The Carriage House (25 page)

Bottom line, she tended to jump to conclusions about people.

Andrew suspected she had about him.

“Tess Haviland's skeleton is for real,” he said.

She didn't seem surprised at his abrupt comment. “She thinks it's Ike. That's the police's nightmare scenario. They're hoping he turns up.”

“What about you?”

She shrugged. “It would be horrible if it was Ike. I'd suffer personally, of course, but so would the project, my husband, you. Richard's Pentagon appointment is already in jeopardy, just at the whiff of something wrong. And you. You're right next door. Can you imagine if it turns out that Ike Grantham was killed in the Thorne carriage house?”

“You sound like a reporter reading the news. He's your brother.”

She tossed back her head, annoyed. “I know who he is.”

Andrew didn't back off. “You know more than you've admitted.”

She kept her head back, her eyes half-closed as she stared at him. “Do I?”

“Lauren, whatever pieces of this mess you have—maybe you've put them together wrong, come up with the wrong answers.”

She scooped up one of the dogs and held it, scratching under its chin. “I think I like dogs better than people.” She pressed her cheek to the top of the dog's head, her eyes filled with tears. “You don't respect me, Andrew. You never have. You've never appreciated what I do for you—or anyone else for that matter. You're very independent that way, you know.”

He didn't respond. A light breeze had stirred, bringing out the smells of grass and soil, flowers. It was a beautiful spot, no old Adirondack chairs, no overgrown lilacs, no Harl.

Lauren set down the dog and walked a few steps onto the path. The herb garden was planted in a classic star pattern, with a gazing globe at the center. “I haven't seen or heard from my brother since last March. He was supposed to meet Tess that afternoon in Boston to discuss a new design for the project's Web page. They often met up here, but not that day.”

The dogs had followed her onto the path and were getting into the herbs. Lauren herded them out of the rosemary. “Stay on the paths, kiddos, or I'll put you inside.” She squatted and replaced dirt one of them had scratched up. “He was stopping at the carriage house first. He told me at breakfast. We'd argued.”

“About the carriage house?”

She shook her head and rose, brushing the dirt off her hands. “No, about his living arrangements.”

Andrew knew what she was talking about. A frequent subject of gossip in town, the Grantham living arrangements were one of their more obvious eccentricities. When he was in town, whether for an extended period or a few days, Ike lived in the family mansion with his sister. It apparently was never a problem with her first husband. He and Lauren had traveled frequently themselves, and his family owned a place on Cape Cod. After their divorce, with their daughter away at school, it was just Ike and Lauren again, brother and sister, in the Beacon-by-the-Sea house where they'd grown up, an arrangement that apparently had suited them.

But Andrew guessed all that changed when Lauren decided to remarry. “Richard didn't want Ike staying here?”

“He wanted me to buy out Ike's share, minus all the work I'd had done, the maintenance, the taxes I'd paid. If not for me, the termites or the tax man would have gotten this place. Ike never lifted a finger or contributed a dime. Richard didn't want to be unfair to him, but Ike was furious. You know how he was—is.” The correction was halfhearted, and she gave a quick, sad smile, as if she didn't expect Andrew to believe she thought her brother was alive. “Rules and details like mowing the lawn and paying property taxes were for other people, not him. He was above that sort of day-to-day trivia. That's all well and good, I told him—then he should hire someone to handle the tasks that bore him.”

“I don't recall you two arguing in the time I've known you.”

“We never did, but Richard made me see how my brother was taking advantage of me—and had been for years and years. All our lives, really.”

Andrew walked onto an offshoot of the main path, two of the dogs scooting past him. He was suddenly aware of the stillness and beauty around him and expected this would be hard to give up. And Ike would feel entitled to it. That was the way he was.

But Andrew stuck to the main issue—Ike's actions on that day in March. “Why was he headed to the carriage house?”

“Oh, he was being ridiculous. He said he never should have given it to Tess, he should have kept it himself and renovated it as his Beacon-by-the-Sea home. He was trying to pretend nothing I said mattered.”

“The carriage house isn't on as grand a scale as this place—”

She waved a hand angrily. “Ike was just blowing smoke. He'd never give up this place without a fight, without making me feel as if I were stabbing him in the back. He'd fight me every inch of the way. I never told Richard, but according to our parents' will—he could win.”

“They stipulated you both owned the property or neither did?”

She nodded, almost embarrassed. “Basically. It was a way to manipulate me from the grave. They knew Ike wouldn't live up to his share of the responsibilities, so they made sure I'd have to keep sweeping up after him the way they did. It's not as if I couldn't afford to.” She turned and started back down the path toward the lawn, walking slowly, pensive more than outraged. “Richard was having none of it. I didn't want him to know how I rated with my parents.”

“What did you do after you and Ike argued?” Andrew asked.

“I went to the office. Ike got all the prestige there, too, without having to do any of the hard work. He did what he wanted to, what amused him. I was furious with myself for putting up with it. It was as if Richard had taken off the blinders, and I have to say I didn't thank him for it. It's an awful feeling, knowing you've been a doormat for your brother, that your own parents expected that of you.”

Andrew headed on a parallel path back out to the lawn, the poodles there ahead of him, finally collapsing in the shade. “You must have hated him at that moment,” he said.

“No, that's just it.” She smiled over at him, tears spilling out onto her cheeks now. But her voice was steady, as if she was unaware she was crying. “I loved my brother. I take him as he is, faults and all, the whole package. All I really wanted, I realized, was the same from him. Acceptance of my bad points, appreciation for my good ones.”

