In the Winter Woods

by Isabelle Adler

  Had someone tried to break into my house to deliver more nasty surprises in an attempt to scare me—or perhaps harm me? I glanced behind my shoulder at the door, but it was closed. Maybe I should have checked if it was locked first, but the footprints led away from it, to the back of the house. The gently falling snow was already beginning to fill them, so I took out my phone and quickly snapped a few pictures.

  With the phone in one hand and the keys in the other, I peeked over at the decked patio, but the snow blanketing the floorboards and wooden chairs was pristine. Instead, the footprints curved around the patio, led to the cellar door tucked away by the side of the deck, and disappeared right in front of it, where the snow had been churned up so much that large patches of ground were exposed.

  It had definitely not looked like that the last time I got kindling out of the firewood rack.

  Using the flashlight app on my phone, I crept closer to the cellar door. I hadn’t checked it once since arriving on Monday, and I had no idea what was down there, other than some old junk that probably should have been thrown out years ago. No one in my family, me included, was much of a drinker, so we hadn’t bothered to install a wine cellar or a pantry in there, as a lot of other holiday cabin owners had. It hadn’t been opened in years. Yet, now the door stood slightly ajar.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose. This was definitely a break-in, and the sensible thing would be to retreat to my car and call for help, but I kept staring at the opening as if it was luring me in.

  “Hello?” I called, no longer bothering to feign intrepidness. “Anybody?”

  I strained to catch any response or movement, but no sound came from inside. Gathering all my courage and holding the phone up as a flashlight, I pushed the door open.

  It swung inward silently, which only added to my distress. Surely, after years of disuse the hinges would creak? And if I hadn’t oiled them, who had, and why?

  As I stepped inside, the beam of light picked out some crates in the corner, half obscured by a tarp thrown over them. I craned my neck to see if someone was hiding behind them and stepped into a dark sticky puddle that made a faint squelching sound under my shoe.

  Fearing the worst, I crouched and examined the liquid, going as far as sniffing it, but it wasn’t blood. Unless I was sorely mistaken, someone had spilled maple syrup all over the floor of the cellar.

  The hell was going on here? I straightened and continued on inside, but I barely made it a few steps before I stopped dead in my tracks.

  Once again—a poor choice of words.

  About half a dozen barrels stood against the far wall, huddled between two wooden support posts. The floor around them was clean of dust, but a huge puddle of maple syrup was slowly spreading around them. It oozed from the foremost barrel, forced out by the weight of a human body stuck into it upside down.

  I swallowed hard, pushing down a wave of nausea as I stared at the jean-clad legs jutting out of the barrel in an obscene V. Absentmindedly, I noted the bulky black combat boots. They looked vaguely familiar, but my brain refused to come out of its stupor to supply me with a corresponding image.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, transfixed by the awful sight, but finally it dawned on me that I should do something. I backed out of the cellar, groping blindly behind me, and as soon as I could feel the cold night air on my face, I turned around and ran.

  Maybe it was funny in a sad sort of way, but even in my state of absolute shock I remembered I shouldn’t disturb the scene of the crime if I could help it, so I ran in the other direction as to not mess up the footprints, even though the thickening snowfall was bound to obliterate them eventually. I skirted round the toolshed and made a beeline to my car, its headlights still glowing steadily, and its engine blissfully purring.

  I plopped down into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and turned off the flashlight app on my phone before scrolling through my contacts, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

  “Curtis,” I said as soon as he picked up, without waiting for a greeting. “I need you to come over right away. With a coroner.”

  *

  “You’re either a serial killer, or a guy with the worst luck in the world,” Jack Gleason told me when I finished recounting the circumstances of my discovery for the third time. “But, hey, that book of yours just got a lot more exciting.”

  I looked up to him from where I was sitting on the steps of my porch, wrapped in a thermal blanket the EMT had given me while the CSI team went through the cabin with a fine-tooth comb—including the cellar.

  “Wow, really?” There had to be some kind of scathing retort I could throw at him, but I was too mentally exhausted to come up with it on the spot. My hands still shook ever so slightly, and I folded them over my stomach. “Someone’s just died. Way to be a jerk about it.”

  Gleason shrugged. In my mind, I could almost hear him breezily declare he had no power over people randomly deciding to kill one another in his town.

  “Do you always store over 300 gallons of grade A maple syrup in your basement?” he asked, flipping through his notes.

  “It’s the first time I’ve seen it,” I said wearily. “I have no idea where it came from or how it got there.”

  “Hmm,” Gleason said.

  His attitude was beginning to chafe, and my nerves were already plenty raw.

  “Now, look here, Officer,” I began, but thankfully was interrupted by Curtis coming up to the porch.

  “Thanks, Jack. I’ll take it up from here,” he said.

  Gleason threw me a look that wasn’t particularly friendly, and walked away toward the back, where the state police people were rolling the barrels of maple syrup out of my cellar.

  “What is his problem?” I muttered, not really expecting an answer.

  “I think his problem is more with me than with you,” Curtis said. “If I hadn’t submitted my application for the job, chances were he would have been made commissioner.”

  “So he has a case of sour grapes. What does that have to do with me?”

