Beverly pursed her lips but thankfully gave up trying to detain me. After settling my bill and thanking her (both sincerely and profusely) for her hospitality, it was time for me to go.
I dropped my duffel bag on the back seat of my car and turned around slowly before getting into the driver’s seat. There really was something touchingly whimsical about this little village, its macabre goings-on notwithstanding. The clouds had let up for a bit, allowing pale rays of sunlight to hit the wet pavement, and even such a hardened cynic as myself couldn’t help but appreciate the simple beauty of this place.
I should have taken some pictures of the cabin while I had the chance. Jenny would certainly love to see it, and I kicked myself for not thinking about it earlier. I didn’t have time to take a trip up Pine Grove Lane now, but I could at least take some photos of the village green and the surrounding facades.
I took my phone out of my back pocket and snapped a few quick photos of the street and the corner of the green visible from my vantage point. I flipped through them, searching for the most idyllic-looking ones, until I came to the bunch of pictures I’d taken the night before. There wasn’t anything remotely artistic about them, and they showed nothing but mucky snow and some exposed ground, but as I was going through them, something caught my eye.
At first, I thought it was shadows or more dirt, but when I zoomed in on it, I could distinguish narrow patterned tracks embedded in the snow, skirting the rough patch of earth in front of the cellar door. The picture wasn’t of great quality, having been shot with a trembling hand in the dark, but even so, looking closely at the markings in the snow, there could be no mistake.
These were bicycle tracks.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, staring at the photo.
All the pieces of the puzzle that had been floating around disjointedly in my mind suddenly fell into place in a dizzying swoosh. And as the image of that puzzle came into painful focus, a wave of panic rose inside me when I recalled the events of this morning.
I frantically scrolled through my recent contacts until I came upon Curtis’s number and hit it.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I urged as the phone rang. But Curtis was either busy or avoiding me because he wasn’t picking up.
I cursed under my breath and tried again, still getting no answer. The call went to voice mail again, and I slapped the roof of the car in frustration. By the time Curtis would get my message, it’d be too late.
I had just enough time to compose myself before the digital female voice suggested I leave a message after the beep.
“Curtis, this is Declan,” I said, even though I was reasonably sure he’d recognize my number. “I’m headed over to the Dutton farm. Meet me there as soon as you get this message. I know who killed Frank and Evan.”
I couldn’t waste any more time elaborating. Either Curtis would take this seriously, or he wouldn’t.
Still, there had to be something else I could do, someone else I could ask for help—
In a flash of inspiration, I remembered the piece of paper I’d tucked so carelessly in the pocket on my coat the night before. I groped around for it and finally dug out the folded note with a phone number written in Janice’s precise hand.
“Please pick up,” I muttered breathlessly as I punched the number into the phone. “Please pick up, please pick—”
“Hello?”
I had never been happier to hear Janice’s voice.
“Janice, this is Declan Kensington, and I need you to give me Martha Dutton’s home address right now,” I said in a rush.
“Declan?” Janice said wonderingly, her voice laced with concern. “What happened?”
“I don’t have time to explain, but she might be in danger.”
Janice gasped but, to her credit, held off any further questions before giving me precise directions to the Dutton farmhouse.
“Call Commissioner Monroe’s office and tell him to meet me there. And tell him to bring backup.”
“But why—”
“If he doesn’t answer, call 911. Hurry!”
I ended the call and wasted no time jumping into the Honda and tearing down the main road.
There wasn’t a doubt in my mind as to what I had to do. In retrospect, I probably should have called the police myself and let them deal with the situation, but in that moment, I felt that it was up to me to keep Martha out of harm’s way. Maybe if I’d stopped to think about it for a second, I’d have remembered the party I had to attend that evening, the long drive ahead of me, and the fact that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. But I didn’t stop, and all I could focus on was hoping I wasn’t too late.
