"Even after last night?"
She smacked the pepper grinder back down on the table. "I did not see a ghost last night."
"You thought you did."
"No, I didn't, and saying so isn't going to make me change my mind." He was direct, not a man to beat around the point he was trying to make, a characteristic Tess ordinarily would find appealing. Not, however, at the moment. "I grew up with know-it-all men. You can't intimidate me."
"I'm not trying to intimidate you. I'm just stating the facts. I know you saw something, Tess. I could see it in your eyes."
She snorted. "What do you know about my eyes?"
His went distant, and he said, "Not enough, no doubt."
Her throat went dry. "Then you can't-"
"Tess, you weren't just afraid of what you might have seen in that cellar. You were afraid of what you did see."
"I was, was I?"
Her hot look and sarcasm seemed to have no effect on him. "Yes."
"It doesn't matter what you believe. I know what I saw, and it wasn't a ghost."
It was a skeleton, and she almost told him about it. Only the thought of what she'd do if it turned out to be an obvious plastic skeleton left over from Halloween, a prank, stopped her. The teasing would be unending. She'd never live it down, and somehow, some way, Davey and her father and the rest of the guys at the pub would find out. She'd be getting skeletons for her birthday, Christmas, Valentine's Day for years to come.
"Go ahead. Think whatever you want to think." She decided to redirect the subject. "Do you want me to check on Dolly?"
"No, she'll be back any second. She likes to wash her hands about six times. When she was three and four, the bathroom runs could get awkward, but she manages well now."
"Her mother…" Tess spooned up some of her chowder, which was hot and generous on the clams. "I don't mean to pry."
"Joanna died three years ago. She was caught in an avalanche on Mount McKinley." Andrew tore open a packet of oyster crackers, focused on them as he spoke. "It was several weeks before a rescue team could bring down her body."
"That must have been awful." But at least, Tess thought grimly, there was no possibility it was Joanna Thorne's remains she'd seen last night.
Dolly returned, and they talked about the boats in the harbor, the different kinds of seagulls. Not about her mother, dead in an avalanche the past three years.
They paid for lunch and started back to Tess's car, with Dolly, well fed and reenergized, skipping ahead. "It's a gorgeous day," Tess said.
"Have you made up your mind about the carriage house?"
She smiled. "Not yet."
But as she drove back to the point, her good mood dissipated and she knew she'd have to confront whatever was in the dirt cellar. Alone. And soon.
She dropped off father and daughter at their front door. Andrew was studying her suspiciously, and a quick peek in the rearview mirror suggested she was noticeably pale. It would be another rotten night. Too much thinking, especially about Andrew Thorne and his wife lost in an avalanche, his ancestor lost at sea, his neighbor with a dead body in the cellar. The Thornes had crummy luck.
"If you need help with your window," Andrew said evenly, "give Harl or me a yell. We'd be glad to lend you a hand."
But there was something in his tone she wasn't sure she liked. She pretended not to notice as she turned cheerfully to his daughter. "I'll keep an eye on Tippy Tail and her kittens, okay, Princess Dolly?"
The girl nodded, solemn. "They're just babies. They need peace and quiet."
She climbed out of the car, and Tess could see Andrew biting back a smile as he shut the door. He leaned into her open window. His eyes were that amazing blue again, a mix of sea and sky, warm, mesmerizing. "Let me know if you'd like the guest room."
Definitely, she thought, her life would be easier if her neighbor were a nasty troll, an s.o.b. But she smiled, gripped the steering wheel. "Thanks. I'll let you know."
Ten
The woman with Andrew Thorne and his daughter had to be Tess Haviland. Richard thought she looked familiar and supposed he must have seen her in town before. She, Andrew and Dolly had gotten in an ancient Honda together, and Richard fought an urge to follow them. He had to maintain control. He couldn't indulge his emotions.
He returned home, hoping to sit in the sun with a glass of scotch. But Jeremy Carver was there in the driveway, leaning against a gleaming black car. "Mind if we have a word?"
"Of course not."
Lauren was out. Since they didn't employ full-time help, Richard poured two glasses of iced tea, cut a lemon, got out spoons and refilled the sugar bowl, all with his wife's damn poodles scurrying around at his feet. He put everything on a tray and carried it out to the back porch, shutting the door in the poodles' faces. One yelped. "Oh, sorry," he said without remorse.
"Your wife's dogs?" Jeremy Carver said.
"Yes, they're sweet little things, just always under your feet."
Richard set the tray on a side table, something Harley Beckett had restored and painted for Lauren. When they moved to Washington, Richard would insist on full-time help. Lauren could do whatever she wanted with this place, but he wasn't about to serve people when he was at the Pentagon. This was his first marriage, his life before Lauren dedicated exclusively to his education and his work, his experience with women limited to short-term relationships. He'd thought he loved her. Now he wasn't sure if he had the capacity to feel love, simply because it wasn't vital to him.
The afternoon sun was strong on the wide stretch of green lawn and its "rooms" of flower beds, which Lauren did see were properly tended to. But it was cool on the porch, out of the sun. Jeremy Carver had installed himself on the antique wicker settee. Again, the power position.
He reached over and chose a glass of tea, dropped in a slice of lemon. He didn't bother with sugar. "Excellent, Dr. Montague. Thanks."
"Please, call me Richard." He stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into his tea, sat with it on a wicker rocker with a flowery cushion. "I hope you've had a chance to enjoy our little village while you're here."
"Beacon? Yeah, it's a cute place. I headed back down to Boston last night. I have a sister who's about to become a grandmother. She's driving everyone nuts." He laughed, his ruddy face reddening. "And I thought she was bad when she had her first kid."
"I'm sure it must be an exciting time for every one," Richard said neutrally. "No kids for you, huh?" "My wife has a seventeen-year-old daughter." "Shellie Ann." Carver sipped his iced tea, no in dication he was trying to communicate anything with his comment except that he knew the name of Lau-ren's daughter. "I've got three boys myself."
"Mr. Carver-" He grinned. "Jeremy." "I'm sure you want to get back to your family.
What can I do for you?"
Carver set his glass on a coaster and rubbed his chin. "I've done a little checking of my own into your brother-in-law. Do you mind if I speak frankly?"
"No, of course not." "He's an asshole. My opinion." Richard smiled. "You're not alone in that opinion." "You were right, the police have no interest in his whereabouts. They say your wife's never asked them to look into it." "I'm sure she hasn't." "Why not?"
"You'd have to ask her, but I'd say it's because she's not concerned."
"It's not because she's heard from him and just wants to keep it mum?"
"Not that I know of, no."
"Weird." Carver picked up his tea, took a big gulp and stared out at the lawn. "Pretty flowers. I can't get anything to grow in Washington after the middle of June. Too damn hot."
Richard reined in his impatience. "My wife has an incredible green thumb."
"Yeah, so I see. Look," he went on, "the police might not have any interest in Ike Grantham, but I can't say the same for the senator. He'll feel a lot better if we can talk to the guy."