The Kill (44 page)

Manning jerked his head back, twisting to the side, but with his hands and feet bound he had no way to evade Thompson. He shut his eyes against a bolt of pain that sliced through his injured arm.

Thompson taped a longer strip across Manning’s mouth and around to the back of his head, then turned to Margaret. “As for you, Margaret, I wouldn’t be honest with you if I didn’t admit this gives me a certain amount of pleasure. You’ve bossed me around—everyone, actually—for so long, I think it will be good for you to see what it feels like.”

Margaret’s eyes hardened defiantly. “Just answer one question for me.”

“What’s that?” Thompson asked.

“Did you put Richard’s watch in Manning’s coat pocket?”

Thompson smiled. “Of course. You see, that was a perfect example of you getting too bossy for my liking. You were starting to steer the murder investigation away from Dario Reyes and I just couldn’t have that. So I gave you an incentive to stop pushing the
maybe-it-was-someone-who-knew-Richard
theory.”

Margaret frowned. “It wasn’t but a lick before I took the coats to the cleaner that we’d discussed whether someone from the hunt could have killed Richard. We started speculating when Manning was injured and discovered someone had cut the billet straps on Richard’s saddle. I already had Manning’s coat in my truck.”

“That’s right,” Thompson said. “And after that discussion you told Manning you were taking his scarlet coat to the cleaners and offered to take mine as well. Your timing couldn’t have been better. Frankly, I was at a loss trying to figure out how to blow up your insider theory, but, thank you, you presented me with the perfect opportunity. I got my coat and Richard’s watch from my house, and when I put my coat in your truck I slipped the watch in Manning’s pocket. As much as I hated to part with such a fine watch, I figured it was a win-win situation for me. You’d either turn the watch over to the sheriff and Manning would be implicated, or you’d keep it to yourself and make sure the sheriff backed off the insider theory. Quite honestly, my money was on you turning Manning in, but I guess I underestimated your affection for your golden child. Or maybe you just wanted to sweep a scandal under the rug.”

Manning stared across the room at his mother.
Jesus. She’d found Richard’s watch in his coat pocket? No
wonder she’d treated him the way she had. A lump formed in his throat as he realized she’d probably thought he was guilty as hell, but had covered up for him anyway.

“Actually, now that it’s served its purpose, I’d kind of like to have the watch back,” Thompson said. “Did you stash it at your house somewhere?”

When Margaret didn’t reply, Thompson said, “Never mind. It will turn up at some point, when they go through your things. Won’t that cause a stir? Wonder if anyone will think
you
killed Richard, Margaret?”

“Were you the one who cut the billet straps on Richard’s saddle?”

Thompson wagged a finger at Margaret. “See, there you go again. Trying to run things. I agreed to answer
one
question. But just to satisfy your curiosity, yes, I did cut the billet straps. And I’m man enough to admit that was a mistake. It almost upset my plan. But it was a temptation too big to resist. I was in the barn that morning when Manning was tacking up Henry and the idea just popped into my head. The prospect of Manning hurt—or killed, if I got lucky—was simply too enticing to pass up.”

He cocked his head and smiled. “I learned something from that experience, though. Never underestimate anyone, no matter how much of an imbecile you think they may be. Take Larry, for example. I would have sworn that lazy son-of-a-bitch was dumber than a fence post, but he saw me in the stall with Henry that morning after Manning had tacked him up, and he managed to put two and two together. I think Larry died happy, though. Before I put a bullet through his tiny brain, I told him I knew he wasn’t as stupid as folks thought he was.”

“Good God.
You killed Larry?”

“Yes, I did. He’s buried in the manure pit right behind Richard’s barn. A fitting resting place, don’t you think?”

Thompson tore off a strip of tape and wound it around Margaret’s mouth. She glared at him as he yanked on the tape, but Manning saw her flinch with pain.

“Oh, Margaret, I’m sorry, that must hurt where you’ve rubbed your skin raw,” Thompson said, clucking his tongue in mock sympathy.

Manning’s hands balled into fists.
Goddamned son-of-a-bitch! Real ballsy, bullying a seventy-year-old woman who’s bound and can’t fight back. Just give me one chance, Thompson
, he thought.
I’ll rip you apart with my bare hands
.

Thompson paused in the doorway, glanced around the darkroom as if making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, then flipped the switch, plummeting them into blackness.

“Oh, and don’t worry about Abigale coming looking for you, Manning. I texted her that the two of you went on a little hound-shopping expedition. No one expects either of you home tonight.”

A
bigale ended up bringing Duchess back to Manning’s house with her, unable to resist the dog’s pleading brown eyes. The rain had turned the long gravel drive into a channel of mud and ruts. Thank God the Subaru had all-wheel drive; she doubted Manning would be able to make it in his BMW.

The cozy house felt empty without Manning there and Abigale was happy she had Duchess with her. She flipped on all the lights and lit a fire in the hearth, then headed for the shower. Fatigue set in as she peeled off her wet clothes. She let the hot water beat down on her.

As the warmth seeped through her, disappointment that Dario hadn’t been able to provide more information about the SUV began to eat away at her elation that he could clear Manning. Was she any closer to finding Uncle Richard’s killer?
No
. In fact, what Dario had told her had eliminated the people she’d had suspicions about. Tiffanie drove a Mercedes SUV, which Dario claimed would have been recognizable by its bright bluish headlights. The black Hummer she’d seen at Tiffanie’s house was out, too. It was too big, and covered with all kinds of gaudy running lights. Same thing with Percy’s monster truck. It had roof lights, and running lights galore.

