The Whisper (12 page)

Scoop balled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it into a trash can. “I can get you another cab.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go to the museum now. I’ll head back home. I guess I don’t know what to do with myself after this tragedy. Walk with me, won’t you?”

“I’m parked just up the street from your house,” Sophie said. She’d taken a few more bites of her sandwich, already feeling steadier on her feet. She glanced at Scoop. “If you have to be somewhere—”

“Not a problem.” His dark eyes held hers for an instant. “I’m right where I need to be.”

They continued up the street toward the Carlisle house. Helen walked with her arms crossed on her chest, as if she were trying to hold in her emotions. Sophie could imagine what she was feeling—the doubts, the regrets, the fears. Could she have done anything to prevent Cliff Rafferty’s death?

“Have you talked to Percy?” Sophie asked her. “Does he know what happened?”

Helen shook her head. “I haven’t heard from him. The police want to talk to him, which I understand. Cliff worked for us.” She gave Scoop a quick glance, then faced forward again as they came to an intersection. “They have to keep an open mind and consider all the possibilities, including homicide, but it looks as if it was a suicide, doesn’t it?”

“One step at a time,” Scoop said.

“Cliff had been preoccupied, enough for me to notice but not to be alarmed. I didn’t know him that well. I assumed he was still adjusting to his retirement. Maybe it didn’t agree with him.”

They crossed the street and walked past large, elegant Back Bay houses, Scoop on the edge of the sidewalk, Sophie between him and Helen. “Did Cliff stay at your house last night?” he asked.

Helen shook her head. “He has a room here, but he went back to his place. As I said, he’s not a bodyguard. He was working on
a total security makeover for us. Alarm systems, computers, finances. Percy has been so casual about security. He can’t imagine anyone would want to do him harm.”

“I didn’t realize Cliff was such an expert in security,” Scoop said. “You aren’t afraid to be in the house alone?”

“Of course not. I’ve only been married—a Carlisle, if you will—for a few months. I’ve worked all my life. I’m accustomed to being on my own.” She lowered her arms from her chest, her sweater swinging open in the slight, pleasant breeze. “Percy liked Cliff. He said Cliff seemed to have no idea what to do after he retired. I think Percy just wanted to do a man who’d devoted his life to serving the people a good turn, as well as beef up security here. He was very upset after Jay Augustine’s arrest, but he didn’t want to overreact. Hiring Cliff seemed like a reasonable solution.”

“Do you have friends in Boston?” Sophie asked.

“A few,” Helen said. She lapsed into silence as they crossed a side street and came to her house on the corner. She stood at the iron fence. “I didn’t realize how much I’d miss Percy. I understand he needs his space. He’s brilliant, you know. He’s just quieter and more cerebral than his father was. I think Percy was overshadowed by him, really. Did you ever meet Percy Sr., Sophie?”

“A few times.”

Helen seemed distracted, exhausted. She motioned broadly at the mansion behind her. “This place is like a museum dedicated to him. I think it took marrying me for Percy to be able to go through the house top to bottom and at least try to make it his own, although we could end up selling it. He still isn’t over his father’s death. It’s been three years, but everyone’s different.”

“You’re worried about him,” Sophie said

“Wouldn’t you be?” Helen paused, the strain of the day evident, her skin very pale against her dark hair and the vibrant
red of her sweater. “I don’t know what effect Cliff’s death will have on Percy.”

“Are you concerned about your husband’s safety?” Scoop asked.

She seemed surprised. “No, should I be?”

Scoop shrugged without answering.

Helen abandoned the subject. “Won’t you come inside? I can at least offer you a drink.”

“That’d be great,” Sophie said before Scoop could respond. She turned to him. “Don’t let us keep you.”

“I’m good,” he said, his eyes lingering on her for a fraction longer than was necessary—just enough to communicate his lack of enthusiasm for her decision to accept Helen’s invitation.

They took a brick walk flanked by formal hedges and thick ground cover, then went down an offshoot to a side entrance. Helen produced a single key from a sweater pocket. “I hate carrying around scads of keys on some massive key ring, but I probably should. I’m always losing them,” she said cheerfully as she pushed open the door, faltering slightly as she added, “Cliff would tease me about it.”

