Twenty-Two

Tess mopped up a mouse skeleton in a corner by the avocado refrigerator.

It almost did her in.

She was debating throwing the mop in the trash when her father called on her cell phone. "I just got off the phone with some jackass reporter from up your way. He wanted to know if you're nuts."

"What did you say?"

"I said you're an artist." But he barked out the words without humor, and she knew he was offended by the reporter's question. And worried. "He wants an angle on this skeleton thing."

Tess rinsed the mop out in the sink. The mouse skeleton basically dissolved and went down the drain, but she shuddered. She'd have to scour the sink next.

"What?"

"Nothing. What else did he ask you?"

"He asked about Davey and me checking the pipes. I don't know who told him we'd been up there. You?"

"I've avoided him so far."

"This guy wants to believe Davey and me would have stepped on these bones if they'd been there."

"That's what I want to believe, too."

"You'd rather be a nut than have seen what you saw?"

"No." She set the mop on the floor and dumped cleanser into the sink. A lot of it. "I'd rather it was a trick of the light and the conditions."

"Were we close to it?"

"I didn't see, Pop. My head and stomach were still off from having found it in the first place. You could have missed it."

"We did miss it, whether it was there or not. I wouldn't have stepped on a goddamn skull and pretended it was something else, a piece of wood or something."

"I know you wouldn't have."

"The police will be calling next," he said in a rough growl.

"Pop, my finding the skeleton, whatever it was, was a freak thing. I don't think I was meant to-"

"You mean you don't think that Grantham son of a bitch set you up."

She sighed, saying nothing.

Her father bit off another growl. "You're up there now?"

"Yes."

"I can't tell you what to do. You're thirty-four years old. Get this mess sorted out. Stay safe."

"Do you think this reporter was calling Davey?"

"Next on his list."

Which meant Davey would be calling. She finished cleaning the sink. The carriage house was quiet and empty, and she imagined a tiny mouse, scurrying across the vast floors on a cold winter night. She walked over to the trapdoor and knelt on the floor next to it, pushed open the wooden latch. It creaked when she lifted it, sending shivers up her spine. She leaned over and peered into the dark cellar, smelled the cool stone and dirt, the mustiness of it.

What if some poor homeless guy had camped out in the carriage house, fallen through the trapdoor by accident, broken his neck and simply not been found?

His body would have been clothed. He wouldn't have been in a position to shovel a couple of inches of dirt over himself. And he wouldn't have come back Saturday night and carried off his own bones.

Her cell phone trilled, giving her a start. She almost dropped the trapdoor on her fingers.

"I've got my.38 loaded," Davey said. "It's right here in the glove compartment. I can get it to you within the hour. I'm in my truck on the Tobin."

"Davey, for God's sake-"

"I took you shooting that time."

"That one time. I don't trust myself with a gun."

"You in the carriage house? Thorne with you? I don't know about him. I can see him snatching a body."

"The reporter-"

"Thinks you're fruitier than a fruitcake. I gave him the plumber's blow-by-blow of my tour of your cellar, told him I could have stepped on a skull and not known it, I was focused on the pipes." He grunted, disgusted. "Reporters."

"Thanks, Davey."

"Let me know about the.38."

Tess hung up, decided she'd done enough cleaning and headed out through the side door. The air was cooler now that it was dusk. She smelled ocean and lilacs, and she stood on the driveway a moment, letting the stillness envelop her. There was no wind. That was what the newspaper description had said about the morning of the duel in 1868-there'd been no wind.

A BMW pulled into the driveway behind her car. Richard Montague gave her a curt wave and climbed out, gravel crunching under his shoes in the stillness. Tess had only met him twice during her work for Ike and the Beacon Historic Project. He wasn't handsome or easygoing, instead radiating intelligence, logic and mental toughness, qualities, she could imagine, that Lauren might have found appealing because they were such a contrast to her brother.

"I thought you might be here." He tilted his head back, appraising her. His eyes were a light gray, incisive. "Your story about the other night has caused quite a stir."

"The reporter caught up with you?"

"And my wife." He gave Tess a wry, deliberate smile. "I also understand he spoke to Muriel Cook-son. She's horrified."

"He tracked down my father, too. I've managed to avoid him so far."

"That's your good fortune." His good humor faded, and he averted his gaze from Tess. "The publicity has had an unforeseen consequence-an appointment I was expecting has been put on hold."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"It's the nature of the Washington beast, I'm afraid. I'm used to this sort of maneuvering and fear-based decision-making." He shifted his attention back to her. "Would you mind telling me why you chose this particular timing to investigate the carriage house?"

Tess shrugged. "I received a property tax bill."

He laughed, more with incredulity than amusement. "To think my move to the Pentagon has been postponed, if not scuttled, because of the timing of a property tax bill. Well, it's hardly your fault."

"I didn't think through all the ramifications when Ike turned over the carriage house deed to me. So, I decided to figure out whether I wanted to keep it or not."

"Hence, your visit over the weekend."

"Yes."

He glanced at the carriage house. "It's in rough shape, isn't it? I haven't been here in years. I've driven by, of course, and Ike and Lauren both were fond of this place. It never was a good choice for the Beacon Historic Project, however, so I'm not surprised Ike unloaded it." He caught himself, smiled at her. "I don't mean it that way."

"That's okay. My father said more or less the same thing."

"Will you keep it?"

"I don't know. I'd like to be able to talk to Ike. I was supposed to do more work for him-that was our understanding. And I probably should know for sure what it was I saw the other night, even if it was nothing."

"I understand. Lauren and I feel the same way." He walked past her car to the end of the driveway and breathed in. "I love lilacs. Did you know Ike helped train Joanna here at the carriage house? I was surprised when Andrew bought the old Thorne estate. They'd been living in a house in the village. Frankly, after Joanna died, we all thought Andrew would move back to Gloucester."

Tess frowned, edging toward the lilacs. "Joanna trained here?"

"Hmm? Yes, Ike had rigged up ropes and a rock-climbing course. It wasn't elaborate, and it's not like this was their only training site. Joanna was very gung ho. It was good to see."

"Ike didn't go with her to Mount McKinley?"

"Oh, no. That was her dream not his. Look, everyone knows what Ike's like, and I don't pretend we got along-but he was a positive influence on Joanna Thorne. She worked for me, and I could see the change in her." He smiled wistfully. "Losing her was a terrible blow."

"It must have been." Tess tried to hide her uneasiness by tugging on a still-perfect lilac blossom, no hint of brown anywhere. "I think Ike felt guilty about what happened to her."

"As much as Ike can feel guilt, yes, I think so." She twirled the lilac stem in one hand, but gave Richard Montague a direct look. "You refer to him in the present tense."