked for Dovie as he led us into his home. Dark interiors and hand-hewn wood gave off an impression of a hunting lodge as we followed Fred down a wide hall and into a kitchen that overlooked the backyard pool area that been closed off for winter.

Small finches sat on a feeder just beyond the window as Fred offered us something to drink. Aiden and I both declined. A fire roared from a fieldstone fireplace in the family room just off the kitchen. Fred motioned for us to sit on the sofa. He stoked the flames and took a seat in a high-backed chair near the hearth.

“You’re here about Mac?” he asked. “Have there been any new developments?”

Small gold-rimmed glasses perched on his beaklike nose. Wrinkles jogged from the corners of his eyes, his mouth. Thick folds creased his forehead and his neck, disappearing beneath the white collar of a turtleneck beneath a checkered sweater. His watery brown eyes were bright, intelligent. Thin white hair striped the top of his head, combed back into a neatly trimmed style. The barest hint of white stubble whispered along his jawline, his chin.

“Not really,” I answered.

“We’re here tracking a loose end,” Aiden said. “Mac’s granddaughter, Christa, overheard him on the phone the night before he disappeared.”

“He was telling someone he’d do what he pleased,” I said, “and for that person to mind his own business. That person was you, wasn’t it?”

Fred nodded, smiled. “I remember. Mac could be a stubborn old geezer.”

“What had Mac been referring to?” I asked, smiling at Fred’s affectionate tone.

“Same old argument we’d been having for months. His health.”

Aiden said, “The cancer?”

“Mac wanted to die on his own terms, and not go through with the treatments his doctor recommended. I didn’t like that decision.”

The
Globe
was open on the coffee table. The Lone Ranger’s antics had big headlines. Preston was probably seething with jealousy. “You were trying to convince him to do the chemo?”

Fred smiled again, revealing a set of big teeth that had to be dentures. “I was nagging him like an old woman. Mac didn’t take it too kindly. Told me he’d do what he pleased and I should mind my own business.”

It corroborated what Christa had told us.

“I hate like hell that was our last conversation.”

“How was his relationship with Jemima?” I asked.

“Mac’s the quiet type,” Fred said, “but he’d get to talking about Jemima every so often. The relationship was strained at best. He gave her money every month so she could pay her bills. He didn’t like having to support Rick, but he didn’t want to see Christa suffer because of Jemima’s bad taste in men.” His glasses slipped and he pushed them back up his nose. “Mac wasn’t real crazy about that husband of hers. Never had been. Always thought Rick had a hold over her she couldn’t break free from.”

“What do you think happened to Mac?” Aiden asked.

“I’ve been working that over in my head since he turned up missing.” A log shifted in the fireplace, sending sparks up the flue. “I miss my friend and want to blame someone for his being gone, but I can’t help but feel, deep down, that Mac…” His voice trailed off.

“Took his own life?” Aiden asked.

“I think whatever happened,” Fred said, “it was Mac’s choice.”

25

“Do you have a few more minutes?” I asked Aiden as I pulled my seat belt across my lap.

“To do what?”

“Fred’s sweater reminded me of something.”

“A checkerboard?”

“Ha. Ha. No. Christa mentioned Mac had been wearing a hideously ugly sweater the day he went missing. He bought it from a local consignment shop.”

“I’m not following, other than you made the leap from one ugly sweater to another.”

“Consignment shops track their inventory, right?”

He started the car. “Right.”

“Then the shop has a record of who owned that sweater before Mac.” I adjusted the visor. “I might be able to get a reading from the previous owner on the whereabouts of that sweater now.”

“Might?”

“Clothes are tricky. It all depends on whether my ESP will recognize the sweater had more than one owner. I’ve never tried to do a reading on an item from a consignment shop before. I don’t know if it will work, but I know it definitely won’t unless I try. I need to get the name of the person who owned the sweater before Mac.”

Aiden swung the car around, drove across the narrow bridge back toward the main road. “I don’t think the shop will willingly give out that information.”

I gave him a wide smile.

He rolled his eyes. “Of course. That’s why you wanted me to come along. I feel so used.”

I laughed. “A badge goes a long way in convincing someone to impart information.”

“All right,” he said. “Where is this place?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Christa mentioned it was in Hingham. How many consignment shops can there be?”

“Wait a sec.” He pulled off to the side of the road. From the backseat he pulled forth a thick portfolio. Thumbing through folders, he said, “I have Mac’s file in here somewhere.” He pulled it out, opened it.

“What are you looking for?”

He thumbed through police reports, statements from Mac’s doctor, Mac’s phone records, witness statements, bank statements, and finally pulled out a sheaf of paper stapled together. “Mac’s credit card bills.” His index finger slid down page after page. “Here,” he said, tapping. “Early December. ‘I’ll Take Seconds Consignment.’ Mac spent just under one hundred dollars.”

I was looking at the statement over his shoulder. “That’s a lot of money at a consignment shop.”

“In that area, it might be an upscale consignment shop. I know right where it is, just a couple blocks from my place.” He pulled back onto the road, drove well over the speed limit.