In the Winter Woods

by Isabelle Adler

  This was the first time I’d ever detected a hint of bitterness in her cheerful demeanor.

  “So he was wealthy.” I latched on to the fact that struck me as the most important. After all, the motive for most premeditated murders was money, in some form or another. “Who inherits his money now that he’s dead?”

  It was a crude question, but Janice didn’t seem to be bothered by it. As an avid mystery reader, she’d swallowed the explanation for my undue interest hook, line, and sinker.

  She tapped her lip thoughtfully.

  “You know, I have no idea. Mr. Porter never married and had no children. I suppose he must have extended family somewhere, but I don’t remember him ever saying anything about them.”

  “But he was a local himself, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes. Born and raised right here in Maplewood. You could say I knew him all his life. There was…”

  She glanced to the side, wavering. I held my breath so as not to spook her, waiting for her to come to a decision, and my gamble paid off.

  “I’m not sure I should be telling you this. But this is such old gossip anyway, and Frank doesn’t care now either way… And your book—it’s important to get things right, as you said.”

  “Yes?” I prompted her carefully.

  “When he was young, Frank Porter got a girl pregnant.” She dropped her voice for real this time. I had to lean in even more to hear her, so close I could smell her lilac-scented perfume. “During their senior year. His parents hushed it up, and she moved away after graduation. Never came back here again. Lucy, I think her name was. Yes, Lucy Henshaw.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, well over thirty years ago. Thirty-five, even.”

  A customer came over to the counter with a basket full of packets of frozen peas and carrots, and I moved aside so Janice could ring her up.

  “Thirty-five?” I repeated when Janice bid the woman good day and turned back to me. I ran the numbers in my head, and they weren’t adding up. “Wait, how old was Mr. Porter?”

  “About fifty-one, fifty-two, I think? Something like that.”

  “Really? I was sure he was closer to seventy!”

  “I suppose he did look older than he was. That’s what happens when you don’t have a woman to look after you. Or, well, anyone to look after you,” she amended hastily, as she no doubt recalled my unabashedly queer protagonist. I pretended not to notice.

  “So, this Lucy—did she have the baby?”

  Despite her earlier valiant efforts at circumspection, Janice didn’t hold anything back now.

  “No one knows for sure. Mr. Porter’s father really pushed for her to have an abortion, the poor thing. But all this came out right before the senior prom, so as soon as she graduated, her parents packed her up and sent her away. I believe they and Frank’s father had quite a row over it all too. If you think Frank was a difficult man, well! You should have seen Frank Sr. back in the day. It was his way or no way, as they say. He made the Henshaws’ lives miserable, and they caved. Lucy left, and her folks shortly after, as soon as they could sell the house. Things were different here thirty or forty years ago, you see,” she finished with a touch of misplaced nostalgia.

  I made a noncommittal noise.

  “Frank was devastated when Lucy left.” Janice leaned on the counter and propped her cheek on her hand, her eyes going slightly unfocused as she dug deeper into her memory. “I wasn’t close with the Porters, but it was obvious he took it hard. Wouldn’t leave the house for days, and when he did, he’d snap at anyone who so much as said hello to him.”

  To be fair, that didn’t sound too unlike the present-day Frank. I wondered if this tragic love story was what made Porter so disgruntled.

  “I would never peg him as a man to nurse a broken heart for so many years,” I told her honestly.

  “Goes to show that appearances can be deceiving, can’t they?” Janice said sagely. “You can never know what sort of secrets people are hiding.”

  *

  After everything that had happened, I figured I deserved a decent lunch, and I knew just the place to get one.

  I locked the newly bought snow shovel in the trunk of my car and headed over to Dutton’s Diner. Unsurprisingly at this hour, it was packed, the hum of voices and the clink of cutlery mixing with the upbeat music spilling from the jukebox.

  A seat at the bar was vacated as I walked in, and I pounced on it before anybody could beat me to it.

