His tone was casual but a bit too carefully so.
“Yes. He asked me if I saw someone or something near my cabin that night.”
“And did you?”
“No. But someone did smash one of my windows just before Frank was killed,” I said, watching his reaction.
Not that I suspected Logan of either murder or preplanned vandalism, but there was something decidedly different about his manner now that our conversation had shifted to Mr. Porter’s death.
“That’s nasty,” he said. “Any idea who did it?”
His expression held no traces of guilt. Of course, I didn’t know him well enough to tell if he was lying, but I didn’t get the impression he knew anything about the mysterious notes I’d been receiving.
I shook my head, and then an idea occurred to me.
“Did Commissioner Monroe talk to you too?”
It was an innocent enough question, but it seemed to take him aback.
“Well, yeah,” he stammered. “But I told him I knew nothing about it. I drove up to St. Albans that day to scour the local junk yards for spare parts, right after you left, if I remember correctly. I was hoping to score some wheel rims for my restoration project. A second-generation Pontiac Firebird convertible, a real beauty. I got the engine running and everything, but now it needs all the original trim.”
“I see,” I said hurriedly before he could wax poetic about old cars and their outfitting. “Sounds like an awesome project. And did you find any rims?”
“No.” Logan rubbed his nose. “Nothing. Just a huge waste of time. Guess I’ll have to order them online from the manufacturer. Too bad. I was really hoping to put in the originals.”
“So when did you get back?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know exactly. About 8 p.m., I think? I was caught in the storm on my way back.”
There could be no mistaking the evasiveness this time. My cocoa was rapidly growing cold, but my curiosity had been piqued.
“You didn’t chance to pass by Pine Grove Lane on your way?” I asked.
It was a long shot; the forest road was way off from where Main Street met the highway that eventually joined Route 7 leading north to St. Albans.
Logan shook his head. “No. I said as much to Commissioner Monroe. I couldn’t have possibly seen anything, so I didn’t.”
Was it just me, or was this statement worded rather oddly? Could Logan actually know something about the murder? And if he had nothing to do with it, why would he withhold information?
He glanced at the entrance to the coffee shop.
“What about your wife, Hailey?” I blurted before he had the chance to bid me good day and be off.
“What about her?”
“She didn’t go with you to St. Albans on Tuesday?”
“No. She was home, I suppose.”
“That whole afternoon?”
Logan frowned and drew himself up to his full height.
“Just what are you implying?” he demanded in an entirely different voice.
I lifted my hands in a pacifying gesture, still holding the cup.
“Nothing. I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I merely wanted to know if she was perhaps out and about at that time and might have seen someone headed down to the lakeside.”
“Oh.” He relaxed a little, still frowning. “I don’t think she did, or she would’ve said something. No, I’m pretty sure Hailey was home that day.”
“For such a small village, I’d have thought people would pay more attention to what was going on around them,” I joked, rather lamely.
“People round these parts know to mind their own business,” Logan said dryly. “Look, Declan, I don’t think this book of yours is such a good—”
His cell phone buzzed loudly in his pocket, cutting him off. Logan pulled it out and looked at the screen. His frown grew deeper, and he returned the phone to his pocket without answering. It rang a few more times and finally fell silent.
“That window of yours that was smashed.” Logan’s tone was different, as if he only now gave my account any real thought. “Do you want to repair it?”
“Yes,” I said, a little baffled by this sudden change of subject. “As a matter of fact, I intend to ask if they offer a repair service at the hardware store.”
“I can do it for you,” Logan said quickly. “I’m sorta the all-purpose handyman around here anyway. Is it just the glass that needs replacing?”
“That’s right. Half a pane.”
“That won’t be too difficult to mend, then,” Logan said. “I can get all the stuff and pop over to your cabin in about an hour. That work for you?”
“Ugh—” I was somewhat at a loss for words. Logan still struck me as a decent fellow, but even a child could see he was hiding something, and didn’t approve of my snooping. I wasn’t sure how wise it’d be for me to invite him to my home, with no witnesses around.
“I’ll give you a good deal on it,” Logan said. “How does fifty bucks plus materials sound?”
When faced with the choice to either be wise or save money I couldn’t afford to be spending, there could be little doubt as to which one I’d choose.
“Sounds great,” I said. “Thank you. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
I gave him the exact address, and we shook hands again. Logan ducked inside the coffee shop, and I headed to my car to enjoy the rest of my lukewarm cocoa.
*
I’d locked the door and shuttered the windows when I left the house to go to town this morning, but I was still apprehensive about what new mess I might find upon my arrival.
Pine Grove Lane was empty of traffic, as usual, but I thought I glimpsed the taillights of an official-looking sedan on the dirt road that led to Porter’s cabin. Apparently, Jack Gleason and the state CSI team (or whatever they were called here) were still busy sweeping the victim’s house. I felt much more reassured by the thought that if Logan Davis were suddenly to reveal himself a homicidal maniac and turn on me, I wasn’t entirely alone in the snowy wilderness.
