The Kill (13 page)

“Where does he reside?”

“Off Zulla Road.”

Mallory pulled out a notepad. “What’s the address?”

“He rents the cottage at Clifden Cross. That’s Ian and Claire McCullough’s place.”

“Do you know if we could find him there now?”

“There’s no telling. What with planning the funeral and the races, we’re running around like chickens with our heads cut off. I’ll probably see him later today. I can ask him to call you.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Mallory fished a business card from his shirt pocket. “Here’s my direct number in case you don’t have it.”

Margaret fingered the card. “I’ll see to it that he gets this.”

“I don’t suppose you’d happen to know if your son was headed to Longmeadow when the worker spotted his car.”

“I have no idea, Lieutenant. Like I said before, we’ve been running all over the place getting ready for the races. Manning has spent quite some hours at Longmeadow helping get the course ready, but I couldn’t tell you for sure when he was there and when he wasn’t.”

“Any idea if your son spoke with Mr. Clarke by phone that afternoon?”

“Not the foggiest, but I’m quite certain that if Manning had knowledge about anything pertinent to Richard’s murder, whether from a phone call or visit, he wouldn’t just be sitting on that information.”

“Sure, I understand.” Mallory said. “We’d still like to question him.”

“I’ll pass on your request.” Margaret’s chair squawked as she pushed back from the table.

A
bigale stared after them as they disappeared down the hall. Was the unspoken implication that Manning was a potential
suspect
in Uncle Richard’s murder? The lieutenant hadn’t come right out and said so, but if you read between the lines…What was it he’d said? Something about not being certain that Dario Reyes was the shooter. And then, in the next breath, he’d brought up Manning’s car.

The front door thudded. A moment later, Margaret stormed past Abigale to the stove and snatched the frying pan off the burner. “Wouldn’t you know it? The eggs are burned. I’ll have to start over.”

“Did that bit about Manning’s car bother you as much as it did me?” Abigale asked.

“Why should it? They’re just doing their job,” Margaret said in a clipped tone. “Tying up loose ends.”

Abigale frowned. “Is that really what you think?”

Margaret cracked an egg against the edge of the counter and plopped it into the sizzling pan. “What else would I think?”

Abigale stared at Margaret’s back, noting her rigid stance, the angry way she whipped the egg with a fork. “I don’t know. But I got the feeling they were bothered by the fact that Manning had driven through the work area. As if—I don’t know—as if that was suspicious somehow.”

“That’s nonsense. Manning had a perfect right to be there,” Margaret replied, cracking a second egg. She flung the shell into the sink. Abigale caught a glimpse of her profile and saw the hard set of her jaw. Margaret might say the visit from Mallory didn’t bother her, but that’s not how she looked. She looked worried. More than worried.

Cold fingers of fear wiggled up Abigale’s spine. “Is Manning in trouble?”

No response.

“Margaret?”

The older woman’s shoulders sagged, as if a puppeteer had relaxed his grip on her. She stopped stirring the eggs and rested the spatula on the stove.

“Talk to me. Please.” Abigale patted the seat of the chair next to her. “Forget about breakfast. Come sit.”

Margaret cut off the gas and walked slowly to the table, blowing out a noisy sigh as she sank onto the ladder-back chair. She lifted her gaze, her blue eyes dull. “Manning lied to me.”

“Lied about what?”

Margaret clamped her lips together and shook her head, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Heaven help us.”

Abigale’s heart pounded in her throat. “Margaret, please. Talk to me.”

“Manning told me he never went to Longmeadow after hunting on Monday. But that was obviously a lie. Because the construction worker saw him drive through the paving site. And if Manning was on St. Louis Road, he was on his way to Longmeadow. There would be no other reason for him to drive through that area.”

“Manning didn’t lie, Margaret. He didn’t deliberately tell you he hadn’t gone there when he had. He just doesn’t remember.”

“What are you saying?”

“Julia told me last night that Manning was so drunk on Monday he can’t remember anything that happened.”

“How does Julia know that?”

“She ran into Manning at the pub where she works.” Abigale fingered the handle of her mug of cold coffee. “He spent the night with her.”

Margaret’s eyes flashed. “That’s no surprise.”

“Julia told me this wasn’t the first time he’s been drunk.”

“The first? Far from it. Manning seems intent on honoring his good-for-nothing father’s legacy, partying and sleeping around like there’s no tomorrow. Not a care or responsibility in the world. I’ve bailed Manning out of more messes than you can count.”

“It sounds like he needs professional help.”

“Of course he does,” Margaret shot back, her tone so sharp it made Abigale jump. “There’s an excellent alcohol rehab facility right up the road in Pennsylvania. I’ve given Manning all the literature about it, but you can’t help someone who won’t help himself.”

She shook her head, disappointment swimming in her eyes. “The least Manning could have done was to fess up and tell me that he was so stinking drunk he can’t remember whether he went to Longmeadow. But did he do that?
No
. He lied. Said he’d told Richard he couldn’t meet him there. Now he has the police after him, questioning what he was doing in the vicinity at the time of Richard’s murder, and you’re telling me Manning can’t even remember if he was there. Well, I’m tired of pinning up his diapers. He’s on his own this time.”

