“I lived in LA for years,” Monroe said. “If I’ve learned anything from my time there, it’s that people find all sorts of ways to reinvent themselves for all sorts of reasons.”
I sighed and sat down heavily in Frank’s office chair, fiddling with my flashlight.
“Officer Gleason must have been disappointed.” I shook my head as he opened his mouth to dispute that. “No, I get it. It’d be so much easier for everyone here in Maplewood if the killer were the pretentious new guy from New York rather than someone they’ve known all their lives. But I didn’t do it. Whether you believe me or not, that’s the truth.”
The faint ticking of the clock in the parlor punctuated the silence as Monroe sorted the age-worn letters, and I gloomily pondered my uncertain future.
“I don’t think you’re pretentious,” Monroe said suddenly.
“You don’t?”
“No. Snarky and annoying, yes, but not pretentious.”
“Gee, thanks,” I grumbled.
Monroe gave me a look that made it clear I’d just made his point.
“And you’ll probably be relieved to know we don’t consider you a suspect at this point.”
“What?” I perked up on the chair. “But…the shovel, and our argument…”
I shut up, belatedly realizing he was already aware of all the evidence, and I probably shouldn’t be making a case against myself.
Monroe smiled faintly.
“It wasn’t much of an argument, by Frank’s standards. As I understand, he was already riled up, and you were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. But the murderer must have known about it, because they used the shovel deliberately to cast suspicion on you.”
For a moment, I sat there in silence, trying (rather unsuccessfully) to come to grips with the fact that someone was actively trying to frame me for murder. The idea was so preposterous that it hadn’t even occurred to me.
“Then what was all this ‘person of interest’ stuff about?” I asked, still struggling to make sense of this new information. The aftermath of those whiskey shots was wearing off, but it definitely wasn’t conducive to my cognitive processes.
“You’re still part of the investigation,” Monroe said. “You saw Porter on the day he died, and you live close by. There might have been something you saw that day that could help us piece the timeline. Besides, as happens, you have the perfect alibi.”
I raised my eyes. He was looking at me now, intently, as if he was studying my reactions.
“I do?”
“The medical examiner was able to pinpoint the time of the murder between 6 and 7 p.m. Tuesday night. I was with you during that entire time.”
“And you would testify to that?” I asked slowly.
His eyes locked onto mine, and for one awful second I dreaded the answer.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked levelly.
I opened my mouth, and immediately closed it. We both knew the reason, but for all my abrasiveness, I was loath to say it out loud.
The moment stretched as we gazed at each other. He was the first to break it, looking away.
“I like you, Declan,” he said with painstaking care. “I wouldn’t have opened up to you the way I had otherwise. There is something about you. I felt it as soon as I saw you, chatting up Janice at the grocery store. And yesterday evening…I think that feeling was mutual.”
He paused, as if expecting an answer. I nodded mutely but then realized he wasn’t looking at me.
“Yes.” I didn’t recognize my voice; it was so strangled. I swallowed hard to steady myself. “It was mutual.”
I didn’t realize how tense he was, standing there awaiting confirmation. But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, his posture relaxed infinitesimally, his shoulders slumping by a tiniest fraction. My heart clenched.
“Under different circumstances, I would be happy to get to know you better,” he continued, still avoiding my eyes. “Assuming, of course, that you were interested. But as things stand, it would be highly inappropriate of me to pursue a relationship—any kind of relationship—with a potential witness.”
“I didn’t realize…I mean, I was hoping that you were…” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it delicately.
“Bisexual?” Monroe finally looked at me again. The light hit his face just so, emphasizing the fine structure of his cheekbones. “Yes, I am. I make no secret of it, though it has been a while since I dated a man. Since I dated at all, really.”
It was nigh impossible to make sense of the jumble of emotions warring inside me, or to decide whether I was more thrilled or frustrated by his admission.
Apparently, Frank Porter’s murder was disrupting my life in more ways than one.
“So, to answer your question—no, I don’t care if people know that we were…on friendly terms, alibi or not,” he continued. “But we can’t let things progress to anything more than that while I’m still working this case.”
“I understand. And thank you for telling me. About me being off the hook, so to speak, and about…the other thing.”
He nodded. There was another moment of silence as I composed myself. Perhaps it was true for the both of us.
Monroe returned the photos and the letters to the box and closed the lid. “I’ll take this to be examined. Though I’m afraid this isn’t much to go on.”
“I still think you should look for the anonymous notes,” I insisted. “I have a feeling they’re somehow connected.”
“Have you gotten any new ones?”
“No. I don’t know why anyone would want me gone, but they’ve stopped harassing me for now.”
Even as the words were out of my mouth, another unpleasant thought hit me like a slap in the face.
“You don’t suppose Frank could have done it?” I said haltingly.
Monroe looked at me with surprise. “You mean, send you those letters? Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t like having a neighbor living so close to him on the regular. Jenny said he was always kind of a jerk to us when we used to visit. Perhaps he was afraid I was going to have parties here and have people trampling his backyard or something.”
