“I gave Lucas a list of people who know I frequent that particular restaurant.”
“We’ve already gone through the list. The truth is, anyone could know. Wasn’t it in the papers one year? Some reporter said how you spend your wedding anniversary having dinner alone there—”
“That was at least five years ago. Who’d think I still went there? And why wait until now to act?”
“Because ‘things are happening’ now,” Bob said, a bite of frustration in his voice. “Craziness. We’ll figure this out, Abigail. You just keep your eyes open and stay safe.”
“I will, Bob. Don’t worry about me.”
“Oh, no, why should I worry? You’re up on an island in the rain, all alone, with some maniac calling you at five o’clock in the morning, and you’re going to museums and buying moose sweatshirts. Who the hell would worry?”
By the time he finished, he had her laughing. “Goodbye—”
“And Owen Garrison. Let’s not forget the studly rich guy. I’ve seen him, you know. I’m doing my homework—guy’s in Maine resting up after a year of nonstop rescue and recovery work. Guys like that, they don’t rest.”
Fair warning, that, Abigail thought, suddenly feeling warm. “Are you done now?”
“Yeah. No—” He bit off a sigh. “If you need anything—anything—you know I’ll be there. Scoop, too. Just say the word.”
“Thank you. I do know that. And I appreciate it.”
But Bob couldn’t resist. “Anything you need, kiddo. Bail money, a spare set of handcuff keys—”
She laughed and disconnected, slipping her cell phone into her jacket pocket. She hadn’t lied to him. She had visited the museum and bought a moose sweatshirt. But she’d also asked around about MattieYoung, making up a story about having heard that his old photographs were in demand. A woman in the sweatshirt store had pointed to a small gallery that, she believed, had some of Mattie’s work in stock.
Abigail walked down the street and ducked into the gallery, its display window offering the obligatory watercolor of the rockbound coast and a red-and-white striped Maine lighthouse—and she could understand why. If she could have afforded the painting, she’d have bought it herself. On a bad day in Boston, she would close her eyes and conjure up just such an image, of bright sky, rocks and glistening ocean. Why not add a picturesque lighthouse?
She eased off her wet jacket, careful not to let it drip on any of the wares, and wandered among shelves of carved waterfowl and pottery painted with wild blueberries and cranberries, and walls crammed with original paintings and photography.
A wiry older man—he had to be at least eighty—greeted her. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for the work of a local photographer, Mattie Young.”
He seemed surprised. “Mattie? Heavens. I haven’t had anyone ask about him in ages. Yes, we do carry his work. A few pieces. We don’t have anything on display right now—we haven’t in a long, long time.”
“May I see what you do have?”
“Of course.”
But as he led her through an open doorway to a small room lined with cabinets, Abigail saw Owen entering the gallery. He waved to her as he crossed the gallery toward her.
“Fancy meeting you here, Abigail.”
She noticed the older man straighten his spine as he inclined his head in greeting.
“Mr. Garrison. We haven’t seen you in some time. I’d heard you were on the island.”
“It has been a long time, Walt. Too long.”
Abigail didn’t know why she was surprised at the exchange between the two men. The Garrisons had been fixtures on Mt. Desert Island for more than a hundred years. She wondered if Walt had known Owen’s grandfather, too.
Not that their reunion stopped her from speaking her mind. “Did you follow me?” she asked Owen.
He smiled. “Tough to miss you in that red jacket.”
It was very red. “You’re not wet. What, were you driving past the gallery, saw me and decided to pop in?”
“I was on my way to the field academy.”
“You must have had good parking karma,” she said, then turned back to Walt, who had stopped in front of a cabinet of thin, deep drawers.
“We might have one or two other pieces,” he said. “But most of what we have is in here. Do you know Mattie?”
Abigail didn’t look at Owen as she answered. “He and my husband grew up together.”
“Your husband?”
“He died seven years ago. Chris Browning.”
The man’s aged eyes settled on her a moment, any awkwardness fleeting. He nodded. “I knew your husband’s grandfather. I didn’t know Chris well. He’s the one who persuaded Mattie to display his work.”
“Mattie’s had his ups and downs over the years.”