  Curtis pursed his lips. “Jack had expressed his concern about me being too…preoccupied with you.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was more pleased or enraged by this statement.

  “Preoccupied? Was that the word he used?”

  Predictably, Curtis didn’t reply. Instead, he sat down on the step beside me. He rested his hand on my back, and I was secretly grateful for the warm, soothing weight of it. I resisted the urge to lean into him and to seek more of the comfort he was wordlessly offering.

  “Forget about Jack. How are you doing?” he asked.

  I huffed. “Considering I just stumbled across a dead body in my own house, not that great.”

  “Did you finish giving your statement?”

  “Yes. Between you, the state cop, and Officer Gleason, I have it memorized.”

  “I know it must feel redundant, but it’s a standard procedure in a case like this. Witnesses often recall important details after the initial shock wears off.”

  “I get it. Sorry, I didn’t intend to come off as a whiny asshole. Do you know who it is? I mean, was. I mean…”

  I was unsure of how to correctly refer to a recently deceased person of unknown provenance.

  Curtis’s expression changed. The flashing lights of the police vehicles gathered on my driveway emphasized the shadows under his eyes and the deep lines in the corners of his mouth, which had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

  “It’s Evan Dutton.”

  Suddenly, I remembered where I’d seen those combat boots, and the image clicked into place.

  “My God,” I gasped. “Martha’s husband?”

  Curtis nodded. “He had his wallet with him, with ID and some cash. The cause of death was a blunt-force trauma to the back of the head. Looks like somebody hit him from behind and then hid his body in the basement to delay its discovery. The snow would have covered all the tracks and signs of struggle, had you arrived half an hour later.”
/>   The thought that I could have spent the night in the cabin oblivious of the dead body under my feet sent shivers down my spine.

  “It makes no sense,” I said, struggling to regain my threadbare composure. “I thought Evan was away on their maple farm. What was he doing here?”

  “That’s what I have to find out,” Curtis said.

  I expected the state police to take over at this point, but Curtis’s past as a homicide detective must have carried some weight to be allowed to continue to lead the investigation. From what he’d told me about himself, I imagined he saw it as his duty to these people—a duty which he must be feeling he was failing.

  “Hey,” I said softly, and waited until he turned to look at me. “It’s not your fault. No one could have predicted this.”

  Curtis shook his head ruefully and turned back to look at the line of trees in front of us.

  “I really thought with Logan being arrested, this case would be over,” he said. “I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure, but deep down, I really believed he was guilty.”

  “So you think this has something to do with Porter’s murder?”

  “Two violent murders in one week, occurring within a few hundred yards of each other? Yeah, I’d hazard a guess they’re connected.”

  Gleason’s insinuation, made (at least I was hoping) half in jest, flashed through my mind, and my mouth went a little bit dry.

  “You don’t believe that I—”

  “No,” Curtis said firmly. “The EMT estimated the time of death to be around 5:30 to 6 p.m. this evening. You were with me at the Christmas festival then. In fact, you were just about to leave.”

  “Jesus.”

  I rubbed my forehead, uncomfortably aware how close I’d been to running into the killer upon my arrival. For some reason, I was under the impression that Evan’s body had been inside my cellar for days, but it appeared he’d been dead for less than an hour before I returned home.

  “It would seem I’m fated to be your alibi,” Curtis said.

  His tone was light, as if he’d meant it as a joke, but I knew there was more to it than that. Unless I was misreading the situation entirely, it was a promise to protect me, and I knew he’d do his best to keep it.

  “Hopefully, more than just my alibi,” I said quietly, mortified at my own audacity.

  A brief smile touched Curtis’s lips, but a moment later, he reverted to his usual businesslike briskness.

  “The team is still processing the crime scene,” he said. “They should be done by tomorrow, but you can’t stay here in the meantime. I’ll have Gleason help you gather some things and escort you to a hotel for tonight.”

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s going to be a long drive to St. Albans.”

  Sharing a car with Gleason halfway across the county would be a fitting cap to this disastrous night, but I was thankful for the offer of accommodation. Whether the forensics guys were done or not, there was no way I was staying in that cabin tonight. Maybe ever.

  “No need to drive all the way to St. Albans,” Curtis said. “Janice Bentley’s sister runs a B&B here on Walton Street. It’s right off the village green. Gleason can drop you off. Should be plenty of empty rooms there in the off season. I’m sure she’d be happy to have you, despite the late hour. Provided, of course, you’re not offended by her special brand of shabby chic decor.”

  “If it’s got a bed and a hot shower, I’m cool with it,” I said.

  That was a bit strange, wasn’t it? The last time I saw Evan Dutton alive, he and his wife Martha were practically insisting I should stay in a hotel in St. Albans rather than remain alone in the woods. Why didn’t they mention the B&B that was right here in Maplewood?

  “Will you be all right?” Curtis asked. “I should go break the news to Martha.”

  That was a facet of his job I did not envy, and I immediately felt guilty for thinking about my mild discomforts while there were far worse things the people around me had to endure.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just grab some clothes and head to the B&B.”

  Curtis got up, and I suppressed a sigh at the loss of contact.

