He’d gone up to Ellis’s after finding her unconscious, obviously intent on finding whoever had attacked his wife. Just the Coopers and the caterers and a few stragglers were still at the party. Grace had told the police that she had seen Chris at her uncle’s house, but never indicated they had spoken.
But how could they not have, with him coming up the steps and her right there?
The third photograph was of Owen, on Ellis’s stone terrace, clearly later—after Linc had snuck his martini, after Grace and Chris had said whatever they’d said to each other.
Hours before Owen had gone down to the rocks and found Chris’s body.
Abigail had jotted down detailed descriptions of each photograph before Lou Beeler could send them off to the lab. The prints were fresh, probably run off an inkjet printer. She’d suggested to Lou that he check to see if Mattie had put his negatives onto a computer disk before burning them, or put the ones he hadn’t burned—if he’d burned any—onto a disk, but the Maine CID detective had already covered all the bases.
Her fellow law enforcement officers were gone now, off to find Mattie, having taken her and Owen, separately, through their paces, all of them trying to make sense of the pictures and why they’d been left, what they meant.
Abigail was restless. There wasn’t much she could do for the moment, other than take out her frustration on her walls.
She tied a purple bandanna over her hair and lifted her sledgehammer, the wind gusting off the water, blowing through her porch door and stirring up more plaster dust. There seemed to be no end to it, no matter how much she swept.
One more to go, and she’d have the room gutted. Then she could put up new wallboard and tape, slap on primer, pick out a paint color—something bright, but that didn’t clash with the lupine-blue in the entry.
Thinking about wallboard and paint colors gave everything else a chance to simmer. The calls, the pictures, Mattie’s parties in the old Garrison foundation, the stash of money under his vase.
The Maine cops, the frightened Alden boys.
Owen.
Abigail jumped.
The man who’d just been in her thoughts stood in the doorway to her front room, watching her angle her sledgehammer at the final section of wall. It was dusk, but night was coming fast. “You should wear goggles and a mask,” Owen said.
“I’ve got some in my trunk.”
He didn’t offer to go fetch them. “You rent this place to cops most of the time. I bet you could get a half dozen of them together to help you tear down walls and put up new ones. Throw a few lobsters in a pot, buy a couple of six-packs—they’d be thrilled.”
She grinned at him. “Are you implying we cops come cheap?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. “Stand back. I don’t want to nail you in the head with this thing.”
“Abigail—”
Her first whack penetrated the wallboard. “Hey, I’m getting good at this.” Before she lost her steam, she heaved the sledgehammer twice more, then gave up and set it against an exposed support beam. “That’s enough. Best to pace myself before I tear my rotator cuff or something.”
“You’ve got a dead body there.”
“Mouse skeleton.” Using her toe, she dragged it out of a corner. “It’s the one I missed earlier.”
“Where there’s one dead mouse, there’s another.”
“It’s live mice I don’t want to run into.”
Owen stepped into the room and walked over to her, running his thumb under her eye. “Don’t want to get plaster in your eyes.”
“That wouldn’t be good.” She took a breath. “Owen…I’m sorry you and Sean and Ian had to see those pictures.”
“It’s not your fault—”
“I could have stayed in Boston. I didn’t have to come up here.”
Doyle Alden appeared on her back porch. “That’s right,” he said, opening the screen door. “You didn’t.”
Abigail ignored his sour tone. “Did you find Mattie?”
“Yeah. We found him. Beeler’s talking to him.” Doyle glanced at her array of tools, as if he wanted to take a crowbar to her himself. “Maybe you should talk to the Coopers about including this place in with the sale of Ellis’s. Jason’s a smart guy. Shrewd. He’d probably get you a better price than you could get on your own.”
“Probably would. How are Sean and Ian?”
“They’re fine. My next-door neighbor’s watching them while I deal with this mess.”
“Listen, Doyle, if I’d known about the pictures—”
“No way for you to know,” he interrupted. “The bastard who left them could have stuck a piece of paper in front of them. Instead…” He trailed off. “Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
“Have they talked to their mother?” Abigail asked. “That might help.”
Doyle stiffened. “I don’t need you to tell me how to raise my sons.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”