Andrew headed on a parallel path back out to the lawn, the poodles there ahead of him, finally collapsing in the shade. "You must have hated him at that moment," he said.
"No, that's just it." She smiled over at him, tears spilling out onto her cheeks now. But her voice was steady, as if she was unaware she was crying. "I loved my brother. I take him as he is, faults and all, the whole package. All I really wanted, I realized, was the same from him. Acceptance of my bad points, appreciation for my good ones."
"So, you're sitting in your office, fuming, but finally you figure-the hell with it, I need to patch things up with Ike, explain to Richard my brother's a part of the package and move on." Andrew glanced over at her. "You don't wait. You head to the carriage house."
"Yes." Her voice was distant, and he could feel her transporting herself back in time, to that March day. "It was very cold. I remember being impatient for spring. March is my least favorite month, but last year it was just interminable. But I walked over. I wanted the cold air to whip the last of the resentment out of me, I suppose."
"What time?"
"It was before lunch. About eleven, I'd say."
She spoke in a monotone, and she began shivering. Andrew stepped closer to her. "Then what?"
"I didn't see his car. He must have walked. He was always so physical, and he'd have wanted the exercise after our argument. I knew he was there." She crossed her arms on her chest, pressed them against her. "I climbed up the side steps."
She stopped, her face going ashen, the shivering worse. Andrew knew he had to keep her in that moment, talking. "Did you go inside?"
"Not then." "You saw something," he said. Her eyes met his. He could see her swallow. "I saw you." "You're sure?" "You were going through the lilacs. You had on that old denim jacket of yours. I called you, and you didn't answer." "Did you see me, Lauren, or did you see my jacket?" "I saw you." He didn't argue, still wanted her in that moment.
"What did you do after you didn't get an answer?" "I went inside." "Into the carriage house," he prodded. She nodded, her eyes dry now, dull. "There was water…and an awful smell. Lime. Flesh. At first I thought it was my imagination-" "You thought it was the ghost at work." "Yes, the ghost. That's what I thought. But I knew…" She looked at him, focused on him. "I knew better." "Lauren-" But she didn't stop, and he saw what was coming, felt it. "I knew you'd killed my brother. Because of Joanna. I didn't blame you. Ike shouldn't have gotten involved."
He didn't react outwardly. Carefully, he took her back to that day last March. "When you were at the carriage house, did you see Ike?"
"No." She shook her head. "Not then. The trapdoor was wet. It-it was unlatched. I latched it again and left. I never went back."
"You went back this Saturday," Andrew said quietly.
"Yes, when Tess finally showed up. I couldn't bring myself to act any sooner. I wish I'd waited until later in the evening, but Richard-" She paused to swallow, her breathing light and rapid, her voice strangely calm. "Richard would have noticed and asked questions. Andrew, I didn't want you to realize what I knew. I just wanted to take care of Ike for you."
Jesus, Andrew thought, but maintained his outward control. "You collected his remains from the carriage house cellar."
"So you didn't have to."
"Where are they now?"
With one hand, she brushed back her straight, shining hair and leveled her eyes at him. They were clear and sad, but also, Andrew decided, a little smug. After all, she'd risked a lot to do him this favor. "I'll show you. We'll need to decide what to do with them."
We. Andrew gritted his teeth. Had someone tried to frame him? Or was connecting him to the jacket just a leap of logic on Lauren's part? She got a glimpse of denim and filled in the blanks.
She started across the lawn and glanced back at him, not breaking her stride. "Ike always wanted to be buried at sea." She smiled almost peacefully. "I think we can arrange that, don't you?"
Andrew decided it was time to go on record. "Lauren, I didn't kill him."
But she ignored him, whistling for the poodles. They roused, stretched and trotted after her with less energy than when they'd romped in the herbs.
"Coming?" she asked, the wind picking up, whipping tawny hairs into her mouth.
Andrew nodded. "Sure."
She took him around front to the driveway. Her car was parked in front of his, and he winced as she went to the trunk. "Hell," he breathed, watching her pop it open.
She gasped. "No!"
Andrew saw from where he stood. The trunk was empty.
This woman had been carrying her brother's remains in her trunk for the past three days, thinking Andrew had killed him.
She spun around at him. "Is this your idea of a joke? He was in a black garbage bag. I put him there myself. I made sure I had all of him. I didn't want to leave behind a finger or something for the police to find. You know, with DNA testing, these days you can't just leave that sort of thing lying around." She was talking rapidly, her composure eroding fast. "My God in heaven. What kind of person would steal a bag of bones out of my car?"
What kind of person would have them in there in the first place? Andrew reined in an urge to get in his car and get the hell out of there. "Lauren, we need to call the police."
She frowned at him. "What?"
"I didn't kill Ike. You don't need to protect me."
"But I-I saw you."
"It wasn't me."
She blinked. "What?"
He was losing her. The stress of finding her trunk empty was too much. "Where's your husband?"
"Richard? He's at work."
Andrew didn't think so. Richard Montague was shorter than he was and thicker through the chest, but he could have easily grabbed the denim jacket off its hook on the back porch and thrown it on, just in case someone saw him at the carriage house and Ike's body was discovered sooner rather than later.
Even later-now, over a year later-his simple precaution was paying off.
"Lauren, did you tell Richard you were going to the carriage house to talk to Ike that morning last March?"
She rallied. "Yes, we talked right after I got to the office. Why?"
Because it meant Richard had planned for her to think Andrew had killed her brother, in case she showed up. He'd guessed how she'd react. He was an expert in that sort of thinking. It also meant killing Ike wasn't an accident Richard covered up, but a deliberate act.
"We need to call the police," Andrew said. "And we need to find your husband."
Twenty-Five
Richard needed a murderer.
He parked his car in the carriage house driveway. He had the outlines of a plan-a daring plan, because daring was called for-and he needed to be direct. To hide his car was to invite the wrong sort of question.
He was an innocent man. He needed to act innocent.
He got his Walther.9 mm out of the glove compartment. Lauren hated guns, so he'd never mentioned the one he kept in his desk at his office. It was against company policy, but he'd sneaked it in piece by piece.
He tucked the weapon into his waistband and got Ike's bones out of the trunk. With the bag tightly sealed, no smells could escape, yet he could smell it, anyway, knew it was the memory of over a year ago. He hadn't expected blood. Ike must have caught his head on a loose nail on his way down the carriage house stairs.
But there was the smell of the lime, too, it and the dirt cellar floor, Ike's body, all wet and slick from being hosed down. He'd had to speed decomposition, move things along before warm weather set in.
He'd burned Ike's expensive clothes and tossed the ashes into the sea. Much easier than getting rid of a body. He'd cleaned up inside as best he could.