The Dutton farm was secluded, but it wasn’t very remote. It took less than half an hour of traveling on country roads to reach it. By then I’d calmed down somewhat but was still a long way from forming a feasible plan of action. As I turned onto a long gravel driveway that led to the house nestled amid vast groves of maple trees, I decided to play it by the seat of my pants.
I stopped a few dozen yards away from the house, so as not to alert the occupants of my presence and got out of the car. Belatedly, I realized that aside from the clippers in my toiletry bag, I had nothing even remotely resembling a weapon, and paused in indecision.
No, wait. I did have something. That shovel I had bought with the good intention of clearing the snowdrifts in front of my cabin and ended up never using—it was still in the trunk of my car.
For once in my life, procrastination actually worked in my favor. I retrieved the shovel from the trunk, winced at the closing click, and advanced toward the house, keeping low.
A silver Toyota Camry, which I recognized as belonging to Mayor Hartwell and which Atwood must have borrowed to drop off Martha, was parked out front, right behind a blue Chevy Tahoe which I assumed belonged to Martha, since Evan’s car was still somewhere in the vicinity of my cabin. Despite Monroe’s explicit order, Gleason’s vehicle was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was probably still in town somewhere eating lunch. I would have scoffed at this lackadaisical approach to law enforcement, but as I was currently too busy trying to figure out a way to break into someone’s house unbeknownst to them, I couldn’t really fault him.
The one-story ranch-style house was quiet as I approached. I crouched even lower and risked peeking in the front room window. The lacy curtains blocked my view, but I thought I could discern shadows moving inside, and hear muffled voices.
That was a good sign. Martha and Will Atwood must still be inside. I eyed the front door, but even if it wasn’t locked, going in that way would immediately alert them to my presence and rob me of any chance of coming upon them unawares. Perhaps classic detective stories weren’t my forte, but I’d written enough thrillers to know what a bad idea it was to barge in on a potentially deadly situation involving helpless bystanders. Besides, there was a good chance the back door would be conveniently unlocked. Having been a big-city resident most of my life, the mere idea of leaving your doors and windows wide open made me uncomfortable on a purely instinctual level, but this area was rural enough for people to have a very different notion of safety. Martha certainly didn’t strike me as an overly cautious person.
My assumption proved correct. I circled the house to the backyard, which was used mostly as an outdoor storage area, where pieces of farming equipment and machinery were left to slowly rust in the snow and rain. In contrast, the back porch was neat and empty save for a few surprisingly healthy-looking potted plants. I found the door leading to the kitchen ever so slightly ajar, and squeezed inside, praying it wouldn’t squeak.
I could definitely hear voices now, and I tiptoed across the kitchen, clutching the shovel in both hands. A kettle stood on the stove, still steaming.
I had to be smart about how I was going to proceed. And, if things went wrong, I wanted the authorities—and Curtis—to have some sort of a clue as to what had happened. Shifting the shovel in one hand, I took out my phone, pressed record, and dropped it
into my coat pocket.
The hallway outside the kitchen led into a dining room, and then into a parlor/living room. I flattened myself against the wall and risked a peek inside.
Martha sat on the couch, still in the same knitted cardigan she’d worn to Curtis’s office. She was crumpling a used tissue in her hands, though I doubted she was even aware she was doing it. She had her back to me, half turned to where she was facing her guest. A long narrow console flanked the back of the couch, neatly arranged with a bowl of fake fruit and several ceramic figurines.
“There you go,” Atwood said as he poured tea from a dainty porcelain teapot into an equally ornate teacup. A second cup stood on the tray beside the creamer, but it was still empty. “Sugar? I don’t usually take it, myself, but I find nothing works to calm the nerves better than a nice cup of strong, sweet tea.”
Martha nodded, and Atwood scooped two generous teaspoons of sugar into her cup. He was about to hand it to her, but then he paused with his head cocked to the side.
“Are you expecting any visitors? I think I heard someone knocking on the front door.”
