Page 147 of Road Trip
“How would you know about Esme’s state of mind?” Maeve asked. “She told us she hadn’t seen you once in thirty-five years, until last week. Just a few days before she was murdered.”
“Not true,” Geoffrey said. “We talked on the phone regularly. Which proves my sister was not of sound mind—if she really did tell you that. Esme didn’t like strangers. She was never a people person, so why would she suddenly embrace a couple of Americans who pushed their way into her home and claimed to be relatives?”
Out of the corner of her eye Maeve saw the lobby door open. Lana, one of the inn’s desk clerks, had taken an instant liking to Sinead, and had volunteered to take her out for her afternoon constitutional.
The dog trotted happily ahead of Lana, head up, tail wagging.
“There’s my girl now,” Maeve called. “Sinead! Come!” The desk clerk dropped the leash and Sinead ran toward Maeve, but stopped when she spotted the stranger engaged in heated conversation with her new mistress.
The dog’s demeanor changed in an instant. She crouched on the floor, ears back, and emitted a low, menacing growl. The nextmoment, she lunged at Geoffrey Rossington, snarling, and clamped her jaws on his shin.
“Jesus!” Rossington exclaimed. He kicked at Sinead with his free foot, but the dog only dug in harder, jumping and snapping at him.
“Get her off of me,” Geoffrey yelled at Maeve, who stood watching, horrified.
“Sinead!” Maeve clapped her hands. “Come! Sinead, come here.”
But the dog’s teeth were firmly clamped around the ankle of Geoffrey’s pants, even though Rossington was violently trying to shake the dog free.
Finally, Maeve grabbed the spaniel and wrenched her free. The dog still had a square of corduroy clenched in her teeth. “Sinead! That was naughty!”
“That fucking dog is a menace,” Rossington said. “She needs to be put down.” He bent over to examine his leg, and his hands came away bloodied.
“Do you see this?” He held up his hand for Maeve to examine. “I could sue you. In fact, I most definitely will.”
Sinead continued wriggling, even though Maeve held her tightly, growling at Rossington.
“I’ve never seen her like this,” Maeve said. “I think you’d better leave now.”
“You’ll be hearing from my solicitor,” Geoffrey said. He turned and limped slowly across the lobby.
Maeve stroked the dog’s head and spoke to her in a low, soothing, singsong voice. “Good girl, Sinead. Good girl.”
When she gotback to the owner’s suite, she called Officer Muldoon and left a message on his voice mail, asking him to call her about an urgent matter.
She paced around the room while she waited. As an hour passed and then another, her curiosity intensified.
“Screw it,” she said finally. She clipped the leash to Sinead’s collar.
“Come on, girl. Let’s go check out the new digs.”
Crime-scene tape had been tacked across the door of the toolshed, but it hung loose now, and she spotted the padlock lying on the ground nearby.
Maeve held her breath and pushed the door open. The rusty hinges creaked as it swung inward.
Sinead seemed to sense something was off. Instead of running into the shed she hung back, whimpering.
“I know, girl,” Maeve sympathized. “I hate this place too. But we gotta check it out, okay?”
She stepped inside and looked around and said a silent prayer. This was most likely the place Esme Rossington had taken her last breath. The cot was lying on its side, the legs busted, and the bedding she’d seen there Thursday night was missing. The sole chair in the room was knocked over. A struggle had taken place here.
The shed had smelled rank before, but there was a new stink present. Maeve spotted it, a small pile of dog poop in the farthest corner of the room. She looked down at Sinead, who was still crouched in the doorway.
“You must have been locked in here for quite a while, huh?” she mused. The dog was housebroken and absolutely fastidious about not making messes indoors.
Maeve turned in a slow circle, taking in every inch of the small, malodorous space, trying to remember what it had looked like when Esme showed it to her. But it had been dark then, and she’d been both exhausted and horrified at the prospect of spending a night here.
She did another spin, and this time she saw something different, right beside one of the broken cot legs. She bent down to examine it. It was a button—a braided-leather-covered button. The kind that might have come off a custom-tailored Harris Tweed jacket.
