Out on his screen porch overlooking Somes Sound, Jason Cooper was dressed for sailing and a day spent pretending he had no problems he couldn’t control. He lifted little Sis into his arms and eyed Abigail with a superciliousness she found desperate more than genuine. She wasn’t annoyed. And she certainly wasn’t cowed.
“Where is my son now?” he asked.
“At my house talking to Lieutenant Beeler.”
“Without an attorney?”
“He’s twenty. He’s not a minor.”
“He’s my son.” Jason inhaled sharply, not easing up on the superiority. “We’ve all indulged your obsession over the years—your interference in our lives—because of your situation. Because we, too, loved your husband. But to accuse my son of hiding information from the police—”
“I’m not accusing him of anything,” Abigail said. “If you want to talk to him, you know where my house is.”
The little dog looked as if she wanted to lick her master’s chin—or bite him. He set her on the floor, and she stayed obediently at his feet. “Abigail, perhaps you should leave, before you say something you truly regret.”
“Or before you do,” she said.
Sis barked at her, as if the dog knew Abigail had been rude. Jason stared at her, but some of the raw anger visibly went out of him. “I love my son. I’m proud of him. I believe in him.”
“I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”
“Of course you would. Sometimes I’m not a very good father. I know that.” He stopped himself. “Well. I should go to Linc. I want you to know, however, that my son had nothing to do with Chris’s death.”
“Did you know he was burglarizing homes seven years ago?”
Jason snapped his fingers, and Sis scampered into the house through the open porch door. He turned back to Abigail. “If I did know or suspect anything of the sort—and I’m not saying I did—I wouldn’t have confronted him. That’s not how we do things in my family. I would let him sort out his own priorities.”
“He was thirteen.”
“Yes, I know he was thirteen. Everything stolen was returned.” Jason’s expression hardened, as if he was daring her to contradict him. “Whatever my son did, Abigail, he wasn’t the one who attacked you and stole your necklace.”
Making that his final remark, he followed his dog’s path back into the house. Abigail was faintly surprised that he’d left her to her own devices, but he would also know she wanted to talk to his daughter and that there was very little he could do to stop her.
She could see Grace dragging a bright orange sit-on-top kayak through the beach roses, down to the water.
Abigail quietly shut the screen door behind her and walked down the stone steps. The landscaping was more reserved than Ellis’s extensive gardens, but nonetheless tasteful and in perfect condition, thanks to the hard work of their solo yardman—presumably, given Mattie’s behavior, soon to be ex-yardman. She hadn’t pressed Jason Cooper on what, if anything, he knew about his son’s recent cash withdrawals. She’d leave that to Lou and his teams.
Following the path through the roses, she joined Grace down at the water’s edge. “I think those rosebushes have more thorns than they used to. Just what I needed, more scratches.”
“I do believe you relish every one of your scratches, Abigail.” Grace slapped the kayak into the water and stood up straight, her baggy sweater unbuttoned, blowing out in the stiff breeze. She squinted back at Abigail. “I’ll paddle with the wind and hope it dies down before I get back.”
“Where are you headed?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.” She smiled without any pleasure. “Anywhere.”
“It’s a beautiful day for kayaking.”
“Do you kayak?”
Abigail shrugged, walking into the soft, squishy sand. “I’m not very good at it.”
“I love it. I wish I could get on the water more often, but my work keeps me very busy.” She pushed back her hair, strands rising up in the wind. “I’d hoped to spend more time up here, but I have to get back to Washington.”
“Must be a busy time for you.”
“Yes. Very.” She hugged her pilled, old sweater to her. “I’m not really dressed for kayaking. Well, I don’t care. I suppose I could paddle past Owen’s house. Then if something went wrong, he could rescue me. Although that wouldn’t look good on my FBI background report, would it?”
“Better to be rescued than—”