  “Mr. Kensington!” Martha said, appearing before me as if by magic. Today she wore a green sweater set over a white silk blouse and a puffy skirt with a poinsettia pattern around the hem. “What can I get you?”

  I glanced at the menu.

  “A turkey club with a side of fries, please, and a coke. And a garden salad,” I added, belatedly recalling my half-hearted resolutions to eat healthier.

  She wrote down my order.

  “Did you hear about the murder, Mr. Kensington?” she asked after clarifying which dressing I wanted for my salad. “I was just reading about it in The Messenger.”

  “Yes, I did. And please call me Declan.”

  “It must have been awful for you. Just imagine, someone being killed right next door, and you’re all alone in that cabin!” She clicked her tongue in sympathy. “You must be thinking about going back to New York now, and I can’t say I blame you. I wouldn’t be staying in those woods another minute.”

  “Actually, I can’t leave just yet. The commissioner has asked me to hang around for a while, in case he needs to question me again.”

  Well, that, and I was broke as a church mouse, or getting dangerously close to it.

  “I see.” Something akin to disappointment flickered in her eyes, but it was gone so fast I was sure I must have imagined it. “The authorities can be so insensitive. Browbeating someone into spending the holidays in fear for their life! I cannot imagine what Commissioner Monroe is about. Anyway, I’ll get your order for you right away, Declan.”

  She moved away, and I was left alone to gather my thoughts. Perhaps it was the hunger talking, but my spirits were strangely down after the chat with Janice.

  I was still having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that the late Mr. Porter had only been in his early fifties. In my mind, I had him so firmly lodged in the role of a jaundiced old man that I had trouble recasting him—or feeling pity for the lonely life he must have led right up until someone decided to end it.

  I was only thirty-four, but I could see myself turning into the spitting image of Mr. Porter all too clearly. The growing impatience, the tendency to take out my frustration on those around me, the bitterness of dissatisfaction welling inside me—they were all starting to add up. Monroe could talk all he wanted about my empathy for others, but that was just a bunch of hooey. All I needed were a few more failed relationships and a dead career, and I would be the one yelling at town hall officials in the middle of the street and chasing kids off my lawn.

  Was this really who I was destined to become?

  Someone came up from behind and slapped the counter next to me, jolting me out of my unpleasant reverie. I turned my head, meeting the direct gaze of a tall man in his forties, his craggy face pinched in an irritated frown. He wore a plaid flannel shirt, acid-washed jeans, and black combat boots.

  “So you’re that writer fellow,” he said without preamble.

  He gave me a once over, and I got the distinct impression he didn’t like what he saw.

  “I guess you could say that,” I said cautiously. “And you are…?”

  “That’s my husband, Evan.”

  Martha arrived with my plate and set it in front of me, along with a basket of fries and my drink. The smell made my mouth instantly water.

  “How do you do,” I said to Evan, aiming for cold politeness. His eyes narrowed.

  “Honey, Declan was just telling me the commissioner asked him to remain here in Maplewood for a while,” Martha said. “Can you imagine! With a killer stil
l on the loose!”

  I made a vague noise of assent. The truth was, I was dying to dig into my food, but I didn’t feel comfortable eating with the two of them quite literally talking over my head.

  “You could sleep in a motel,” Evan suggested.

  “Yes!” Martha took up the idea with enthusiasm. “There’s a lovely motel in St. Albans you could stay in till this whole thing blows over. You remember the one, Evan, on Fairfax Road?”

  Evan grunted. He didn’t move his hand from the counter, and I could do nothing but silently wish for him to go away and let me enjoy my lunch in peace.

  “Thanks, but I really am fine.” I picked up a fork in hopes of both of them getting the message. “I doubt I’ll be in any danger, with the county police swarming all over the place.”

  “They won’t be there at night, will they?” Evan said. I supposed he meant it as a show of concern, but it came out as vaguely threatening.

  I clutched my fork and eyed the salad longingly.

