Cold Ridge

“Nothing. Take care of yourself. You even think something’s wrong, you call the police, okay?”

“Believe me, I will.”

She clicked off, feeling vaguely uneasy. Gus was holding back on her. It wasn’t like him. Normally he was a straight shooter. He had warned her about getting mixed up with Tyler North, when it was obvious their long tolerance for each other had sparked into something else. Her uncle said his piece, then shut up about it. When Ty dumped her a week before the wedding, Gus’d had the moderate grace not to actually say the words “I told you so.” But he didn’t need to—he had told her so, in no uncertain terms.

What wasn’t he telling her now?

When she reached the stately mansion on Commonwealth Avenue, Carine could feel her scone and tea churning in her stomach. The police cars and yellow crime-scene tape were gone, and she didn’t see any obvious sign of reporters. She mounted the steps and noticed the yellow mums were gone, too.

Sterling Rancourt opened the front door before she knocked. He was a tall, silver-haired man in his early fifties, and even the day after a man was murdered on his property, he radiated wealth and confidence. He was raised on the South Shore, where he and his wife owned their main home, and had gone to Dartmouth and Wharton, taking over his family’s holdings in business and real estate twenty years ago. He was dressed casually and looked only slightly tired, perhaps a little pale—and awkward at seeing her. Carine thought she understood. He’d tried to do her a good deed by hiring her to photograph his house renovations, and she’d ended up discovering a dead body.

She mumbled a good morning, feeling somewhat awkward herself.

“How are you doing, Carine?” he asked. “Yesterday was a nightmare for all of us, but for you, especially.”

“I’m doing okay, thanks.” Suddenly she wondered if she should have come at all. “I guess I didn’t know what to do with myself this morning.”

He acknowledged her words with a small nod. “I expect we all feel that way. We won’t get back to work here until next week at the earliest. Why don’t you take a few days off? Go for walks, visit museums, take pictures of pumpkins—anything to get your mind off what happened yesterday.”

Carine leaned against the wrought-iron rail. He hadn’t invited her in, but she thought it would seem ghoulish and intrusive to ask outright if she could see the library, even if it was the reason she was here. “That’s probably a good idea. I thought—look at me. I brought my digital camera. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s all right. We’re all struggling today. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here myself. You’re a photographer. Having your camera must help you feel like it’s a normal day.”

“Louis—his family—”

“Everything’s being handled, Carine.”

She suddenly felt nosy, as if she’d overstepped her bounds. “Have you talked to Manny Carrera? Do you know where he is?”

“Carine—perhaps it’s best if you go home.” Sterling’s voice was gentle, concerned, but there was no mistaking that he wanted to be rid of her. “The police know how to get in touch with you if they want to speak with you again, don’t they?”

“Of course—”

Gary Turner, Sterling’s security chief, appeared in the doorway next to his boss. He nodded at her. “Good morning, Carine,” he said politely. “It’s nice to see you, as always. The two lead detectives will be back later this morning. I’ll tell them you stopped by.”

Dismissed, Carine thought, but without rancor. Sterling was just as on edge as she was, neither of them accustomed to dealing with this sort of emergency. But Gary Turner radiated calm and competence, a steady efficiency, that she found reassuring. He was a strange guy. The Rancourts hired him in the spring, and she’d met him in Cold Ridge a few times before she went to work for them herself. She didn’t understand exactly what he did, or what Manny Carrera was supposed to be doing, for that matter.

She was aware of Turner studying her, an unsettling experience, not just because he was so focused—he looked as if he’d lived most of his life underwater, or maybe in an attic. He had close-cropped, very thin white hair. He might have been in his eighties instead of, at most, his forties. His skin was an odd-looking pinkish-white, its paleness exaggerated by his habitual all-black attire. He had no eyebrows to speak of, and his eyes were a watery, almost colorless gray. He was missing his middle and ring fingers on his left hand. Carine knew he carried a concealed nine-millimeter pistol and assumed he could fire it, but she’d never asked.

“How are you doing?” Turner asked softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to you yesterday.”

