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.
And, perhaps, spying on her or Owen, or both.
Abigail jumped in her car and took off up the driveway, rolling down the windows, hot all of a sudden. And it wasn’t because of the missed call and thinking about Mattie Young.
It was because of Owen Garrison.
Thinking about him.
She’d spotted him out on the rocks in his jeans and untucked, weathered polo and could almost feel his desire to be alone, his burnout and fatigue after a grueling year of responding to one disaster after another.
Had Doyle told him about the anonymous call?
Her reaction to Owen, Abigail knew, wasn’t just neighborly—and it had nothing whatsoever to do with her being a detective, her vow to find Chris’s killer. It was far more elemental than that.
The guy was sexy as hell, and she’d have had to be a rock not to notice.
She drove through picturesque Northeast Harbor, relatively quiet for such a beautiful summer day, and out to Somes Sound, the only fjord on the east coast. Its finger of salt water almost cut the island in two. Thirty years ago, Jason Cooper, then a young tech entrepreneur, bought a modest house on a coveted stretch of the sound. He’d added to it over the years, transformed it into one of the most stunning properties on Mt. Desert.