  Martha seemed to finally have picked up on my reluctance to engage in conversation, because she shook her head and said:

  “Now, we should let Mr. Kensington enjoy his meal. Just remember, Declan, I’d be happy to point you in the right direction if you do decide to look for some other accommodations.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “I’m going back to the farm,” Evan said abruptly and pushed away from the counter, giving me the much yearned-for elbow room. “Have a good day, Mr. Kensington. Let’s hope you don’t get yourself killed as well.”

  Chapter Seven

  After the busy traffic along the forest road this morning, things were relatively quiet as I made my way back to the cabin after lunch. The trees on both sides stood bare, the storm having shaken the snow from the branches, silent sentinels of the woods that stretched all the way to the rocky shore of Lake Champlain.

  My phone rang just as I pulled up into the driveway—or at least into the relatively clear part of it. I glanced at the screen and cursed under my breath when I saw Jenny’s name. Of course I’d forgotten to warn her about the local officials contacting her, and now I was going to have an earful.

  “Hey, sis,” I said brightly, getting out of the car. “What’s up?”

  A quick look confirmed there were no suspicious figures with deadly shovels loitering around the cabin, but I still hurried to get inside and lock the door behind me. Daylight had begun to fail, as it did so early these days, and it seemed that my best intentions of cleaning the driveway were once again destined to be foiled by circumstances.

  Jenny wasted no time on pleasantries. “Declan, what is going on? Why are you in Vermont, and why did this cop—or whoever he is—call to ask me about you?”

  “Commissioner Monroe?”

  “Yes.” Her tone changed, going softer. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “No! No trouble, I promise,” I hastened to assure her.

  I flipped the lights on and surveyed the living room. It too appeared to be undisturbed, and I let myself relax a bit. With everything that had been going on, I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had decided to break into the house while I was gone. The last thing I needed was to drag myself to the public safety office for the third time in as many days.

  “Just tell me what happened!”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I sat down on the sofa. My coffee mug from this morning, which I’d left in my hurry to answer Monroe’s summons, still sat on the coffee table, the dregs gone icy cold.

  “I needed to get away from the city for a while to focus on my next book,” I explained. It was a part of the truth, at least. “You remember the old cabin up on Lake Champlain, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I figured it’d be the perfect retreat. But then some stuff happened.”

  I told her about the murder but kept the part about the anonymous letters to myself. There was no need to let her think I was in any danger.

  Of course, she came to that conclusion anyway.

  “You have to get out of there,” she said firmly. “At least until they catch the killer.”

  “I’m really fine.”

  “It’s not fine! Your neighbor was murdered, and the lunatic that did it is still on the loose. That cabin is not safe, Declan. Go home to New York, or come stay with us for a while. You know Noah and I would love to have you over for the holidays. There are still three days left of Hanukkah.”

  With the current state of my finances, going back to Manhattan wasn’t an option, but I knew better than to tell her so.

  “Thanks, Jenn. You know I’d love to see you and Noah and celebrate with you, but I was asked not to leave town just yet,” I said, grabbing for a ready excuse. “As you said, I’m the victim’s neighbor, and the investigators are probably counting on me remembering more from that night.”

  I got up and moved to the kitchen. After the lunch I’ve had at Martha’s, I was pretty full, but I needed something hot to warm me up before I could get the fire burning again. And that reminded me I had to order some more kindling, or I’d soon be out of my only source of heating. There was no way I was going out to gather some in the nearby woods, and it wasn’t only because I was afraid to run into a serial killer.

  “What did Commissioner Monroe ask you about, anyway?” I asked, putting the kettle on the stove.

  “Just stuff about when we used to visit, and whether we had any dealings with this Mr. Porter.”

  “Did you recall anything?”

  “Only vaguely. A man came over once. We were having a barbecue, and you were out fishing, I think. At least, you told Dad you were fishing; you might have snuck out to read that yaoi manga you were trying so hard to hide—”

  “Jenny, please!”

