I let out a deep, shaky breath. There went my oh-so-clever theory that Porter was my mysterious ill-wisher with a penchant for the theatric, and I still hadn’t the foggiest why anybody would want me gone.
Belatedly, it dawned on me I’d forgotten to bring in the new note when I made my pointed exit, and I cursed under my breath. My bout of senseless courage was wearing thin, and I wasn’t looking forward to going out again.
I briefly considered calling Curtis and asking him to come over again and retrieve the evidence, but quickly decided against it. He was probably already home, and I didn’t have the heart to force him to make the trip to the lake twice in one night.
Besides, I didn’t want to appear needy and clingy, especially after we’d agreed to cool it for the time being. Not that there was anything sizzling between us, exactly, but I wasn’t sure inviting him to my house again would be a good idea.
If this were one of my books, and I were Owen Graves, I’d be out there, chasing the perpetrator through the woods armed with nothing but a poker and my amazing close-combat fighting skills. The notes would lead me to unearth a government conspiracy centering around toxic waste disposal in Lake Champlain, and there would probably be a boat chase somewhere toward the end.
But this wasn’t a book, and there was no guarantee the main character (namely, me) would make it to the epilogue. The boat chase seemed unlikely to happen too.
Okay, so I wasn’t Owen Graves, but I wasn’t a damsel in distress either. I was perfectly capable of looking after myself—the earlier bout of indiscretion in judgment notwithstanding.
Still, I took my time locating a plastic trash bag and putting on my gloves. The note was there waiting for me when I slipped outside after taking a cautious peek.
I took a deep breath and yanked the knife out. For all its impressive size, it wasn’t lodged very deeply inside the door, but it still left an ugly gauge in the pine veneer. I placed the knife and the note carefully inside the bag and retreated inside with far less bluster than before.
*
After all the bustle of activity yesterday morning, the town hall was eerily quiet. Then again, I might have made an early start to the day, despite the dull hangover headache that eased only after I’d fueled myself with several cups of coffee. The reception desk was unoccupied, so I let myself in and proceeded to the commissioner’s office.
I nearly ran into Officer Gleason, who was just about to step out of the room, holding a large travel mug. He recoiled, and the steaming coffee inside the mug sloshed around dangerously.
“God damn it, Kensington, watch where you’re going,” he said irritably, pushing past me.
“You might want to put a lid on it,” I called after him, but he ignored me on his way out.
“Where is he off to in such a hurry?” I asked, turning to Monroe, sitting behind his desk.
“Officer Gleason is going to oversee the forensics team searching Frank Porter’s residence,” he said. “And the only reason I’m telling you this is so you won’t go traipsing over there again before they get the chance to sweep the place.”
“I won’t. I learned my lesson. No more drunken stumbling through a murder investigation.”
“Now, why don’t I believe you?”
I did my best to look duly innocent.
Monroe, on the other hand, looked frazzled. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his golden hair, usually neatly combed, was tousled as if he didn’t have either the time or the energy to complete his morning grooming routine.
“You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?” I asked before I could think the better of it.
Curtis shook his head. “Not really. After I left you at the cabin, I came down here again to do some database digging. Took me the best part of the night.”
“I’m sorry. Had I known, I would have brought you some sort of frilly coffee.”
Curtis waved his hand dismissively. He held an official-looking document with a photo attached but slid it inside a folder before I could catch a glimpse.
“As a matter of fact, I was just heading out myself,” he said. “Is there anything you wanted?”
By now I knew better than to press him for information he didn’t want to give. Instead, I offered him a smile and sat down.
“I was wrong about Porter sending me those messages,” I said without so much as a how do you do.
“What makes you say that?”
“This.” I opened my messenger bag and produced the garbage bag. “Be careful, there’s a knife in there.”
“What?” Curtis sat up and peered inside the bag. “Where did you get that?”
“Someone used the knife to pin the note to my front door last night. It was just past midnight, I think. I tried to see who it was, but they sure disappeared fast.”
“You’re saying they did this while you were in the house? Jesus, Declan. Are you okay?”
A warm and fuzzy feeling spread in my chest at the note of genuine worry in his voice. It made the whole crazy week seem worth it.
“I’m fine,” I said with the same false conviction I’d used on Jenny. “They didn’t try to break in.”
Monroe opened a desk drawer and fished out a latex glove, which he used to pick up the knife and place it inside a fresh evidence bag. He did the same with the note.
“You should have called me last night,” he said, frowning. “I’m beginning to think it’s not safe for you to stay alone in that cabin. It’s too remote. You could have been in danger.”
The fuzzy feeling intensified, but I breezily waved away his concerns.
“If they really wanted to hurt me, they would have done it already. They’re definitely trying to scare me away, but I don’t think they’d actually escalate to causing physical harm.”
Curtis didn’t look convinced. To tell the truth, I wasn’t convinced myself, but I didn’t want to appear completely helpless in front of him either.
“I know we’ve talked about keeping our distance, but I want you to promise me that if something like that happens again, you’ll call me right away,” Curtis said.