She led her guests down a hall, a thick Persian runner on the gleaming hardwood floor, its white walls decorated with a line of precisely spaced botanical prints of New England wildflowers—columbine, lady slipper, aster, trillium. They came to a cool kitchen with stark white cabinets and black granite counters.

Helen set her key on a round table with a large vase of autumn flowers in the center, and sighed. “It’s ghastly, isn’t it? This place. It’s so cold. Beautiful and tasteful, of course—but it needs some warmth. A house needs to be lived in and loved, don’t you think?”

“You’re living here,” Scoop said.

“I haven’t put my stamp on it yet. It still very much feels like
Percy Sr.’s house. I’ve sometimes wondered why the Carlisles didn’t turn it into a museum when they had the chance. It’d be perfect.” She peeled off her sweater and draped it over the back of a chair. “Well, things are changing. If we decide not to sell, once we finish renovations, we’ll have a constant stream of friends, families and parties. And dogs. I’m determined to get a couple of dogs.”

Sophie remained standing, Scoop right next to her.

Helen gave them a self-conscious smile. “I’m talking a mile a minute.” She ran her fingertips over the edge of the table. “It’s hard to believe Cliff sat right here last night. We talked about your visit before he went home. He figured it meant something. He was always on guard, always suspicious. It can’t have been an easy way to live.”

“Did he ever discuss his work as a police officer with you?” Sophie asked.

“Only in general terms. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Charlotte Augustine to discover she was married to a murderer. Cliff was divorced himself, estranged from his children—they’re adults. They live in North Carolina, I believe. He hoped being retired would help him rebuild his relationship with them.” With an abrupt burst of energy, Helen walked over to the refrigerator. “What can I get you? Soda, wine, beer?”

Scoop shook his head. “Nothing, thanks.”

“Would having even a nonalcoholic drink violate police rules or something? Here, Sophie. You’re not trained to find dead bodies—at least recently dead bodies. I imagine you’ve seen a few ancient bones in your day.”

“Thanks, but we should go,” Sophie said.

“Nonsense.” Helen got down a glass from an open shelf and filled it with water from the tap, handing it to Sophie. “As you
know, Cliff and Percy met when detectives had Percy stop by the Augustine showroom. They were going through the inventory. Apparently the Augustines didn’t keep very good records. There was a lot of confusion. Percy was able to identify a painting in storage that he’d traded to the Augustines for a sculpture he’d had his eye on.”

“Who else was there?” Scoop asked.

“Besides Cliff? Several homicide and robbery detectives. I don’t know their names.” She shuddered as she handed Sophie a glass of water. “When I heard about Cliff’s death, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was angry with Percy. I didn’t want to have to face this alone.”

Sophie drank some of her water, then placed the glass in the sink. She noticed tears in the other woman’s eyes. “You’re newlyweds. It’s natural to miss him, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but now that the initial shock’s worn off a bit, I’m glad he’s not here.”

“Still no idea where he is?” Scoop asked.

She shook her head. “Not really, no. I’ll keep trying to reach him.”

Sophie looked out the window over the sink at the Carlisles’ enclosed courtyard, at least twice the size of the one she shared on Beacon Hill. She noticed potted trees, a border of autumn perennials, vines and benches, even a small wrought-iron table and chairs. She almost asked Helen Carlisle if she could sit out there for a few minutes, just to be alone and think, process what she’d just witnessed.

“Is anyone working on your renovations today?” Scoop asked.

“Not today, no,” Helen said. “Next week. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? I can make sandwiches. When Percy’s here, we have a full-time cook and housekeeper, but I’m used to doing
things for myself. He likes that about me. When we first met, I wasn’t sure he would. He seems so old-fashioned, doesn’t he?”

“We should let you get your bearings,” Sophie said, pulling her gaze from the courtyard.

“I dealt with security in my work in New York,” Helen said, almost to herself, “but I never worried about my personal safety—beyond the occasional can of pepper spray.”

Sophie stopped in the doorway, aware that Scoop hadn’t yet moved to follow her. Maybe he’d stay behind to talk to Helen Carlisle alone. “I’m truly sorry about what happened.”

