A Share in Death

turned in the gate and stopped on the gravel, and her small form, distant and unrecognizable except for some quality of posture, made its way to the door. He lowered the glasses and stretched, then rested his elbows on his propped-up knees. The combination of deep sleep and sudden awakening had cleared his head like a tonic, leaving his mind remarkably sharp and focused.

 

The whole bloody business didn’t make sense, not from what he knew so far. He couldn’t for a minute see either of the MacKenzie sisters committing premeditated murder. Reluctant euthanasia, possibly, but killing someone to cover their deed up, never. He could, however, easily imagine them shielding someone else in a mistaken sense of duty or obligation.

Had Sebastian threatened to expose Cassie’s affair with Graham? That would certainly explain the conversation he had overheard. But if that were the case, why would either of them care enough to kill him to prevent it? The timeshare management might not approve of Cassie sleeping with the owners, but surely her behavior wouldn’t be that damaging.

And Graham? Kincaid didn’t believe custody judges expected divorced fathers to remain celibate. Besides, he’d wager Angela knew exactly what was going on, if not all the intimate details. She was a good bit sharper than her dad credited. So if Cassie and Graham were together the night of Sebastian’s death, why hadn’t they alibied one another?

Kincaid sighed. He didn’t have enough information for even these vague suppositions. Gemma might turn up something, but he couldn’t depend on it. There was no alternative he could see but to stretch his already untenable position a little farther. He couldn’t go back to his holiday resolution, blithely ignoring the whole matter. He had an unhealthy tendency, probably necessary to his job, of worrying at a thing like someone putting a tongue to a sore tooth—the more it hurt, the harder it was to leave it alone.

But there was something more, a sense that the script played on untended, heedless of his puny actions.

 

A share in death 73

 

Enough. Kincaid stood up abruptly. He’d be reading Camus and crying in his beer if he went on like this. It was time he did some more digging of his own.

 

The cocktail hour drew Followdale’s guests like the curious at the scene of an accident. They came, Kincaid thought, overcoming their distaste, their self-preserving instinct for gossip stronger than their discomfort in one another’s company.