Monroe raised a skeptical eyebrow, which was as perfect as the rest of him.
“Parties?” he repeated. “In December?”
“Well, it’s the holiday season,” I said defensively. “It wouldn’t be skinny-dipping parties, obviously. More like a Christmas-tree, twinkly-lights, sipping-champaign-by-the-fireplace kind of party.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “And who would you invite to this soiree?”
“No one, because I wouldn’t be having one. I hate parties. But Frank couldn’t have known that.” The more I considered this possibility, the more plausible it seemed. “These letters struck me as being very old-school. I mean, why go through the hassle of cutting out letters from a newspaper these days? You can just print it out.”
“And Porter didn’t have a printer.” Monroe glanced around the crammed study.
“Exactly! It’s totally something he would do to get rid of that annoying boy in the next cabin.”
“But throwing a rock through your window?” Monroe frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Frank at all. He was always a stickler for personal property. I have a hard time picturing him vandalizing your house. If anything, he’d make sure you got reported for a town code violation for failing to clear your driveway.”
I felt a guilty blush creeping up my cheeks at the mention of the wretched driveway.
“Maybe he was angry after we had words at the diner,” I suggested. “He smashed my window and returned home, not knowing that his killer would be waiting for him there.”
Monroe looked unconvinced. “I would have to conduct a more thorough search of the house. I’ll bring Jack in with me tomorrow, and we’ll see what, if anything, we can find about these notes. Also, I’ll try to get in touch with Ms. Henshaw and her son and see if either of them could have anythin
g to do with the murder.”
I nodded and rose from the chair, putting the flashlight in my pocket.
“So. Are you going to arrest me?” I asked, keeping my tone deliberately casual.
Monroe let out a heavy sigh. “No, even though I probably should. I’m going to let you off with a warning this time, but you have to promise me not to interfere with this investigation anymore.”
“Okay, but I can still help.”
After all, I suddenly had a vested interest in having this case closed as soon as possible, and it had nothing to do with restoring my good name.
“No, Declan,” Monroe said warningly. “I got this. Stay out of it.”
“Stay out of it? Just a few hours ago, I was told to my face I was a murderer.”
“I wouldn’t exactly put it like that.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t, but Gleason was definitely thinking it. And I’m sure he wasn’t the only one.”
We were standing too close together in the stuffy room full of old memories and empty regrets, and all I could think about was the faint scent of snow and sage lingering underneath the dampness of his jacket.
“I’m sorry you had to go through it, but that’s what murder investigations are like,” Monroe said, the box tucked under his arm. Suddenly he looked very weary, undoubtedly casting his mind back to his own extensive experience with such investigations. “A lot of feathers get ruffled in the process. But I meant what I said. No more meddling.”
“Look, Monroe—”
“Curtis. You can call me Curtis,” he said quietly.
His blue gaze bore into me, and I relented.
“Fine, Curtis.” I raised my hands in mock defeat. “You have my word. No more meddling.”
Somehow, I should have known even then that I wouldn’t be able to keep to it.
Chapter Nine
In my defense, I returned home that night fully intending to make good on my word.
Monroe—Curtis—made sure all the windows of my cabin were intact and nothing was disturbed before taking his leave. I watched him from behind the curtain, making his way back through the trees toward Porter’s cottage.
I sighed and peeled off my coat before plopping down on the sofa, but instantly regretted it. With the busted window, the room once again felt like the inside of an industrial chiller. I’d never take a working central heating system for granted again.
My head was spinning ever so slightly, but somehow, I managed to stoke the flames anew, and then make myself a cup of coffee. It was late, and I was tired and a bit shaken, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep just yet.
The quiet I had sought so desperately by coming here now seemed too quiet, and instead of welcoming the solitude, I felt restless and forlorn. My mind kept circling back to my conversation with Curtis, so mundane and bizarre at the same time.
But it was no use thinking about Curtis, not in that particular way, and not just yet, so I dutifully tried to distract myself.
Instead of powering my trusty laptop, I sat down at the table with some blank paper and a pen, fully intending to outline my new book. Perhaps a classic mystery would do the trick this time, with a good old-fashioned murder in a locked room, a houseful of quirky suspects, and an amateur detective embroiled in the investigation under unlikely circumstances. He or she or they would be daring, smart, and charismatic—everything that I was not.
I began jotting down the descriptions of the setting and the names of the characters, but my heart wasn’t in it. After my unfortunate little adventure earlier, I was having trouble focusing on anything else.
I promised Curtis I wouldn’t interfere—but organizing the facts wouldn’t be interfering. Granted, I didn’t have the experience of a homicide detective, but what I could boast was imagination, and from reading my fair share of mysteries and thrillers over the years, I was certain that imagination was just as important as insight to solving a puzzle.
I took out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote down the name of Frank Porter in the center. All around it, I began filling in everything I knew about possible motives.