“You were busy, and I’m doing fine. Thanks for asking. Look, I’m sure you both have a lot to do. I won’t keep you—”

Turner stepped out onto the stoop with her. “You’ve experienced a trauma. Finding Louis yesterday was a physical and mental shock, a blow on multiple levels to your well-being. Perhaps you’d like for me to arrange for you to talk to someone?”

She shook her head politely. “There’s no need to go to any trouble. I can always ask my sister for a recommendation, if it comes to it.”

“Give yourself some time. It’ll be hard for a while, but if after a few weeks you experience flashbacks, nightmares, sleeplessness, feelings of panic or emotional numbness—then don’t wait, okay? Go see someone.”

“I will. Manny Carrera—I’m worried about him—”

“That’s understandable,” Turner said mildly, then glanced back at Rancourt, who seemed paralyzed in the doorway. “I’ll walk with Carine a minute.”

“Of course. I’ll see you back here later.” Rancourt rallied, taking a breath. “Carine? If there’s anything Jodie and I can do, please don’t hesitate to let us know. I mean that. I’m so very sorry it had to be you yesterday.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m just sorry about Louis.”

“The media—” Sterling paused and leaned forward to glance down the street, as if he expected someone to pop up out of nowhere. “I’d like you not to speak to any reporters. It’s quiet at the moment, but they’ll be back. Be polite, but be firm.”

“Not a problem. The last thing I want to do is talk to a reporter.”

He withdrew without further comment, the heavy door shutting with a loud thud behind him.

Gary Turner walked down to the sidewalk without a word, and Carine followed him, her knees steadier, her stomach still rebelling. “I shouldn’t have come,” she blurted. “I have no business being here. There’s nothing for me to do, and you and the Rancourts must have your plates full.”

“You thought it would help you to revisit the scene,” Turner said.

“I suppose I did.” They crossed Commonwealth to the mall, where a half-dozen pigeons had gathered on dried, fallen leaves. There was no toddler today. Carine felt none of yesterday’s sense of peace with her life in Boston. “I’m not sure I really know what I was thinking.”

“You’re fighting for some sense of normalcy.” Turner spoke with assurance, as if he knew, then fastened his colorless eyes on her. “Did you drive?”

“I took the T to Charles Street and walked.”

“Walking’s good. Keep it up. And eat right. Don’t overdo anything. It’s good to try to follow your normal routines as much as possible, even if you’re not working.” He smiled at her, seeming to want to help her relax. “Fortunately, your work lends itself to an erratic schedule—you’re used to switching from one job to another. It’s not like you’ve been getting up every day for the seven-to-three shift at the factory and suddenly there’s no factory.”

“That’s true. I appreciate the advice, but please don’t worry about me.”

He paused, folding his hands behind his back as he walked smoothly, steadily. “But people do worry about you, Carine,” he said finally. “I expect they can’t help it, and you might benefit from their attention. Don’t try to control what other people are feeling. Right now, just focus on what you need. The rest of us will manage.”

“Mr. Turner—”

“Gary.” He laughed, shaking his head. “You call Sterling Rancourt by his first name, but me—”

She tried to return his laugh. “I think it’s because you carry a gun.”

“Ah. Well, for you, Carine, I’d take it off, if it would make you feel more at ease.”

“That’s not necessary.” She picked up her pace, feeling a fresh surge of awkwardness. She never knew what to say to him. She changed the subject. “I’ve known Manny Carrera for a long time. Do the police suspect him of being involved in Louis’s death? Because it’s not possible—”

“The police don’t tell me what they think. One step at a time, Carine. Keep your focus on the here and now. Don’t think back, don’t think ahead. It’s the best advice I can give you. Mr. Carrera is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.” Turner stood back a moment, then frowned at her in a way she found faintly patronizing. “You aren’t thinking of playing amateur detective, are you?”

“No! It’s just that Manny’s a friend. Do you know where he’s staying?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” There was no hint of condemnation in Turner’s tone. “Take yourself out to lunch, Carine. Treat yourself to dessert. Browse the galleries on Newbury Street. Do you have a friend who can join you?”

“Most of my friends are working, but—”

“Your sister?”