What kind of person would have them in there in the first place? Andrew reined in an urge to get in his car and get the hell out of there. "Lauren, we need to call the police."

She frowned at him. "What?"

"I didn't kill Ike. You don't need to protect me."

"But I-I saw you."

"It wasn't me."

She blinked. "What?"

He was losing her. The stress of finding her trunk empty was too much. "Where's your husband?"

"Richard? He's at work."

Andrew didn't think so. Richard Montague was shorter than he was and thicker through the chest, but he could have easily grabbed the denim jacket off its hook on the back porch and thrown it on, just in case someone saw him at the carriage house and Ike's body was discovered sooner rather than later.

Even later-now, over a year later-his simple precaution was paying off.

"Lauren, did you tell Richard you were going to the carriage house to talk to Ike that morning last March?"

She rallied. "Yes, we talked right after I got to the office. Why?"

Because it meant Richard had planned for her to think Andrew had killed her brother, in case she showed up. He'd guessed how she'd react. He was an expert in that sort of thinking. It also meant killing Ike wasn't an accident Richard covered up, but a deliberate act.

"We need to call the police," Andrew said. "And we need to find your husband."

Richard needed a murderer.

He parked his car in the carriage house driveway. He had the outlines of a plan-a daring plan, because daring was called for-and he needed to be direct. To hide his car was to invite the wrong sort of question.

He was an innocent man. He needed to act innocent.

He got his Walther.9 mm out of the glove compartment. Lauren hated guns, so he'd never mentioned the one he kept in his desk at his office. It was against company policy, but he'd sneaked it in piece by piece.

He tucked the weapon into his waistband and got Ike's bones out of the trunk. With the bag tightly sealed, no smells could escape, yet he could smell it, anyway, knew it was the memory of over a year ago. He hadn't expected blood. Ike must have caught his head on a loose nail on his way down the carriage house stairs.

But there was the smell of the lime, too, it and the dirt cellar floor, Ike's body, all wet and slick from being hosed down. He'd had to speed decomposition, move things along before warm weather set in.

He'd burned Ike's expensive clothes and tossed the ashes into the sea. Much easier than getting rid of a body. He'd cleaned up inside as best he could.

He hadn't worried that much about someone discovering Ike's remains in the cellar. He'd taken precautions. But he hadn't counted on Lauren stealing them. He thought he could weather having a brother-in-law turn up dead, but having his wife involved was something else altogether. That smug bastard Jeremy Carver would never stand for that sort of scandal.

No, he couldn't just dump Ike's remains at sea. He needed to produce a murderer. An ending to this sordid affair. The work he did was far too important to risk that he might end up in any way tarnished by Ike Grantham's death.

He ducked through a small gap in the lilac hedge, the trash bag snagging on a branch. The smell came through, musty and earthy. His stomach roiled.

He could hear the little girl-Dolly-singing in her tree house. He moved quietly across the lawn to Harley Beckett's workshop. The door was open, and as he crossed the threshold, he removed the Walther from his waistband and leveled it at Harl, who was already reaching for a baseball bat.

"I wouldn't," Richard said.

"Yeah, you wouldn't-you've got a goddamn gun. What do you need with a baseball bat?"

But Harl's hand was suspended midair, his eyes focused on Richard, his white ponytail hanging over his left shoulder. Richard set the bones on the floor. "With Tess Haviland's report of a skeleton, I've reluctantly come to the conclusion that you had to be involved. You live right here on the other side of the lilac hedge. You're a burnout. There was no love lost between you and my brother-in-law. But before I went to the police with such an explosive accusation, I thought I should check it out myself. Armed, of course."

"Just don't touch the kid. You hear me? Touch her, and I'll haunt you forever. It won't be pretty."

Richard smiled and shook his head. "Such a romantic." He motioned toward the door with his gun. "Shall we? I'm afraid I need you at the carriage house."

"Hide the weapon. I don't want Dolly to see it. I'll cooperate."

"Just move," Richard said, "and pray."

The little girl didn't stop singing as Richard followed Harl back through the lilacs. Beckett seemed to relax once they were onto the carriage house driveway, out of view of the tree house. He glanced back at Richard, his eyes knowing. "No way I'm coming out of this alive?"

"Unfortunately, no," Richard said. "No way. It's not personal. In my work I've learned that sometimes one must make sacrifices for the greater good."

"The greater good here being saving your sorry ass."

"The world needs me."

"Yeah? You know what I say? Screw the world."

Richard smirked. "That's what all the burnouts say. Let's go inside, shall we?"

Harl started up the kitchen steps.

"You're a brave man," Richard said. "There's a role in the world for simple, uneducated, brave men with a clear sense of duty."

"It's called cannon fodder."

"Gallows humor?"

Beckett didn't answer.

Once inside, Richard had him unlatch the trapdoor and lift it. "I know you're going to try something. In fact, I'm counting on it."

But what Beckett did, Richard hadn't counted on. He said, "Fuck you," and dove headfirst through the trapdoor. He might have been diving into the ocean.

Richard fired, striking Harl in the hip as he disappeared through the opening. His second shot hit the wall. He heard Harl land with a sickening thud on the dirt floor below, without a cry of pain, a moan or even so much as a sigh.

Richard stood over the dark opening. Maybe Harl had broken his neck. A headfirst dive was risky and awkward-unexpected. But if he'd gone through the trapdoor feetfirst, Richard would have had a better chance of hitting a vital organ or shooting him in the head. It didn't matter, provided Richard could credibly claim self-defense.

What a moronic move on Harl's part, Richard thought, frustrated, as he got down on his knees and with his free hand, unlatched the ladder. He had to make sure Harl was dead. The only way his plan would work was if he could claim to have killed Harley Beckett in self-defense.

Though who would believe Beckett's version of events over his own?

The ladder dropped to the floor.

This was very risky. If Harl was alive and functioning, Richard would be exposed on the rickety ladder.

Best to go around to the bulkhead, he decided.

He tucked the Walther into his waistband, observed that he wasn't breathing hard at all and headed for the kitchen door.

A little girl popped through the lilacs. "Have you seen my cat?" she asked.

Tess pulled up in front of Andrew's house and jumped out of the car. He wasn't at his office. She'd stopped at the Beacon Historic Project offices to check on Lauren Montague, but she wasn't there, either. Tess wanted to talk to both Lauren and Andrew about her visit to the police.

They were looking into Ike Grantham's disappearance. They weren't happy with what they'd found-or, more accurately, hadn't found-so far. They thought perhaps she had seen a skeleton on Friday night after all.

"We wish you'd called us then," Paul Alvarez had told her.