The Cabin (7 page)

“Liar. It’s in the fifties and raining.”

“Ah. You checked.”

“Only because we’re tracking a nor’easter. Thank

God it didn’t blow in last week when the girls were fly-

ing. What’s up?”

“I wanted you to know Alice Parker is out of prison.

She took a room in San Antonio for a few days. Now

she’s gone. Her friends in prison say she was obsessed

with Australia. Maybe she’s headed in that direction.”

His voice was businesslike, but not matter-of-fact.

Susanna glanced at the girls, both pretending not to be

listening. Maggie was frowning over her math home-

work, Ellen tapping keys on her laptop.

“She’d need a passport, money—” Susanna took a

breath, noticing that Maggie and Ellen were no longer

making any pretense of studying. “Jack, are you wor-

ried she’ll come after you? You investigated her. She

thinks it’s your fault no one’s ever been charged in Ra-

chel McGarrity’s murder.”

“Alice Parker isn’t required to tell me or anyone else

where she is or what she’s doing. Provided she doesn’t

break the law, she can do whatever she wants.”

Susanna frowned. “Then why tell me she was re-

leased from prison?”

He didn’t answer at once. “No particular reason.”

What was that supposed to mean? Jack Galway

didn’t do anything for no reason. Everything he did and

said had a purpose. He was the most deliberate man Su-

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55

sanna knew. She felt hot, jittery, as if he had her in an

interrogation room and she was lying to a Texas Ran-

ger, not just having an ordinary conversation with her

husband. “Well, I hope Alice Parker gets her life back

on track. Do you want to talk to the girls?”

“Sure,” he said, his tone impossible to read. “Put

them on.”

She handed the phone to Ellen and ran into the

kitchen, diving into the half-bathroom. She splashed

her face with cold water. Her eyes were hot with tears.

She was shaking, her reflection pale in the small oval

mirror. She touched her lips with wet fingers and could

almost imagine it was Jack touching her. She’d loved

him so hard, so long. What had happened?

Susanna, Susanna…you don’t believe I killed my wife.

Beau McGarrity. She could still hear his cajoling,

hurt voice that day in her kitchen. He’d never made an

overt threat against her or her children. It was in his ges-

ture, his tone, the fact that he had walked into her

kitchen from her patio, without knocking. She’d been

doing a tai chi tape in the family room. The girls were

at theater and soccer practice. She hadn’t thought to lock

the patio door.

She’d started the recorder, not knowing what he

meant to do or say. At first, she didn’t even know who

he was, except that she’d spotted him twice before that

week, once in town, once at the school. Susanna had told

herself it was coincidence and chided herself for start-

ing to think like a jaded law enforcement officer, tak-

ing the routine oddities of life and turning them into

something potentially sinister.

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Carla Neggers

She hadn’t known Alice Parker was being investi-

gated—or that Jack would arrest her that afternoon.

Giving her the tape when she showed up at her front

door had made sense at the time.

Saying nothing to Jack about Beau McGarrity’s visit

had, too.

When he came home that evening and told her about

Alice’s arrest and never mentioned the tape, Susanna as-

sumed the tape was no good, completely irrelevant—

and that Alice hadn’t mentioned it to him. Why should

she? She was on her way to prison, her career ruined.

If there’d been anything useful on the tape, she’d have

turned it over, if only to nail Beau McGarrity and prove

herself right.

Jack had been so taciturn that night, even more un-

communicative than usual. He was glad to have the

Alice Parker investigation over with. The local police

department would continue with the investigation into

Rachel McGarrity’s murder. He’d opened a beer, took

a long drink and laid back his head, shutting his eyes.

All Susanna could think about was how he’d react if

she’d told him Beau McGarrity had been to their house.

His work had never touched his family this way. Never.

They were both accustomed to her being afraid for him.

But not for herself, not for their daughters.

She’d found herself unable to tell him what had hap-

pened. She didn’t know what he’d do.

Her own fear was irrational, visceral. Just pretend ev-

erything was okay and go to Boston with the girls, let

the dust settle, clear her head…then tell him.

Now Alice Parker was out of prison, and Susanna still

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57

hadn’t told her husband what had happened on that hot,

confused day over a year ago.

But she loved him.

Oh, God, she loved him.

“Mom!”
It was Ellen yelling. “Dad wants to talk

to you!”

Susanna dried her face and hands and slipped out of

the bathroom. The girls were in the kitchen, and Ellen

handed her the phone, whispering, “We told him about

the cabin. We thought he knew.”

“He’s
pissed,
” Maggie added, more as a point of fact

than a warning.

Susanna nodded and ducked back into the halfbath.

She wanted total privacy for this conversation. “A cabin

in the Adirondacks,” she said cheerfully. “Sounds won-

derful, doesn’t it?”

“When were you going to tell me?”

There was nothing calm, professional or deliberate

about him now. This was Jack Galway at his stoniest.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t even thought about it.” But that

was an outright lie, and when she caught her reflection

in the mirror, she saw the guilt. “I’m sorry. It was a spur

of the moment thing, but I should have told you—”

“Don’t be sorry. I don’t give a damn what you do.”

He hung up.

Susanna stared at the dead phone. Then she hit re-

dial. He let his voice mail take the call. She hit redial

again. More voice mail. On her third redial, he picked

up, but didn’t speak. She did. “Damn it, Jack, did you

hang up on me?”

“Yes, and I’m going to hang up on you again.”

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Carla Neggers

“And I’m going to keep calling you until you knock

it off!”

“That’s harassment. I’ll have you arrested, even up

in Boston.”

No one could get under her skin the way he could.

