Ireland 01 - The Widow by Carla Neggers

Author:Carla Neggers [Neggers, Carla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Murder, Fiction, Romance, Romantic Suspense Fiction, Suspense, General, Women Detectives, Widows, Mount Desert Island (Me.), Murder - Investigation - Maine, Love Stories; American, Suspense Fiction; American, Murder Victims' Families, Maine
ISBN: 9780778325161
Google: p6a2Y1T3CqQC
Amazon: 0778325164
Publisher: MIRA
Published: 2006-01-02T06:00:00+00:00

Abigail parked in front of Mattie’s house, walked up to his front door and rang the doorbell, just the way she was supposed to. It was after four. He would have knocked off work by now. She noticed bent vertical blinds hanging in a picture window of the small, one-story bungalow. He hadn’t planted flowers in his own yard.

When the door didn’t open, she pounded on it, its white paint chipped and yellowed. “Mattie, it’s Abigail. Abigail Browning. I’d like to talk to you.”

She waited two beats. Still no answer. She tried the knob.

The door was unlocked.

“Mattie.”

She called him again as she pushed open the door. Before entering, she heard the clatter of a bicycle behind her on the walk and turned, sighing at Mattie. “There you are. Don’t you lock your doors?”

“What for? I don’t have anything worth stealing.” He waved a hand at her, showing no indication of surprise or irritation at her visit. “Go ahead. Go inside if you want.”

“Thank you, I will.”

She stepped into a simply furnished living room, surprisingly neat and clean given Mattie’s general appearance. He followed her in and flopped down onto the couch. “Okay. What do you want?”

“I’d like to talk to you about your photography.”

“My photography? Why?”

“I was at a gallery in Bar Harbor today. The owner, a man named Walt-”

“Oh, yeah.” Mattie grinned, putting his feet up on a coffee table. “Good old Walt. He’s full of shit, isn’t he? Pompous ass.”

“He thinks you’re very talented.”

“See what I mean?”

“Where do you keep the negatives of the pictures you’ve taken?”

“I burned them.”

Abigail wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. “When?”

“One night when I was drunk and feeling sorry for myself. Well.” He gave a fake laugh, no hint of self-deprecation. “I guess that describes a lot of nights. It was sometime after Chris was killed. I was living in Bar Harbor-it feels like civilization compared to living out here.”

“Did you destroy all your negatives?”

He hesitated. “I don’t remember.”

“You remember, Mattie. You’re a photographer. Those negatives are your life’s work.”

“I don’t know why I let you in here.”

“You didn’t burn the negatives of the pictures you took the day Dorothy Garrison died,” Abigail said.

He shot to his feet, bolting for the front door, but she intercepted him, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back.

He squealed. “Hey!”

“Just calm down.” She eased off. “Running isn’t going to solve anything.”

“You have no right-”

She released him and stepped back. “I want to know about the pictures, Mattie.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Abigail didn’t answer him. She walked into the adjoining dining room, where a dusty faux-crystal chandelier hung above a scratched and nicked dark-stained pine table. “You have a decent setup here.” She ran her fingers over the table. “Keep your day job and work on your photography on your off-hours. That’s your plan, isn’t it?”

He rubbed his arm where she’d tackled him. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“Why sneak off to the old Garrison foundation to drink in the dark with the mosquitoes?”

He shrugged. “Why drink?”

“Good point.

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