But it wasn’t the metropolitan city glam I was thinking of. I’d promised Curtis—as a matter of fact, we promised each other—we’d spend Christmas Eve together, having our own little celebration, and I couldn’t deny I was looking forward to it. I remembered all too well the taste of his kiss, and I wanted more of it.
And yet, Curtis had made it very clear nothing more would happen between us until the investigation was over and his ethical conundrum resolved. With another victim added to the toll, and Christmas Eve being less than a week away, that was unlikely to happen.
Was I prepared to throw away the only chance I had to jump-start my stalling career—not to mention the hefty pile of cash that would come along with it—for something that could never even come to pass? I didn’t have a ready answer for that.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
There was an incredulous pause.
“You’ll think about it?”
“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I really want to be there. But there are things going on here that—” I cut myself off before I could make a complete fool of myself. “In any case, this is a wonderful opportunity, Alexis. I’ll let you know soon if I can attend the party.”
“Make sure you do,” Alexis said. “To be totally frank, Declan, you can’t afford to pass something like this up. The agency wouldn’t take if favorably if you ditched the event after being given a chance to promote yourself.”
That certainly drove the point home.
I reiterated my promise to give her my answer as soon as possible and shuffled off to the en suite bathroom to brush my teeth.
*
The dining room of the Maplewood Village Inn, where I came down to breakfast, looked eerily similar to my great-grandmother Edith’s parlor, but I couldn’t fault the cooking, which was excellent. Belatedly, I remembered I hadn’t had anything to eat since yesterday’s lunch, and Beverly was all too eager to supply me with ample portions of pumpkin pancakes.
“Do you want some eggs and bacon with that, dear?” she asked as she poured me a cup of coffee. “You look like you could use a second helping.”
“No, thank you, I’m fine. Everything is delicious,” I told her.
There was only one other guest in the dining room, an older gentleman reading a morning newspaper, so Beverly lingered by my table with the coffee pot. I braced myself for an interrogation, and it wasn’t late in coming.
“Poor, poor Evan Dutton, to end up like that. So awful,” she said, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “Did you see how it happened?”
The gesture reminded me distinctly of Janice, though the sisters didn’t look very much alike otherwise. While Janice rocked the stylish elderly librarian look, Beverly gave off a much more homey, relaxed vibe.
“No, I wasn’t home when it happened,” I said, resigning myself to my fate. “I was at the Christmas festival all evening.”
“Who’d want to kill Mr. Dutton, of all people?” she asked. “Though he was an odd one, to be sure.”
“Was he?”
“Yes. Kept to himself, mostly, working on the farm. His wife, Martha, was always the sociable one. Could never understand what she found in him.” Beverly leaned closer to me and whispered loudly, “With his criminal record and all. But they say love is blind, don’t they?”
“Evan Dutton had a criminal record?”
That came as a surprise to me, but then again, I didn’t really know any of these people. Curtis must have known that, though, and I wondered whether he checked if Evan had an alibi for Porter’s murder.
But if he killed Porter, why did he end up dead as well?
“What kind of record?” I asked, trying to get my thoughts in order.
“Grand larceny,” she said immediately. “But I can’t say I’m familiar with the details. Oh, just to think, two murders in a week, and no end in sight! What do you think about all this, Mr. Kensington? You’re the crime expert, after all.”
“I am?”
“Well, yes. You’re writing a book, aren’t you? I’m afraid I haven’t read any of your novels, but Janice tells me they are ever so good.”
“Oh. Right.”
I did my best to hide my momentary confusion behind a vague smile. With my mind so heavily occupied with my nonexistent relationship with Curtis and a near miss on coming face-to-face with a violent killer, my cover story about writing a book had completely slipped my mind.
As far as amateur sleuths went, it would appear I wasn’t a particularly capable one.
“So what do you think—” Beverly began again after I failed to offer any insight, but then my phone rang.
The gentleman lowered his newspaper and glared at me.
