Death on a Winter Stroll by Francine Mathews

Author:Francine Mathews
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Soho Press

BUT WHEN RON MacKay called up the steps to his son’s bedroom, Ansel failed to answer. Further inspection revealed his bedroom to be empty. While Meredith had distracted his father and stepmother, Ansel had walked out of the house.

It was anybody’s guess, now, where he’d gone.

18 | Ingrid’s Gift, Sunday Afternoon

“I FOUND MY mom, too,” Winter said matter-of-factly.

She was walking beside Ansel along the clipped swath of lawn that led through semi-feral mounds of rugosa and bayberry to Polpis Harbor. They had their hands in their jacket pockets and their eyes were trained on the dead grass at their feet, but by mutual and completely silent agreement they were avoiding the indoors and everyone connected to The Hopeless production.

This time, Ansel had taken the free shuttle bus from downtown, bailing in front of the arched barn entrance to Ingrid’s Gift. The guard at the gate had no intention of allowing him through, but he’d texted Winter and she’d come down the drive at a run.

“I’ll be responsible for him, Blake,” she’d said crisply, and slid her arm through Ance’s as they turned back up the drive. “Sorry I’m surrounded by dicks,” she said. “Tell me what happened to your mother.”

“Someone killed her. With a shotgun.”

“Oh, my God,” Winter said. She had stopped short on the drive, staring at him, her beautiful eyes wide with shock. “Not Mary Alice! Why would someone do that?”

Ansel shrugged in bewilderment. “I don’t think she even knew anybody here.”

“And she was so amazing!” Winter pressed her hands against her cheeks, cradling her own face in disbelief. “The pictures she took! No one could possibly want to hurt her.”

Except my dad, he thought, but did not say. Except my dad.

Winter glanced over at him apprehensively. “But you didn’t really know her, did you?”

“No,” he agreed. “I didn’t know at her all.”

That was when they’d turned and walked resolutely toward the water, both of them thinking.

He was glad she didn’t offer the stupid things people feel obliged to say in the face of violent loss. She seemed to take it in stride that horrible things happened all the time, and it was enough to survive them.

The grass path ended and the dock came into view. It was a beautiful day, Ansel realized, the sky cloudless and deep blue, the water of the harbor still as glass. Cold and bright, the very best of an island December.

He’d found Mary Alice too late. In so many ways.

“She was feeding the birds,” he said.

“From her hand?”

He nodded.

Winter drew a quick breath. “I watched those videos on her Insta last night. They’re amazing. The way the birds trust her . . . the way they interact . . . She was so cool, Ance. Whatever happened.”

“I know.”

“I was going to go look for her today, watch her photograph. I was totally fan-girling about Mary Alice to anyone who would listen last night.”

They ignored the boathouse and walked straight out the dock, their footfalls resounding hollowly on the boards.

“She didn’t kill herself, did she?” Winter asked.

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