The Carriage House (26 page)

“We need to call the police,” Andrew said. “And we need to find your husband.”

R
ichard needed a murderer.

He parked his car in the carriage house driveway. He had the outlines of a plan—a daring plan, because daring was called for—and he needed to be direct. To hide his car was to invite the wrong sort of question.

He was an innocent man. He needed to act innocent.

He got his Walther .9 mm out of the glove compartment. Lauren hated guns, so he'd never mentioned the one he kept in his desk at his office. It was against company policy, but he'd sneaked it in piece by piece.

He tucked the weapon into his waistband and got Ike's bones out of the trunk. With the bag tightly sealed, no smells could escape, yet he could smell it, anyway, knew it was the memory of over a year ago. He hadn't expected blood. Ike must have caught his head on a loose nail on his way down the carriage house stairs.

But there was the smell of the lime, too, it and the dirt cellar floor, Ike's body, all wet and slick from being hosed down. He'd had to speed decomposition, move things along before warm weather set in.

He'd burned Ike's expensive clothes and tossed the ashes into the sea. Much easier than getting rid of a body. He'd cleaned up inside as best he could.

He hadn't worried that much about someone discovering Ike's remains in the cellar. He'd taken precautions. But he hadn't counted on Lauren stealing them. He thought he could weather having a brother-in-law turn up dead, but having his wife involved was something else altogether. That smug bastard Jeremy Carver would never stand for that sort of scandal.

No, he couldn't just dump Ike's remains at sea. He needed to produce a murderer. An ending to this sordid affair. The work he did was far too important to risk that he might end up in any way tarnished by Ike Grantham's death.

He ducked through a small gap in the lilac hedge, the trash bag snagging on a branch. The smell came through, musty and earthy. His stomach roiled.

He could hear the little girl—Dolly—singing in her tree house. He moved quietly across the lawn to Harley Beckett's workshop. The door was open, and as he crossed the threshold, he removed the Walther from his waistband and leveled it at Harl, who was already reaching for a baseball bat.

“I wouldn't,” Richard said.

“Yeah, you wouldn't—you've got a goddamn gun. What do you need with a baseball bat?”

But Harl's hand was suspended midair, his eyes focused on Richard, his white ponytail hanging over his left shoulder. Richard set the bones on the floor. “With Tess Haviland's report of a skeleton, I've reluctantly come to the conclusion that you had to be involved. You live right here on the other side of the lilac hedge. You're a burnout. There was no love lost between you and my brother-in-law. But before I went to the police with such an explosive accusation, I thought I should check it out myself. Armed, of course.”

“Just don't touch the kid. You hear me? Touch her, and I'll haunt you forever. It won't be pretty.”

Richard smiled and shook his head. “Such a romantic.” He motioned toward the door with his gun. “Shall we? I'm afraid I need you at the carriage house.”

“Hide the weapon. I don't want Dolly to see it. I'll cooperate.”

“Just move,” Richard said, “and pray.”

The little girl didn't stop singing as Richard followed Harl back through the lilacs. Beckett seemed to relax once they were onto the carriage house driveway, out of view of the tree house. He glanced back at Richard, his eyes knowing. “No way I'm coming out of this alive?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Richard said. “No way. It's not personal. In my work I've learned that sometimes one must make sacrifices for the greater good.”

“The greater good here being saving your sorry ass.”

“The world needs me.”

“Yeah? You know what I say? Screw the world.”

Richard smirked. “That's what all the burnouts say. Let's go inside, shall we?”

Harl started up the kitchen steps.

“You're a brave man,” Richard said. “There's a role in the world for simple, uneducated, brave men with a clear sense of duty.”

“It's called cannon fodder.”

“Gallows humor?”

Beckett didn't answer.

Once inside, Richard had him unlatch the trapdoor and lift it. “I know you're going to try something. In fact, I'm counting on it.”

But what Beckett did, Richard hadn't counted on. He said, “Fuck you,” and dove headfirst through the trapdoor. He might have been diving into the ocean.

Richard fired, striking Harl in the hip as he disappeared through the opening. His second shot hit the wall. He heard Harl land with a sickening thud on the dirt floor below, without a cry of pain, a moan or even so much as a sigh.

Richard stood over the dark opening. Maybe Harl had broken his neck. A headfirst dive was risky and awkward—unexpected. But if he'd gone through the trapdoor feetfirst, Richard would have had a better chance of hitting a vital organ or shooting him in the head. It didn't matter, provided Richard could credibly claim self-defense.

What a moronic move on Harl's part, Richard thought, frustrated, as he got down on his knees and with his free hand, unlatched the ladder. He had to make sure Harl was dead. The only way his plan would work was if he could claim to have killed Harley Beckett in self-defense.

Though who would believe Beckett's version of events over his own?

The ladder dropped to the floor.

This was very risky. If Harl was alive and functioning, Richard would be exposed on the rickety ladder.

Best to go around to the bulkhead, he decided.

He tucked the Walther into his waistband, observed that he wasn't breathing hard at all and headed for the kitchen door.

A little girl popped through the lilacs. “Have you seen my cat?” she asked.

 

Tess pulled up in front of Andrew's house and jumped out of the car. He wasn't at his office. She'd stopped at the Beacon Historic Project offices to check on Lauren Montague, but she wasn't there, either. Tess wanted to talk to both Lauren and Andrew about her visit to the police.