“Just try.” She took a quick breath, decided not to fight

fire with fire. This once, she could be reasonable. “I can

see how you’d look at the cabin as a thumb in your eye,

but that’s not what I was thinking when I bought it.

Truthfully, I wasn’t thinking—it was like it was meant

to be. I couldn’t resist. It’s in the most beautiful spot,

right on Blackwater Lake. Gran grew up there. You’ll

have to see it.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeated dumbly. The man drove her mad.

He knew the worst, most awkward, most difficult and

probing questions to ask her. But he was a trained inter-

rogator. He could get people to confess to murder, never

mind to why they’d bought a cabin in the Adirondacks.

“Yes. Why do I have to see it?”

“I don’t know—it makes sense. You’re my husband.”

“It’s an open invitation?”

She licked her lips. He had her off-balance, and he

knew it. “I suppose so. Sure.”

“You know what Sam says, don’t you?” His voice

lowered, deepened. “He says I should go up there, cuff

you and haul you back to Texas.”

Susanna nearly dropped the damn phone in the sink.

“I knew that’d leave you speechless,” her husband

said. “Good night, darlin’. Enjoy your cabin.”

He hung up on her again.

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59

This time, she didn’t call him back.

When she returned to the kitchen, Gran was back,

heating up a quart of Jim Haviland’s famous clam chow-

der on the stove. The girls were setting the table. It was

a comfortable scene, three generations of women in

Gran’s simple, clean kitchen with its tall ceilings, old

painted cabinets and framed samplers from her cross-

stitch craze fifteen years ago. Even at eighty-two, Iris

Dunning retained her tall, graceful build. Susanna could

picture her grandmother as an Adirondack guide in her

youth. People assumed she was a widow when she

moved to Boston, but that wasn’t true. She’d never mar-

ried. Now she was in her sunset years, her hair white and

wispy, her skin translucent and wrinkled. But her mind

was sharp, and she stayed active and socially engaged—

she was taking tai chi at her senior center. Before her

granddaughter and great-granddaughters had moved in,

she’d rented rooms in the house to university students

to supplement her income and give her company.

Susanna sank onto a chair at the table. Her knees

were wobbly from her talk with her husband.

Gran glanced back at her from the stove. “Jimmy

Haviland says you’re avoiding him.”

“I’ve been busy,” Susanna said. But that wasn’t en-

tirely true. Busy, yes, but the last two times she’d stopped

at Jim’s Place, its opinionated owner had asked her if

she’d told Jack about her stalker. He would keep asking

her until she said yes. He wouldn’t squeal to Gran. That

wasn’t Jim Haviland’s style. He might to Jack, though.

Ellen set a sturdy white bowl in front of her. “Mom,

we’re sorry we told Dad about the cabin—”

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Carla Neggers

“No, no, that’s not your fault. I was going to tell him.

It just slipped my mind.”

Maggie shot her mother a dubious frown, but said noth-

ing. Ellen sighed. “We tried to talk to him while we were

home. We told him he should try to be more romantic.”

“Romantic? Your father?” Susanna smiled, shaking

her head with affection for her two clueless daughters.

“He just threatened to handcuff me and drag me back

to Texas.”

Gran set the steaming soup tourine of chowder in the

middle of the table. “I don’t know,” she said, a mischie-

vous gleam in her very green eyes. “I think it’s a start.”

��

Four

After thirty years of running a neighborhood pub, Jim

Haviland considered himself a good judge of character.

It came down to experience and survival—they’d honed

his instincts about people. Still, he had to admit that the

woman at the bar had him stumped. He guessed she was

in her late twenties. Slightly built, short, curly, dyed red

hair and pale skin, almost pasty looking. She wore a lot

of makeup and about a half ton of gold jewelry. Dan-

gling earrings, rings on both hands, bracelets, a thin

gold necklace with a tiny heart pendant and a thicker

chain necklace. He wouldn’t want all that metal on him

in a nor’easter. But the snow had finally stopped, and

the cleanup was in full force. The plow guys would be

showing up later for the beef stew special.

The woman’s clothes made her stick out in this neigh-

borhood, too. She had on a close-fitting baby blue ribbed

V-neck sweater, tight western-cut jeans and leather

boots that would land her on her ass on an icy sidewalk.

She played up her femininity, but there was a hardness

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Carla Neggers

to her, a toughness that Jim couldn’t reconcile with the

jewelry, the clothes, the painted nails. He wouldn’t be

surprised if she had a .22 strapped to her ankle.

After making sure he didn’t use a mix, she’d ordered

a margarita. Her accent wasn’t local, but Jim was no

good at placing accents outside of New England. He

drew a couple of drafts for two firefighters who’d come

in, complaining about the hazards of space heaters and

overtaxed extension cords. Davey Ahearn, on his stool

at the end of the bar, was listening in, nursing a beer and

keeping an eye on the woman with the makeup and the

margarita.

“New in town?” Jim asked her.

“Two days. It’s that easy to tell?”

“With that accent?” Jim smiled at her. “Where you

from?”

“Texas. A little bitty town outside Houston.”

“Hope you brought a good winter coat with you.”

She gestured toward the coat rack next to the door,

gold bangles sliding down her slender wrist. “No, sir,

but I bought one on sale this morning. They said it’s a

basic parka. I never knew there was anything but. I

bought a winter hat and gloves, too. I think mittens

would drive me batty.” She raised her gray eyes at him.

“I’m holding off on the long underwear.”

She had an engaging manner, whoever she was.

“That’s one thing about owning a bar,” Jim said. “I can

get through a Boston winter without long underwear.

You’ll like it here in the spring. Are you planning to stick

around that long?”

“I’m hoping to relocate here, but have you checked

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