Cold River

by Carla Neggers

  “Not Elijah. He’s the luckiest man alive.”

  “He’d be here in Black Falls if I hadn’t kicked him out—”

  “Or in a prison cell, or the ground. Elijah wasn’t on a good path, Pop.”

  “Jo would have straightened him out if I hadn’t interfered. If I’d just let nature—fate—take its course.”

  Drew Cameron hadn’t been an introspective man, but his fear for his soldier son’s safety had been real and deep—and, as it turned out, warranted. Elijah had survived the firefight and his life-threatening injury. By October, he was back in Black Falls, the hometown he’d never wanted to leave. A month later, he’d confronted the killing partners hired to murder his father on Cameron Mountain.

  Sean had never thought much about staying or leaving Vermont. He’d thought in terms of objectives. What did he want? What did he have to do to get it? He was thinking in those terms now. His main objective was to figure out what Hannah was up to before he left for California with her brothers.

  “If Hannah is withholding information,” Jo said, “she needs to start talking. Now.”

  Elijah walked across the lane to the edge of the woods. “If this network of hired killers is planning more murders and Hannah can help—”

  “She’d want to,” Rose said, not letting him finish.

  “Not me,” Ryan “Grit” Taylor said in his light Southern accent as he ambled up the lane. He had a small apple in one hand. He bit into it. “I’d keep my mouth shut and bake cookies. Stay the hell out of this mess.”

  Sean had noticed the Navy SEAL arrive in a car he’d borrowed from A.J. at the lodge. Dark, wiry and ultrafit, Grit had lost his lower right leg in the same firefight that had nearly taken Elijah’s life in Afghanistan in April. A member of Grit’s team, another SEAL named Michael Ferrerra, had been killed. While in rehab in Washington, Grit had helped Elijah look into Alex Bruni’s hit-and-run death. He’d flown back and forth between Washington and Vermont in the past five weeks, but basically he’d been camped out in one of Jo’s run-down cabins on the frozen lake below the lodge.

  Jo frowned at him. “Why?”

  “Fear. No good options. Make a wrong move and end up a target of unknown killers. Make a wrong move and end up irritating a Cameron or Harper.” Grit pointed his apple in the general direction of Jo and the Camerons. “You people are scary.”

  “You don’t know Hannah Shay,” Jo said.

  “I’ve been to Three Sisters Café. Hannah wears a green apron and bakes cupcakes, and she’s studying to be a lawyer. Small. Prettier than she thinks she is.”

  “And hard as nails,” Sean said. “She’s not afraid of us.”

  “I am,” Grit said. “I’ve had quite the immersion into you hard-bitten Yankees since November. You don’t let up. Really scary.”

  Elijah rolled his eyes. “Eat your apple, Grit.”

  Myrtle Smith picked her way along the lane. She must have come with Grit. Her Washington home had caught fire a few hours after Kyle Rigby’s death on Cameron Mountain. It was an electrical fire that was contained to her home office, but no one believed it had been an accident. Myrtle had been looking into the sudden death of a Russian diplomat in London—a former lover, from what Sean could gather—and had her suspicions about a network of killers. All her notes had been destroyed in the fire.

  Grit Taylor had saved her life.

  In his limited experience with Myrtle, Sean had learned she didn’t like the cold, never mind that she couldn’t seem to stay away from Vermont. She was fiftyish, tiny and black-haired, with perfectly manicured red nails and lavender eyes. She’d arrived in Black Falls with Grit in November, returned to Washington in early December, then came back before Christmas.

  “They say you burn more calories in cold weather,” she said, eyes on the terrain as she carefully navigated icy patches. “I hope so, because I’m frozen.”

  Rose’s mouth twitched, and Sean was relieved to see his sister display at least some hint of amusement.

  Myrtle continued down the lane. “It’s too damn dark for me to be hanging out in a cemetery, but Grit and I saw all these cars and had to stop. Old reporter’s habit. Otherwise you wouldn’t catch me here except in broad daylight.”

  Elijah turned to Jo, his mind clearly not on Myrtle’s complaints. “Can you give Sean and me a minute? Take Myrtle and Grit and check the crypt. Whatever.” Then he shifted to Rose. “You can go, too.”

  Rose gave him a cool look. “As you wish.” She smiled at Grit and the other two women. “My brothers want to confer on their own. I vote for going back to the lodge for hot chocolate with real whipped cream over checking out a crypt, but it’s up to you.”

  “I had warm apple pie at lunch,” Myrtle said, her Southern accent more pronounced than Grit’s. “If I indulge in whipped cream, I’ll have to go cross-country skiing or something at the crack of dawn and burn it off. It’s supposed to drop below zero tonight.”

  “Best weather for investigating a crypt,” Grit said.

  “A first time for everything,” she said without enthusiasm.

