Well, that kind of put the whole “was he or wasn’t he checking me out today” quandary to rest. A convergence of circumstances such as him being bisexual, single, and interested in me seemed like too much to hope for.
Oblivious to my entirely misdirected disappointment, Monroe continued:
“We met in college. We both went to Cal State LA. I studied criminal justice, and she majored in business administration and real estate.”
“Cal State? That’s a long way from Vermont.”
Monroe chuckled. “At that age, moving to California was my equivalent to seeing the world. Besides, it’s a really good school, and I was lucky to be admitted. After I graduated, I went to the police academy, joined the force, and eventually worked my way up to detective.”
“So what happened?” I cleared my throat. “I mean, to make you come back to Maplewood.”
“Linda is a great person, and we were very happy for a few years. But after a while, we got to a point where we both wanted different things. She was all about the big-city life, and we both had enormous workloads. We could sometimes spend an entire day without speaking a word to each other, or worse, chafing and arguing when things got difficult. Eventually, we agreed we just weren’t happy being together anymore.”
“And what did you want?”
Waiting with bated breath is such an old cliché, and yet it was exactly what I did. For some reason, his answer was extremely important, as if something crucial hung on it.
Monroe took a moment, his gaze going distant, almost melancholy.
“I guess I wanted to slow things down for a bit. LA is so hectic. Work, personal life, trying to please everybody—everything became such a huge drama. When I heard that the Maplewood City Council decided to dismantle the local police department and establish the new public safety and outreach program, and was looking for someone to manage it, I knew it was a chance for me to make a change while taking on a new challenge.”
“And your wife?”
Monroe’s expression grew even more wistful.
“Linda loves LA. She wouldn’t have been happy in a small town in New England. She has a successful career, a job she loves and is good at. All her family and friends are there. And as I said, we’d been pulling apart for too long already. As much as two people may love each other, sometimes love just isn’t enough.”
I didn’t like seeing him so morose, and perhaps I shouldn’t be prying, but I couldn’t help my curiosity—not when I was growing so fascinated with its subject.
“So you divorced?”
“Separated, then divorced, yeah. For what it’s worth, it was an amicable split. We chose to remain friends even if we live across the country from each other.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. It sounds like important work, what you do here.”
Monroe nodded. “I feel so. Here in Maplewood, I still get to do what I love, but in a different way. I know everyone in the village, and that’s important if I really want to help them, you know? Not just uphold law and order, but make sure no one comes to harm, or at least not to serious harm. That everyone has all the opportunities they need to make their lives better. It may seem like a boring job, compared to being a homicide detective, but I can’t help but feel it’s much more rewarding. Does that make sense?”
“I think it does,” I said slowly. His words stirred something in the depth of my soul, but I couldn’t quite grasp what it was. “Yeah, it does.”
He shook his head ruefully and put his empty cup down on the coffee table.
“I’m sorry. I’m going on and on here. That was probably more than you wanted to hear.”
“No, not at all. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”
And it was nice. Cozy, intimate. I was surprised Monroe had let some of his guard down, but I was more than willing to return the favor. He seemed like someone I could trust.
“Yes,” he said softly, turning his gaze at me. “It is.”
For a second, I was lost in his eyes, so impossibly blue, and missed what he was asking.
“What?”
“What about you?” he repeated.
“What about me what?”
“Are you married? Or…in a relationship?” he asked, perhaps just a little too carefully for it to be completely casual.
Was he asking what I thought he was asking? And if so, what was he expecting to hear?
It’d been an evening for honesty, and I felt it was best to be completely upfront about everything—including the parts which a law enforcement officer from a small, very white, and undoubtedly very heterosexual American town might not be entirely comfortable with.
“Not married. Not seeing anyone at the moment either.” I hesitated for a second more, then gathered all my courage and blurted out: “Just so you know, I’m gay.”
I was half expecting him to stiffen up or grimace in poorly hidden distaste, but if anything, his posture became even more relaxed.
“I sorta figured that,” he said with a small smile.
“Really? How?”
“Your books. I think there’s something of you in Owen Graves. Not just his sexuality, but something of your personality as well.”
I shifted in my seat. “I don’t know about that. I mean, he’s all about danger and adventure and daring rescues. I’m lucky if I don’t trip and fall over myself when I get up to go to the bathroom at night.”
“That’s not what I meant. He’s daring, yes, but there’s a sort of sensitivity to him. He has a lot of empathy for the people around him. I think you have that too.”
I sincerely hoped he’d chalk up my blush to sitting too close to the fire. “You don’t know that. You don’t know me at all.”
“Perhaps not. But I’d like to.”
Damn it. There was no hiding that blush now.
He must have noticed my embarrassment because he quickly added, “You’re a part of our community now, for as long as you want to stay. I didn’t mean—”
“No! No, of course,” I said hastily. “I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone too.”
“I should probably get going.” Monroe rose from his seat. “It’s getting late.”
It was only ten past seven, but the way our conversation was headed, I understood him wanting to take a break from it.
“Sure. Thanks for coming.”
