Read Online US Marshall 01 - Cold Ridge by Carla Neggers - Free Book Online
Authors: Carla Neggers
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turned down Beacon Street and her cell phone rang, she almost didn't answer it, then decided if it was Gus and she ignored him, she risked having him send in the National Guard. She hit the receive button and made herself smile, hoping that'd take any lingering strain out of her voice when she said hello.
Gus grunted. "Where are you?"
"Just past the corner of Beacon and Charles."
" Boston?"
"That's right," she said. "What's up, Gus? How's the weather in Cold Ridge?"
"Gray. Why aren't you home with your feet up?"
"I'm on my way to the Rancourt house. I want to see-"
"Carine, for chrissake, they can't possibly need you today. Why don't you drive up here for the weekend? Or jump on the train and go visit your brother or your sister for a couple days. They'd love to have you."
"I'm fine, Gus. I've been thinking about it, and I just need to go back there."
"For what, closure? Give me a break." But he sighed, and Carine could almost see him in his rustic village shop, amid his canoes and kayaks, his snowshoes and cross-country skis, his trail maps and compasses and high-end hiking clothes and equipment. "The police haven't arrested anyone for this guy's murder. You know what that means, don't you? It means whoever did it is still on the streets."
"I'll be careful. Besides, the police and reporters are still bound to be there-and if not them, the Rancourts, their security chief-it'll be okay."
"You thought it'd be okay yesterday before you walked into the library, didn't you?"
"Gus-"
"Yeah. Yeah, I know. Nothing I can do. But I don't have to like it."
She heard something in his voice and slowed her pace. "Gus? What?"
"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
Gus grunted. "Where are you?"
"Just past the corner of Beacon and Charles."
" Boston?"
"That's right," she said. "What's up, Gus? How's the weather in Cold Ridge?"
"Gray. Why aren't you home with your feet up?"
"I'm on my way to the Rancourt house. I want to see-"
"Carine, for chrissake, they can't possibly need you today. Why don't you drive up here for the weekend? Or jump on the train and go visit your brother or your sister for a couple days. They'd love to have you."
"I'm fine, Gus. I've been thinking about it, and I just need to go back there."
"For what, closure? Give me a break." But he sighed, and Carine could almost see him in his rustic village shop, amid his canoes and kayaks, his snowshoes and cross-country skis, his trail maps and compasses and high-end hiking clothes and equipment. "The police haven't arrested anyone for this guy's murder. You know what that means, don't you? It means whoever did it is still on the streets."
"I'll be careful. Besides, the police and reporters are still bound to be there-and if not them, the Rancourts, their security chief-it'll be okay."
"You thought it'd be okay yesterday before you walked into the library, didn't you?"
"Gus-"
"Yeah. Yeah, I know. Nothing I can do. But I don't have to like it."
She heard something in his voice and slowed her pace. "Gus? What?"
"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
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