Page 21

Wednesday

Wednesday morning is rainy and dark. When my alarm goes off, I give serious thought to calling in sick just to curl up under the comforter and doze. But my job is the only thing in my life that’s still roughly on track, and I need to keep it that way.

I get up and drive Natalie to another final exam before heading to work. I park in the gravel lot, as far away from the spot where Tim died as I can physically be without ramming the car into a tree.

My shoes are wet by the time I hurry onto the mansion’s porch. After shaking off my umbrella, I glance over both shoulders while I key in the new security code. Thankfully, I get it right on the first try. When the light turns green, I push the big door open.

Without morning sunlight shining down through the skylight, the foyer is gloomy.

If this were 1860, I would have been greeted at the front door by the housekeeper. And honestly, I could use a friendly smile as I remove my raincoat and carry it into the reception room to hang it on the coatrack.

Back then, I would’ve placed my calling card on the housekeeper’s silver tray, and she would’ve whisked it off for the judgment of the lady of the house, leaving me to ponder my significance amid the room’s splendor.

Today, I trudge alone into the atrium, listening for signs of life in the mansion. Beatrice has a meeting somewhere off-site, but nobody else seems to be around, either. I don’t hear the conservators’ music playing upstairs. The quiet is so deep it presses down on my eardrums.

My heart thumps as I slip past the staircase, heading for the library. I practically jump out of my skin when I hear a noise. Sweat prickles my back as I peer around the doorjamb. There’s nobody in the library. I creep forward, changing the angle of my body to gain a narrow view of the inner office.

Hank Wincott sits there, his foot propped up on a folding chair as he scrolls through his phone.

“Morning,” I practically gasp. “Didn’t see your car outside.”

He glances over in my direction, then does a double take. “Morning. Did I startle you? I’m sorry.” He makes a sympathetic grimace. “I walked here, which I now regret, because the rain has picked up, yeah?” He rises to peer through the windows. “It’s coming down in sheets.”

I walk slowly toward my desk, taking a moment to pull oxygen into my lungs, fighting off my irritation. He owns the damn house. He can come and go as he pleases. Still, I’m not used to sharing the space with him.

Besides, I probably look damp and frizzy, while Hank looks like he just stepped out of GQ . Today he’s wearing a charcoal suit and a crisp blue shirt.

“Did I forget a meeting?” I ask, setting down my laptop bag.

“No.” He gives me a patient smile. “I just wanted a word with you.” He takes his seat again in one of our visitor’s chairs. “First of all, I should have come by earlier to say that I’m sorry for your loss.”

Oh . I drop into my chair. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Tim and I weren’t close when he died, but it’s still been a shock.”

He turns appraising blue eyes on me. “Had you known him long?”

I pause for a second before answering. The question might be totally innocent, but after last night’s ambush by the journalist, I don’t trust it. “I only met him this spring. But the violence of his death is still a shock.”

“Of course it is,” he says easily. “And the police haven’t made any arrests.” He glances around the office. “Must be nerve-racking to show up here every day.”

“I’ve had better weeks,” I say gamely.

He drums his fingers on the surface of my desk. “Look, I have a favor to ask. But you should feel no pressure.”

That sounds ominous, and a tingle climbs up my spine. “All right. I’m listening.”

He plucks a Blackwing pencil from my desk, balancing it between his fingers. Then he flicks his gaze in my direction. “Next Tuesday is the Portland Historical Commission’s annual fundraising dinner.”

“Mmm-hmm?” I don’t know where he’s going with this.

It takes a second for him to continue, because his phone chimes loudly with a text.

I expect him to read it, as he always does when we’re in the middle of a conversation. Instead, he says, “Rowan, I was hoping you’d accompany me for the evening.”

“To the dinner?” I ask stupidly. I never was one of the cool kids in high school, and I’m a little confused. Did Hank Wincott just ask me out?

“As my date for the evening,” he says with a smile so quick that I might have dreamt it. “And also, as the best person to answer what are sure to be a lot of pesky questions about what we’re doing to the mansion and to the neighborhood. A lot of the people from the Landmarks Review Board will be at this dinner.”