  Rose’s golden retriever flopped in front of the entrance as Grit and then the three women entered the crypt. Sean didn’t notice any indication of stiffness or a limp in Grit’s gait. He’d had a long, difficult recovery, but he was almost back to his pre-injury fitness level, a remarkable achievement given what that had been as a SEAL.

  Once Rose and the non-Camerons were inside, Elijah narrowed his eyes on Sean. “What the hell’s going on? Bowie turns up at the café. Hannah hikes up to see Pop’s cabin. Now this.” Elijah lifted the shovel and stirred the heap of debris, jagged chunks of rock, bits of mica catching the beam of the flashlight. “As far as I know, Bowie hasn’t been in trouble since he got out of jail. He’s only been back in his house for a few days, and already there’s a drama involving him.”

  “Where did he stay while he worked on the culvert?” Sean asked.

  “He roomed with a cousin in Ludlow.” Elijah blew out a breath at the charcoal-colored sky. “The guy’s good-looking, rugged and familiar, and he knows how to knock heads together. He and Hannah share a past that we can’t understand.” He turned to Sean, the cold having no apparent effect on him. “No wonder she’s defensive about him.”

  Sean hardly noticed the cold, either. “She’s on the defensive. It’s not easy to get through to her when she’s got her shield up.”

  Elijah managed a half smile. “Threaten to send in Jo.”

  Rose stepped out of the crypt, not giving any indication she’d overheard her brothers. “I’m not stepping foot into another crypt until I’m embalmed.”

  Elijah grinned at her. “And you think you’re tough.”

  “You’d sleep in a crypt, wouldn’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I have.”

  Ranger got up onto all fours and yawned. Rose scratched his head. “We should go home, huh, boy? Get away from these macho brothers of mine.” Still bent down over her dog, she looked up at Elijah. “I’ve had a lot of requests for information on dogs since that business went down in November. I tell people if they want protection, a puppy isn’t it.”

  Sean couldn’t read his sister—her tone, her attitude, her feelings—but now, with the biting cold and the situation at the crypt, wasn’t the time to push her about whatever was going on with her.

  Jo had her cell phone out as she joined them. “The local police and Scott Thorne are on the way. They’ll take a look around here. They’ll want to talk to you, too, Sean.”

  “No problem.”

  “And Hannah,” she added.

  It was an unnecessary comment, which told him Jo had wanted to see his reaction.

  “Devin was framed as well as nearly killed a few weeks ago,” she went on. “Hannah could think people were too willing to believe he was guilty.”

  “Meaning you, Jo?” Sean asked quietly.

  “Keeping an open mind isn’t the same thing. Hannah has to be angry, Sean. Anyone would be. We’re al
l angry.”

  “She’s used to holding her emotions in check.”

  Jo slipped her cell phone into her jacket pocket. “Bolting up a mountain by herself in twenty-degree weather isn’t holding her emotions in check. Neither is looking for Bowie O’Rourke in a cemetery.”

  “I get your point,” Sean said, careful to keep his tone even.

  “I just want to be sure you’re seeing this situation clearly.”

  “It’s not your problem, is it, Jo?”

  “Don’t make it mine.” She softened, rubbing her gloved hands together. “Damn, it’s cold. Sean, you know what I’m getting at. You were at O’Rourke’s in March when Bowie got into trouble. Now you were at…whatever this was here. If he has his eye on Hannah and sees you as a threat—well, I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? You’ll be back in Beverly Hills soon.”

  “You should come out, Jo. Get some sunlight. It’ll cheer you up.”

  She rolled her eyes. “As if one Cameron man isn’t enough to deal with, Elijah comes with two brothers.” She looked at the pallet holding the granite blocks. “Did your dad have much to do with Bowie before his arrest in March?”

  “I don’t know.” Sean wasn’t fooled by Jo’s show of interest in the pallet. Jo’s focus was entirely on interrogating him. “I wasn’t around much then, either.”

  “Pop was a trustee for the cemetery and the Four Corners church,” Elijah said, standing close behind her. “He recommended Bowie for a job at the church last winter.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything by itself,” Jo said. “Bowie’s a natural for any mason work. If I had any that needed doing at the lake, I’d call him, but right now I just think I need a sledgehammer.” She glanced up at the two brothers and grinned. “For those old cabins. Not for you boys.”

  A town police cruiser pulled in behind Myrtle Smith’s rented car.

  “They’re going to be thinking what I am,” Jo said. “Bowie’s a question mark. We don’t have anything that points to him, but this—it won’t help ease any suspicion.”

  “He was in police custody when Pop was killed,” Rose said.

  Jo nodded. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. I’m not suggesting he was, but it’s not a good idea for Hannah to be around him right now. Bowie’s too much of a loose cannon.”

  Elijah settled back on his heels. “You’re not used to having a personal stake in an investigation. You can’t control what we all do. And you can’t protect us.”

  She pulled her jacket hood up over her head. “You’re right. I can’t.”

