Gus shrugged. “I don’t have to like him. I’m not the one who married him.”

“You didn’t approve -”

“Was I supposed to?” He didn’t raise his voice. “He’s out of your life now. Maybe it’s time you stopped looking after him.”

Bernadette grabbed Gus’s arm just above the elbow and squeezed hard. “Gus, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Beanie…”

“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” she said. “I was here when you went off to Vietnam. I was here when Harry and Jill were killed. I’m not a stranger. I know you.” She dropped her hand from his arm. “If there’s something you need to tell me, just do it.”

He squinted out at the lake, the loons gone now, as if they’d sensed the tension across the water on the dock and had taken cover. Without preamble, Gus said, “Cal brought women to the house.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, Beanie.” He shifted his gaze back to her. “Here.”

More to grasp. Harris was dead, and Cal – her husband, she thought, had betrayed her. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Gus. “When? For how long?”

“I don’t know. I first noticed about eight months ago. It was obvious you two weren’t going to make it.”

She felt heat rise into her face, embarrassment and anger boiling up in her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to stick myself between the two of you.”

“Why tell me now?”

“Because I don’t like what’s going on around here, and I figured it’s time to get everything out on the table. Doesn’t matter if it has anything to do with Harris’s death or the attack on Mackenzie and that other hiker last week.”

“They were both knifed,” Bernadette said, almost to herself. “Like Harris.”

“I’m not saying Cal had anything to do with the attacks.”

She nodded, more in control of herself now. Of course Cal had women, especially in the past year. And of course he would have them here, at the lake.

She faced Gus. “Did Mackenzie know about Cal’s women?”

Gus scratched the side of his mouth, as close as he would get to displaying any discomfort. “She caught him just before she headed to Washington. It’s eaten at her. She was in the same pickle I was. She didn’t know what to do.”

Bernadette stiffened. “I’ve been played for a fool.”

Gus sighed. “No one wanted to see you hurt.”

“How was your silence supposed to change the facts? Cal took women here, to the one place he knows it would hurt me most for him -” She didn’t finish, just crossed her arms tightly across her chest and faced the water. “Well. You can see why we didn’t make it. And don’t stand there and tell me you told me so.”

“I didn’t say a thing.”

“You didn’t have to. I know you, Gus.” The wind blew her hair into her eyes, and she pushed it back. “I’ve arrived safe and sound, and you’ve delivered your news. You can leave now.”

He started off the dock. “I’ll get my gear and sleep on the couch tonight.”

“You will not.”

He ignored her. “I’ll be back here in an hour.”

Bernadette couldn’t focus her thoughts enough to come up with an argument against his plan, and by the time she started to say something, he’d walked back up to his truck. She ran to the yard and looked for something to hurl into the lake. An Adirondack chair was too big. She picked up a rock the size of a golf ball and threw it as far as she could, watched it plop into the water, then found another and heaved it.

She hadn’t loved Cal in a long time, but she couldn’t believe he’d want his affairs to get out into the open. Even if he wouldn’t mind humiliating her, he’d resist because of the likely backlash against him. He’d been extra difficult, tense and preoccupied for weeks. She’d blamed their divorce, the stress over his move.

“Wasn’t that stupid,” she said aloud, flopping into one of her Adirondack chairs. She could smell old ashes in the stone fireplace. Had Cal and his women sat out here, toasting marshmallows?

How the hell could she have been so naive? So damn blind?

Harris’s death – his murder – would put both her and Cal under greater scrutiny by the police, the media, their colleagues, the public. There’d be an investigation; with any luck, an arrest; then a trial, a conviction. The whole sordid, horrible ordeal would go on and on.

The wind was uncomfortably strong, and she needed a sweater, but Bernadette stayed where she was, running through the litany of choices she’d made in her fifty-seven years that had led her to this point.

A car sounded in her driveway, and when she looked up and recognized the two men walking toward her as local FBI agents, she knew they were there to talk to her about Harris. About the rooming house.

About Cal?

But she had done nothing to wrong and she had nothing to hide, never mind that a similar attitude had landed more than one defendant in her courtroom.

Bernadette rose, smiling as she walked up to greet the two men. “I assume you’re here because of Judge Mayer’s murder. I just heard. Please, come inside.”

She led them onto her screened porch and began to answer all their questions.

Twenty-Seven

Mackenzie walked across the sprawling lawn of the historic house that she’d called home for almost two months, the smell of hydrangeas and wet grass mingling on the breeze, the sunset glowing through the trees. After hours of answering questions and writing up her report on the events of the day, she’d ventured back there for a shower and a change of clothes.

But when she’d arrived, Nate’s car was in the driveway. They took a walk on the grounds, and she’d told him everything.

“I finally called my parents in Ireland and told them what’s been going on,” she said as she and Nate approached the back end of the property. “I hated to do it – they’re having such a good time.”

“Your mother’s getting into her Irish roots?”

“She says there’s nothing like Irish butter.” And if anyone deserved simple pleasures, it was Molly Stewart. Her hard work, frugality and dedication to her husband, regardless of his disability, hadn’t dampened her good nature. “I don’t know if I have any business worrying her this way. If I’d stayed in academia -”

“You’d have been killed last week, and Harris would still be dead.”

At Nate’s blunt words, Mackenzie shoved her fists into the pockets of her lightweight jacket. “I asked my folks to find an Internet café and take a look at the sketch. Maybe they saw this guy at the lake or around town before they left for Ireland.”

“The couple who swapped houses with them didn’t recognize him.”

“Maybe he was there before they arrived.”

She and Nate had walked to the house’s century-old dump, where Nate’s wife, a historical archaeologist, had conducted a dig, unearthing artifacts – mostly ordinary household items that would go on display when the house finally opened to the public.

“Harris Mayer might have been killed before you were attacked,” Nate said. “If his killer is the same man -”

“Then I’m not responsible because I let him go?” Mackenzie could hear the self-recrimination in her tone. “That’s not I how I look at it.”

“You didn’t let him go.” A note of mild exasperation had crept into Nate’s voice. “If you’re going to do this job, you have to get some perspective on what’s a real mistake and what isn’t.”

Mackenzie looked away from him. “I don’t know if I can do this work. I look at you -”

“I’ve been at it longer.”

“I look at Juliet Longstreet, T.J., Rook.”

“All more experienced than you. Just about every federal agent in Washington is. You’re new. We all know that. So does Joe Delvecchio.”

“He told me today I’m so smart, I’m stupid.”

Nate grinned. “He didn’t get to be chief by mincing words. It was your sneaking into Beanie’s house that got him.”

“I didn’t ‘sneak’in. I have a key. And it’s not like I took anything.”