The Kill (28 page)

M
argaret wasn’t keen on the idea of Abigale spending the night at Manning’s, even though she’d prompted her to talk to Manning about what had happened with the mare, air all the dirty laundry, hash things out, and get on with it. She’d bet money they were heading toward more than talking. You’d have to be blind not to see the fire rekindling. In both of them. There was nothing she could do, though, except let them ride it out. And be around to pick up the pieces afterward.

She tossed the phone harder than she’d meant to, and felt Duchess jump against her leg as the handset clunked against the oak table. “It’s okay, girl,” she said, reaching down to rub the dog’s velvety ears. Duchess sat up and rested her head on Margaret’s knee; her soulful brown eyes flickered back and forth, as if searching Margaret’s face for the cause of her temper.

“You know me too well, don’t you?” Margaret murmured, absently stroking her on the head. “Things are a far cry from okay.”

Richard’s watch lay on the kitchen table in front of her, glowing in a beam of afternoon sun. As if taunting her to make a decision. She ran her fingers along the gold band, shuddering as goose bumps pricked her arms. It felt so cold, impersonal. So lifeless. Of course, what did she expect? It was just an object. Separated from Richard, it meant nothing. She closed a gentle fist around it. If only it could talk.

No matter how hard Margaret tried, and she’d thought of little else since leaving the cleaner, she could come up with no good reason why Richard’s watch had turned up in Manning’s coat pocket. Unless the Williams girl had been mistaken about which coat she’d found the watch in. She was young, probably had boys on her mind. Might even have been text-messaging while she worked, like all the kids seemed to do these days. It was no wonder more and more kids were being diagnosed with ADHD. She’d have a hard time paying attention, too, if she had a goddamned cell phone constantly alerting her that she had a new message.

Of course, even assuming the girl had been correct, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a perfectly innocent explanation. Maybe Richard had left the watch somewhere and Manning had picked it up and slipped it in his pocket, intending to give it to Richard the next time he saw him. That was entirely possible. Richard was forgetting things more and more lately. Just the other week, he’d been distracted after hunting and had driven halfway out of the pasture before he’d realized the back trailer ramp was down. He’d laughed it off, but Margaret knew the slipup had bothered him.

The fact that the watch was found in Manning’s scarlet coat gave Margaret some comfort. That meant that no matter how Manning had ended up with the watch, it must have happened at the hunt. Once the hunt was over, Manning would have changed into his tweed jacket. Etiquette dictated it. If Manning did meet Richard at Longmeadow—and the fact that his car was spotted by the road crew implied he probably did—he would not have been wearing his scarlet coat.

But a chill crept over Margaret as a memory niggled the back of her mind. It had been raining the day Richard died. Raw. They’d had a good go of it hunting, but they’d arrived back at the trailers damp and chilled to the bone. She remembered how the Brunswick stew Wendy had provided for the tailgate had warmed her. She also remembered that Manning was still wearing his scarlet coat at the tailgate. When she’d commented on his lack of manners, Manning had shrugged it off, told her he was toasty warm under the heavyweight wool, that it repelled the rain much better than his tweed jacket did. She’d noticed later that he’d lent his rain jacket to Julia.

The image of Manning in his scarlet coat burned in Margaret’s mind like a hot coal. Surely Manning would have taken the bulky coat off when he got back to the truck to drive his horse home. Or, at the very least, when he arrived at the barn. Even dry, the coat would be uncomfortable to drive in. Especially in the confines of Manning’s sports car. It made no sense that he would still be wearing the coat if he met Richard at Longmeadow. But then again, it was Manning. Logical thinking—rules—didn’t always apply to him, especially when he was into the booze.

Margaret shoved the chair back, disgusted by the game she was playing with herself. Making excuses. But, as damning as the evidence was, she couldn’t make herself believe Manning was guilty. Not of murder. It just wasn’t in him. Drinking too much? You bet. Shirking responsibility? He was a pro. But Manning loved Richard. And despite the fact that Manning seemed to be mad at the whole world lately, she’d never heard him exchange an angry word with Richard. Ever. Besides, when Manning did get mad he didn’t blow a fuse. Get worked up enough to shoot someone. He sulked. Confessed his woes to a bottle of whisky. Nope. She’d blame Manning all day long for getting drunk that afternoon, but she wasn’t ready to believe him guilty of Richard’s murder.

She scraped the chair across the kitchen floor to the sink, Duchess trailing underfoot. Grabbing the back of the chair, she stepped up on the rush seat, stretching to hook her fingers through the horse-head-shaped handle of a small porcelain pitcher on the top shelf. Margaret pulled the pitcher down, blew off a coat of dust, and slipped the watch inside. Thank God she hadn’t told the Williams girl the watch was Richard’s. Or that the coat the girl had found it in belonged to Manning.