“I didn’t hear anything.” Martha’s voice was a little raspy, and I surmised she’d done some more crying since our conversation in Curtis’s office.
“I’ll go check.” Atwood put the cup on the table and half rose from his armchair.
“No, no. Let me.” Martha stood up and shuffled heavily toward the door. I shrank back, but neither of them glanced my way.
Atwood turned to look after her. As soon as she disappeared into the front entry hallway, he took a small vial out of his coat pocket and emptied its contents into Martha’s teacup. He dropped the vial back into his pocket. The whole thing had taken no more than fifteen seconds. He sat back, schooling his features into his earlier expression of kind sympathy.
Oh, no.
“There was no one there.” Martha returned and sat down on the couch, tightening the cardigan around her.
“My apologies. I could have sworn I heard something,” Atwood said smoothly. He picked up the teacup together with its saucer and handed it to Martha, who took it with a grateful murmur.
She brought the cup to her lips, and all my earlier notions of stealthy subterfuge evaporated.
“Martha, don’t drink that!” I yelled, stepping into the living room.
Chapter Seventeen
Both Martha and Atwood started and looked at me from where they were sitting. I gripped the shovel handle harder and held it high above my head.
I was probably the last person in the world who’d willingly square up for a violent confrontation. Throwing words around? Sure, I could fulminate with the best of them. But when push came to shove, I wasn’t the guy to do either—especially against someone who’d proven himself to be a violent killer.
And yet, deep down I knew I had to do everything in my power to stop the murderer from killing again.
The teacup rattled as Martha put it down on the saucer.
“Declan,” she said, her eyes wide with alarm. “What are you doing here?”
Atwood slowly rose from the armchair, holding his hands splayed in front of him in a pacifying gesture.
“Martha, stay still. Mr. Kensington is clearly having some sort of nervous episode, but I’m sure he has no intention of harming us.”
His tone aimed for soothing, but he eyed the shovel warily, and I took some degree of petty pleasure that I’d managed to unnerve him, even for a minute.
“Now, would you please put that down, and we can talk,” he continued.
“You want to talk? Sure, let’s talk,” I said. “Why don’t you start by telling me the name of the poison you put in Martha’s tea just now?”
Martha gasped and put a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting to the steaming cup.
Atwood laughed, but it rang hollow.
“Poison? Don’t listen to him, Martha. He’s crazy.”
“If I’m so crazy, drink it,” I said, nodding at the tea.
“I absolutely will not,” Atwood said indignantly. “This is absurd!”
Martha looked between us, horror slowly replacing the shock on her face.
“Will, what is he saying?”
“I’m saying that he was planning to kill you and stage your death as a suicide because he’s worried Evan had told you about who he was blackmailing,” I said before he could open his mouth. “What’s another death at this point, right? Not after he murdered Frank Porter and then killed Evan to hush him up.”
“My Evan?” Martha whispered faintly.
I nodded grimly, looking at Atwood. “Evan took his boat to my cabin on Monday night so he could scare me off with those stupid notes. He saw you taking the shovel out of my toolshed, the same one that was used to bludgeon Porter to death the very next day. After Porter’s body was discovered, he put two and two together. Evan was hard up for cash with his shipments of maple syrup just sitting there in my cellar. How much did he want for his silence, William?”
Atwood pursed his lips and stayed silent. If looks could kill, I’d already be lying dead on the floor.
“Hartwell probably told you I said I’d be going to the festival on Friday,” I continued.
My best hope at the moment was to stall him until either Gleason got his lazy butt over here to check up on Martha or Curtis deigned to listen to my message, but time was slipping through my fingers with an alarming speed.
“You knew my cabin would be empty, and no one would be around to see you and Evan meet. You took your mountain bike that you had parked near the village green and hightailed it over to my cabin, taking the lakeside hiking trail. Evan was there, waiting for you, and you pretended to give him the money. And when he was distracted by counting it, you hit him over the head with a rock, hid his body in the cellar, and cycled back to the village in time for the closing festivities. Nice touch with the maple syrup, by the way.”
