The Carriage House (22 page)

“Ghosts,” she whispered. “I wish it had been ghosts.”

“So do I.”

The air went out of her, and her shoulders sagged, but only for a moment. She shot him a quick, brave smile. “You'll make dinner?”

“I'll even open a bottle of wine.”

“Good,” she said, rallying. “I hate making dinner after I've been mopping floors. And you forgot Tippy Tail's litter box. Trust me, Thorne, that's something you want.”

 

“I think it was your brother-in-law in that cellar.”

Richard listened to Jeremy Carver with outward calm, but inside, he wanted to vomit. He couldn't, not here in his own office. The North Atlantic Center for Strategic Studies occupied an attractive, low-key restored Victorian house in a pleasant section of Gloucester. Rumor had it a Thorne used to live here. Maybe that was his problem, Richard thought. He was haunted by Thornes.

“The police are investigating,” Richard said. “Don't you think it's premature to jump to conclusions?”

“You're paid to follow the facts. I'm paid to jump to conclusions.” Carver was standing, pretending to study the framed photographs on Richard's wall. They were all of the seacoast, none of himself. “I've learned to trust my instincts. So has Senator Bowler.”

“What are you going to do when we find Ike kayaking in Tahiti?”

“Nothing.”

“My appointment's finished, then. You're bailing.”

“You're a brilliant man, Dr. Montague. You'll continue to do good work here, maybe more important work than if you moved to Washington.”

“It's the media,” Richard said, hating the croak in his voice. “You're bailing because reporters have been asking questions.”

Carver turned to him, shaking his head profoundly. “No, Doctor, I'm bailing because Tess Haviland found a goddamn dead body in her cellar, and I think it's Ike, you think it's Ike, and your wife no doubt thinks it's Ike—and you're not doing a damn thing about it. You haven't done a damn thing since Ike disappeared.”

Richard could feel the blood draining from his face. “Are you suggesting we had something to do with his disappearance?”

“I'm saying I think you're a couple of weird ducks. Let's leave it at that. I've asked around about your brother-in-law. He sounds like a flaming asshole. I can see you might not want to know where he is, but it's been more than a year.”

“The police are investigating—”

“Now they are. Why not six months ago?”

Richard didn't answer.

Jeremy Carver stepped closer to him. “I'll tell you why—no Tess Haviland, no skeleton in the cellar. That's why.”

“She's a troublemaker.”

“I don't think so. I've checked her out—so have you. Your crazy brother-in-law gave her a carriage house, and she's just figuring out what to do with it.”

“Washington needs my expertise.”

“It might, but Senator Bowler doesn't.”

Carver left.

The door caught in a gust of wind from Richard's open window and banged shut. He jumped, as if the lid of his coffin had slammed down with him still alive, still determined to make a difference in the world.

Tess Haviland…goddamn you…

But there was time yet. Jeremy Carver was playing hardball with him, assuming Richard couldn't compete. But he could. He'd spent his entire adult life studying terrorism and the men and women who played that particular game. He had something to contribute. His work was
vital
to the country.

“You're a sniveling nerd, Richie. Admit it.”

Ike.

God, he hated him. His only regret now was that Ike hadn't known how he'd tripped down the carriage house stairs. He hadn't seen who was responsible.

But at least he'd seen death coming.

That was something.

T
ess mopped up a mouse skeleton in a corner by the avocado refrigerator.

It almost did her in.

She was debating throwing the mop in the trash when her father called on her cell phone. “I just got off the phone with some jackass reporter from up your way. He wanted to know if you're nuts.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you're an artist.” But he barked out the words without humor, and she knew he was offended by the reporter's question. And worried. “He wants an angle on this skeleton thing.”

Tess rinsed the mop out in the sink. The mouse skeleton basically dissolved and went down the drain, but she shuddered. She'd have to scour the sink next.

“What?”

“Nothing. What else did he ask you?”

“He asked about Davey and me checking the pipes. I don't know who told him we'd been up there. You?”

“I've avoided him so far.”

“This guy wants to believe Davey and me would have stepped on these bones if they'd been there.”

“That's what I want to believe, too.”

“You'd rather be a nut than have seen what you saw?”

“No.” She set the mop on the floor and dumped cleanser into the sink. A lot of it. “I'd rather it was a trick of the light and the conditions.”

“Were we close to it?”

“I didn't see, Pop. My head and stomach were still off from having found it in the first place. You could have missed it.”

“We
did
miss it, whether it was there or not. I wouldn't have stepped on a goddamn skull and pretended it was something else, a piece of wood or something.”

“I know you wouldn't have.”

“The police will be calling next,” he said in a rough growl.

“Pop, my finding the skeleton, whatever it was, was a freak thing. I don't think I was meant to—”

“You mean you don't think that Grantham son of a bitch set you up.”