“Will you be okay here on your own, Mr. Kensington?”
“Yep. And, please, call me Declan. Seems silly to be so formal now.”
“Declan,” he said with a sort of solemnity. “I’m Curtis.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Curtis,” I said, and for a change, I really meant it.
Chapter Five
I slept in fits and starts for most of the night. When I finally fell into a deep, exhausted slumber right before dawn, my dreams were full of shadowy figures following me through dark winter woods.
The bedroom had a fireplace of its own, but I’d been too tired to light it before going to sleep, so I woke up chilled to the bone even with all the extra blankets I’d piled up over myself. The storm had passed, giving way to a peaceful gray morning. Despite the cacophony of singing birds in the surrounding trees, clouds hung heavily in the distance, threatening another snowstorm. I wrapped a throw around my shoulders and shuffled, yawning, to the kitchen to make some coffee. The wall clock showed well past ten, so I must have really conked out in the early morning hours. While the water was heating up, I took a quick turn about the cabin, checking the windows and peering out the front door just in case. Only the boarded window in the study indicated that what had happened last night wasn’t the product of my imagination. Everything appeared to be in order, so I let myself relax a bit, and went about my morning routine.
Coffee and leftover donuts managed to put me into a somewhat better mood. I was contemplating settling down with my laptop on the living room sofa where it was warmer, in a fresh attempt to summon the muse, when the phone rang.
I looked for it frantically,
finally finding it under one of the cushions. Seeing it was Alexis, my literary agent, I immediately answered, driven more by years of habit than any conscious decision. Alexis Jackson was a good friend and a killer agent (which, considering the size of the New York publishing scene, was saying something), but I doubted she was bringing glad tidings.
“Hey, Alexis,” I said, sitting down on the sofa and trying for nonchalant rather than nervous. “What’s up?”
“How are you doing, Declan?” she asked in that deep, melodical voice of hers.
She had a habit of going into the office early, so she’d be well into her working day by now. I could picture her in my mind, sitting behind her sleek chrome-and-glass desk decorated with a dainty LED Christmas tree as a nod to the holidays, wearing one of her bright pantsuits, her thick dark curls arranged in a proud halo around her head.
“Fine, I guess. I’m working on a new novel.” I hastened to appease her before she could accuse me of meandering again.
“A new novel?” There was a note of tentative hope in her voice.
“Yes. The next Owen Graves.”
“Oh.” I was sure I didn’t imagine her disappointment. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Let’s do lunch tomorrow, shall we? The Dutch, 12:30?”
I was suddenly glad I’d made a neat escape to the country. Whatever she wanted to talk about did not have a pleasant ring to it.
“I’m sorry, Alex, I can’t. I’ve taken a little trip up north. I’m in Vermont.”
“Vermont? Whatever for?”
“I’ve had this sudden burst of inspiration,” I lied. “I needed somewhere quiet to work.”
There was a long pause, and I braced myself since Alexis was clearly looking for the right words to convey her message without the help of scallops and rosé to soften the blow.
“Declan…have you ever considered branching out?”
“Branching out?”
“Yeah. As in writing something else. Maybe trying out a new genre?”
She sounded way too cheerful, as though she was trying—desperately—to sell me on an idea.
“You don’t think I’d be able to sell another Graves book,” I said slowly.
“I’m your agent, Declan, and I have your best interests at heart, so I have to be brutally honest here. There’s no point in writing another installment because the publisher won’t pick it up.”
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been expecting it on some level, but hearing that my series had jumped the shark still hurt.
“Wow,” was all I managed to push out.
“I’m sorry. But it’s better to face the truth now than handle the disappointment later. Maybe this retreat will do you some good after all. Give you time to think about your next move, maybe find new inspiration. I mean, with all that nature around you, that’s bound to give some fresh perspective, right?” She sounded dubious.
“Sure.”
“Oh, come on, Declan, don’t sulk. You’ve always been good at coming up with new ideas. I’m sure you’ll think of something exciting in no time. Let me know, won’t you?”
“I will, Alex, I promise.”
With final goodbyes, she hung up, and I was left to brood and mope around in lonely silence. I admit I might have been taking the news a bit too hard, but the Owen Graves mysteries had spanned ten novels, each taking me a little under a year to complete. In all those years, I never considered doing anything else.
I’d written that first book in a flash of inspiration and kept powering through the next one with the sheer force of inertia. Owen Graves and his wild adventures had been with me at every major event in my life during the past ten years. He’d helped me get through the death of my parents. What if I didn’t know how to write anything else?
What if I was a failure at the one thing that gave my life meaning?
My phone rang again, and I snatched it off the table with a huff. If it was Alexis trying to convince me to dip into YA, I swear—
I didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Kensington.”
I recognized Monroe’s voice immediately, but he sounded different somehow. More formal, more guarded, as he was most likely calling from his office.
“This is Commissioner Monroe speaking.”
So much for using our first names, I thought with a touch of bitterness.
“Yes, Commissioner?” I said, matching his polite tone.
