The Carriage House (19 page)

“Maybe that's what I was trying to do.” Her eyes had taken on some of the grayness of dusk, her mouth still very close to his. “Inflame you.”

They kissed again, harder, deeper, longer. He pressed her up against the counter, drew her thighs around him. Route One and the trip north seemed a million miles away, and he didn't give a damn about Ike Grantham.

“He wasn't in love with me,” Tess said, almost as if she'd reached inside his mind.

He knew she meant Ike. “It doesn't matter.”

“He
wasn't.
”

Andrew eased back, taking in the shape of her mouth, the way her shirt was wrinkled, askew. It would have been so easy to carry her into the bedroom. “We've been talking about him in the past tense.”

She nodded, straightening, tucking in her shirt. “I noticed. It's because he's been gone so long.”

“Tess.”

“I can't think it was him I saw—his remains.” She grabbed her glass and refilled it with water from the tap, her back to him. “It's okay. You can go. I'll be fine here.”

“You could call your father or Davey—”

“Just what I need.” She turned back, leaning against the counter with her glass of water. “There's one thing you should know. About what Davey said.”

Andrew smiled. “After he plucked you off of me?”

“It was a mistake, throwing his beer at you. I should have grabbed someone else's. And yes, that bit about me not going quietly or slowly, whatever that was. It's bullshit.”

“Ah.”

“It is. Davey doesn't know anything about love or women.”

“He knows you.”

She snorted in half-feigned disgust. “He does not! He and my father are so old-fashioned—they hate it that I live on Beacon Hill. They think I should go back to a corporate job with a steady paycheck and benefits. Graphic design makes no sense at all to them.” She drank some of her water, then pressed the glass to her cheek, and he figured she was hot. Liked it that she was. “Pop's worried owning a carriage house is a message to men that I've given up on the idea of marriage.”

“Have you?”

“What? Now you sound like them! My point is, Davey doesn't know anything.”

Andrew winked at her. “But he knows how to unstop a toilet.”

She groaned.

“Call a friend. Call Susanna Galway. Tess, if someone did steal a skeleton out of your cellar—”

“Then you need to be home with Princess Dolly. Go. If I get spooked, I'll call Susanna.” She shoved him toward the door. “Six-year-olds come before a woman who barely an hour ago wanted to hit you over the head with a beer bottle.”

“And five minutes ago wanted to jump into bed with me?”

Her breath caught, her eyes sparkling. There was no denying what they both knew to be true, and she didn't even try. “All the more reason to hit the road.”

Andrew did so two minutes later, merging with Beacon Street traffic, noticing that night had come and the air had turned cooler. He drove back onto Beacon Hill.

The drapes on her windows were pulled, her lights on, no one out on her quiet street. He knew he had to leave her, that whether she called her family or friends, or got in her car and came north, was her choice to make. He thought about going back in there, packing her up and stuffing her in his truck—and when they got to Beacon-by-the-Sea, to hell with his guest room.

But that wasn't his call. Not tonight.

Tonight, his call was to go home to his daughter.

T
here was something about driving around with her dead brother in her trunk that Lauren rather liked. She glanced back at her car parked in front of Andrew's house and felt a terrible thrill. She knew it was sick. But it wasn't as if the bones she'd collected the other night
were
Ike, his essence, his soul. That part of him was in another place. A better place. She truly believed that.

What was left—it all depended on how she wanted to look at it. DNA. Material for forensic scientists. Evidence for the police. A problem for her husband and his sponsors at the Pentagon, because, of course, the wife of Dr. Richard Montague couldn't be someone who had bones in her trunk, no matter how innocent her motives.

It was
her
brother. She was the only family Ike had left. She could decide whether his death was something that needed to destroy other people's lives. He'd trust her to make that decision.

“My brother,” she whispered to herself as she mounted the front-porch steps. She'd worn a lavender cashmere sweater today, although she could have gotten away with something lighter. But it was cool and damp out on the point, surprisingly still.

Inside the house, Lauren could hear Dolly Thorne running, yelling excitedly, “Lauren's here! Lauren's here!” In a moment, she was at the screen door, waving, even as Harley Beckett materialized behind her. Dolly jumped up and down. She was wearing a crown of glow-in-the-dark planets and stars. “Do you want to see Tippy Tail's kittens?”

Harl opened the door a crack. “What's up?”

“Nothing. I stopped by to see Andrew.”

“Not here.”

“I see.” Even under the best of circumstances, Harl wasn't a great conversationalist. Lauren used to be intimidated by him, but she'd finally told herself that a man capable of restoring an eighteenth-century chair to its original beauty couldn't be that awful, no matter how surly or how many times he'd been shot. She smiled at him. “Well, I have a little present for Dolly.”