She sighed, saying nothing.

Her father bit off another growl. “You're up there now?”

“Yes.”

“I can't tell you what to do. You're thirty-four years old. Get this mess sorted out. Stay safe.”

“Do you think this reporter was calling Davey?”

“Next on his list.”

Which meant Davey would be calling. She finished cleaning the sink. The carriage house was quiet and empty, and she imagined a tiny mouse, scurrying across the vast floors on a cold winter night. She walked over to the trapdoor and knelt on the floor next to it, pushed open the wooden latch. It creaked when she lifted it, sending shivers up her spine. She leaned over and peered into the dark cellar, smelled the cool stone and dirt, the mustiness of it.

What if some poor homeless guy had camped out in the carriage house, fallen through the trapdoor by accident, broken his neck and simply not been found?

His body would have been clothed. He wouldn't have been in a position to shovel a couple of inches of dirt over himself. And he wouldn't have come back Saturday night and carried off his own bones.

Her cell phone trilled, giving her a start. She almost dropped the trapdoor on her fingers.

“I've got my .38 loaded,” Davey said. “It's right here in the glove compartment. I can get it to you within the hour. I'm in my truck on the Tobin.”

“Davey, for God's sake—”

“I took you shooting that time.”

“That
one
time. I don't trust myself with a gun.”

“You in the carriage house? Thorne with you? I don't know about him. I can see him snatching a body.”

“The reporter—”

“Thinks you're fruitier than a fruitcake. I gave him the plumber's blow-by-blow of my tour of your cellar, told him I could have stepped on a skull and not known it, I was focused on the pipes.” He grunted, disgusted. “Reporters.”

“Thanks, Davey.”

“Let me know about the .38.”

Tess hung up, decided she'd done enough cleaning and headed out through the side door. The air was cooler now that it was dusk. She smelled ocean and lilacs, and she stood on the driveway a moment, letting the stillness envelop her. There was no wind. That was what the newspaper description had said about the morning of the duel in 1868—there'd been no wind.

A BMW pulled into the driveway behind her car. Richard Montague gave her a curt wave and climbed out, gravel crunching under his shoes in the stillness. Tess had only met him twice during her work for Ike and the Beacon Historic Project. He wasn't handsome or easygoing, instead radiating intelligence, logic and mental toughness, qualities, she could imagine, that Lauren might have found appealing because they were such a contrast to her brother.

“I thought you might be here.” He tilted his head back, appraising her. His eyes were a light gray, incisive. “Your story about the other night has caused quite a stir.”

“The reporter caught up with you?”

“And my wife.” He gave Tess a wry, deliberate smile. “I also understand he spoke to Muriel Cookson. She's horrified.”

“He tracked down my father, too. I've managed to avoid him so far.”

“That's your good fortune.” His good humor faded, and he averted his gaze from Tess. “The publicity has had an unforeseen consequence—an appointment I was expecting has been put on hold.”

“That doesn't seem fair.”

“It's the nature of the Washington beast, I'm afraid. I'm used to this sort of maneuvering and fear-based decision-making.” He shifted his attention back to her. “Would you mind telling me why you chose this particular timing to investigate the carriage house?”

Tess shrugged. “I received a property tax bill.”

He laughed, more with incredulity than amusement. “To think my move to the Pentagon has been postponed, if not scuttled, because of the timing of a property tax bill. Well, it's hardly your fault.”

“I didn't think through all the ramifications when Ike turned over the carriage house deed to me. So, I decided to figure out whether I wanted to keep it or not.”

“Hence, your visit over the weekend.”

“Yes.”

He glanced at the carriage house. “It's in rough shape, isn't it? I haven't been here in years. I've driven by, of course, and Ike and Lauren both were fond of this place. It never was a good choice for the Beacon Historic Project, however, so I'm not surprised Ike unloaded it.” He caught himself, smiled at her. “I don't mean it that way.”

“That's okay. My father said more or less the same thing.”

“Will you keep it?”

“I don't know. I'd like to be able to talk to Ike. I was supposed to do more work for him—that was our understanding. And I probably should know for sure what it was I saw the other night, even if it was nothing.”

“I understand. Lauren and I feel the same way.” He walked past her car to the end of the driveway and breathed in. “I love lilacs. Did you know Ike helped train Joanna here at the carriage house? I was surprised when Andrew bought the old Thorne estate. They'd been living in a house in the village. Frankly, after Joanna died, we all thought Andrew would move back to Gloucester.”

Tess frowned, edging toward the lilacs. “Joanna trained here?”

“Hmm? Yes, Ike had rigged up ropes and a rock-climbing course. It wasn't elaborate, and it's not like this was their only training site. Joanna was very gung ho. It was good to see.”

