CHAPTER 10

Mattie Young jammed his shovel into a two-foot hole he’d dug and hit rock. He laid the shovel next to him and got down on his hands and knees, digging into the hole with one hand, but he couldn’t find the edges of whatever he’d just struck.

“It’s ledge,” he said.

Ellis Cooper peered into the hole. “That’s not ledge. That’s just a rock. Dig it up. The hole’s not deep enough.”

Mattie wanted to take the shovel to Ellis’s head, except Ellis had always treated him well. Mattie knew his nerves were frayed, and he hadn’t been sleeping well. Drinking too much, smoking too much. And Linc. The money. The tension of whether the kid would crumple under the pressure and tell someone about the blackmail.

I should have demanded the ten grand all at once.

For the Coopers, ten thousand dollars was a minuscule amount. Even Linc could manage to scare up that much without drawing too much attention to himself-if he tried. He just needed the right motivation.

For Mattie, ten thousand dollars was a fresh start.

A new life.

“We need at least another eight inches,” Ellis said, pulling on his doeskin work gloves, not that he’d be doing any of the work. “You’ll try, won’t you?”

Mattie nodded, rancid-smelling sweat pouring down his face and back, dampening his armpits. He could taste the booze and cigarettes from last night. He’d scared the hell out of Doyle’s sons, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Even half in the bag, he’d known he didn’t want Sean and Ian to see him. They’d tell their father-and Owen. Possibly Abigail, too. He didn’t need anyone’s scrutiny right now.

Let them think he was a ghost.

He’d only brought enough beer to keep himself from dehydrating after a long day digging and hauling and snipping for the Coopers. He knew his limits, never mind what anyone else said. He’d hoped the cigarettes would help with the mosquitoes. He didn’t like the smell of bug repellant.

Angling the blade of his shovel, he jabbed it into the hole and carved around the edges of what turned out to be a rock, not ledge. But it was a big damn rock. Mattie dropped the shovel again and dug both hands into the hole, trying to get his fingers around one end of the rock. He didn’t wear gloves. His hands were so callused that new nicks and scratches didn’t bother him.

Ellis leaned over him. “Use your shovel for leverage.”

Ignoring him, Mattie got his hands under an edge of the rock and squatted down, putting his legs into it as he pulled hard, grunting. That end of the rock came loose, but it was too big for him to just pry it up out of the hole. He sat back on his butt, catching his breath.

Ellis was still hovering. Mattie wiped his mouth with the back of his dirt-encrusted hand. “You can go do something else,” he said. “This is going to take a while.”

“That’s all right. I’ll stay here in case you need me. I don’t mind.”

Mattie almost burst out laughing. Ellis, help him? The guy liked to work in his gardens, but he only did jobs that amused him. Digging up rocks wasn’t one of them.

Getting back up onto his knees, Mattie grabbed his shovel and stabbed it onto the other end of the rock, dislodging it, too. Using both hands and shovel, he managed to get hold of the entire hunk of granite and heave it out of the hole and onto the pristine grass.

“That’s a good-looking rock.” Ellis rolled it over with his foot. “Clean it up. I might find a use for it.”

How ’bout I bash you over the head with it?

But Mattie coughed, nodding, then sat on the grass, his muscles jittery, his head pounding. Maybe he’d had one more beer than he should have last night.

“The hole’s deep enough now,” Ellis said. “We need to get that hydrangea into the ground as soon as possible. It’s late in the season for transplanting shrubs. I don’t want the roots to dry out in this sun.”

What would you do, boss man, if I barfed into your hydrangea hole?

“I’m on it,” Mattie said.

Ellis nodded, satisfied. “Don’t strain yourself.”

The guy meant well, Mattie reminded himself as he dug back into the hole. Ellis provided steady work and often made up stuff for Mattie to do on slow days, just to be sure he had a paycheck. That he was a perfectionist came with the territory. Occasionally, Mattie fitted in small jobs at other places on the island, but he’d never encountered anyone more dedicated, more passionate about his gardens than Ellis Cooper. That he could give them up without a whimper was hard to believe.

On the other hand, Ellis would never let anyone know if he was displeased with his big brother Jason.

He might not even be able to admit his displeasure to himself.

Jason had the power, the reputation, the charisma, the money. Ellis had the talent, the vision, the discretion, the empathy for others. He had done well. He was a trusted Washington consultant-he’d advised his niece on her rise to power within very tough circles. He’d never married, but he was sociable, always on everyone’s guest list. In Maine, he liked showing off his gardens.

If Linc confided in anyone, it wouldn’t be his father-it’d be his uncle or his sister.

Grace.

Mattie reached for the hydrangea, whose roots were in no danger of drying out. He couldn’t think about Grace Cooper. Not now, not ever again.

He thought about his money instead, and his new life.

Think what you could do with twenty grand.

Linc could get another ten, easy. And he would pay it, given the right leverage.

Abigail…

Mattie dropped the hydrangea into the hole, which, because of the size of the rock he’d just dragged out of it, was actually too big. If Ellis noticed, he was keeping his mouth shut.

And that’s what you should do, Mattie thought. Keep your mouth shut. Mind your own business.

“I’ll get the hose,” Ellis said.

Mattie nodded. “Thanks.”

He gulped in air as he shoved dirt into the hole and patted it around and under the hydrangea roots. If he didn’t get control of himself, someone would be shoving dirt around his dead body, burying him in the cold, rocky ground.

Who the hell would miss him?

Not a soul. And for damn good reason.

Abigail took the last three steps of her porch in a single leap and ran into the back room to grab the phone. “Hello-”

Dial tone.

She was too late.

She slammed the receiver onto the old base and cursed herself for not having bought a portable phone by now. There was no cell service out here, but she could have had a portable phone on the porch and reached it before whoever was calling hung up. Instead, she’d adopted the “if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it” mentality of the Browning men and hadn’t replaced the working phone that came with the place.

Nor had she added an answering machine. How often was she here to need one? And vacationers didn’t want one. They came to Mt. Desert Island to escape such trappings. Even Bob O’Reilly and Scoop Wisdom.

Maybe it was Bob who’d just tried to reach her.

She debated calling him to tell him about the Alden boys’ “ghost” and the cigarette butts and beer cans.

If Sean and Ian hadn’t told their father about last night, Owen would have, and Doyle, if he was any kind of police chief, any kind of friend, would talk to Mattie and confront him about what he was doing on Garrison property. What he was doing drinking.

Abigail locked her back door and went out the front door, locking it, too. She’d tucked her gun back into her safe. She’d gone out to the old Garrison foundation that morning. Nothing had changed. The beer cans and cigarette butts were still there. In daylight, she hadn’t found any other evidence of interest. Someone-in all likelihood, Mattie Young-had been smoking and drinking out there.