“Sorry,” I said, and then ignored both Beverly and the other guest when I recognized Curtis’s number.
“Hey,” I said, doing my best to feign calmness, even as my heart did a little involuntary flip.
“Mr. Kensington,” Curtis said in his official tone, and I realized he wasn’t alone on his side of the line. “I trust everything is all right with you this morning?”
“Yes,” I said warily. “I’m okay.”
“Good. In that case, would you mind coming to my office? There’s someone here who wants to tell you something important.”
“Oh?” None of this sounded good, and I couldn’t ask Curtis more specific questions—not with him having a visitor and Beverly pretending to straighten a tablecloth on a nearby table while hanging on to my every word. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”
*
Despite the overcast sky and the light, annoying drizzle, I opted to make my way to the town hall on foot, and the exercise did wonders to get my blood pumping again after the heavy breakfast. I used the umbrella Beverly was kind enough to lend me, and if I hadn’t had a pressing appointment of undetermined nature, I would have quite enjoyed the walk that took me across the green and the narrow streets with their quaint facades.
Two TV media crew vans were parked outside, and I did my best to slip past the reporters unnoticed. The clerk (who must be Mary, Hailey’s cousin) showed me to Curtis’s office. I left my umbrella outside the door and stepped inside.
Both Curtis and his visitor looked up when I entered, and I couldn’t hide my surprise when I saw Martha Dutton.
Martha looked awful. Her usually impeccable makeup was gone, and her eyes were puffy, shot through with red. She wore a frumpy brown cardigan over sweatpants, so unlike her meticulous rockabilly-style attire. Curtis, who sat across from her behind his desk, didn’t look much better, sporting a faint stubble and dark circles under his eyes. It appeared neither of them had gotten any sleep that night.
“Um…hi?” I said.
“Mr. Kensington, thank you for coming. Please be seated,” Curtis said with polite weariness. “Mrs. Dutton has something she wants to say to you.”
Somehow, that didn’t sound very encouraging. What could possibly be important enough to relay to me when she was clearly trying to come to terms with her grief? Yet, I was compelled to find out.
I took another chair and sat down.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I told Martha. “Is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head, her eyes turning misty again, and then took a deep breath, as if to steel herself against whatever she had to say.
“I’m sorry, Declan. With Evan gone, I owe you an explanation. Those anonymous letters you’ve been receiving? That was us.”
Whatever I’d been expecting her to say, it wasn’t that.
“What?” I said slowly, trying to comprehend this information. “But…why?”
Martha sniffed, and Curtis pushed a box of tissues toward her. She took one out, blew her nose, and then drew herself up, meeting my eyes.
“Our maple farm hasn’t been doing so well. In fact, it’s been struggling for a while now. A lot of our trees were infected with verticillium wilt, which is a very nasty disease if not treated properly. The problem is, we simply haven’t
got the money nor the manpower to deal with it; not with our acreage. And without the sales of maple syrup, we’d go bankrupt entirely. So…Evan came up with a plan to smuggle maple syrup from Canada into the state.”
“Smuggle?”
I admit that maple syrup would be the last thing on Earth I’d associate with any sort of illicit activity, but then again, as sugary substances went, it was rather pricey. For all I knew, crime could run rampant in the maple business.
“Yes. Evan knew a guy in Pike River, Quebec, who supplied him with stolen syrup. So once in a while, he’d go up Lake Champlain in a boat and get back with a barrel or two.”
I recalled the neatly stacked barrels in my cellar, hidden away in the dark.
“And he needed an isolated place to store them after he’d unload the boat,” I said.
Martha nodded, looking sheepish. “Your cabin was perfect, you see. It has a private dock, and it’s hidden from sight. It hadn’t been used in years, so there was no chance of anyone noticing anything was going on, and he was always going there at night. We were bottling the syrup, selling it at the diner and at county fairs, and were just beginning to turn a profit, when you came back and took up the cabin, with most of our newest stock still sitting in the basement.”