“So, you're sitting in your office, fuming, but finally you figure—the hell with it, I need to patch things up with Ike, explain to Richard my brother's a part of the package and move on.” Andrew glanced over at her. “You don't wait. You head to the carriage house.”

“Yes.” Her voice was distant, and he could feel her transporting herself back in time, to that March day. “It was very cold. I remember being impatient for spring. March is my least favorite month, but last year it was just interminable. But I walked over. I wanted the cold air to whip the last of the resentment out of me, I suppose.”

“What time?”

“It was before lunch. About eleven, I'd say.”

She spoke in a monotone, and she began shivering. Andrew stepped closer to her. “Then what?”

“I didn't see his car. He must have walked. He was always so physical, and he'd have wanted the exercise after our argument. I knew he was there.” She crossed her arms on her chest, pressed them against her. “I climbed up the side steps.”

She stopped, her face going ashen, the shivering worse. Andrew knew he had to keep her in that moment, talking. “Did you go inside?”

“Not then.”

“You saw something,” he said.

Her eyes met his. He could see her swallow. “I saw you.”

“You're sure?”

“You were going through the lilacs. You had on that old denim jacket of yours. I called you, and you didn't answer.”

“Did you see me, Lauren, or did you see my jacket?”

“I saw
you.
”

He didn't argue, still wanted her in that moment. “What did you do after you didn't get an answer?”

“I went inside.”

“Into the carriage house,” he prodded.

She nodded, her eyes dry now, dull. “There was water…and an awful smell. Lime. Flesh. At first I thought it was my imagination—”

“You thought it was the ghost at work.”

“Yes, the ghost. That's what I thought. But I knew…” She looked at him, focused on him. “I knew better.”

“Lauren—”

But she didn't stop, and he saw what was coming, felt it. “I knew you'd killed my brother. Because of Joanna. I didn't blame you. Ike shouldn't have gotten involved.”

He didn't react outwardly. Carefully, he took her back to that day last March. “When you were at the carriage house, did you see Ike?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not then. The trapdoor was wet. It—it was unlatched. I latched it again and left. I never went back.”

“You went back this Saturday,” Andrew said quietly.

“Yes, when Tess finally showed up. I couldn't bring myself to act any sooner. I wish I'd waited until later in the evening, but Richard—” She paused to swallow, her breathing light and rapid, her voice strangely calm. “Richard would have noticed and asked questions. Andrew, I didn't want you to realize what I knew. I just wanted to take care of Ike for you.”

Jesus,
Andrew thought, but maintained his outward control. “You collected his remains from the carriage house cellar.”

“So you didn't have to.”

“Where are they now?”

With one hand, she brushed back her straight, shining hair and leveled her eyes at him. They were clear and sad, but also, Andrew decided, a little smug. After all, she'd risked a lot to do him this favor. “I'll show you. We'll need to decide what to do with them.”

We.
Andrew gritted his teeth. Had someone tried to frame him? Or was connecting him to the jacket just a leap of logic on Lauren's part? She got a glimpse of denim and filled in the blanks.

She started across the lawn and glanced back at him, not breaking her stride. “Ike always wanted to be buried at sea.” She smiled almost peacefully. “I think we can arrange that, don't you?”

Andrew decided it was time to go on record. “Lauren, I didn't kill him.”

But she ignored him, whistling for the poodles. They roused, stretched and trotted after her with less energy than when they'd romped in the herbs.

“Coming?” she asked, the wind picking up, whipping tawny hairs into her mouth.

Andrew nodded. “Sure.”

She took him around front to the driveway. Her car was parked in front of his, and he winced as she went to the trunk. “Hell,” he breathed, watching her pop it open.

She gasped.
“No!”

Andrew saw from where he stood. The trunk was empty.

This woman had been carrying her brother's remains in her trunk for the past three days, thinking Andrew had killed him.

She spun around at him. “Is this your idea of a
joke?
He was in a black garbage bag. I put him there myself. I made sure I had all of him. I didn't want to leave behind a finger or something for the police to find. You know, with DNA testing, these days you can't just leave that sort of thing lying around.” She was talking rapidly, her composure eroding fast. “My God in heaven. What kind of person would steal a bag of
bones
out of my car?”

What kind of person would have them in there in the first place? Andrew reined in an urge to get in his car and get the hell out of there. “Lauren, we need to call the police.”

She frowned at him. “What?”

“I didn't kill Ike. You don't need to protect me.”

“But I—I saw you.”

“It wasn't me.”

She blinked. “What?”

He was losing her. The stress of finding her trunk empty was too much. “Where's your husband?”

“Richard? He's at work.”

Andrew didn't think so. Richard Montague was shorter than he was and thicker through the chest, but he could have easily grabbed the denim jacket off its hook on the back porch and thrown it on, just in case someone saw him at the carriage house and Ike's body was discovered sooner rather than later.

Even later—now, over a year later—his simple precaution was paying off.

“Lauren, did you tell Richard you were going to the carriage house to talk to Ike that morning last March?”

She rallied. “Yes, we talked right after I got to the office. Why?”

Because it meant Richard had planned for her to think Andrew had killed her brother, in case she showed up. He'd guessed how she'd react. He was an expert in that sort of thinking. It also meant killing Ike wasn't an accident Richard covered up, but a deliberate act.