Darkness Before the Dawn (Maggie Bennett 2)

prologue

Maggie Bennett lay alone in the king-size bed. She’d been alone for two endless years, ever since Mack Pulaski had been gunned down on a street in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. And she planned to remain alone for the rest of her life.

At the time, she’d been upstairs in the converted shipbuilder’s mansion they’d bought, taking a shower and daydreaming of babies, when she heard the gunfire. Even through the pounding water and the thick walls of the nineteenth-century house, she had heard it—and had heard the screams. And she had known what had happened.

She’d raced out of the house, desperate to reach him in time. But the people who had been looking for them for the last year and a half had been thorough. He lay there on the sidewalk in a pool of blood, his eyes wide and staring and curiously peaceful. The April sunshine was beating down, the sky was blue, and the smell of the sea had mixed with the smell of blood, overlaid with the scent of fresh lilacs. Maggie sank down beside him, putting a hand to his still-warm skin, and closed his eyes—those warm, laughing eyes that would laugh no more. And she knelt there in the pool of blood until someone pulled her away.

She’d drawn her strength around her like a protective blanket. Her mother and sisters had flocked to her side, but it was Maggie who had comforted them in their tears and Maggie who had taken over the arrangements and assured her family that it would, eventually, be all right.

And curiously enough, she now thought, turning again in their bed that she hadn’t been able to part with, it was all right. For the first month, when she’d returned to New York, she’d slept on the couch rather than face the bed she’d shared for too short a time with Mack. But before long, she’d exerted her common sense, and now she was glad she’d kept the bed. She could remember Mack with warmth and joy and love, but she had the sorrow away where it belonged. Better to have loved and lost, she often told herself, taking comfort in the old cliché.

It was three in the morning. She could hear the never-ending New York City traffic outside her apartment, a constant companion to her nights. Most of the time she slept soundly, untroubled by dreams. But every now and then, when her strength was at low, she’d awaken in the darkness and remember, and fresh pain would sear through her. Then she’d have to remind herself once again, Better to have loved and lost …

Tomorrow she’d be in Chicago, taking her first vacation in two years. Her sister Kate needed her, and Maggie was never one to ignore someone’s needs. It must have been the thought of Chicago that had started it again, she thought, burrowing down beneath the cool cotton sheets. Mack had grown up on Chicago’s mean streets. Maggie had managed to avoid it since his death, but Kate needed her, and she could avoid it no longer. Blood is thicker than water, she thought, adding another cliché to the pile. How tediously trite and maudlin she was getting in her old age.

She rolled over on the bed and stared up into the darkness that surrounded her like a shroud. There was one more cliché, and it was by far her favorite. Better to light one candle than to curse the darkness. And she leaned over and turned on the bedside light.

one

“There’s a dead man in my bathtub!”

Maggie just stood there and looked at her younger sister, Kate, standing in the doorway of her Chicago apartment. Kate had always been the practical one, the calm, steady, efficient one. She was the only daughter who hadn’t inherited the infamous aquamarine eyes. Instead, hers were plain brown—unblinking, nice, but definitely brown. Her hair was brown, too; her face was attractive but nondescript, and she dressed more with propriety than with imagination. Fair Isle sweaters and discreet pearls were her style more than the urban guerilla chic that Maggie favored.

But at that moment, standing barefoot in the doorway of her apartment, her brown hair a tangled mass around her pale face, her usually calm brown eyes were completely panicked.

“What did you say?” Maggie asked, still staring at her sister in bemusement.

“I said there’s a dead man in my bathtub! Don’t just stand there, Maggie!” she shrieked, her usually even tones thrown to the four winds. “Come in and help me!” She grabbed Maggie’s arm and dragged her into the apartment with strength that was surprising, given that she was shorter and more fragile than her sister.

“Calm down, Kate,” Maggie said, automatically efficient. “Sit down and explain to me what the hell is going on. Where’s the baby?”

“I took her downstairs to Mrs. Gilliam. She baby-sits for her—Maggie, I don’t want to talk about my domestic arrangements!” Her voice was rising again. Maggie pushed her down onto one of the overstuffed sofas in the stylish living room.

“And I don’t want to hear about your domestic arrangements,” she agreed. “I want you to tell me about the man in your bathtub. But first I think you need a drink.”

“Maggie—”

But Maggie had already left her, heading down the narrow corridor to the huge old kitchen with its mammoth ice-making refrigerator. She’d always liked the apartment Kate had shared with her husband. It was huge and prewar, with wonderfully elegant spaces that had taken to modernization with enthusiasm. No expense had been spared, and the place was a showpiece. At least Brian had left her with that much.

She poured each of them a generous glass of whiskey, added a token cube of ice, and headed back to the living room. She detoured to check the bathroom.

Well, Kate was right. There most definitely was a dead man in her bathtub. He’d been shot once, execution style, in the head, and it had made very little mess. Still, it had been a violent death, and Maggie had to grab for calmness that she wasn’t quite sure she had. She took a gulp of whiskey as she stared down at the corpse. He’d been a handsome man, and the soiled suit was expensive. She had never seen him before in her life. She wondered if Kate could make the same claim.

“You’re right,” she said, returning to Kate in the living room and handing her her glass of whiskey. “There is a dead man in your bathtub.”

Kate drained the whiskey in one gulp, choking slightly. The color came back into her ashen face. Maggie noticed that her small hands were trembling. “What did you think, I was making it up?” she snapped back. “What am I going to do?”

“Do you know him?”

“Of course I know him! Do you think I’d have a dead stranger in my tub?” she demanded in outrage. “His name is Francis Ackroyd. We work together at the studio—or we used to. I guess we won’t be now. Is there any more whiskey?”

“I’ll get the bottle. Just sit there, Kate. I’ll be right back.”

But Kate wasn’t there when Maggie returned. Maggie looked toward the apartment door, but it was still tightly shut. And then she headed back to the bathroom.

Kate was leaning against the door jamb, her face pale again. “I can’t understand why anyone would do t