  It looked like our hypothetical Christmas date had moved further and further into the realm of uncertainty.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was almost midnight by the time I parked outside the Maplewood Village Inn with my overnight bag, which contained roughly everything I’d brought with me from New York. It was a short drive, so, despite Monroe’s offer, I insisted on taking myself rather than have Gleason or one of the police officers give me a lift. However, even without the presence of law enforcement, Mrs. Beverly Roth, née Bentley, was just as accommodating as Curtis promised she would be.

  I was immediately whisked off to my room, which was every bit as floral as I’d imagined, and brought a cup of tea. Beverly’s eyes shone with unconcealed curiosity, but she was too well-bred to barrage me with questions about the murder in the middle of the night. That would surely come over breakfast.

  At that point, I was so tired I barely kept myself from falling asleep in the shower. I briefly considered texting Curtis to let him know I was okay, but it felt a little self-centered, considering he was probably talking to Martha Dutton right now. If anything, I should have been the one making sure he was all right, and I promised myself I’d do it first thing tomorrow.

  Despite being utterly exhausted, sleep didn’t come easily. I tossed and turned on the lavender-scented bedclothes, and every time I closed my eyes, the image of Evan’s combat boots stuck in the air seemed to have been burned into my retinas. Even when I managed to doze off, I dreamed I was back in my cabin, trapped inside while someone was trying to claw their way out from underneath the floor, screaming so hard the windows shattered and the pictures fell from the walls. I huddled next to the fireplace, pressing my hands over my ears to block out the shrill inhuman screaming, but it only got louder and louder, until the floorboards burst with a loud roar and a hail of splinters.

  I woke up with a start, and for a few seconds, lay there, disoriented, blinking at the ceiling. My phone was ringing insistently on the bedside table, and I fumbled for it, nearly knocking over a decorative shepherdess table lamp.

  “Oh, for the love of—” I sat up and swiped the screen, wincing at the sunlight that insisted on streaming cheerfully through the window drapes. “Hey, Alexis.”

  “Hello, Declan,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind me calling on a Saturday morning.”

  I rubbed my forehead, dispelling the last wisps of the nightmare still clinging to my mind.

  “Actually, your call is by far the least objectionable thing that could happen today,” I said.

  “Why?” she asked with her usual perspicacity. “Did something go wrong at that little writing retreat of yours?”

  “My God, Alexis. You have no idea.”

  “Oh, my. You must tell me all about it, then. But in the meantime, you’ll be happy to learn you don’t have to stay there another minute.”

  That certainly got my attention. I threw off the covers, shivering with the cold, and lowered my feet to the floor.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The agency is hosting a Christmas gala, tonight at 8 p.m. at the Midtown Loft,” Alexis said. “All our represented best-selling authors are invited, you included.”

  “Best-selling?” I said dubiously. “Me?”

  “Well. You were off to a great start at the beginning.”

  That stung, but not as badly as it would have just a few days ago, and I wondered absently why that was.

  “That’s a bit last minute,” I said to distract myself from my inner reflection. “Who canceled?”

  “Declan, you’re always so cynical.”

  “Yes, but I’m also usually right.”

  “Fine. If you must know, Tamira Johnson broke her leg. Some kind of accident involving a Maltese and a library ladder. Don’t ask.”

  Ms. Johnson
was an extremely successful author of historical romance novels, whom I’d met once or twice at conferences. She was prolific, intelligent, and outspoken, so it came as no surprise she’d be the publishing house’s first choice—nor did I begrudge her the honor.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Is she going to be okay?” I asked.

  “Yes, she’ll be fine, but she obviously can’t go, so that leaves a place for you! And wait for the best part.” Alexis’s voice grew more and more excited. “Guess who the guest of honor is? Selena Wong.”

  It took me close to a whole minute to remember who Selena Wong was. Proof of how badly I needed that first cup of morning coffee to hit a rudimentary level of functioning.

  “No way!” I gasped.

  “Way,” Alexis said with deep satisfaction. “The VP of creative production of the GoodFlicks streaming service. And she’ll be looking for pitches for an original series.”

  My pulse quickened despite myself. Getting a movie or a series deal was the ultimate goal for any author.

  “Do you think I have a chance?” I stammered.

  “You never know. Thrillers are hot at the moment, and it’s high time there was an openly gay protagonist fighting crime and government conspiracies in mainstream media. But you have to be there, Declan, and you have to schmooze. Being your usual crabby self isn’t going to cut it. You must put your best foot forward with Ms. Wong.”

  There were few things I dreaded more than the necessity of active social networking, but Alexis was right; this opportunity was too good to miss.

  “I don’t have anywhere to stay though.” I picked at the frilly trim of one of the multitude of pillows I’d shoved aside in the night to make room for myself. “I gave up my apartment.”

  “Can’t you stay with your sister for a night or two? She lives in Manhattan, doesn’t she?”

  “Uh…”

  “Or check into a short-term rental. It’s not like there’s a shortage of those in New York. In any case, you’ll only have to be there one night, and we’ll see how it goes from there. And besides, New York at Christmas? Maybe you’ll fall in love with the city all over again.”