The Carriage House (24 page)

“He had years to tell his story.”

“Maybe his sense of honor stopped him. You know those nineteenth-century types.”

“You could have a point.”

“Or I could be full of shit. I need to get some sleep if I'm going to face six-year-olds tomorrow.” He got heavily to his feet. “Forget what I said. I talked too much. Must be the ghosts.”

He went back into his shop, but Andrew didn't move. He listened to the ocean and stared up at the hickory, the stars and the moon. For all he knew, Harl was right about everything. Joanna, Ike, Tess, Jedidiah. And the ghosts.

T
ess tried to sleep in. She thought it would be easier if the Thorne household went on their way before she got up. Then she could shower, have a cup of coffee on the porch and figure out what to do with her day. She definitely wanted to slip down to Boston and check her e-mail archives. She'd gone through her saved e-mails from Ike, but not the ones from her to him.

Not that she intended to do any actual graphic design work. If the distractions up north continued, she'd be so far behind she'd never catch up. And her reputation would be in ruins. It wasn't just a question of doing good work—it also had to be done on time. What she'd found in her cellar on Friday night wouldn't help clients facing their own deadlines.

She sighed at the ceiling. She could hear Dolly singing a made-up song in her bathroom, something about kittens.

The Beacon-by-the-Sea police, Tess thought, needed a greater sense of urgency about her skeleton report. They were supposedly looking for Ike, but not with any apparent energy or enthusiasm. She could try lighting a fire under them. As Susanna, who knew such things, had said, the police didn't like missing bodies. Much easier if hers was a ghost or a figment of a highly creative imagination.

“No kidding,” Tess muttered sarcastically to herself.

It was only seven-fifteen. What time were Andrew and Dolly on their way in the morning?

Dolly burst in. “The kittens' eyes are open!”

Tess just managed to squash a startled yell. “They are?”

“Dolly,” Andrew said from the hall, nearby, “you should always knock. Tess might have been asleep.”

Not a chance, she thought.

Dolly was too excited to waste time on apologies.

“Sorry. Do you want to see the kittens? They're so cute!”

Andrew had the grace not to appear in the guest-room doorway. Tess didn't know what she'd have done if he had. She felt exposed as it was, out of her element. Dolly had a scraggly stuffed cat tucked under one arm. Tess sat up in bed. “I'll meet you in the pantry once I've gotten dressed.”

Dolly skipped out, leaving the door open behind her.

Andrew closed it.

So much for sleeping in, Tess thought, the brief image of him in his work shirt enough to eliminate any prospect of sleep or even calm. She quickly got dressed, a cool ocean breeze floating in through the open window as she pulled on jeans and a fresh shirt.

Down in the kitchen, Andrew had a mug of coffee poured for her. Dolly motioned excitedly, but silently, from the pantry.

Indeed, all four kittens had their eyes open. They were still tiny, but their fur was softer, less matted-looking, and even Tippy Tail seemed more pleased with the situation.

Dolly whispered, “Daddy says I can hold one if I'm careful.”

She scooped up the gray one—Cement Mixer—with two hands and held it against her cheek, her eyes shining at Tess. “She's so soft!”

Harl came in through the back door. Dolly had to show him the kittens, too. He grunted, which seemed enough for the six-year-old, and she ran out to get ready for school. There was some discussion over taking the magic wand Lauren Montague had given her. Harl and Andrew didn't think that would go over well with Dolly's teacher.

Tess stayed out of it. Dolly handled herself well with the two men, and they seemed to know just how far they could go with her without overpowering her.

Harl said, “I'm still in training as a teacher's helper. Will you give me a hand today?”

That thrilled her. “But I don't want you coming to my school
every
day, Harl, okay?”

“Yeah, I know. Kids need a chance to give away their celery sticks without some big old adult hanging over their head.”

Andrew, Tess noticed, kept his opinion on the subject to himself, allowing his daughter and cousin to have their own relationship.

“I'm off to Boston for the morning,” Tess announced abruptly. “I need to check in at the office, but I don't imagine I'll stay long.”

She decided not to mention checking more e-mails, since the first batch of archives had produced little. She was probably just spinning her wheels, digging into the history of the carriage house, reading e-mails between Ike and herself—making herself feel as if she was doing something when she wasn't. But what else was she supposed to do? Stay at the carriage house and mop more floors? Sit on the police until they got busy?

“Keep in touch,” Andrew said.

“I named all the kittens,” Dolly told her in the sort of non sequitur Tess had come to expect. “Cement Mixer, Snowflake, Midnight and Pooh.”

Tess made a face. “Pooh?”

Dolly giggled. “I know Winnie-the-Pooh's a bear, but Daddy says it's okay.”

He repeated his mantra. “Dolly, we're not keeping the kittens. You know that, right?”

She rolled her eyes, not answering. Squelching a smile, Tess headed out.

Traffic on Route One was miserable, and she got caught in a backup for an accident, then another one for construction. She parked on Beacon Hill, raced to her office and took the stairs to the fourth floor two at a time. She didn't know why she was rushing, but she couldn't stop herself.

Susanna Galway calmly looked up from her computer. “I've been sitting here making money for hours. You look as if you've been digging up more skeletons. Some reporter keeps calling, and I keep putting him off.”

Susanna looked gorgeous, as always, and probably had been making money for hours. Tess glowered at her and dropped into her chair. “What do you think the odds were of my ending up with a carriage house next door to a motherless six-year-old girl, a burned-out cop and an architect-contractor?”

“Seeing how Ike Grantham gave it to you, very good.”

“They were a factor, then.”

“This is just now occurring to you?”

“No,” Tess said, slightly annoyed. “It occurred to me sitting in traffic.”

