Page 128 of Road Trip
He finished his scone and drank the rest of the coffee. He took his mug and placed it in the sink and Maeve followed suit.
“Well, I’m off,” she said, trying to sound breezy. “Wish me luck at the embassy.”
“I suppose.”
She brushed a kiss on his cheek. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
“I’ll walk you out to the car.”
“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, Liam. For everything.”
CHAPTER 54
Maeve glanced up as she was pulling away from Liam’s cottage, and immediately regretted it. He stood silhouetted in the large picture window, looking out, with Lucy by his side.
She bit back tears as she drove away. If she was doing the right thing, why was this so painful?
Maeve parked the Kia close to the front door of the gardener’s cottage. She involuntarily shuddered as she stood on Esme’s doorstep, replaying the previous evening’s rat incident. Would the old woman be angry at her for making such a scene and bolting? Didn’t matter. Maeve would apologize for her freak-out and then simply ask to look around for her passport in the parlor, where she and Therese had sat with Esme, and then politely make her exit, hopefully with the passport in hand.
The first thing she noticed was that the front door was partially ajar. She pushed it open an inch, expecting to hear Sinead bark and come scampering down the hallway. But the house was eerily quiet. She’d noticed the pickup truck parked by the porte cochere. Maybe Esme was still sleeping.
She took a deep breath and opened the door wider. Still nothing. Maeve stepped inside and looked around. The hall was dark, but she could see a lamp was lit in the parlor.
Decision time, Maeve thought. Commit to the plan or back out now. Another step, and then another. She stood in the archedopening to the parlor and looked around. Something was amiss. Books had been knocked from shelves, porcelain knickknacks were smashed, and on the settee where she and Therese sat just two days earlier was a teetering stack of objects. Silver trays, teapots, and candlesticks, half a dozen paintings, a bronze sculpture, and a satin drawstring bag from which spilled a long string of pearls.
A chill spread down her spine and the hair on her arms stood up. She heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the hallway.
“Esme?” she called. “It’s me. Maeve.”
When a man stepped into the room she froze.
It was Reggie, Esme’s handyman. He carried a heavy canvas bag over his shoulder, and he looked as startled to see her as Maeve felt. He was unshaven, eyes bloodshot, and there was a dark stain on his baggy soccer jersey.
“Waddya want?” he asked. “Esme’s feeling poorly. Asked me to bring her some meds, she did.”
Maeve’s throat went dry and she instinctively took a step backward, away from him. “I, uh, my passport’s gone missing. I came to see if I dropped it when I was here the other day.”
He regarded her carefully and shook his head. “Nah. I don’t think so. I think you came over here to mess about in affairs that don’t concern you.” He took a step closer and Maeve slowly backed away until her legs were pressed up against the settee.
Without warning he reached into the bag on his shoulder and drew out a long, curved knife. He lunged toward her, slicing the air with the knife. Maeve gasped and sidestepped, and the knife blade slashed into the settee upholstery. It stuck there, just for a moment, but long enough for her to grab the first thing at hand.
Reggie grunted in frustration, yanking at the knife handle to free it from the sofa. In that second, Maeve lifted the heavy silver candlestick and slammed it down on the back of the handyman’s head.
He slumped face-forward onto the floor. She fought the urge to flee and nudged him with the toe of her shoe. He didn’t move. Blood was seeping from a deep gash near his neck, and pooling onto the floor.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” she whimpered as she turned and sped toward the door. Her hand was on the doorknob when she realized there’d been no sign, or sound, from Esme, or Sinead. The same chill ran down her spine again.
She forced herself to turn around and walk back down the hallway. “Esme,” she called loudly, her voice echoing from the high ceilings. “Esme? Sinead?” She stepped into the dining room, where the drawers of a massive walnut sideboard were pulled open. She opened the door of what turned out to be the small bedroom where Esme slept. The covers were flung back, and a small wicker dog bed rested nearby on the floor.
The kitchen was deserted, but a nearly empty bottle of gin stood on the counter beside an overflowing ashtray, and the cupboard drawers were open, their contents scattered about on the counter and the floor.
Maeve had seen enough. She reached for her cell phone. He picked up on the second ring.
“Maeve?”
“I’m at Esme’s,” she said. “I think… something very bad has happened to her. Can you come, please? And call the police. I might have killed Reggie.”
When Liam arrivedhe found her sitting in the front seat of the Kia with the doors locked, numb with shock. She hit the unlock button, and he opened the passenger door and slid inside. “Are you all right?”