“So these letters, and the threats…you were trying to scare me into leaving?”
“We weren’t going to hurt you, you see,” she said hastily. “There was never a question of that. All we needed was for you to be gone from the cabin for a night or two, long enough for Evan to get the barrels out and drive them to the farm. We even tried to convince you to check into a hotel after Mr. Porter had been killed, but you were so determined to stay. I’m sorry about your window, by the way. I’m sorry about all of it.”
Her voice broke, and she blew her nose again. Curtis’s eyes met mine over her shoulder, and he grimaced.
I was taken aback but couldn’t find it in me to be truly angry. Evan had lost his life, and Martha had lost her husband. My grievances with either of them seemed as insignificant as a grain of sand against a tidal wave. And even if I wasn’t as sure as Martha that Evan wouldn’t have harmed me eventually to have me out of the way, that point was now moot.
“That’s all right, Mrs. Dutton,” I said. “Don’t worry yourself about it. I’m just glad that particular mystery is solved.”
“There’s something else though,” she said, sounding even more miserable. “It’s about Porter’s murder.”
Of course! How could I have missed the connection? If Evan had been sneaking around my cabin and mooring his boat at my dock, it stood to reason that Porter, who was always on the lookout for something fishy going on, would have seen him. And if he’d threatened to expose Evan, wouldn’t it also stand to reason that—
“You don’t mean that Evan was the one who killed him?” I asked incredulously.
“Oh, no!” Martha’s eyes flew wide with horror. “No, he absolutely did not. I know what we did was wrong, but Evan was never a violent man. No, he didn’t kill him. But—” She leaned forward and looked between me and Curtis. “—he told me that he knew who did.”
Chapter Fifteen
A sudden silence fell over the room. I could tell this last bit of information was news to Curtis as well, because he sat up, his earlier weary expression replaced with alertness.
“What do you mean? How did he know? And who was it?” he asked, flipping open his notebook.
“Evan wouldn’t tell me who it was. I think he wanted to protect me, bless him.” Martha’s eyes teared up again. “He didn’t even say if it was a man, or a woman, or…”
“What did he tell you?” I asked before she could break down. “Did he actually witness the murder?”
“No, nothing like that, but… You see, Monday, the day you arrived at Maplewood, Evan went to your cabin at night to deliver a note.” She threw me an apologetic look. “He said that just as he was arriving with his boat, he saw someone sneaking around the cabin. That someone went into the toolshed and came out with the shovel. Evan waited at the dock until they were off and then placed the letter at your door. He didn’t think he was seen. He thought it odd at the time, but after the news of the murder, he realized it must have been the killer stealing the murder weapon.”
“But how…why…” My head spun with the revelation, and I had difficulty focusing on just one aspect of it. “Why didn’t he come forward when it became clear it had been the killer?”
“Well…”
“I was almost accused of a murder I didn’t commit because of that damn shovel!”
“Declan,” Curtis said softly.
I shut up, still fuming.
“I didn’t know about it,” Martha said defensively. “Evan didn’t tell me about any of it until later.”
“What time was this?” Curtis asked.
“About 10 p.m. on Monday night,” Martha said.
I scoffed. At that time, I’d been already fast asleep on my sofa, too exhausted by the drive up from New York. A herd of elephants could have trampled around the cabin, and I wouldn’t have heard anything. No wonder I hadn’t noticed someone breaking into the toolshed and a boat being moored at the dock.
“Are you absolutely sure Evan didn’t say who it was?” Curtis asked, making studious notes. “Think back. He must have dropped some kind of hint about who it was.”
“No. He only told me about this on Friday, right before the festival, and by then he knew what kind of person it was, so he was careful not to endanger me.” Martha pursed her lips.
“Did he say at least how this person left?” Curtis asked. “There must have been a car parked somewhere. Did he say anything about the car?”