“Oh! Of course!” I say a little too brightly. “You’re right—it’s a great opportunity to talk up the project. Excellent idea.” I’m babbling now, but I’m just so relieved that I misinterpreted the invitation. “I’m sure I can be there. It’s no trouble.”

“Excellent. I’ll ask the new girl to forward you the invitation, and you can double-check your calendar.”

“I’ll do that.” I take a breath and try to calm down. “Anything else?”

He rises from the chair and walks the perimeter of the room past the mostly empty bookshelves. “We’re having another budget meeting on Friday, yes? For the Orangerie?”

“Absolutely. I’ll have the whole budget annotated by then.”

He nods absently and stops in front of a grandiose fireplace that hasn’t seen a real fire in decades. “Remind me—what’s your plan for this room?”

“Rare books,” I answer immediately, like the first-row student I’ve always been. “Ships’ plans, ledgers, and records. Plus, the plans for this house and Amos Wincott’s marine designs.” Hank’s ancestor dabbled in cabin design for luxury craft.

“Right. Of course.” He runs his hand along the walnut wainscoting. “Did you know Amos was a second son? Like me.” Hank turns to give me a wry smile, and it reminds me how stupidly attractive he is. “The Wincott family is thick with second sons. That’s why Amos became an architect. His brother inherited the shipyard and the shipping contracts. He had to find something else to build.”

“Lucky Amos.” I shrug. “Architecture is more fun than shipping.”

“You would say that.” Hank throws another smile in my direction and then tilts his handsome face up to inspect the elaborate ceiling. “Although he wasn’t very good at his job, was he?”

For the second time in two minutes, I’m caught off guard. “What do you mean? This house is the most significant example of Italianate design in New England.”

Hank lowers his well-defined chin and gives me an amused glance. “If that’s the way you want to play it, sure. But we both know that Amos wasn’t a visionary. And I’m sure you’ve noticed that he just ripped his designs straight out of the fashionable parts of Europe.”

He isn’t wrong. Although I’m surprised that Hank acknowledges this. “You could say that he was honoring those traditions. As your professional cheerleader for this building, you won’t hear me say otherwise. There’s craftsmanship here that isn’t replicable. That’s exactly what I’ll be telling the Landmarks Review Board, by the way. They won’t know what hit them.”

His smile widens, but before he can reply, his phone chimes again. Then mine does the same damn thing. Unable to resist the lure this time, he retrieves his phone from his pocket.

I take the opportunity to do the same and find a text from Beatrice.

Beatrice: Did you see the news? They found the gun!

Beatrice: This could all be over soon.

“They found the gun,” Hank says as we both tap on our screens.

The news story loads mercifully fast.

A caller to the PPD tip line sent authorities to search a dumpster in the same west side neighborhood where the murder took place. Police say they’ve recovered a pistol that was recently fired, as well as personal effects of the deceased.

The forensic investigation is ongoing, but the gun appears to match the make and serial number of a weapon owned by the victim.

I sit back in my chair, startled. Tim had a gun?

A suspect was seen by the tipster tossing the gun into the dumpster. The suspect was described as a white man wearing a dark hoodie sweatshirt and a baseball cap. He is reportedly about six feet tall. Anyone with knowledge or footage of the perpetrator disposing of the gun is encouraged to call the tip line. Police are searching for any other witnesses who may have seen the perpetrator in action.

“A white man in a sweatshirt?” Hank says. “That’s half of New England.”

“Maybe they’ll find more. Fingerprints, or a hair, or whatever else police can get from a gun.” From a gun that’s been sitting in a dumpster? Sure, Rowan. Way to sound sharp .

“His own gun. Do journalists usually carry a weapon?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” I say as another wave of exhaustion hits me. “But maybe I’m just na?ve.”

Hank picks up his briefcase. “I think I’ll head to the office and make some calls. Maybe I can find someone who’s willing to share more of the details.”

“Keep us posted,” I say mildly. As if I’ll be able to think about anything else today.

“Hang in there, Rowan. And I’ll have my girl send you the details on that dinner.”

My girl . Yikes. “Thanks. See you Friday.”

He leaves, and I pick up my phone and read every word of the article about the gun. Two more times.