“Ike didn't go with her to Mount McKinley?”

“Oh, no. That was her dream not his. Look, everyone knows what Ike's like, and I don't pretend we got along—but he was a positive influence on Joanna Thorne. She worked for me, and I could see the change in her.” He smiled wistfully. “Losing her was a terrible blow.”

“It must have been.” Tess tried to hide her uneasiness by tugging on a still-perfect lilac blossom, no hint of brown anywhere. “I think Ike felt guilty about what happened to her.”

“As much as Ike can feel guilt, yes, I think so.” She twirled the lilac stem in one hand, but gave Richard Montague a direct look. “You refer to him in the present tense.”

He nodded. “I try to. Miss Haviland, normally I wouldn't engage in family gossip with an outsider, but because of the carriage house, you've been dragged into our affairs. I hope I haven't stepped over the line.”

“No, I appreciate the insight. And I'm sorry about your appointment.”

He waved a hand. “Under the circumstances, it's the least of our worries.”

But it couldn't be easy, Tess thought, losing out, at least for the moment, on a Washington appointment because someone had reported finding a skeleton—which no one else had yet seen—in the cellar of a carriage house his wife's brother had once owned. He started back to his car, and Tess mumbled something about being glad to see him again.

“Likewise,” he said over the hood.

Once he drove off, she couldn't wait to slip through the lilacs, Dolly-style.

Harl and Andrew were on the back porch, arguing over spaghetti sauce. “You can't put carrots in spaghetti sauce,” Harl said. “That's a sin against nature.”

“You grate the carrots. You can't taste them. They sweeten the sauce, neutralize some of the acidity of the tomatoes.”

“Sugar does the same thing, and it's not a carrot.” He wrinkled up his face at the idea. “You put onions in the sauce, you put garlic, you put mushrooms and peppers, maybe—once in a while—some olives. You don't put in carrots.”

“I've put in carrots before. You've never even noticed.”

Tess grinned at them and dropped onto a chair at the table, feeling some of the tension roll out of her. She'd tell them about her visit with Richard Montague, but later. “It's nice to hear someone talking about something normal.”

Harl eyed her. “I suppose you don't make spaghetti sauce. You make
pasta
sauce.”

“I do live on Beacon Hill.”

“Watch it, Harl,” Andrew said. “She gives as good as she gets.”

She shook her head. “Not tonight. I'm not holding my own with anything but a glass of wine.” She smiled, adding, “Two. Two glasses of wine.”

“Red or white?” Harl asked, getting to his feet.

“Red.” She stretched out her legs and leaned back in her chair, feeling curiously at home. She winked up at Harl. “Red wine goes better with spaghetti sauce.”

 

Lauren admired the perfect creamy yellow of the single daylily blossom in the flower garden just off the back porch. The gloom of dusk was settling in. The yardman had come today, the air still smelling of freshly cut grass. It was so normal and pleasant, reminding her of summer and running through the yard as a child, that she wanted to cry. She tried to be hardheaded and unsentimental. She knew she had to keep her wits about her with a dead body in her car trunk. But she missed her family. She missed her parents. She missed Ike.

Ike.

The daylily was so beautiful, she wanted to lose herself in its shape and color, think of nothing else.

Her poodles rubbed against her ankles as if they sensed her mood. She couldn't let depression settle in. A tug of nostalgia was all right, but nothing more. Too much was at stake.

“There you are.” Richard trotted down the porch steps, a drink in each hand. “I brought you a scotch, just in case. Hell of a day, I know.”

She accepted the drink. “The police are stopping by tomorrow to interview me on Ike's whereabouts. It would be so much easier if I had a normal brother, but then—” She smiled, sipping the scotch. “But then I wouldn't know what to do with a normal brother.”

“Ike's normal. Half the men in this country would take off just the way he does if they could get away with it. He's got the money, no attachments.” Richard shrugged agreeably, in a remarkably good mood considering his devastating news. Lauren wondered if it was the scotch. “A normal guy.”

“You're joking with me.”

“Lauren, everyone's on edge because of this Tess Haviland, not because Ike hasn't been heard from in a year. If she hadn't come around and claimed to find a skeleton, then have it disappear, no one would be thinking about Ike Grantham today. It's damn inconvenient, that's all.”

His tone hadn't changed, remaining almost affable. Lauren walked up to the porch with him. She had to call the dogs, who liked wandering in the yard. So much for feeling her pain. They didn't give a damn about her.

She picked up the old, yellowed bound volume she'd been reading. Richard frowned at her. “What's that?”

“Adelaide's diary.”

“Who?”

“Adelaide Morse. Benjamin's wife. Jedidiah Thorne's victim.”