He hadn't worried that much about someone discovering Ike's remains in the cellar. He'd taken precautions. But he hadn't counted on Lauren stealing them. He thought he could weather having a brother-in-law turn up dead, but having his wife involved was something else altogether. That smug bastard Jeremy Carver would never stand for that sort of scandal.
No, he couldn't just dump Ike's remains at sea. He needed to produce a murderer. An ending to this sordid affair. The work he did was far too important to risk that he might end up in any way tarnished by Ike Grantham's death.
He ducked through a small gap in the lilac hedge, the trash bag snagging on a branch. The smell came through, musty and earthy. His stomach roiled.
He could hear the little girl-Dolly-singing in her tree house. He moved quietly across the lawn to Harley Beckett's workshop. The door was open, and as he crossed the threshold, he removed the Walther from his waistband and leveled it at Harl, who was already reaching for a baseball bat.
"I wouldn't," Richard said.
"Yeah, you wouldn't-you've got a goddamn gun. What do you need with a baseball bat?"
But Harl's hand was suspended midair, his eyes focused on Richard, his white ponytail hanging over his left shoulder. Richard set the bones on the floor. "With Tess Haviland's report of a skeleton, I've reluctantly come to the conclusion that you had to be involved. You live right here on the other side of the lilac hedge. You're a burnout. There was no love lost between you and my brother-in-law. But before I went to the police with such an explosive accusation, I thought I should check it out myself. Armed, of course."
"Just don't touch the kid. You hear me? Touch her, and I'll haunt you forever. It won't be pretty."
Richard smiled and shook his head. "Such a romantic." He motioned toward the door with his gun. "Shall we? I'm afraid I need you at the carriage house."
"Hide the weapon. I don't want Dolly to see it. I'll cooperate."
"Just move," Richard said, "and pray."
The little girl didn't stop singing as Richard followed Harl back through the lilacs. Beckett seemed to relax once they were onto the carriage house driveway, out of view of the tree house. He glanced back at Richard, his eyes knowing. "No way I'm coming out of this alive?"
"Unfortunately, no," Richard said. "No way. It's not personal. In my work I've learned that sometimes one must make sacrifices for the greater good."
"The greater good here being saving your sorry ass."
"The world needs me."
"Yeah? You know what I say? Screw the world."
Richard smirked. "That's what all the burnouts say. Let's go inside, shall we?"
Harl started up the kitchen steps.
"You're a brave man," Richard said. "There's a role in the world for simple, uneducated, brave men with a clear sense of duty."
"It's called cannon fodder."
"Gallows humor?"
Beckett didn't answer.
Once inside, Richard had him unlatch the trapdoor and lift it. "I know you're going to try something. In fact, I'm counting on it."
But what Beckett did, Richard hadn't counted on. He said, "Fuck you," and dove headfirst through the trapdoor. He might have been diving into the ocean.
Richard fired, striking Harl in the hip as he disappeared through the opening. His second shot hit the wall. He heard Harl land with a sickening thud on the dirt floor below, without a cry of pain, a moan or even so much as a sigh.
Richard stood over the dark opening. Maybe Harl had broken his neck. A headfirst dive was risky and awkward-unexpected. But if he'd gone through the trapdoor feetfirst, Richard would have had a better chance of hitting a vital organ or shooting him in the head. It didn't matter, provided Richard could credibly claim self-defense.
What a moronic move on Harl's part, Richard thought, frustrated, as he got down on his knees and with his free hand, unlatched the ladder. He had to make sure Harl was dead. The only way his plan would work was if he could claim to have killed Harley Beckett in self-defense.
Though who would believe Beckett's version of events over his own?
The ladder dropped to the floor.
This was very risky. If Harl was alive and functioning, Richard would be exposed on the rickety ladder.
Best to go around to the bulkhead, he decided.
He tucked the Walther into his waistband, observed that he wasn't breathing hard at all and headed for the kitchen door.
A little girl popped through the lilacs. "Have you seen my cat?" she asked.
Tess pulled up in front of Andrew's house and jumped out of the car. He wasn't at his office. She'd stopped at the Beacon Historic Project offices to check on Lauren Montague, but she wasn't there, either. Tess wanted to talk to both Lauren and Andrew about her visit to the police.
They were looking into Ike Grantham's disappearance. They weren't happy with what they'd found-or, more accurately, hadn't found-so far. They thought perhaps she had seen a skeleton on Friday night after all.
"We wish you'd called us then," Paul Alvarez had told her.
"I wish I had, too."
She pounded up the front steps, but the door was locked and no one answered the bell. She went around back, calling for Harl and Andrew both.
Harl's workshop door was open. Tess picked up her pace, calling for him as she ran over to the outbuilding at the far end of the yard.
She saw the black trash bag and knew what it was. To be sure, she tucked a finger in where it was torn and peered inside.
Bones.
Ike.
It was after school. Harl would have picked up Dolly by now. Had they gone somewhere together?
"Dolly!"
Tess ran out of the shop, climbed up into the girl's tree house. There were stuffed animals and her tea set and books, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
"Dolly!"
She could hear panic edging into her voice, assaulting her system. She half climbed, half jumped out of the tree house. She had to call Andrew, but she'd left her cell phone in the car.
Tippy Tail leaped out of the rhododendrons. Tess was so startled, she thought she'd die on the spot, but she didn't scream.
Someone had put the garbage bag in Harl's shop.
Not Harl, she thought.
If Tippy Tail had escaped from the pantry and her kittens, Dolly would be on the case. Find her, Tess told herself. Then call the police.
Or call the police first?
She was already at Dolly's gap in the lilac hedge. A fat blossom brushed against her face as she started through to her yard.
A black BMW was parked in her driveway. A painful jolt of adrenaline shot through her. Richard. Tess took a step backward, knowing she had to call the police now, first, but she heard Dolly say, "My name's Princess Dolly."
Tess went dead-still.
Oh, God.
Her only advantage was that they hadn't seen her. She had no choice. She had to back out into An-drew's yard, and she had to call him, and she had to call the police. She couldn't take any chances. Not with a six-year-old, she thought. Not with Dolly.
"And I'm not going into that dirty old cellar!"
She was there in the lilacs before Tess could move, and the little girl gasped in surprise. "Tess! Tell that man I don't have to do what he says. Have you seen Tippy Tail? And I can't find Harl." She was talking rapidly, ready to cry. "Will you help me find Tippy Tail and Harl?"
Richard Montague came up behind Dolly. "Hello, Miss Haviland."
Tess grabbed the little girl, pulled her through the lilacs and shoved her toward the house. "Run, Dolly! Run! Go get your dad. Hurry!"
"But what are you-"
"Go! It's an emergency. Get your dad. Call 911. Tell them Richard Montague's a-a-"
Dolly's eyes widened in terror. "Is he a bank robber?"
"Yes!" Tess hung on to every shred of control, refused to look back through the lilacs, although she knew what was happening. Dolly was moving toward the house. "Show me how fast you can run!"