Abigail’s tight control faltered. “I’m sorry to remind you—”
“Don’t be. It’s a good memory.”
When Owen smiled at her, Ellis was taken aback by the affection he saw. The physical attraction. He’d never anticipated a bond forming between Owen Garrison and Abigail Browning. What would Jason say? And Grace. Despite her protestations, she’d always believed Owen was there for the taking. He’d had fleeting relationships but there’d never been anyone with any threat of permanence. It was obvious to Ellis that so long as Owen was available, Grace would assume she could have him if she wanted him.
Ellis quickly returned to the subject at hand. “Most of my guests at the party stayed over by the patio. Some used the steps to go down to the water and check out the cliffs—”
Abigail moved away from the swing, past a mass planting of pink and white astilbes. “Did you turn over all the pictures you took that day to the police?”
“Of course. I didn’t take many myself, but I had disposable cameras available for guests. Some snapped pictures and left the cameras. I turned them all over to the police—voluntarily. They didn’t have to ask. I’m quite sure they were of no help whatsoever in their investigation. I wish they had been.”
“Was Mattie here taking pictures?”
“I didn’t hire him to, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What about on his own?”
“He could have been. Abigail, please—what’s this all about?”
She gave him a quick smile. “I know I’m asking a lot of questions. Something’s going on around here, and it obviously involves me.” She came to the shed. “Mind if I take a look inside?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Don’t let us keep you from your dinner.”
Ellis sighed, resigned to the intrusion. “I don’t mind. You’re welcome to join us.”
Jason, Grace and Linc were in his kitchen. They were to have dinner together and discuss what was going on with their yardman and Chris Browning’s widow—John March’s daughter. If word of the attack on Abigail that morning reached the media—and Jason was convinced it would—then all bets were off concerning Grace’s appointment. A cold murder case of a friend was a difficult enough public-relations hurdle. But a hot, immediate investigation would be impossible. Ellis had counseled enough Washington types to know her appointment would get pulled at that kind of whiff of scandal. They’d find a graceful way out, but they’d be done with it. She’d worked hard and developed a solid reputation for her expertise in international affairs but none of that would matter.
Owen stepped in front of Abigail and unlatched the shed door, but she went in first. As she moved, Ellis noticed the weapon under her lightweight jacket. He didn’t blame her. After that morning, he wouldn’t take any chances, either. He followed them inside, more bored than irritated.
“I keep my garden supplies in here,” he said. “Mattie’s in and out all day when he’s working, but—”
Abigail put up a hand. “Hang on.”
She drew her weapon. Owen, right behind her, said nothing, as he followed her through the garden materials back to a stack of lobster pots.
Ellis saw now. The pots had been moved. Someone had been back there.
Mattie.
“Is everything okay?” Ellis asked, hearing the note of panic in his voice.
Using one foot, Abigail shoved one of the old wooden pots aside. A wave of fresh air blew into the stuffy, enclosed space, and he realized that the plywood covering the chicken door had been removed.
Owen said quietly, “My grandmother kept chickens.”
Abigail bent down and peered through the two-foot opening. “Hell, an ostrich could get through here.”
“She wanted to have pigs. My grandfather balked.”
“Do you have any eccentric hobbies, other than fast-roping out of helicopters?” But she didn’t look around at him, her attention focused on her task as she squatted down and peered through the opening. “Looks as if he crawled through here and made good his escape.”
Ellis felt his heartbeat increase. “I haven’t seen him. I can’t recall hearing anything out of the ordinary.”
She stuck her head out the small door and looked around, then pulled it back in, standing up. “I’m not going out there. I don’t want to disturb any tracks. Ellis—I need to use your phone and get the police up here.”
“Of course.” His throat was constricted now; he hoped he wasn’t having a heart attack. “But Mattie’s in and out of here all the time…”
“Through the chicken door?”
“No. I imagine not.”
Owen pushed past him to the front door, but Ellis couldn’t move. He leaned on his walking stick, feeling deflated—embarrassed. Had Mattie been hiding in the shed all day? His brother and his niece and nephew would witness Abigail Browning calling the authorities from his phone.
She touched his arm. “Ellis?”