Abigale kept quiet. It wasn’t her place to defend Manning.

A car door slammed outside. Duchess barked and scrambled toward the back door.

“That must be Wendy,” Margaret said.

Abigale carried her coffee mug to the sink. “I’m going to run upstairs for a quick shower.”

“That’s fine. Wendy and I can go over race business until you join us to discuss the funeral arrangements. I’m sorry about this mess with Manning, Abigale. Nothing like being exposed to all the skeletons in the closet right off the bat.”

The back door squeaked open and muffled footsteps drifted in, the sound of someone stomping on the mat.

“Don’t apologize,” Abigale said. “I—”

Manning stepped inside.

B
oth women stared at Manning. Neither said a word. He looked from his mother to Abigale as he reached down to pet Duchess. “Did I interrupt something?”

Abigale jabbed a hand at her hair and tugged at the belt of her flannel bathrobe. “I was just leaving.”

He arched an eyebrow as she disappeared into the hall. “Was it something I said?”

Margaret didn’t return his smile. “I need to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

“Might as well sit down.”

“Okay.” He chose a chair across the table from her.

Margaret glared at him, her hands clasped together on the oak table in a white-knuckled grip. Her lips curved downward, exaggerating the lines around her mouth. It struck Manning how old she looked.

“I had a visit from Lieutenant Mallory this morning.”

“Any breaks in the investigation?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Good news?”

“Not necessarily.”

Manning frowned. “What did he tell you?”

Margaret locked eyes with him. He wasn’t quite sure what it was he saw in the look she gave him. Anger? Fear? Disgust? Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. He waited.

“Lieutenant Mallory informed me that a witness reported seeing a green sports car drive through the paving site on St. Louis Road shortly before four o’clock on Monday.”

Manning’s pulse pounded so hard he was sure his mother could hear it. He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back in the chair.

“Turns out, they’ve identified the vehicle as your car and are curious why no one mentioned that you had been in the area around the time of Richard’s murder. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise, since you told me you didn’t go to Longmeadow.”

Fire shot through Manning’s gut.
Jesus Christ
. So he
had
gone to the racecourse. “I can explain—”

Margaret slammed her clenched hands against the table. “I’m not interested in an explanation. I’m interested in the truth.”

He closed his eyes, ran both hands through his hair. “The truth is, I don’t know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I had too much to drink,” Manning said, blowing out a sigh. “I have a blackout about that entire night. I’ve tried to piece things together, believe me, but I just can’t remember whether I met Richard at Longmeadow or not.” He told her about the incoming call from Richard on his cell, what Julia had said about him rushing out of the Blackthorne.

“So that’s why Mallory asked if you’d talked to Richard by phone that afternoon. He probably saw it on the call record on Richard’s cell phone.”

“Probably.”

Margaret gave him a long, cold stare. “You told me you didn’t have a meeting with Richard. That you told him you couldn’t make it that afternoon.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So, that was a lie?” It was a statement, dressed up as a question.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry, was that ayes?”

“Yes. I lied.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you
lie?”
She spat out the word, as if it was about to choke her.

“I don’t know. When Percy asked me about meeting Richard at Longmeadow and I had no recollection of it, I guess I panicked.”

“So you lied.”

“Yes, Mother. I lied. For Christ’s sake, how many times do you want me to say it?”

“Until you show some remorse for what you did!”

“You think I don’t have remorse? Trust me, I have enough remorse for both of us.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” she asked.

“I’ll talk to Mallory and tell him the truth, that I was drunk and I don’t remember going to Longmeadow.”

“You expect him to believe that?”

“I don’t know if he’ll believe it or not, but it’s the truth.”

Margaret gave him a wintry smile. “Wonder if intoxication has ever held up as a defense in a murder case.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Wake up, Manning. What do you think Mallory wants to discuss with you? Whether you had a nice afternoon drive on Monday?”

“You’ve got to be kidding! Mallory thinks I shot Richard?”

“I’d say it appears to be an angle he’s exploring.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

She didn’t respond.

“Why in the world would I kill Richard? I loved him. He was like a father to me. You know that.”

“That’s neither here nor there as far as Mallory is concerned. He sees people kill people they love all the time.”

Manning sucked in a breath. “I don’t believe this. I thought they had a suspect. That road construction worker.”

“They do.”

“Okay, so if they find him and link him to Richard’s murder…”

“Assuming they do, you’ll be off the hook. Until the next time.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You have a drinking problem, Manning. That’s what got you into this scrape. And, God forbid, it may be what put Richard in a situation where he ended up shot dead. Don’t you think it’s time you came to grips with it?”

He nodded as Margaret was talking. “I know. I’ve already had this conversation with myself. I had way too much to drink. The blackout scares the shit out of me. Trust me, it won’t happen again.”

“So that’s your solution? You won’t let it happen again?” Her voice was cold with contempt. “Like I haven’t heard that from you before.”

“Thanks for the faith in me, Mother.”

“Why should I have faith in you? Give me one good reason.”

Manning blew out a bitter laugh. “I’ve quit before, Mother. I can do it again.”