I cringed at the crunch of the wheels in fresh snow. My shiny new shovel was safely ensconced in the trunk of my Honda, still unused. With Logan coming over in about fifteen minutes, it would have to wait to make its debut a little while longer.
I got out of the car and hurried inside to warm the place up. Not for the first time since coming (only last Monday, but God, did it feel like a month ago), I recalled the central heating in my Manhattan apartment with sad nostalgia.
With the fire going, there wasn’t too much for me to do before Logan arrived. I made a perfunctory round of the house, just to be sure there hadn’t been any new break-ins, but everything was in order—or at least in as much order as I’d left it.
I put the kettle on and quickly checked my social media updates. I wasn’t very conscientious about maintaining a consistent online presence at the best of times, and with my recent slump and my sales tanking, I found myself lacking the mental capacity for it. But I still did my best answering the odd question from a reader or boosting a fellow writer when I could spare a few minutes.
Minutes which could have been more productively spent pondering my next creative move, but I tried not to dwell on it.
Having finished, I picked up the Robert Frost poetry collection I’d left sitting on a side table on my first night here and leafed idly through the pages. Like everything else around the cabin, the book cover was worn around the edges, but the gentle shabbiness was beginning to grow on me. There was something touchingly sentimental about it.
And yet, maybe there was something I could do to make this place a tad more cheerful, more…homey. A Christmas tree from one of the sustainable tree farms around the county would be a good start, considering Christmas was only a week away.
The thought of spending Christmas here inevitably led to the thought of spending it with Curtis.
I had to admit I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted something—or someone—so much, and it made me a li
ttle apprehensive. Casual dating and hookup apps weren’t my thing; I’d valiantly resisted my friends’ attempts to set me up on blind dates; and the few long-term relationships I did manage to have over the years fizzled into either indifference or mutual dislike.
Considering I was the common denominator, who was to say the same thing wouldn’t happen between me and Curtis?
The noise of a car coming up the road jolted me out of my anxious downward spiral. I went over to the window as Logan’s pickup pulled to a stop behind my car.
A minute later, Logan, still wearing that ridiculous hat, knocked on my door.
“Hey,” I said, letting him in. “Thanks again for coming.”
“Sure thing.” He cast a curious glance around the living room, his arms full with a large metal toolbox and a flat parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“My parents bought it after my mom was named junior partner at her firm. We lived on Staten Island, but we used to come to Vermont almost every summer when my sister and I were little. My dad loved the lake.”
“Sorry about your folks,” Logan said, setting his things on the floor and taking off his gloves. “My mom passed away too recently. Less than two years ago, before I moved here.”
“And your dad?”
Logan shook his head. “Never knew my dad. It’s always been just my mom and me.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “You lived with her in Philly, right?”
Something about that tugged at my memory, but when I tried to zero in on it, it fluttered away like a capricious butterfly.
“Yeah. Hey, can I maybe get a cup of tea? The heating in my car went out again on my way here, and I’m freezing.”
“Absolutely.” I went over to the kitchen and picked out a cup while Logan examined the broken window over the mahogany writing desk. “So what do you think?”
“What?”
“About the window.”
“Oh. Seems a pretty simple fix to me.” Logan poked at the frame. “I’ll have to go outside to take down the boards. You did a good job with the boarding up, I have to say.”
“Oh, that wasn’t me.” I brought him his tea, and he took it with a grateful nod. “That was Commissioner Monroe.”
Logan frowned. “I didn’t know you’re so friendly with Curtis Monroe.”
“I’m not,” I hastened to assure him, even as a blush crept up my cheeks—not because I was lying, but because I was rather hoping we’d become something other than friends. “But whoever broke the window also wrote a threatening note, so I called him to report it. Luckily for me, he offered to drop by and helped me deal with it before the storm could do much damage.”
Logan’s knuckles turned white where he was holding the cup. “Monroe was here on the night of the murder?”
I couldn’t quite gauge his reaction. Was it shock? Fear? Guilt?
“Yeah,” I said slowly, watching him more carefully. “He was here till after 7 p.m.”
“Did he say if he saw anyone here that night?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason.” Logan shook his head and set the unfinished cup on the desk. “I better get to it, then. Thanks for the tea.”
He picked up the glass and his tools and went outside. I waited until he was out the door and then picked up my phone.
“Come on, come on,” I muttered impatiently while the phone rang. Outside, Logan began ripping the boards off the window, and I winced at the noise.
“Monroe,” he answered finally.
“Curtis, it’s me, Declan,” I said in a low voice, keeping the study window in my sight.
“What’s up?”
“Lucy Henshaw’s letters from Porter. They were sent from Philadelphia, weren’t they?”
There was a pause.
“Where are you going with this, Declan?” Monroe asked in a different tone of voice.
“Logan Davis told me he moved to Maplewood from Philadelphia, where he was raised by his single mother. And now, come to think of it, he does look a bit like Frank, wouldn’t you agree? What if—”
“Declan, is Logan with you now?”
“Yes. I hired him to repair the busted window.”
