The Kill by Jan Neuharth Page A

the next breath, he’d brought up Manning’s car.
    The front door thudded. A moment later, Margaret stormed past Abigale to the stove and snatched the frying pan off the burner. “Wouldn’t you know it? The eggs are burned. I’ll have to start over.”
    “Did that bit about Manning’s car bother you as much as it did me?” Abigale asked.
    “Why should it? They’re just doing their job,” Margaret said in a clipped tone. “Tying up loose ends.”
    Abigale frowned. “Is that really what you think?”
    Margaret cracked an egg against the edge of the counter and plopped it into the sizzling pan. “What else would I think?”
    Abigale stared at Margaret’s back, noting her rigid stance, the angry way she whipped the egg with a fork. “I don’t know. But I got the feeling they were bothered by the fact that Manning had driven through the work area. As if—I don’t know—as if that was suspicious somehow.”
    “That’s nonsense. Manning had a perfect right to be there,” Margaret replied, cracking a second egg. She flung the shell into the sink. Abigale caught a glimpse of her profile and saw the hard set of her jaw. Margaret might say the visit from Mallory didn’t bother her, but that’s not how she looked. She looked worried. More than worried.
    Cold fingers of fear wiggled up Abigale’s spine. “Is Manning in trouble?”
    No response.
    “Margaret?”
    The older woman’s shoulders sagged, as if a puppeteer had relaxed his grip on her. She stopped stirring the eggs and rested the spatula on the stove.
    “Talk to me. Please.” Abigale patted the seat of the chair next to her. “Forget about breakfast. Come sit.”
    Margaret cut off the gas and walked slowly to the table, blowing out a noisy sigh as she sank onto the ladder-back chair. She lifted her gaze, her blue eyes dull. “Manning lied to me.”
    “Lied about what?”
    Margaret clamped her lips together and shook her head, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Heaven help us.”
    Abigale’s heart pounded in her throat. “Margaret, please. Talk to me.”
    “Manning told me he never went to Longmeadow after hunting on Monday. But that was obviously a lie. Because the construction worker saw him drive through the paving site. And if Manning was on St. Louis Road, he was on his way to Longmeadow. There would be no other reason for him to drive through that area.”
    “Manning didn’t lie, Margaret. He didn’t deliberately tell you he hadn’t gone there when he had. He just doesn’t remember.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “Julia told me last night that Manning was so drunk on Monday he can’t remember anything that happened.”
    “How does Julia know that?”
    “She ran into Manning at the pub where she works.” Abigale fingered the handle of her mug of cold coffee. “He spent the night with her.”
    Margaret’s eyes flashed. “That’s no surprise.”
    “Julia told me this wasn’t the first time he’s been drunk.”
    “The first? Far from it. Manning seems intent on honoring his good-for-nothing father’s legacy, partying and sleeping around like there’s no tomorrow. Not a care or responsibility in the world. I’ve bailed Manning out of more messes than you can count.”
    “It sounds like he needs professional help.”
    “Of course he does,” Margaret shot back, her tone so sharp it made Abigale jump. “There’s an excellent alcohol rehab facility right up the road in Pennsylvania. I’ve given Manning all the literature about it, but you can’t help someone who won’t help himself.”
    She shook her head, disappointment swimming in her eyes. “The least Manning could have done was to fess up and tell me that he was so stinking drunk he can’t remember whether he went to Longmeadow. But did he do that?
No
. He lied. Said he’d told Richard he couldn’t meet him there. Now he has the police after him,