Chapter 7: Ice for the Wedding

Mason threw back a rug and lifted a square of floorboard.

"Down," he said. "Don't breathe loud."

I dropped into a crawl space that smelled of tar and bilge water, and he laid the board over my head.

A thin line of light came through the gap, and I could see his boots cross the room.

The door opened.

"Reeve," a heavy voice said. "I'll be brief."

I knew that voice.

Wesley's father had said grace at my wedding dinner.

"Sir," Mason said.

"Mrs. Winslow's car was seen at this address an hour ago. The deputy tells me she stayed some time."

"She brought a pie."

"Why would the mother of the deceased visit a stranger?"

"I was on the water Saturday night. She wanted to thank me."

"She wanted to know if you pulled anything out."

"I pulled nothing out."

Wesley's father let the quiet run.

I could see the toe of his polished shoe an inch from the rug.

"Your family has a long memory, Mr. Reeve," he said. "Mine has a longer one. This boathouse sits on land my company leases to you by the year."

"I've paid every month."

"You've paid until the end of this month. I would hate for the lease to lapse on a Saturday."

"I'll be at work on Saturday, sir. I deliver ice to the wedding."

I stopped breathing.

"You deliver ice to my son's wedding."

"Yes, sir. Your caterer called Tuesday."

A beat went by, and then a dry, short laugh.

"Then I hope it's clean," Wesley's father said.

The door shut, the sedan started, and gravel crackled away.

Mason lifted the board.

His hand shook slightly when he reached down to help me up.

"Ice?" I whispered.

"The caterer called Tuesday."

"Did they?"

"Now they did." He nearly smiled, and then the smile went out. "That man offered to evict me in front of a deputy and didn't blink."

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