Harl didn't like that. His eyes flickered with disapproval, but Dolly pushed open the door and shot out onto the porch. “A present for me?”

“It's just a little present. I made it myself.” She'd glued multicolored sparkles to a bamboo plant stake, handed it to Dolly with a flourish. “I thought a princess might need a magic wand.”

“Ooooooh! It's
beautiful.
” Dolly whipped it around, more like a sword than a magic wand. “Harl, look!”

“What do you say?”

She smiled up at Lauren. “Thank you, Mrs. Montague.”

“You're very welcome.”

“Do you want to adopt one of Tippy Tail's kittens? Harl says they all have to go to new homes.”

“Well, I don't know, I haven't thought about it. I already have three poodles.”

“I don't like dogs. I like cats.”

Harl placed a protective hand on Dolly's shoulder. “Inside. Your dad'll be home soon.” He shifted briefly to Lauren. “I'll turn the porch light on so you don't trip.”

Talk about being shoved along your way. Lauren manufactured a cool smile. “Thank you.”

But he and Dolly were already through the door. The light came on, as promised.

Lauren didn't want to leave.

She wanted Andrew to know what she'd done for him. Not the particulars. In general.

She popped open her trunk. The black garbage bag was still there. If the weather got hot, would it stink? She thought she could smell death but wondered if it was the nearby ocean, low tide, her imagination.

“Ike. Sweet Jesus.”

They'd talked about dying when they were kids. He'd never wanted to go out quietly, in his sleep. He'd wanted to see death coming.

He had, she thought as she climbed back behind the wheel.

And that was something good to hold on to in this ugly business.

 

Moving the kittens was Harl's idea. He stayed with Dolly while Andrew rounded them up. The carriage house was pitch-dark, no stars or moon shining through the clouds, no streetlights. He had all the lights on out back at his place, but it didn't help. He wished he'd taken a bigger flashlight and imagined Tess here alone Friday night, hearing a cat yowling through the floorboards.

Tippy Tail didn't appreciate being moved. She clawed him, but he hung on. The kittens stayed asleep in their box.

He dumped them in the pantry, then had a beer in the kitchen with his cousin.

Harl pointed to the cut on Andrew's arm. “Damn cat do that?”

Andrew shook his head. “Barroom brawl.”

“Do I want to know the details?”

“No.”

Harl grinned. “I didn't think so.”

They drank their beers, and Andrew told his cousin what he'd learned in Boston, which was nothing. “Everything checks out with Tess. There's no reason to suspect she made up this skeleton sighting just to rattle our chains.”

“Anyone else's?”

“Whose? Ike's, to draw him out? Lauren's? Richard's? He's up for a Pentagon appointment. I don't see why Tess would care about that.”

“Someone slips her a few bucks, tells her to think of something that'd undermine Montague's appointment.” Harl shrugged, getting to his feet. “It could happen.”

“Anything could.”

“Yeah. We have to follow the facts.” He rinsed his bottle and set it on the counter. “By the way, I called Rita Perez tonight. I'm volunteering at Dolly's school. I figure, hell, I can't have six-year-olds thinking I'm a frigging bank robber.”

Andrew hid his smile behind a swallow of beer. “What're you going to do?”

“Help at snack time. Sounds like hell on earth, doesn't it?”

“School's out in a few weeks. If it's that bad, you don't have to go back next year.”

Harl grunted as he made his way to the door. “If it's that bad, I'm not going back next week. Screw it. I just hope parents don't complain. I'm not your average first-grade volunteer, you know.”

“I won't complain. I'm a parent.”

“Yeah. Like you're your average father.”

He left, and Andrew checked on the kittens. Tippy Tail was still agitated, but she was in the box, nursing her kittens, no sign she planned to abandon them. He made sure the doors were secured in case she decided to move them back to the carriage house.

On his way to the den, he thought about calling Tess and decided against it. Harl was right. They had to follow the facts, wherever they lead.

Lauren Montague had stopped by with a magic wand for Dolly. Harl said Lauren was pale, on edge. Because of the skeleton report? Did she suspect the remains were her brother's? If she did, why not sound the alarm with the police?

Was that what Tess wanted? What if she'd engineered the skeleton-sighting to prompt a police investigation into Ike Grantham's disappearance?

Then why not tell Andrew about the skeleton on Friday night?

Because, he thought, she needed Saturday night to make it “disappear.” To make her it-got-stolen story work. No way would it have worked that first night.

The facts.