“Don’t say anything to him. Don’t ask him any more questions. Stay put. I’m on my way.”
My heart began beating faster.
“So this means I’m right?”
“Declan. Stay. Put.”
“I will, but—”
“Who are you talking to?” Logan asked from the doorway.
Chapter Eleven
I jumped, fumbled, and grabbed the phone before it hit the floor.
Logan stood in the entrance, eying me suspiciously, a very sharp-looking chisel in one hand. I swallowed and offered him a smile that was probably more shaky than friendly. How long had he been standing there, and how much had he heard?
“Just my sister checking up on me,” I said. “She’s worried about me being here all alone. Older siblings can be so protective.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Logan said. “I need to clean the frame from the inside.”
“Sure.” I waved vaguely in the direction of the study. I took a step back and bumped into the edge of the counter. “Whatever you need.”
He hesitated for a moment but then went over to the window and began scraping the channels around the empty pane. Keeping him in my sight, I edged closer to the utensil drawer where the kitchen knives were kept.
“I hope the window isn’t giving you too much trouble,” I said, hoping my voice sounded steady. “The wood must be rotten, with all the moisture coming from the lake.”
“These are actually in good condition,” he said, his back turned. “Looks like the cabin is build out of solid maple.”
I made a sound of assent, trying to calculate how long it would take Curtis to get here. He did say not to ask Logan any more questions, presumably as to not provoke him into doing anything rash. But I had to stall him for at least twenty minutes, and I didn’t know how long it’d take him to finish the repairs.
“Have you ever done any work on these cabins?” I asked, aiming for disinterested nonchalance. I leaned on the counter with my hands behind my back, clutching the handle of the utensil drawer. “Maybe Porter’s cottage?”
Logan paused his work and glanced at me over his shoulder. It was all I could do not to panic and reach for the knife, but somehow, I forced myself to remain motionless and keep my expression suitably bland.
“I wouldn’t have worked for Porter, not after what he was doing to derail Hailey’s family business,” he said. “Besides, not like he would’ve let me take a hammer to his house. He’d rather live with a busted gable than allow the likes of me anywhere near it.”
“Logan,” I said before the rational part of my brain could stop me. “That gable was damaged during the storm on Tuesday. The same evening Porter was killed. If you hadn’t been there on that night or since…how did you know about it?”
Logan’s eyes widened in alarm. He straightened, his chisel in hand, and that was when I knew I’d made a terrible mistake.
Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut, like Curtis had asked me to?
The images of him arriving to discover my dead body with a chisel sticking out of my chest flashed through my head.
I yanked open the utensil drawer and grabbed the largest kitchen knife in it.
“Stay back,” I told Logan, pointing the knife in his direction. It shook slightly in the air. “I mean it.”
“Declan, what the hell—” Logan began, but then the front door flew open, and Curtis stepped inside.
His gaze swept across the room, lingering both on the knife in my hand and the chisel Logan was holding.
“I see I got here just in time,” he said dryly. “Mr. Davis, please put that down. Mr. Kensington, you too.”
Logan looked between the two of us warily and bent down to put the chisel on the floor. I dropped the knife on the counter. My heart was still raci
ng, and I took a deep breath to steady myself.
“How did you arrive here so quickly?” I asked the first question that popped into my head.
“I was over at Mr. Porter’s cottage to get the forensics team’s report on their findings,” Curtis said, his eyes locked on Logan. “You’re lucky I was close by.”
“I wasn’t going to hurt him,” Logan protested heatedly. “He was the one threatening me with a knife, for Christ’s sake. What was that all about?”
“You were at Porter’s cottage on the night of his murder,” I blurted, figuring it was something Curtis needed to know right away. “That was the real reason you came to Maplewood in the first place, wasn’t it? You knew Porter was your father, and you killed him!”
Logan glared at me. “It’s not true! I didn’t kill him. You can’t prove it, any of it.”
“Mr. Davis,” Curtis said soothingly. “You’ve been avoiding my calls all day. I think it’s time we talked, don’t you?”
“I don’t have to talk to you,” Logan said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I know my rights.”
“You don’t have to. However, it’s my duty to inform you that the state police are on their way. You can try to run,” Curtis added when Logan tensed and glanced at the open study window, “but eventually, they will apprehend you, and you’ll be charged with resisting arrest as well as obstruction of justice. Think about what that would do to your wife. To your business. Come on, Davis. I want to hear your side in all of this, and I promise I’ll do my best to sort it all out. But you must help me do that.”
Logan hesitated, and for a moment, I was sure he was going to bolt anyway. Finally, he deflated, his shoulders sagging in defeat, and he let out a long sigh.
“Fine. I’ll tell you everything, but I swear, I didn’t kill Porter. No matter how much he deserved it.”
Curtis gestured to the sofa, and Logan sat down, perching on the edge. I moved closer but remained standing behind the back while Curtis sat facing Logan.
It was amazing how he could act so calm, considering that only minutes ago he’d been worried I might be in danger, but I understood his wish to deescalate the situation rather than make it worse.
In the Winter Woods Page 11