Martha shuddered. It was a crass comment to make in her hearing, but I was being deliberately blunt, trying to goad Atwood into a confession.
So far, it wasn’t working as well as I’d hoped.
“That’s quite a theory you got there,” Atwood said, his hands still up in front of him. “Of course, you’re a writer, so I can’t fault you for having an overactive imagination. And granted, you can spin a fascinating yarn. But that’s all it is—a wild made-up story. You can’t actually prove any of it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m flattered. But, see, I can prove it. When I got home from the festival that night, I took some snapshots of the imprints your bike wheels had left in the snow. Just a few more minutes and they’d have been completely obliterated. Guess I just got lucky.”
“So?” Atwood scoffed, but I could see he was worried. His hands twitched and his breath quickened. Tiny beads of sweat had formed on his temples, despite the living room being chilly. “That could have been anybody.”
“Anybody capable of riding a bike through such rough terrain during a snowfall? How many people in Maplewood own an expensive mountain bike? And better yet, how many of those bikes will have tire tracks that match those found at the crime scene?”
Atwood’s composure, which was already slowly cracking, finally shattered. Dropping both his hands and the pretense, he whipped a gun from behind his waistband and concealed under his jacket. He pointed the gun at me, and then at Martha, who let out a bird-like squawk and froze in place, eying it nervously.
My heart jumped to my throat and lodged there, cutting off my air supply. So far, the murder weapons had been objects of convenience, so I’d never stopped to consider Atwood might be armed with something more substantial than a vial of poison or a rock. I guess it was my own fault for being so shortsighted, but my self-reproach wasn’t really helping any.
I sucked in a shaky breath, but still managed to push out, “Would be kinda hard explaining shooting us both with your own gun, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re the one who showed up here with a shovel,” Atwood sneered.
“It’d be self-defense, with Martha being caught in the middle. No one would question that. Now put that thing down before I shoot her.”
He aimed the gun at her face.
“Okay, okay.” I lowered the shovel and placed it gently on the console table, pushing the knickknacks out of the way. “Here.”
The gardening tool was paltry protection against a firearm, but I felt that much more exposed without it.
“Now sit down.”
Atwood gestured toward the couch with the gun, and I complied, walking around it and lowering myself beside Martha, her fear so palpable I could practically smell it.
Where the hell was the cavalry when I needed it? Granted, neither Curtis nor Gleason probably knew I was counting on them as backup, but if this were a book or a TV show, now would be prime time for them to appear. And yet, as hard as I strained, I couldn’t hear any police sirens and helicopters whirring in the background.
Atwood continued to hold us at gunpoint, but his expression as he eyed us lacked determination. His carefully thought-out plan of staging Martha’s untimely demise had gone up in flames, and now he was clearly at a loss as to what to do to extricate himself from the situation.
I had to bank on his distress before it could escalate into a full-blown panic, and buy Martha and myself a little more time. My phone was still on, and while a recorded confession would admittedly be small comfort for me when I was dead, the thought of Atwood not getting away with it so easily gave me a sort of spiteful satisfaction.
“So why did you kill Porter?” I asked.
“Shut up,” Atwood warned me with a flick of the gun. Martha shuddered beside me but said nothing. She followed Atwood’s every move with a wide-eyed stare, quivering with tension.
“Come on,” I said, hoping I came off as cajoling rather than terrified. “It looks like I won’t be writing that true-crime book after all. The least you can do is satisfy my curiosity before you shoot me.”
“Declan,” Martha hissed, but I ignored her, focusing on Atwood. The barrel of the gun filled my vision, a massive black hole in the fabric of reality, and my mouth tasted like gravel, but I couldn’t let any of that distract me from cajoling him into telling me the truth.
In the Winter Woods Page 17