The fact that Dario claimed he hadn’t seen the SUV drive into Longmeadow didn’t answer the question of whether it had been there when Manning was there. Whether he’d seen the person—the killer—and would be able to identify him. If only he could remember! Or had the killer arrived later? After Manning left. While Dario was asleep.

And what about Tiffanie’s visit? Assuming Dario was right about the Xenon headlights, he hadn’t seen Tiffanie’s Mercedes. But she’d been there. She’d admitted so herself. So that implied she had arrived and departed earlier. Before Manning got there. Tiffanie claimed that when she arrived at Longmeadow, Uncle Richard was waiting for someone. Was it Manning? Or the driver of the SUV?

She had given Tiffanie until 5:00 p.m. tomorrow to call Lieutenant Mallory. Once Mallory had a chance to question both Tiffanie and Dario, he’d be able to get a better fix on the timing, making sure both their stories meshed. But first, she had to find the right attorney to represent Dario. Someone who could work a deal if he turned himself in. She was counting on Manning or Margaret to know who the right attorney would be.

Abigale forced herself out of the steamy shower and dressed in one of Manning’s T-shirts, then wrapped herself in his terry-cloth robe. She wasn’t really hungry, but she had a low-blood-sugar, out-of-it kind of feeling, so she knew she had to eat something. She heated up some of the chicken noodle soup she’d bought for Manning and carried the hot mug to the couch in front of the fire. Duchess followed her like a shadow. When she settled down with her camera and laptop, the dog stood by her knees, eyeing the couch expectantly. Abigale didn’t know whether Margaret let Duchess up on the furniture. Probably not. But she figured Manning wouldn’t mind.

“Come on, girl,” she said, patting the cushion next to her. The Lab jumped onto the couch and sprawled out, her head resting against Abigale’s leg with a contented sigh.

She sipped the soup while she booted up her laptop and downloaded the shots she’d taken at Dartmoor Glebe the previous afternoon. She’d called her mother that morning, promising her she’d email pictures by tomorrow. Her mother had sounded stronger than she had in a long time. She’d even told Abigale she was going to talk to her doctor about making the trip to Virginia, saying she wanted to come home.

Abigale spent over an hour sorting through the pictures, deciding which ones to send. She lingered over the shots she’d taken of her hunt horn and spurs, trying to decide whether or not to send them to her mother. She knew the dented horn would conjure up memories of Abigale’s relationship with Manning, and she didn’t want to upset her mother. On the other hand, her mother had saved Manning’s letters for her. Maybe it was finally time to talk about it.

She had taken half a dozen different shots of the horn and spurs on a moss-covered log nestled in a clump of trees in front of Dartmoor Glebe. She eyed each shot critically. For most, she’d focused on the horn and spurs, and the house was blurred in the background. But she’d shot several with the house in focus and the foreground blurred. Her mother might like those more. She selected one, enlarging it so it filled the laptop screen. The house looked so tranquil—wait…was the front door open? She zoomed in.
It was
.

Abigale quickly scrolled back to the first photo in the series. The door was closed. She clicked on the next one. Still closed. The third photo showed a man standing at the front door. She clicked ahead and saw the man’s arm extended, pushing the door open. In the next one, he walked inside. Then, wide-open door, and, finally, closed door.

Who was he? She hadn’t noticed anyone around when she’d shot the photos. But, then again, she’d been focused on her work. And he probably wouldn’t have noticed her, because she was hidden in the trees. She enlarged the shot of him opening the door and zoomed in on his head. He was in partial profile, but it was blurred. Still, something about him was familiar…She leaned closer, squinting at the screen. She caught a glimpse of the tip of a bow tie peeking out next to the lapel of his tweed jacket. Was it Thompson? She zoomed out, then back in, gradually. Studied his physique. His posture.
Yes
. She was sure of it.

But that made no sense. Thompson had handed her his key to Dartmoor Glebe the night he’d come in the house during the storm. How had he opened the front door yesterday? She remembered checking to make sure all the doors were locked when she’d gone to pick up her things. She zoomed in on the shot where Thompson was pushing the door open. His left hand was on the door handle, his right on a key in the dead bolt. So where did he get a key?

Abigale sank back against the couch, staring at the slide. She was sure there were some spares floating around. Margaret had said as much. But who gave one to Thompson? And why had he used it? When he’d returned his key to her last week, he’d told her he didn’t feel comfortable entering the house unannounced.

She thought about calling Thompson, just coming right out and asking him. He might be offended, but she wanted to know. Besides, Thompson had been with Manning and Margaret this afternoon. He might be able to shed some light on why they had suddenly decided to drive to Pennsylvania. She glanced at the clock on her laptop. It was after ten o’clock. She’d call him first thing in the morning.

M
anning awoke with a start, his heart slamming against his chest. He’d heard something. What was it? He strained to hear. There it was again. A faint scraping sound. Back and forth. It was coming from inside the room. Had his mother figured out a way to cut herself loose? It didn’t sound like something cutting through duct tape, more like metal scraping against stone, like fingernails on a chalkboard. He pictured the way she was tied, with her arms around the leg of the freestanding utility sink. Maybe she was working on the screws, trying to remove the metal leg. That had a long shot at succeeding. But right now, a long shot was all they had.