Charlotte sat in the dark of the sunroom.
The judge and Ed had gone to bed early, but she was too steeped in the success of the memorial to consider it.
A breeze outside shivered the swing under the broad-arching oak, catching her attention.
Nearly five years ago, Pan had sat next to her on the swing, those long tanned legs tucked under her, her arms wrapped around herself. Tears slipped one at a time down her cheeks.
“How do you do it, Charlotte? How do you hold it together? This house, the judge’s social calendar, all the projects and—”
“I work damned hard. I never let up.”
Pan had blinked, surprise breaking through her self-absorbed misery. “But … you make it look easy. All the parties, the charities…”
“Never mind.”
Pan reached out and touched her shoulder. “No, no. I’m glad you told me. I’m grateful. It’s a wakeup call. I suppose I’ve had this naïve idea of what life would be, how easy it would be. You’re right. I haven’t worked hard enough. But I will.”
Pan, the dreamy little idiot, had been sure Charlotte’s words were meant only in her best interest. That’s how she saw everything. That’s how she thought the world worked — to please her, to make things better for her.
Then Charlotte had blurted out a truth she’d never before spoken aloud.
“It’s damned hard, being indispensable. Making it look easy enough nobody feels uncomfortable or they won’t come back, but not so easy they don’t appreciate you. It’s a tightrope.”
Pan had stared at her with the pity of someone who knew the trip across the tightrope would end in disaster. Maybe not this one or the next or the one after, but some trip, some time.
It infuriated Charlotte.
“You can’t do what I do.” Charlotte had tried to keep the words in. They wouldn’t be kept. Her gaze bounced away from Pan’s startled face. She stared at the petunias grown leggy and the gladiolas in need of staking. “You’ve never had to work hard at anything in your life. You, Laurel. Given everything. You think either of you could keep a place like Rambler Farm running? I’ve had to do everything. You? You’ve only ever had to be yourself.”
Pan had held still while the words jerked out of Charlotte. After, she untucked her legs, planted her feet flat. Charlotte felt oddly chilled.
“You’ve never liked me. All these years, all the years I thought we were friends, you’ve never liked me. You haven’t known me, either. You’re right about a lot of things, Charlotte, but you are wrong about this.”
Pan got up, giving the swing a shove that jerked Charlotte in a way she could only believe was deliberate, and walked away.
Charlotte never talked to her again. She saw her at church that Sunday, of course, but it was easy to not cross close enough where talking was required. Charlotte was quite sure nobody noticed.
Soon Pan was dead. And now Laurel was, too.
* * * *
Dammit, there was something in this transcript trying to tell her something.
If Maggie could put everything else out of her mind and concentrate, surely she’d see it.
A muscle from the back of her neck to her shoulder contracted. She sat upright to ease it, and her back and knees griped at the abrupt change of position after rusting into place. Even her forehead — she rubbed at tightness there — was complaining.
And no wonder. It was after nine. She’d spent hours squinting in concentration over the transcript as if it were a holy rune.
Then her stomach rumbled.
The vote was unanimous — time to get up, move around, get something to eat. She’d come back to it fresher.
After a cup of soup, a warmed-up roll, and a glass of ice water, she noticed the garbage can had reached capacity. She set the filled black plastic bag on the back steps while she fitted a fresh one into the can.
A scratching sound from the shadowy bushes brought her head up. Good heavens, Carson and Evelyn had said to be careful of garbage-digging raccoons, but could they possibly be reacting to the bag already?
She locked the door and grabbed the bag to take it to the main house. No way was she giving J.D. Carson the opportunity for a told-you-so.
A few steps into the rhododendrons and it was tunnel dark. But she knew the path to Monroe House’s back door.
Damp leathery touches against her face were rhododendron leaves. She remembered the sensation from the climb to the overlook behind J.D. at the crime scene. What had he been looking for? She’d never asked, he’d never said.
That might have been short-sighted. Truth or lie, an answer could provide—
A sound behind her.
Raccoons following the scent? Wasn’t that extreme, even for the pushy behavior Carson and Evelyn described.
And this wasn’t the same sound as the scratching in the bushes by the back door. It was more furtive. Yet … bigger. Something pushing at the leaves about shoulder height at the same time creating a faint footfall.
Footfalls closing in on her.
She went faster. If she ran, could she beat her follower to the back door?
