The Cabin (8 page)

out the rents lately? Whoa. They’re sky-high.” She

sipped more of her margarita, looking as if she relished

every drop. “I don’t know why you put up with it. Aren’t

you the folks who dumped the tea in the harbor?”

“That we are. You have a job lined up?”

“More or less, yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Audrey,” she said. “Audrey Melbourne.”

Jim studied her a moment, noticing she didn’t flinch

under his frank scrutiny. Definitely a tough streak.

“What are you running from, Audrey Melbourne?”

She shrugged. “What do any of us run from?”

“The law and husbands,” Jim said. Davey Ahearn

glanced down the bar, not saying a word, but Jim knew

his friend’s suspicions were on full alert.

“No, sir, I don’t believe that’s the case at all.” Audrey

Melbourne slid off her stool, looking even smaller.

“Mostly we run from ourselves.”

She walked over to the coatrack and put on her new

parka, hat and gloves as if they might have been a space

suit. She left without looking back.

Davey breathed out a long sigh. “Sure. I hope she

comes back real soon. That pretty little number is trouble.”

One of the firefighters snorted. “All women are

trouble.”

Two female Tufts graduate students took exception

to this comment, and the argument was on. Jim didn’t

intervene. The Bruins and the Celtics were having a

lousy year, the Patriots hadn’t made the playoffs, and

pitchers and catchers didn’t report for weeks yet. Peo-

ple needed something to do. Maybe he needed to won-

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Carla Neggers

der about a redheaded Texan coming into his bar. It

happened now and again, a stranger popping in for a

drink. He doubted Audrey Melbourne would be back.

An icy gust bit at Alice Parker’s face as she climbed

over a blackened, frozen, eighteen-inch snowbank to get

to her car. The Texas tags were a dead giveaway, but

what the hell—so was her Texas accent. She’d arrived

in Boston in the middle of a damn blizzard, and now it

was so cold her cheeks ached and her eyeballs felt as if

they were frozen in their sockets. Her chest hurt from

breathing in the dry, frigid air.

“I should have bought the damn Everest parka,” she

muttered, picking her way over an ice patch. Even

sanded, it was slippery. She supposed she’d need new

boots if she ended up staying more than a few days.

Damned if she’d move up here on a permanent basis.

She’d rather sit in prison.

She did not understand why Susanna Galway was

living here on an old, crowded street in a working-class

neighborhood, with the salt and sand and soot making

everything even uglier. She had a nice house in San An-

tonio. A Texas Ranger husband. What the hell was

wrong with her?

Alice tried fishing her keys out of her pocket with

a gloved hand, decided that wouldn’t work and peeled

off the glove. Winter was complicated. She couldn’t

believe she’d driven a couple thousand miles in her

crappy car to track down Susanna, just so Beau could

think she still had the tape. Not that he was biting—

he kept telling her she could go to hell and threaten-

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65

ing to turn her in for blackmail and extortion. She was

calling his bluff. He’d pay her to steal the tape and

hush up about it. She knew he would. Things worked

on his nerves. He was paranoid and dramatic. She’d

made that one little remark about Rachel smothering

him in his sleep, and less than a day later, her friend

was dead.

Alice was confident he’d come around. He deserved

to pay for something.

Of course, he could decide to shoot her in the back

and go after the tape himself, but that was extreme.

Even Beau couldn’t think he’d get away with two mur-

ders. He’d let her do his dirty work for him. And pay her.

If he did end up shooting her, Jack Galway and Sam

Temple could catch him. At least he’d go to prison for

her murder, if not Rachel’s.

An old woman pushed open the porch door to the

stucco house just up the street. She had on pants stuffed

into fur-trimmed ankle boots, a dark wool car coat, a red

scarf, a red knit hat and red knit gloves.

It had to be Iris Dunning. Susanna’s grandmother.

Alice had found out from Beau that Susanna Galway

was living up north with her daughters and grandmother.

He’d obviously expected this information would make

Alice give up on her plan. She’d thought about it. It was

kind of nuts, traveling two thousand miles, taking the

risk of breaking into Susanna’s house to steal something

that wasn’t there.

But what else was she supposed to do? She had the

tape. Beau would not be pleased if he found out she’d

had it all along—for one, he’d never pay her the fifty

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Carla Neggers

grand. For another, he’d probably shoot her. He was

balking as it was. If this was going to work, Alice knew

she had to go through the motions.

She climbed back over the snowbank. “Mrs. Dun-

ning?” Alice stepped carefully onto the sidewalk, not

wanting to slip. “Excuse me, ma’am, I didn’t mean to

startle you. My name’s Audrey Melbourne—I’m new in

town. Someone mentioned you might have a room for

rent.” No one had, but Alice decided it was a good way

to launch a conversation.

The old woman’s clear green eyes cinched it for

Alice. They were just like Susanna’s. She had to be Iris

Dunning. “I’m sorry, I’m not renting rooms at the mo-

ment. Are you a student?”

Alice shook her head. “No, I’m in the process of mov-

ing to Boston. This seems like a nice neighborhood.”

“It is,” Iris said. “I’ve lived here for years and have

never been robbed.”

That would probably change, Alice thought, if she

had to stage a robbery to convince Beau she’d gotten the

tape off Susanna. “Well, ma’am, I don’t want to keep

you out in the cold—”

“Have you had supper yet? Jimmy Haviland makes

good, hearty food. His clam chowder’s the best in the

city, but tonight’s not chowder night.”

Alice hated even the thought of clams. They had to

be slimy. “I know—I was just in there. I think he’s serv-

ing beef stew tonight.”

“Come on, then, I’ll buy you a bowl.” Iris Dunning

seemed ready to take Alice by the arm and walk her into

the pub. “I was new in town and all alone once. My

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67

granddaughter and daughters are out for the evening. I’d

like the company.”