A
bigale juggled the grocery bags as she let herself in the front door, trying to be as quiet as possible in case Manning was resting. She gave the door a gentle shove with her hip and elbowed it closed. The door to Manning’s bedroom stood open, and she could see the curtains were drawn, the lights off. Thank God. It looked as though he’d finally given up the macho pretense and surrendered to sleep. She’d put the bags in the kitchen, then go check on him.

Halfway across the room, she heard a sharp clang in the kitchen, like glass clanking against glass.
Clang…clang…clang
. She darted for the kitchen, smelling the sour stench of beer before she even reached the door.

She froze in the open doorway, then flinched at the clatter as Manning shot a beer bottle into the trash. His back was to her, oblivious to her presence. She stood silently, watching him twist the top off a bottle of Bass Ale, hold it high above the sink, and ceremoniously drain it down to the foam. He tossed the empty bottle in the trash, then grabbed another.

Good God
. How long had he been at this? Had he consumed as much as he was emptying into the sink? She drew in a breath and stepped into the room.

“Manning?”

He spun around, half-empty bottle in hand. His hair was wet; he must have showered, and he’d changed into khakis and a faded navy hoodie, the right sleeve bunched up like an accordion above his blue cast.

Abigale dumped the tangle of grocery bags on the counter. “What’s going on?”

Manning turned back to the sink and upended the bottle. “I’m pouring beer down the drain.”

“I can see that.”

He snorted, flashing a humorless smile over his shoulder.

She clamped her arms across her chest. “Talk to me, Manning.”

Manning held the bottle by two fingers, let it slip, and watched it collide with the other bottles. He crushed the empty cardboard beer carton against the counter with his cast and stuffed it into the trash.

Abigale took a step forward. “Manning—”

“Wait.” He held up a hand. “I’m not finished.”

She watched him yank open a cupboard door and grab a full bottle of Maker’s Mark. He wedged the bottle against his side with his cast, used his left hand to pull the tab, and peeled off the red wax seal. The cap squeaked as he unscrewed it. Manning narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the caramel liquid flowing into the sink.

The scent of sour mash teased Abigale’s nostrils, igniting a craving in her throat. And she didn’t even like the taste of whisky! She could only imagine how it must be torturing Manning. He shook out the last drop and chucked the empty bottle in the trash. His eyes slid over to meet hers.

“There.”

Abigale bit her bottom lip and studied him for a minute. “Finished?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“Fair enough.” She pulled a carton of orange juice and a loaf of bread out of a grocery bag. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“You should eat something. The pain meds are supposed to be taken with food.” She lifted a white paper bag and dangled it in the air. “I stopped at the Upper Crust and got you a ham-and-cheese croissant.”

He shook his head. His eyes flickered toward the trash.

Abigale knew she had to get him out of there. She pulled her camera from her shoulder bag. “I saw a blue heron down by the pond when I drove in. I thought I’d go try to get some shots of it. I’d love it if you’d come with me.”

“You’d love it?”

She blushed. “Come with me.”

The corners of his lips twitched, curving into a ghost of a smile. “Sure. Why not?”

M
anning’s legs were as wobbly as a newborn foal’s, his feet so numb he was tempted to look down to see if they were still there. He felt just like he had when they’d given him anesthesia to remove his wisdom teeth. Another couple of seconds and it’d be lights out.

“Someone’s driving down to your house,” Abigale said.

Grateful for an excuse to rest, Manning stopped and looked up. A red Volkswagen Jetta sped down the driveway. “It’s Julia.”

“I’m sure the word’s spread by now. You’ll probably have a steady parade of visitors.”

“Great.”

They’d already hiked halfway from the pond to his house, up a hill that was nothing more than a gentle slope. But it felt like he’d been climbing Mt. Everest.

“Are you okay?” Abigale asked. She was only a couple of feet away, but her voice sounded as if she were talking through a tunnel. Her face swam in front of him, making it hard to focus. He saw her lips move but couldn’t make out what she was saying. It was as if someone had stuffed cotton in his ears.

He felt her grab his arm and lower him to the ground, then heard her yell, “Julia!”

Cool hands caressed the back of his neck, gently pushing his head between his knees. Manning closed his eyes. Whoa, that was a mistake! Darkness swirled around him, making his head swim like on the teacup ride at the county fair. The one he and Percy used to ride over and over again as teenagers, daring each other to another spin, until one of them finally stumbled off to a corner to upchuck corn dogs and funnel cakes.

Manning forced his eyes open. No way in hell he was going to vomit in front of Abigale. He stared down at faded grass, a lone leaf that must have blown in from one of the sugar maples that lined the drive. He sucked in a breath, waiting for the world to stop whirling around him; he focused on the leaf, green at its very base, then flaming from mustard to blaze orange.

He heard the sound of someone running, feet rustling behind him through the grass. “What happened?” Julia shouted.

“He almost passed out,” Abigale called back. “Can you see if there’s ice in the freezer? If not, bring a cold towel.”