Martha shook her head. Curtis frowned and tapped his pen on the open notebook, somehow managing to limit his impatience to this one outward sign.
“Maybe Evan took pictures of the killer,” I said in a sudden flash of inspiration.
Curtis rubbed his forehead. “Mr. Dutton’s cell phone wasn’t found at the scene. Unlike his other personal belongings. Mrs. Dutton, you said Evan had his phone with him, so it’s possible the killer took it. If it had any evidence on it, it’s probably gone by now.”
I could well understand his frustration. This was the first real clue to the identity of the murderer, and it ended up leading nowhere.
“We found Mr. Dutton’s car parked on the side road leading to Mr. Porter’s cottage, and we believe he arrived at the Kensington cabin on foot. Do you have any idea what he was doing there, Mrs. Dutton?”
Martha’s face scrunched as if in pain, and she shook her head.
“No. I didn’t even know he was going to Mr. Kensington’s cabin. He helped me set up my stall at the village green on Friday, and then said he was headed to the farm. He was agitated, and it kinda made me worried, but I didn’t think for a moment… Who could do such a thing? My poor Evan.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she snatched another tissue from the box to wipe them.
I averted my gaze out of respect for her private pain, but Curtis, after giving her a few moments of uninterrupted sobbing, pressed on.
“Mrs. Dutton.” He held a pause until she turned her eyes to him. “I have every reason to believe whoever killed Mr. Porter is also culpable for the death of your husband. I cannot stress enough how important it is that you tell us everything you know, or even suspect. Every detail, every hunch, however small, might be of great importance.”
“Okay,” Martha said, though her voice wavered. “But I already told you. I don’t know anything about it.”
“What about accomplices?” By the tone of Curtis’s voice, I could tell he was grasping at straws at this point. “Did Mr. Dutton ever bring someone in to help him with the smuggling?”
“No. Evan was always careful not to let anyone but me know about it. The diner and the maple syrup are our business, Commissioner Monroe. If anyone were to know that we were passing Canadian syrup as our own, our reputation would be ruined.” She p
ut a hand to her head. “Please. I’m so tired. Are you going to arrest me now?”
Curtis leaned back, the disappointment clear on his face. Still, when he answered, his tone was civil, almost kind.
“I must notify the state police about the smuggling, of course, but in the meantime, you should get some rest and contact your attorney. I trust you won’t skip town on me, Mrs. Dutton?”
Martha offered him a weak smile.
“No. I know I’ll have to face the consequences. I’m sorry again, Mr. Kensington,” she said, turning to me. “I hope you believe me.”
“Of course, Mrs. Dutton,” I said politely.
The door opened, and Jack Gleason peered in.
“Hey, Commish,” he said, way too cheerfully both for the occasion and for the time of day. “Sheriff Bridgestone said she’ll be emailing you the reports you wanted.”
“Good. Come in, Jack.”
Gleason stepped inside, nodding hello to Martha and me.
“Could you please wait outside for a moment?” Curtis told Martha. “I’m sure Mary would be happy to make you a cup of tea, if you like. Officer Gleason will be with you shortly to take you home.”
We all waited in silence until Martha was out the room and Mary took over fussing over her in the waiting area.
“Jack, I want you to watch over her house until the state police get there to interview her,” Curtis told Gleason, keeping his voice low.
Gleason glanced at the door. “You reckon she might make a run for it after all?”
“I daresay a good lawyer will be able to successfully plead extenuating circumstances in her case, so escape wouldn’t be in her best interest,” Curtis said. “Still, it’s better to be sure, so let’s keep an eye on her until the police get involved.”
He was still frowning, tapping his pen absently. Something was clearly bothering him, and I dared venture a guess as to what it was.
“You think she didn’t tell us everything?”
Curtis nodded. “I’m concerned she knows more than she’s letting on. If she does—”
“Does Martha know what?” Mayor Hartwell demanded, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Clearly, my nerves were shot as far as they could go.
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