“Ma’am, I don’t want to impose—”

“You’re not imposing, and you can stop calling me

‘ma’am.’ Iris will be fine.”

Alice was taken aback. No wonder Susanna had

ended up here—her grandmother was a good soul

who’d take in anyone. “I’d love a bowl of stew, Iris, but

I’ll pay my way.”

They entered the bar together, and Alice immedi-

ately noticed the obvious suspicion of the owner and his

friend with the handlebar mustache. If Iris noticed, she

didn’t care. She headed to a back table. Alice smiled

self-consciously at the two men, who continued to

frown at her. Well, that was a good sign. At least Iris

Dunning had people who looked after her. She was the

sort of person people could easily take advantage of.

“Now, Jimmy,” she said when the owner came over

to take their order, “don’t start lecturing me about stran-

gers. I can have stew with anyone I want. Miss Mel-

bourne is new in town.”

“Audrey,” Alice corrected with a smile.

“I’d never lecture you, Iris,” Jimmy said. “What are

you drinking with your stew?”

“I think I’ll have merlot tonight. I haven’t had wine

in ages. Alice, what about you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, I don’t drink. I’ll just have a Coke.”

“And don’t skimp on the beef when you dip up my

stew, Jimmy. I had a low-fat lunch.”

He still didn’t seem too happy.

Iris sighed at him, her green eyes vibrant. “Jimmy, I

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Carla Neggers

know about women on their own. They’re either wid-

owed, divorced, broke, on the run or ex-cons.” She

turned her bright gaze to her new friend. “Am I right,

Audrey?”

Alice laughed. “One or more of the above.”

“
There.
I knew it. I guess that’s better than ‘all of the

above.’”

Tess Haviland sank into the soft leather couch that

Susanna had bought when Tess had moved out of their

shared office space the summer before. She still had the

remnants of her tan from her holiday in Disney World

with Andrew Thorne, her architect husband, and seven-

year-old Dolly. Harley Beckett, Dolly’s reclusive baby-

sitter, had stayed home and worked on Tess’s

nineteenth-century carriage house. She took possession

of it last May and promptly found a skeleton in the cel-

lar—something that hadn’t sat well with Jack Galway,

Texas Ranger. Not that Susanna had told him about her

involvement. The girls had let it slip. She remembered

his call. “You and Tess Haviland crawled around in a dirt

cellar looking for a body?”

“We didn’t find it.”

Small consolation.

Tess’s move to the North Shore, her marriage and new

family seemed to agree with her. Her blond hair was

longer these days, her dedication to her graphic design

work still high but not as all-consuming. She’d hired an

assistant. She had balance in her life. She also had strong

opinions, which made her more like her pub-owner fa-

ther and plumber godfather than she would ever admit to.

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69

She’d brought her own latte, Susanna’s coffeemak-

ing abilities the only source of conflict between them.

She had on her business-in-the-city clothes. “I like the

leather,” she said, sweeping a critical glance over the

conversation area Susanna had set up in Tess’s vacated

half of the office. A contemporary leather couch and

chairs, an antique coffee table and three orchids pains-

takingly chosen for their forgiving natures. Tess

smoothed one hand over the soft leather. “I didn’t think

I would. I really wanted you to go with a Texas theme.

At least it’s not stuffy.”

Given that her office was on the fourth floor of a late

nineteenth-century building overlooking Boston’s old-

est cemetery, Susanna had rejected a Texas theme. She

hadn’t bothered to confront her friend on her ideas of

what a Texas theme would entail—all spurs and Lone

Stars, probably.

“Susanna, do you mind if I speak frankly?”

Susanna sat on one of the chairs, the sky outside her

tall windows gray and gloomy. She’d worked at her

computer most of the day. She smiled at Tess. “Since

when would it make any difference if I minded?”

Tess didn’t return her smile. “Your computer’s

dusty,” she said.

“That’s what you wanted to tell me?”

“It’s part of a larger pattern.” Tess leaned forward,

holding her latte in both hands. “It’s like your brain’s

gone inside your computer and won’t come out. It can’t.

It’s all filled up with numbers and money things.”

“Money things?”

“Investments, annual reports, interest rates, bond

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Carla Neggers

prices—God only knows what. I’ll bet you know to the

penny what each of your clients is worth.”

Susanna took no offense. “That is my job, Tess.”

She shook her head, adamant. “You go beyond what

the average financial planner would do.”

“Good. I’d hate to be an ‘average’ financial planner.”

Susanna glanced over at her desk, her monitor filled

with numbers, which was probably what had unnerved

Tess. “I want to be very above average.”

“You see? You’re driven. You’re a perfectionist. It’s

causing you to lose perspective on the rest of your life.”

Tess set her jaw, aggravated now. “Damn it, I’m mak-

ing a good point here. Your life is out of balance.”

Susanna slid to her feet and walked over to the table

where she had her coffeemaker, a tin of butter cookies,

pretty little napkins and real pottery mugs for herself

and her clients. “I’ve hired a part-time assistant,” she

said. “She comes in two mornings a week.”

“You should have at least two people working full-

time for you. You told me so yourself last fall.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did.”

Susanna poured herself a half cup of stale, grayish

coffee and turned back to her friend. “All right, I’ll dust

my computer. Promise.”

Tess groaned. “You are so
thick.
”

“Hey, that’s my line. That’s what I tell Jack—”

“There. Jack.” Tess set her latte on an antique table

Susanna had picked up at an auction, a nice contrast

with the more contemporary pieces. Balance, she

thought. If Tess approved, she didn’t say. She narrowed

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71

her blue eyes on Susanna. “You haven’t told him how