His hard blue gaze brooked no argument, and I nodded, mesmerized by its quiet intensity. It also emboldened me in a strange way, so uncharacteristic of my usual reserve.
“Speaking of that, I’ve been thinking…” I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Look, if you solve this thing by Christmas Eve, how about that party at my place that we’ve talked about? The one with champaign and twinkly lights. But it’ll be just you and me. Would you…be interested in celebrating with me?”
Curtis’s expression softened almost imperceptibly, but since I was searching his face for any reaction, I didn’t fail to notice it.
“There’s no other way I would rather celebrate,” he said, and the tight ring of doubt around my heart eased a fraction.
A moment passed as we looked into each other’s eyes, and it was as though we’d made each other a silent promise.
Curtis was the first to look away, busying himself with removing the glove.
“I’m afraid I really should get going. There’s someone I want to have a word with,” he said apologetically.
With an effort, I tore myself away from the idyllic picture of Curtis and me sharing a roast Christmas dinner—and maybe breakfast the following morning.
“About Frank’s murder?” I shifted on my chair. “Who?”
“I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information,” Curtis said, falling back into his stern law enforcement officer mode. He stood and gathered the file and the evidence bag with the knife and note. “I’ll get these to forensics, see if they can find any fingerprints or other clues to help us identify your stalker. My bet is they won’t—this is a rather generic, no-name brand of knife, and it looks new. They must have bought it for this specific purpose, and I doubt they’d be foolish enough to leave prints on it. But you never know.”
He walked out from behind his desk and took his uniform jacket from the coatrack.
“I’ll find out who’s threatening you, Declan,” he said, halting a mere step away from me. I could have closed the distance between us simply by extending my hand toward him, but I didn’t. “But in the meantime, stay safe and stay vigilant. Call me at the first sign of trouble, you hear?”
“I will. I’ll be careful.”
Curtis nodded, and walked out with me. I watched as he got in a marked car and drove away on Main Street.
Chapter Ten
I resisted the urge to follow Curtis to see where he was going. Somehow, I got the sense he wouldn’t appreciate me spying and eavesdropping while he was interviewing witnesses. But I was still dying to know who he was off to see so early in the morning.
“Mr. Kensington!” someone called from behind me, and I jumped. Despite my assurances to Curtis, my nerves were frayed like a piece of old rope.
I wheeled round to see Mayor Hartwell get out of his silver Toyota Camry and climb the stairs to the town hall portico with a determined look on his face.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” he said, reaching to shake my hand as he approached me.
“Oh?” I said cautiously, returning his shake. Even though the sky was overcast with a promise of snow, his palm was sweaty.
“Yes, if we could have a word?”
“Of course. But first, let me offer my condolences, Mayor Hartwell,” I said, letting my hand fall.
He looked at me blankly, and I clarified:
“Mr. Porter’s death. I understand he was on the village council. It must have been a terrible shock.”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, quite terrible,” he said quickly. “Frank Porter had been a strong voice in our community, and we will feel his absence most keenly.”
The eulogy sounded about as spontaneous as it was glowing. I made an appropriate noise of commiseration, wondering what he could possibly want with me. Whatever it was, I’d seize this opportunity to ask him some questions of my own.
“So I’ve heard you’re writing a book, eh?” he said. “A true-crime story about the murder?”
Well, that was fast.
“I’m thinking about it,” I said vaguely.
“In that case, you must have some theories as to who could have done it?”
There was an anxious undertone to his question. Was he afraid I was about to paint him as a murder suspect in my fictional nonfiction novel?
“Not really,” I said. “I’m mostly trying to get a feel for the place and the victim. There’s no point in stringing together theories before one has all their facts on order, is there?”
Hartwell shoulders sagged with relief. “That is a very sensible approach, Mr. Kensington, very sensible. I don’t have to tell you how damaging baseless accusations can be, and with those reporters from Burlington and St. Albans sniffing around, we can’t be too careful.”
He was definitely hiding something, but I couldn’t tell whether it was related to the murder. I made a mental note to mention it to Curtis.
“I promise you I’m not here to make any allegations, Mayor Hartwell,” I said soothingly, aiming to put him at ease. “I’m a mystery writer, and the last thing I want is to peddle in gossip. I’m merely observing the investigation while the law enforcement are doing their job catching a killer.”
“I have full confidence in the Maplewood Public Safety Department,” Hartwell replied promptly. “Commissioner Monroe was appointed the lead investigator in this case with full support of the county sheriff’s office. I’m sure he’ll do a fine job putting this whole ghastly affair to rest.”
“And solving the crime.”
“Yes, of course, of course.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets, shivering a little. The morning was clear but crisp to the point of being freezing.
“Mr. Porter was your friend, Mayor Hartwell?”
“I wouldn’t say friend, exactly.” If the cold bothered him, he didn’t show it, and neither did he invite me to adjourn to his office. “But I knew him well, of course. He was on the village council, and he rarely missed a meeting.”
This was exactly the opening I needed.
“I understand he was on the planning commission.” I kept my tone as casual as possible. “And that he was against the new theme park being erected in the village.”