“Is everything all right at your cabin this morning?”
“Yeah. I mean, I haven’t been outside yet, but everything looks okay. No break-ins, no new notes left on my doorstep.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
Someone spoke to Monroe on the other side of the line, their voice muffled. I didn’t hear Monroe’s response and guessed he must have put his hand on the receiver.
“Mr. Kensington,” he said, continuing, “would you mind coming down to the station as soon as possible?”
“Sure, I guess,” I said reluctantly. This whole business with the notes (prank or not) was turning into more trouble than it was worth. “Do you really think I should file a formal complaint?”
There was a slight pause.
“This isn’t about the notes, Mr. Kensington,” Monroe said finally.
“Oh? Then what is it?”
“It’s about your neighbor, Mr. Porter,” Monroe said gravely. “He was murdered last night.”
*
Unlike my first visit, this morning, the Maplewood Town Hall building bustled with activity—so much so I had trouble finding an empty parking spot. Several cars had been parked haphazardly at the front, including two county police patrol vehicles and a Burlington Channel 3 News van. Radios crackled loudly on the chilly morning breeze. I nearly bumped into a guy wearing a uniform jacket emblazoned with Franklin County Coroner as the shell-shocked clerk showed me to the commissioner’s office, and it all went downhill from there.
Monroe was at his desk, talking on the phone. He motioned me to come in and sit on the only available chair, which I did.
The other desk was occupied by a burly, ruddy-faced man in a slightly disheveled uniform, whom I surmised to be Jack Gleason, Monroe’s deputy. He was looking at something on his computer and threw me a rather unfriendly glance before resuming his typing.
I nodded at him politely and then largely ignored him as I waited for Monroe to finish his phone call. He was mostly listening and offering monosyllabic responses, so I couldn’t glean anything useful from the conversation.
I probably should be more dismayed by the news of Frank Porter’s untimely demise, but after the initial shock of hearing about it, I was more curious about the incident than anything. After all, I barely knew the man, and during our brief period of acquaintance, he hadn’t exactly inspired tender feelings. Not that I wasn’t sorry for him, of course; no one deserved to have their life taken by violence—not even cantankerous old men.
“As soon as you can, please,” Monroe said into the receiver before putting it down and raising his eyes to me. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Kensington.”
“Sure,” I said. “So is he really…” I made a vague gesture in the air.
It was clear something untoward had happened; the flurry of county police activity inside the village and all the way to the lakeside was proof enough of that. I’d seen the official-looking vehicles gathered around Porter’s cabin as soon as I left mine. But I was still trying to wrap my head around the concept of honest-to-god murder happening in sleepy Maplewood.
“Yes. Frank Porter is most certainly dead,” Monroe said dryly. He was searching my face for something, though I couldn’t tell what it was. I shifted uncomfortably in the chair.
“As a damn doornail,” Gleason chimed from his desk, a tad more cheerfully than the subject warranted. Monroe pursed his lips in apparent disapproval but said nothing.
“Wow. That’s…” I couldn’t find any words that would be appropriate f
or the occasion, so I settled for: “How did it happen?”
“It appears he was killed at his cottage sometime last evening,” Monroe said. “The postman who was delivering a package to him this morning found him dead on the front porch. It appears the body had been left lying there the entire night. The ME is still trying to determine the time of death.”
Was I imagining things, or was that deliberately vague? Then a sudden thought hit me.
“Could this somehow be connected to those threatening notes?” I asked slowly, processing the idea. “Someone was definitely prowling the woods last night. It could have been the killer. Did Porter receive those letters too?”
“Not that we’re aware of,” Monroe said. “If he did, he didn’t mention it to anyone. But we’re looking into it.”
He opened the file on his desk, took out a photograph, and slid it toward me.
“Do you recognize this, Mr. Kensington?”
I looked at the photograph. I’ve heard of the expression “cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach.” In fact, I’d used it frequently in my writing. Even if it was too strong to describe what I was feeling at that moment, I could safely say my stomach lurched quite unpleasantly.
It was a picture of a shovel with a long curved wooden handle, its end marked in faded red. A much darker red, almost black, stained the edge of the blade. The longer I stared at that obscene splotch, the queasier I became.
“It’s a shovel,” I mumbled, my eyes still rooted to the photograph. “It’s…”
“Yes?” Monroe prompted, leaning ever so slightly forward. I absently noted he wasn’t wearing the same cologne as he had yesterday, or maybe none at all. Maybe that elusive scent of fresh snow and bitter sage was uniquely his.
I shook my head. What was I doing, thinking about what the man smelled like? He was investigating a murder, for God’s sake, and damned if the weapon wasn’t pointing to me.
“It’s mine,” I said finally, raising my eyes. Considering Monroe had called me over here just to show it to me, he was well aware of the fact already, and there was no use in denying it. Not that I felt I had to, anyway. “I mean, it used to be in the toolshed outside my cabin. I was looking for it yesterday to clear the driveway and couldn’t find it anywhere. I guess someone must have taken it.”
In the Winter Woods Page 5