Grace Cooper stepped carefully in the lush grass of her uncle’s backyard, as if she didn’t want to leave footprints. “Ellis has worked very hard to make these gardens look natural. It seems contradictory, doesn’t it?”
Abigail smiled, enjoying her tour of the award-winning gardens. “Everything’s so beautiful. I’m lucky if I can keep a pot of geraniums alive.”
“I know how you feel,” Grace said with a laugh.
Ellis was transplanting a bush with Mattie Young and had left his niece to deal with his unexpected guest, suggesting a quick garden tour. At thirty-eight, Grace was striking with her fine blond hair and strong features. Her eyes, a clear, pale blue, were her best feature. She was gracious and politely reserved.
The mix of perennials and annuals, their colors and textures contrasting here, complementing there, sparkled and glistened in the clear and crisp morning air. Abigail had walked up from her house, yesterday afternoon’s escapade on the rocks with her journal ashes and Owen Garrison behind her.
Grace leaned over and brushed her fingertips over a perfect dark pink foxglove. “These gardens are Ellis’s pride and joy. It won’t be easy for him to give them up.”
“Give them up?”
“Oh. I assumed you’d heard. We’re selling the property.”
“This place?” Abigail didn’t hide her surprise. “No, I hadn’t heard.”
And Grace would know she hadn’t heard. It was just her way of reminding Abigail that she didn’t know everything about the Coopers. Abigail had no illusions about her relationship with them. It wasn’t unfriendly, but they were aware she kept track of them—and that she did so because of their connections to Chris. They’d known him all his life. Ellis had held a garden party here the day she was attacked and robbed and Chris was killed. Someone had burglarized them and a handful of their friends that summer, although whether it was the same person who attacked her and stole her necklace remained an open question.
“The timing’s right,” Grace continued. “Linc and I aren’t children anymore. My father can only get away for a few weeks in the summer. Keeping two houses here just doesn’t make as much sense these days.”
“Why not sell your place on Somes Sound?”
She shrugged, moving past sprays of coral bells and painted daisies. “It’s right on the water, and it’s really the family place more than this is. Ellis agrees. I think he wants to buy his own place. He’s so much younger than my father—he didn’t have the money when my father bought this property from the Garrisons.”
“Won’t Ellis miss his gardens, especially?”
“I imagine so, but he’s become quite the amateur landscape designer—I’m sure he’d love to get his fingers into something new. And there’s not much more he can do here.”
“But it wasn’t his idea to put the home on the market?”
“He trusts my father on these matters.” Grace paused, then smiled as she moved on to a sun-filled garden “room” of peonies. “We all trust my father.”
“He’s a smart man,” Abigail said.
“That he is. And you—why are you here?”
“In Maine? I’m painting.” She and Lou Beeler had agreed to limit the number of people they told about the anonymous call. “I’ve already been to the hardware store this morning.”
“Good for you. I hope you’ll join us for lunch one day while you’re here. I’m sure my father would love to see you. And Linc’s here—”
“I saw him on the steps while Mattie had a cigarette.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Mattie knows Ellis doesn’t allow smoking on the grounds. Well, Linc won’t tell.”
“Neither will I. I’m not here to stir up trouble.”
“Aren’t you?” But she added quickly, “I have to go. I have calls to make. Take all the time you want looking at the gardens. Ellis will be flattered.”
“Congratulations on your appointment.”
She brightened. “Thank you. I’m thrilled. It’s a tremendous honor, and I look forward to the work.” She started back to her uncle’s house, then stopped and glanced back. “It’s good to see you, Abigail. I mean that.”
With Grace’s departure, Abigail walked over to a small garden shed at the far end of the yard. Mature herbs and tall wildflowers grew to its small, four-paned windows. As a young bride, new to Maine, new to Garrison wealth, Polly Garrison supposedly had insisted on keeping chickens.
Abigail peeked behind the shed—sure enough, there was a boarded-up, chicken-sized door.
Mattie Young dragged a hose toward the shed. “Hey, Abigail, how’s it going?”
“Great. Beautiful day. You?”
“Paying the bills.”
“I was just talking to Grace. I hadn’t realized the Coopers were putting this place on the market.”
“Not the Coopers. Daddy Jason.”