Helen picked up her sweater off the chair and clutched it in both hands. “The police said Cliff asked you to come by his apartment this morning. Can you tell me why?”

“He didn’t say.”

“He told me he’d help me go through this place. I was looking forward to digging through all these musty rooms with him. I don’t have the baggage of being a blood Carlisle. Neither did Cliff.” Tears were on her pale cheeks now. “I’m sorry. His death is a blow.”

“I know it must be,” Sophie said quietly.

“I’m glad we ran into each other.” Obviously sinking emotionally, Helen slipped her sweater back on. “Maybe I’ll go back to the museum after all. Thank you for distracting me at least a little while.”

Sophie said goodbye and started down the hall, Scoop next to her. Helen didn’t see them out. They descended the steps into the formal front yard, and Sophie gulped in the afternoon air, taking in the crush of cars out on the street, the feel of the sun on her face.

Scoop didn’t say a word until they reached the Mini. Then he caught her by the shoulders and turned her to him. “You’re all right?”

“Yes, why, do I look—”

“Because I’m going to yell at you. You’re Professor Malone or Doctor Malone or Miss Malone. You’re not Detective Malone. You got that? It’s not just what you said in there. It’s your body language. I had the same sense back in the ruin in Ireland.”

“What sense?”

“That you’ve got a bit in your teeth and you’re running.”

He had a point, but she argued with him anyway. “I wouldn’t have made it through graduate school without asking questions.”

“Or without self-discipline. Adopt a little now.”

She angled a look at him. “You done?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m done.” He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “I’ll watch you get in your car. Then you just head right back to Beacon Hill.”

She dug out Taryn’s keys. “Nothing like a Scoop Wisdom reality check. Do you need a ride anywhere?”

“No.” He took a sharp breath, then added, “Thanks for the offer. Just go on about your day and forget all this.”

“Oh, that’ll be easy. I’ll just head back to my apartment and arrange mums in the courtyard—”

“Sounds good.”

“I was being sarcastic.” She opened up the driver’s door. “But maybe that
is
what I’ll do. I could use a little normalcy right now, and it’ll help me think.”

“Where are you getting the mums?”

She wondered if he knew he was being annoying and was certain he did. “Maybe I’ll steal some out of yards on Beacon Hill.”

“Funny, Sophie.”

“It’s been a long day already. When will you be able to determine if Cliff Rafferty was murdered?”

“There are flower shops on Charles. Try there.” Scoop headed
down the sidewalk, away from the Carlisle house, but turned, facing her as he walked backward. “I like a mix of colors—reminds me of all the different shades of autumn leaves more than a solid color does.”

“A gardener, are you?”

He pointed a thick finger at her. “Be where we can find you. At your apartment with the mums. Tutoring hockey players. Anywhere but near a police investigation.”

“I was thinking about Morrigan’s after the mums,” she said, suspecting she was being annoying, too. “But I wouldn’t want to be provocative again and have you catch me there with a Guinness.”

“That wouldn’t be provocative this time. That would be smart.”

She got into the Mini and watched him turn back around and walk another few yards. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected from Colm’s descriptions and news accounts of his heroism, his work, his injuries. He was more self-contained, funnier, not nearly as cocky as she’d have imagined.

The man was a gardener, for heaven’s sake.

But he was still a police detective—an intense, committed one at that—and she would be smart, she thought, to keep that in mind.

Nonetheless, she called to him, “What does Detective Acosta have against you?”

“Pick out a nice yellow mum for me,” he said without so much as a glance back at her.

“Did he do something to come to the attention of internal affairs?”

Scoop didn’t respond. Sophie wasn’t surprised. Whether Acosta had or hadn’t had a run-in with internal affairs, Scoop wasn’t about to tell her—even if it was a matter of public record. He was a man who kept his own counsel. Not a talker, not a
confider. It wasn’t just training or part of his job description. It was the way he was.

He didn’t change his mind and trot back to her and climb into the passenger seat. Sophie didn’t know if she wanted him to or not.

She wondered how long she had before he heard from Tim’s Brits and showed up at her door for more details.

Enough time to buy mums, even?

As she started the car, she wondered, too, how close she’d been to ending up like Cliff Rafferty a year ago. If not hanged, just as dead.