Andrew turned on the last of a ball game and sat in his old leather chair, wishing he could focus more on the facts and less on the memory of Tess in his arms.

 

Tess figured she'd made four big mistakes. One, not taking Andrew down to the cellar on Friday to check out the skeleton. She'd needed a witness and confirmation.

Two, kissing Andrew in his daughter's doorway. Three, kissing Andrew on his back porch. Four, kissing Andrew in her kitchen.

Trying to throw him out of her father's bar hadn't been a mistake. That had been smart. The mistake—a little one, she'd decided—was how she'd gone about it. She'd operated on the assumption, however deeply buried under her anger, that he'd take the hint and leave once she'd started throwing furniture.

He hadn't.

But it was kissing him that was her big mistake.

“Mistakes,” she muttered aloud. “Plural.”

She sat on the couch with her laptop. She had her e-mail archives on the screen and was waiting for a search on Ike Grantham to finish.

A list of eighty-seven popped up.

She was surprised. She wouldn't have thought they'd e-mailed each other that much. With a sigh, she set the laptop on the coffee table and went into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine.

Susanna called. “Gran says you drew blood.”

Tess knew instantly she meant the brawl at Jim's Place. There would be at least a dozen different stories circulating through the neighborhood by now. “No such luck.”

“You broke a bowl on his head?”

“The wall.”

“A beer bottle?”

“Well, I did pour beer on him.”

“That's good. I like that. And Davey had to go and intervene, didn't he?”

“Susanna, this is a serious situation.”

“I know, I know. Dead bodies in the cellar and all that. It's a good sign this Thorne character was checking you out. It probably means he doesn't know how a bunch of bones ended up in the carriage house cellar, either.” But she sucked in a sharp breath. “You're alone? You want to come here, stay with Gran, the girls and me?”

“And have your grandmother interrogate me about Andrew Thorne? No, thanks.” Tess laughed, but heard the strain in her own voice. “I'm okay. Thanks for checking in.”

“I still have friends in Texas I can call if you need a bodyguard.”

Tess thanked her for her concern and hung up.

A bodyguard. Damn, she thought, and poured her wine.

The first e-mail from Ike was a simple confirmation of their upcoming meeting on her work for the Beacon Historic Project. It was short, but the telltale Ike-slashing wit was there, if only a hint of it. “We watery-eyed rich Yankees love old houses. Only we call them historic. They're only old when they belong to fishermen.”

Suddenly the intercom buzzed, and two minutes later her father was standing in her living room. “I parked on the street. I'm going to get towed?”

“Not if you don't stay too long.”

“This place. You pay four times the rent for a quarter the space, and the parking stinks.”

It was the same litany whenever he visited, which wasn't often. Usually they saw each other in Somerville. “Did you get the mess cleaned up?”

“Yeah, it didn't take long. You owe me for that bowl you broke.”

“Susanna's grandma thinks I broke it over Thorne's head.”

Jim Haviland shuddered. “That old bat. She was old even when I was a kid.” He glanced around her small apartment, nodded to her laptop. “You working?”

“Yes,” she said, because it was easier than trying to explain about Ike's e-mails. She wasn't sure herself what she was looking for.

“Thorne leave?”

“He only stayed a few minutes.”

Her father's eyes bored into her, as if to say he knew what could go on in a few minutes. “You falling for this guy?”

“Pop, I've only known him a few days.”

“Like that matters.”

Tess didn't answer because he had a point and she didn't want to lie. She didn't always tell him everything—she hadn't mentioned the skeleton—but she seldom lied outright. But to talk about her reaction to Andrew, her
relationship
with him, if it could be called that, was decidedly premature.

“He's got baggage, you know.”

“Baggage? You mean his daughter? Is that what I was—baggage that you didn't want to inflict on another woman?”

He heaved a sigh, making it sound more like a growl. “That's not what I meant. And it wasn't like that with me and your mother. I wasn't the marrying kind to begin with. It took her to come along.” He scratched his head with one hand, obviously hating having this conversation. “That doesn't mean I'm living in the past. I've had my women friends.”

“Like who?”

“Never mind. For chrissake, that's not why I'm here. I'm just saying when you've been married before, you got a kid—it's not the same anymore. Don't fool yourself and think it is. You're not getting involved with someone who's never been through that.”

“The investment banker,” Tess said.

“Not him. Jesus, he was an asshole. He got an F on Davey's test.”

“Davey's what?”

Her father was pacing, frowned at the picture of Ike and her. He looked back at her, distracted. “What? Oh, Davey. He's never told you about his test? He's got, I don't know, five or six questions he asks guys when they show up at the pub.”