Not if it was Roy.
Roy who wouldn’t be above trying to frighten someone in the name of “fun.”
She’d reached where one side of the path opened to the oval of lawn, but the deep shadows left it no brighter. She picked up speed.
Behind her, she heard her follower break into a run. Toward her. Coming right at her.
Fury spun her around, and instinct swung the bag of garbage into a high arc. It crashed down on the shape behind her — a person, definitely a person. A man? She thought so, couldn’t be sure.
Her follower reached out, a shadowed hand squeezing at her shoulder, trying to grip her. Maggie jerked out of the grasp.
She swung a second time, putting all her strength into it. Hitting head and shoulders as the figure tried to duck. One seam split, spilling a stream of egg shells, tomato stems, coffee grounds, ripe cans that once held orange juice. She let go of the bag, and felt the top give way in another spurt of smelly garbage.
The figure recoiled.
With that momentary advantage, Maggie turned and ran to the main house.
“Dallas!” she shouted. “Call the police!”
Inside the back door — still not locked — she slammed it closed behind her, fumbling for the latch. She sprinted through the kitchen and into the hallway, still shouting. Dallas was fumbling his way out of the oversized chair.
“Wha— What is it? Maggie? What’s wrong?” He squinted at her from eyes heavy with sleep.
“Someone chased me from the guesthouse. A man. I’m almost sure.” She was panting, winded by more than the short run.
“Good God. J.D. will find whoever it was.”
“J.D.?” There was no one else in the room.
But Dallas was going on. “We thought we’d work in comfort in here. He’s right…” He looked at the couch. On the coffee table sat a neat pile of folders. “He must have stepped out a moment.”
At the window, Maggie checked the lighted drive. “His truck’s not here. Carson!”
Silence.
Confusion showed in Dallas’s eyes. Until he remembered not to show her what he was thinking, and dropped those heavy lids like a curtain.
Chill understanding swept across Maggie, leaving goose bumps.
J.D. Carson’s alibi for the murder of Laurel Blankenship Tagner had just evaporated.
Because that Saturday could have unfolded the way this evening had.
When Dallas fell asleep, obviously Carson slipped away without the older man ever knowing. So, when her shouting woke Dallas, he still expected to see his associate sitting across from him.
If she hadn’t arrived, Dallas would have slept on in peace. Carson easily could have slipped back in, awakened the older man at some convenient point and presented himself as having been there all along. Dallas wouldn’t know otherwise.
As he could have when Laurel was murdered.
As he could have only a few minutes ago when someone followed her. Roy might have motivation to try to rattle her, but who knew the guesthouse and grounds better than Carson?
She picked up the phone on the desk in the corner — her phone was back in the guesthouse — and stabbed in numbers.
“Are you calling the sheriff?”
“No. He has enough to do.” She hung up, and dialed another number. No answer at either of Roy’s numbers. “What’s Carson’s phone number?”
She hit the numbers as Dallas recited them. It rang and rang. Until a neutral voice invited her to leave a message. To be sure, she also called the law office, and got the standard message.
She replaced the phone, said to Dallas, “It could have been him.”
She saw his recognition that she meant more than chasing her from the guesthouse.
He shook his head, but said only, “Tell me what happened.”
When she’d finished, a slight smile lifted his face for a moment. “You’re a resourceful woman, Maggie Frye. A resourceful woman. Moreover, your resourcefulness has put the mark of Cain on the perpetrator. More accurately the stink of refuse on him. If you can find someone who smells, you’ll know you have the man.”
Damn, if he wasn’t right.
But only for a short time.
The person would change, shower as soon as possible to get the stink off.
If it was Roy, he was already heading out of town, and with myriad routes to choose from her odds of catching him were crap.
Carson’s options were more limited. If he bore the stink of her counterattack he couldn’t risk seeing anyone else, because when word got out about her follower and the garbage spill — and word would get out in Bedhurst — people would connect him with the incident. He had to get home, fast. To wash off evidence.
“Where are you goin’?” Dallas called as she sprinted out.
“I’ll be back.”
She retraced her route through the house. Outside, instead of the darkened path, she followed the open walk that led to the lane that serviced the guesthouse, then ran down its center to her car, digging out the keys she’d pocketed after locking the guesthouse’s back door. She slammed it into reverse and backed up.