The obvious lead was, of course, Porter’s long-lost son, who stood to inherit a tidy fortune. I recalled the little boy with a goofy haircut, smiling at me from the photograph. He’d be a few years over thirty now. But until Curtis could inquire about his current whereabouts, it was useless to speculate. Meanwhile, there were other possibilities to consider.
If it wasn’t Porter’s mysterious offspring, chances were the culprit was a resident of the village. No tourists came to Maplewood this time of year, and most of the lakeside rental properties stood empty. Besides, whoever did it knew exactly where to look for my shovel, which would exclude any outsiders like tourists and drifters.
No, this murder had to have been premeditated. I noticed the shovel missing at about 3 p.m., but Porter hadn’t come home until somewhere between 6 and 7 p.m., according to the coroner’s report. Even if the killer had stolen my shovel earlier that day, or the night before, and then come back to finish off Porter, it meant they were lying in wait for him at his cottage despite the miserable weather. This kind of determination couldn’t be born at the spur of a moment.
Someone had something to gain from Porter’s death. Either that, or they nursed one hell of a grudge. Like the one Hailey Davis harbored toward Frank after he’d refused to give her struggling business the necessary permits. Granted, she was too petite to successfully bash someone as tall as him, but her husband Logan sure fit the bill.
And the Davises were hardly the only ones with a bone to pick. Porter had been the chair of the town planning commission and had the tendency to throw spokes in the wheels of local initiatives, like the Champ theme park that was about to be built. Porter had lost the vote against the mayor on that, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t still cause trouble for the project. In fact, he’d intended to do just that, by his own admission. Monroe had to have known about it, but he didn’t say whether or not he’d interviewed the mayor. George Hartwell didn’t strike me as a cold-blooded killer, but I’d only met him once, and I didn’t consider myself so good a judge of character as to recognize possible homicidal tendencies from a single handshake.
Maybe I could ask the town manager, Atwood, about it. I was willing to concede I could have caused more harm than good, breaking into Porter’s cottage, and wasn’t planning on going anywhere near the crime scene again. But a few innocent questions here and there could hardly be construed as meddling. And Janice might know about other people with other grievances against him. She’d be only too happy to tell me anything I needed to know. Surely, simply listening didn’t fall under the category of willful obstruction of justice.
Or, I could do exactly as Curtis asked and leave murder to the professionals. He’d said he knew what he was doing, and I had no reason to doubt that—especially now, after he’d cleared me of suspicion. I could just lock myself away in this cabin until I figured out how to salvage my failing writing career, just as I’d intended all along, and mind my own business.
A loud knock sounded on the door, and I jumped, nearly sending the papers scattering.
“Who is it?” I called, my heart pounding. I hadn’t heard a car approaching, and the thought of someone casually walking around the cabin this late at night sent chills down my spine.
No one answered, but there was another resounding bang on the door, and I flinched. I thought I heard footsteps retreating, but that could well be my imagination playing tricks on me.
Whoever it was, I wasn’t going to let them get away so easily. Normally, I wasn’t this brave or reckless, but right now I was too pissed to stop and consider the gruesome way in which my character would die if this were a horror movie.
I sprang from my chair and rushed to the door. The poker I’d picked up last night was still propped on the wall next to the coatrack, and I grabbed it before turning the key and swinging the door wide open.
“Who’s there?” I demanded, my breath coming out in angr
y white puffs in the cold night air. Light from the living room spilled onto the steps and the snow-covered grassy clearing, driving the edges of darkness farther out into the surrounding mass of trees.
My only answer was the rustling of tree branches on a gentle breeze. I peered to the sides but saw nothing and no one.
I tightened my hand on the poker and took another step forward. The chill seeped under my skin, but I lingered, trying to catch a glimpse of my unwanted visitor.
“Who’s there?” I repeated with much less fervor.
I turned, and something caught my eye. I walked around the door and stared at another note. The cut-out letters were smaller and bunched closer together, but they undoubtedly came from the same source.
This is your last warning. Leave or else.
Still, it wasn’t the ominous message that stopped me in my tracks, but the huge kitchen knife, pinning it to the door.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Then my outrage returned, stronger and sharper than before.
I wheeled round, raising the poker in my hand. Right now, I must have looked the epitome of an old man yelling at the neighbor kids for trampling his flower beds, but I didn’t care.
“I’m not leaving!” I shouted, no doubt spooking the local wildlife unlucky enough to witness my temper tantrum. “Your little craft projects don’t scare me, and I’m not going anywhere!”
I tensed, half-expecting my aggrieved stalker to come charging at me from the shadows. The skin on the back of my neck prickled, but just as before, there was no response.
Long, uneasy moments passed until I finally lowered the poker. It was too cold to be standing outside in just my jeans and sweater, and I was beginning to feel foolish. With a final exasperated sigh, I retreated into the warmth and safety of the living room and shut the door with enough force to rattle the frame.
The quiet inside the cabin was a welcome reprieve from the oppressive, watchful silence of a moment ago. Flames crackled merrily in the hearth, and the table lamps cast a cozy glow over the worn furniture.
In the Winter Woods Page 9