“Oh, the Champ thing,” Hartwell said, looking even more relieved. “That’s CAO Atwood’s project. Yes, Frank had opposed it right from the start, but we managed to pass the vote, and now the construction is ready to begin. Atwood was sure he could change his mind about it eventually. We all stood to profit from the boost in local tourism, including Frank. He owned quite a lot of real estate in the area.”
“So it was Atwood’s idea?” I asked, puzzled. “I got the impression it was sort of a joint enterprise between you two.”
“No. Well, I was the one who submitted the plan to the Franklin County Parks and Recreation Department for approval, but Atwood was the one who put it all together, recruiting potential investors and raising funds, and whatnot. I hope you don’t think I would belittle his contribution. I’m certainly not above giving credit where credit is due.”
“Of course,” I hastened to reassure him. “I must have misunderstood. So you believe Frank would have come around on that issue?”
“I see no reason why not.” Hartwell shrugged. “The rest of the planning commission members were all for it, so I hardly think Frank was going to oppose a unanimous decision and withhold building permits when it came down to it. In my opinion, he just enjoyed all the hoo-ha around himself.”
He wasn’t the first one to tell me Frank Porter liked to play up his own importance, so I tended to believe that, though I wasn’t so sure he was right to be so confident about Frank eventually changing his mind about the Champ park. He’d sounded extremely put out by the very notion.
“Were there any other projects he’d dismissed as commission chair?” I asked. “Maybe zoning permits he denied, or anything like that?”
“I’m not sure.” Hartwell rubbed his neck. “The police are looking into his paperwork. I’m sorry; I just remembered I have a meeting in twenty minutes.”
“Sure. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Mayor Hartwell.”
“You are welcome to schedule an appointment with the clerk if you want to discuss your book,” Hartwell said, probably realizing he’d dismissed me too curtly. He even offered me a smile that was just a tad too strained to be categorized as charming.
I nodded and walked down the steps toward the parking lot.
“Oh, Mr. Kensington!” Hartwell called, and I turned around. “You will be coming to the Christmas festival, won’t you?”
“Is that still on? I thought, with Porter’s murder…” Did I really need to remind him there was still a killer on the loose?
But that obviously wasn’t a valid concern in Hartwell’s book.
“As unfortunate as Frank’s death is, the Maplewood Christmas Festival is a centuries-old tradition,” the mayor said, drawing himself up. “We live in troubled times, and the residents need respite. Something fun and diverting to look forward to.”
“Right. In that case, I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful!” Hartwell said with jovial heartiness. “And don’t forget to sign up for the Maple raffle!”
*
I’ve already had a few too many cups of coffee back at my cabin this morning, but after freezing my butt off chatting with Mayor Hartwell, I needed a hot beverage to get me going.
I briefly considered popping into the diner but knew if I did, there’d be no way to avoid ordering breakfast, and I wasn’t hungry enough for Martha’s generous fare. As delicious as her syrup-soaked pancakes were, I had to cut down somewhat on my carb intake—not to mention my expenses.
Speaking of expenses, there was still the small matter of fixing the window in the study nook. Though boarded shut, without the glass, it was a heat sinkhole as well an eyesore.
Faced with the choice of either returning to m
y cabin and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my writing career, or running errands, as annoying as they were, I didn’t hesitate.
I drove down Main Street until I chanced across a cute little coffee shop with white-and-gold snowflake decals decorating its windows and got myself a hot cocoa and a blueberry muffin to go.
Snowfall was getting heavier as I stepped out onto the curb, and I paused to admire it, sipping the thick, chocolaty cocoa. A thin cover of white fuzz was building up on the storefront cornices and the window hoods, adding to their shabby, postcard-like beauty. It occurred to me I’d yet to see the village at nighttime, with the wrought-iron streetlamps lit and the colorful string lights flickering through the snow drifting softly to the ground.
After the tumult of Manhattan, the change in atmosphere was startling, but I couldn’t deny the streets of a small town had a kind of special charm, sprawled under the vast expanse of blue-gray sky.
Charm, yes, but apparently also some deadly secrets.
A battered green pickup truck pulled to the curb a few yards away, and Logan Davis unfolded from the driver’s seat. He wore a padded flannel jacket and a knitted (clearly homemade) hat done in multicolored yarn. I guessed it was a present from his wife. Only the deepest devotion would induce a person to put something so hideous on their head and wear it proudly about town.
“Morning, Mr. Davis,” I said, shifting the paper bag with my muffin under my arm to shake his hand.
“Please, call me Logan,” he said, returning the handshake. “We’re gonna be neighbors now while you’re working on your book, right?”
“Right.” My mind was blown a little not only by the speed with which news spread around Maplewood, but also the scope of its reach. “Declan.”
“Hailey asked me to place an order for an apple pie for the festival bake sale tomorrow here at Coffee and Cake.” He nodded at the coffee shop. “She’s a great cook but can’t bake to save her life. Don’t tell her I said that.”
“I won’t,” I promised, suppressing a smile.
“So, did Commissioner Monroe question you about the murder yet?”
In the Winter Woods Page 10