  “Okay, okay. Anyway, the guy took us to town for the smell attracting wildlife and the smoke blowing over to his cottage. It might have been Mr. Porter, but it was a long time ago.”

  “That’s a whole bunch of nothing,” I muttered, measuring a teaspoon of instant coffee into a clean mug.

  “I guess. But get this. When we were talking about Porter, Commissioner Monroe asked me if you were adopted.”

  “What?”

  Unfortunately, I chose this exact time to pour boiling water into the mug, and some of it splashed on the counter with the jolt. I bit down on the instinctive expletives.

  “I told him you weren’t,” Jenny continued. “Being the older sibling, I’d know, after all.”

  That seemed to amuse her, but I was anything but. Where did this come from? And why was this even remotely his business, law enforcement or not?

  “Did he believe you?”

  “Why on earth wouldn’t he believe me?”

  I had no idea why he wouldn’t, but then again, I had no idea why he would make such a bizarre inquiry in the first place. I wiped down the counter with a threadbare tea towel, and sat down at the breakfast table, frowning as I gazed out the window onto the sea of pines.

  “Are you sure you don’t need help?” Jenny insisted. “One hears so many horror stories about how small-town sheriffs treat outsiders. Do you want me to contact a lawyer for you?”

  “Monroe isn’t a sheriff. In any case, I really don’t think it’s necessary for me to get lawyered-up at this point. But if I think I need legal representation or anything else, you’ll be the first one I’ll call, I swear.” I took a swig of the fresh coffee, nearly burning my tongue. “Now, can we talk about anything else? How have you been doing? When was the last ultrasound?”

  Jenny dutifully launched into a detailed account of her checkups. Because of her endometriosis, both her husband, Noah, and I were somewhat anxious about her first pregnancy, but so far, she seemed to be doing fine.

  “Just make sure to take things slowly,” I said. “And before you bite my head off, no, I don’t presume to understand what you’re going through, and I’m not offering any advice. I’m merely looking out for you and my future nephew.
”

  “I am taking things slowly,” Jenny said defensively.

  I knew her too well to fall for it.

  “Take care, will you, Jenny?”

  “You too, Dec. And don’t hesitate to call me or Noah if anything happens, all right?”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  I hung up before she could detect the sudden thickness in my voice. The last thing I wanted was to break down and cry in front of her.

  There was no reason for me to get so emotional, but for all my inherent irascibility, I was touched by her concern. Even as kids, we were close, but after losing our parents I had to realize our family was never going to be whole again.

  I ran a hand over my face. There was no one here to tell me to pull myself together, so I had to do it myself.

  Wouldn’t it be nice, though, to have someone? Okay, maybe not to tell me off, but simply…to be there for me, when I was feeling down. Someone with whom I could enjoy the solitude of this beautiful place, instead of wasting my time moodily sulking, recounting all the ways in which my life sucked. Someone with an easy laugh and a ready smile. Someone I could cuddle with on a cold winter evening, watching the flames dance in the fireplace and talking about nothing and anything at all.

  The thought conjured an image of Curtis Monroe, half sprawled on the old sofa in the living room, a steaming mug in his hand and a flicker of light in his eyes. Boy, was I barking up the wrong tree there.

  I swirled the dregs of my coffee and downed them in one gulp. As fond as I was of the life-affirming liquid, it wasn’t going to be enough to help me feel better about myself and my choices tonight. I set down the cup and went in search of my dad’s whiskey bottles.

  *

  By the time I’d emptied the third glass of Jack Daniel’s, I was done feeling sorry for myself.

  I had little doubt that I made a very convenient scapegoat for the local law enforcement, and I was afraid they’d be disinclined to take a deeper dive into their pool of suspects, despite my tentative rapport with Commissioner Monroe. I was a stranger in this town, friendly as it might be (for the most part), and as such, it was up to me to clear my name of any wrongdoing. Sitting around doing nothing would get me exactly nowhere, but I did have one advantage.