They were looking into Ike Grantham's disappearance. They weren't happy with what they'd found—or, more accurately,
hadn't
found—so far. They thought perhaps she had seen a skeleton on Friday night after all.

“We wish you'd called us then,” Paul Alvarez had told her.

“I wish I had, too.”

She pounded up the front steps, but the door was locked and no one answered the bell. She went around back, calling for Harl and Andrew both.

Harl's workshop door was open. Tess picked up her pace, calling for him as she ran over to the outbuilding at the far end of the yard.

She saw the black trash bag and knew what it was. To be sure, she tucked a finger in where it was torn and peered inside.

Bones.

Ike.

It was after school. Harl would have picked up Dolly by now. Had they gone somewhere together?

“Dolly!”

Tess ran out of the shop, climbed up into the girl's tree house. There were stuffed animals and her tea set and books, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

“Dolly!”

She could hear panic edging into her voice, assaulting her system. She half climbed, half jumped out of the tree house. She had to call Andrew, but she'd left her cell phone in the car.

Tippy Tail leaped out of the rhododendrons. Tess was so startled, she thought she'd die on the spot, but she didn't scream.

Someone had put the garbage bag in Harl's shop.

Not Harl, she thought.

If Tippy Tail had escaped from the pantry and her kittens, Dolly would be on the case.
Find her,
Tess told herself.
Then call the police.

Or call the police first?

She was already at Dolly's gap in the lilac hedge. A fat blossom brushed against her face as she started through to her yard.

A black BMW was parked in her driveway. A painful jolt of adrenaline shot through her.
Richard.
Tess took a step backward, knowing she had to call the police now, first, but she heard Dolly say, “My name's
Princess
Dolly.”

Tess went dead-still.

Oh, God.

Her only advantage was that they hadn't seen her. She had no choice. She had to back out into Andrew's yard, and she had to call him, and she had to call the police. She couldn't take any chances. Not with a six-year-old, she thought. Not with Dolly.

“And I'm
not
going into that dirty old cellar!”

She was there in the lilacs before Tess could move, and the little girl gasped in surprise. “Tess! Tell that man I don't have to do what he says. Have you seen Tippy Tail? And I can't find Harl.” She was talking rapidly, ready to cry. “Will you help me find Tippy Tail and Harl?”

Richard Montague came up behind Dolly. “Hello, Miss Haviland.”

Tess grabbed the little girl, pulled her through the lilacs and shoved her toward the house. “Run, Dolly! Run! Go get your dad. Hurry!”

“But what are you—”

“Go! It's an emergency. Get your dad. Call 911. Tell them Richard Montague's a—a—”

Dolly's eyes widened in terror. “Is he a bank robber?”

“Yes!” Tess hung on to every shred of control, refused to look back through the lilacs, although she knew what was happening. Dolly was moving toward the house. “Show me how fast you can run!”

Dolly started screaming and running.

“Oh, for God's sake.” Richard Montague leveled a very black gun at Tess through the gap in the lilacs. “Obviously you're in this with Harl.”

Tess feigned complete surprise, as if Montague couldn't have heard her instructions to Dolly. “Look, I don't know what you're talking about. Is Harl with you? I can't believe he left Dolly alone.”

“Come through the lilacs, Miss Haviland.” She really had no choice. While she had her doubts whether he'd shoot her—how would he explain it?—he just might. “Fine,” she said, impatient, ignoring the twist of fear in her stomach, “let's get this straightened out. I don't like people pointing guns at me.”

When she landed on the carriage house side of the lilacs, Richard Montague stepped back. He looked ragged, gray-faced. And calm, she thought. Arrogant. “I don't usually underestimate people,” he said, “but I'm afraid I underestimated Harley Beckett.”

“Harl? Come on. He works on furniture and takes care of a six-year-old.”

“And you,” Montague added, as if she hadn't spoken.

“Me? Not to worry. People underestimate me all the time. It comes with the turf. When you're a graphic designer, the artists all think you're not a real artist and thus not one of them, and the nonartists all think you're a real artist and thus not one of
them.
” She sighed, her instincts operating almost without her consent. “Please put the gun away. I'm not in ca-hoots with Harley Beckett.”

“He's manipulated everyone, my wife included. He killed Ike. I found his remains in the trunk of Lauren's car. I brought them here—I was furious, I admit. I wasn't thinking.”

Tess doubted Richard Montague ever stopped thinking. “You confronted him?”

He nodded. “I should have called the police.”

“But you didn't. What did Harl do?”

“He told me he wanted to confess. We walked over here together, but that was another manipulation. He jumped me, and my gun went off—”

“My God.” Tess could feel herself go pale, her breathing get shallow. Her throat and chest felt tight. “Were either of you hurt?”

“I wasn't.”

“Dr. Montague—”

“You've done well, Tess, but now—” He shrugged, resigned. He motioned at her with his gun. “Let's go inside, shall we?”

 

Richard didn't love her. He'd never loved her. He loved the
idea
of her. Her money. Her family name. Her house on the ocean. Ike had seen through him from the beginning.

She should have known. He saw through everybody.

Lauren ducked under a low-hanging branch and sank onto her favorite teak bench under a canopy of climbing roses. They wouldn't bloom until mid-June. She wondered if she'd be around when they did.

What did the police do to a woman who'd tried to cover up the murder of her brother, even if she was protecting the wrong man?

Would she be arrested, tried, found guilty of something and thrown into prison?

If she'd testified against Andrew, he could have been convicted, like Jedidiah Thorne, of a murder he did not commit.