Susanna shrugged, ignoring Tess's irritable remark. “I think Ike was worried about more ghosts than Jedidiah Thorne.”

Tess had worked this out, too, and knew what Susanna meant. “My mother.”

Nothing more needed to be said, and Susanna returned to her work. Tess checked messages. Most could be put off for another day, but one could not. Fortunately, it only required five minutes to take herself off the hook. Then, without mentioning to Susanna what she was up to, she checked her e-mail archives for messages from her to Ike.

There were forty-nine.

One was on the day of the meeting when he'd stood her up. She opened it.

She'd forgotten that he'd been meeting his future brother-in-law—Richard Montague—that day. It was one of a thousand insignificant exchanges she'd had with Ike, and there'd been no reason to attach any importance to where he'd gone that morning. After all, he hadn't been
missing.

But he was now, Tess thought. She just hadn't realized it until the past few days.

Maybe he'd never made it to the carriage house. Maybe he'd left town before his meeting there with Richard Montague.

Tess checked ten more e-mails, refusing to let her thoughts rush ahead, and as she read, she remembered the easy banter between Ike and herself. It wasn't just on his end—it was on hers, too, but without the slashing wit, the thrill of poking at other people's weaknesses.

Ike had loved Joanna Thorne, and he'd believed Richard Montague, who was about to marry his sister, Lauren, was partly responsible for Joanna's malaise. The woman had worked for him, and anyone who worked for Richard Montague had to be as consumed with getting him to Washington as he was. She hadn't made all the connections until now, perhaps because she hadn't known the players, perhaps because she'd been so occupied with sorting out her own life and hadn't paid proper attention to what was going on with Ike.

The reference to Joanna working for Richard was in a note from Ike copied at the bottom of one of Tess's e-mails to him. She hadn't kept the original.

Whether he was a client or perhaps even a friend, her relationship with Ike, she now saw, had been a guilty pleasure. She hadn't really known the people he'd trashed with his cutting, often very funny wit. Now she felt like a coconspirator, although she couldn't bring herself to regret their relationship. He'd never meant people to take him seriously. He was an overgrown adolescent who believed everyone should forgive his excesses because he was a good guy at heart. Tess had never expected anything from him—Ike Grantham was what he was.

But, she thought, he really hadn't liked Richard Montague at all.

She sat back, her head pounding. “Susanna, yesterday Richard Montague told me he hadn't been to the carriage house in years.” Her voice was steady but hollow, the strain evident. “That was a flat-out lie. He and Ike were supposed to meet there a few hours before Ike stood me up.”

“There could be an innocent reason.”

But Susanna's voice was flat and serious, and Tess knew they shared the same fear. “What if Richard Montague was the last person to see Ike alive? Wouldn't he want to tell the police, especially now, given the circumstances?”

“Maybe Ike never showed up.”

Tess swallowed, her throat dry and tight. “Maybe he did.”

Susanna swore under her breath.

“They meet, they argue over Lauren and Joanna—”

“And Ike ends up buried in the cellar.”

Tess looked over at her friend. “Am I getting ahead of the facts?”

“Way ahead.” Her green eyes leveled on Tess. “But who cares? You're not a cop. Go sit on the Beacon police, Tess. Make them talk to this Montague character. Look, another month or two of Ike Grantham and I might have been driven to dump him in a dirt cellar myself, but—” She inhaled. “Damn it, you don't get to murder people.”

And there it was, Tess thought. You don't get to murder people.

She printed out a copy of the pertinent e-mails and charged out, promising Susanna she'd check in later. “Don't tell your grandmother or
anyone
who's ever stepped foot in my father's bar about this development, okay? I could be off track, and it was hard enough explaining falling on top of a skeleton in the first place.”

Susanna nodded, but managed a grim smile. “Davey and the gang would never let you live down accusing someone of murder based on an e-mail.”

“God, it is thin, isn't it?”

“Go. Let the police talk to Montague and find out if he has a simple explanation.”

“I hope he does. Matter of fact, I'm still hoping it
was
a ghost I saw.”

Susanna said nothing, but Tess knew—they both knew.

Ike Grantham was dead.

 

Andrew found Lauren in her herb garden with her poodles. The little dogs were running through the grass, looking as if they'd collide, but never did. Lauren stood on a narrow gravel path among the herbs—Andrew recognized oregano, several kinds of thyme, sage, all getting going for the season. The seaside mansion and extensive grounds reminded Andrew that Lauren Grantham Montague was a wealthy woman. It was easy to forget, and maybe she wanted it that way. She didn't have drivers or guards at a gate or even full-time household help, but she came from money—and a lot of it.

If she or Ike wanted to disappear, or to make someone else disappear, they could do it.

“Dolly would enjoy the poodles.” Lauren spoke without looking at him, her gaze on the dogs. “You should bring her by sometime.”

One of the dogs scrambled over Andrew's foot. He ignored the tight ball of tension in his gut and concentrated on why he was here. But he let her have her moment of pleasantries. Why not? “I'm sure she'd get a kick out of these guys. She's an animal lover.”

Lauren turned to him, her eyes red-veined, as if she hadn't slept in days. She smiled without feeling. “Most princesses are.”

Her comment irritated him. Her idea of being a princess and Dolly's were so different. Lauren didn't have a clue about how he or his daughter thought. It wasn't because she was rich. That was too simple, too black-and-white. She established her own ideas for who people were and what they believed, why they did what they did, to suit herself. She'd take one fact about them and run with it, creating a whole panorama out of one tidbit. He'd seen her do it even with antiques she brought to Harl. She'd mix fact with fantasy, project herself and her own perceptions and beliefs, and turn a Windsor chair into a grand story.