  Grit and Myrtle stepped out of the crypt, shutting the creaky door behind them and replacing the stick in the latch. “I’m going for that hot chocolate and whipped cream,” Myrtle said, giving an exaggerated shudder. “I believe in ghosts, you know.”

  Grit sighed. “Of course you do.”

  A town police officer headed down the lane. Sean recognized him from high school. His life in California suddenly seemed distant, surreal, as if he’d never get back there—as if he’d never left Black Falls and it was his home and always would be.

  Jo eased in next to him, away from the others, her gaze narrowed on the dark woods. “Some days I feel like a stranger here,” she said with some sympathy, then angled her turquoise eyes at him. “What do you think, Sean? Did Hannah really hear someone whispering her name?”

  He considered her question a moment. “Yes.”

  “Was it Bowie or her imagination?”

  “If I’d gotten here ten minutes sooner,” he said, “I’d know.”

  A cruiser arrived at the end of the lane. Scott Thorne got out and joined the town officer. Sean put up his own jacket hood, aware of Jo falling in next to Elijah by the crypt, automatically, casually. However she felt about being in Black Falls, she was no stranger to his brother.

  Sean thought of Hannah, then decided maybe it wasn’t a good idea to think of her, and he walked out the lane to meet the two officers.

  Ten

  Vivian Whittaker felt a draft and looked up from the book she was reading at the kitchen table, a pot of hot English Breakfast tea at her side. “Lowell, please,” she said sharply. “Close that door. I’m freezing.”

  Her husband set a bag of groceries on the granite counter. “It’s already closed, dear. It took a moment for the cold to reach you.”

  She tightened her sweater around her. It was a cast-off, store-brand black cashmere cardigan she kept here at their Vermont country house. She was chilly and had thrown on the sweater to warm her up, but she’d take it off before leaving for dinner later with Judge Robinson and his wife. Vivian was already dressed in a cream silk top and black wool slacks. She was pleased with the invitation. She had been trying to cultivate friendships with the locals, although this was the first time since November she was truly looking forward to anything in Black Falls.

  She always seemed to be cold these days, but she loved their rambling farmhouse with its beautiful, established landscaping and stunning, updated interior of polished wood, stark white walls and modern art. It was located among rolling fields and woods on a branch of the Black River, with several small outbuildings and a classic Vermont stone guesthouse. Large windows in the kitchen overlooked the backyard and the river, frozen and dark now, with no ambient light or stars or even a sliver of moon to illuminate it. After the horror in Black Falls—the horror here, Vivian thought, on this property—they’d spent Thanksgiving in New York, but had returned for Christmas. Their children, both young singles, had joined them, but she’d insisted they not bring any friends. Family only this year.

  Alex Bruni. Melanie Kendall, Kyle Rigby. Vivian shivered. Three recent guests, now dead. Two of them paid killers who had sat at this very table. Kyle Rigby and Melanie Kendall had just teamed up to run Alex down in Washington. He’d been rushing to a breakfast meeting with Thomas to discuss Nora’s concerns about her father’s fiancée. After killing Alex, they’d set their sights on Nora.

  Vivian gave an inward shudder but tried not to let her anxiety get the better of her. She didn’t know Thomas as well as she had Alex, but the two had been friends since college. That Alex had basically stolen Thomas’s wife from him had to have been a terrible blow, but Thomas wasn’t one for displays of strong emotion. He’d admirably accepted his fate with a stiff upper lip, only to succumb to the charms of a clever, sociopathic killer. He’d gone so far as to ask Melanie Kendall to marry him. Of course she’d accepted his proposal.

  Then she’d tried to kill her own fiancé’s daughter after Nora had become suspicious of her future stepmother. Melanie’s shocking lack of empathy and narcissism had her believing right up until the end that she and Thomas would still go forward with their wedding once Nora was dead.

  Nora was back in Washington now with both Thomas and her mother, Alex’s widow, all of them attempting to put their lives together. Vivian sympathized with their situation, but she didn’t want to maintain contact with them. She was sick of all of it, but Christmas had been quiet and pleasant, with a spark of hope for better in the future. The police had finished asking questions of her and her husband. They hadn’t had to deal with anyone in law enforcement in more than two weeks.

  She warmed her hands on her mug of tea. “Where have you been?”

  “Supply run.” Lowell lifted cans of soup and diced tomatoes out of the bag and set them on the counter. “The grocery store here has such a limited selection of items. I always forget.”

  Vivian looked out the window but saw only her reflection. Her hair, which was fine and straight, seemed thin. She was only forty-seven but had started to notice more gray showing through her natural dark blond. She had no intention of dyeing it. Its light color helped, not that she cared. She’d never been one for such vanities.

  “I don’t know how people live up here all winter.” She turned back to her tea and book with a scowl. “It’s so dark. It’s depressing.”

  Lowell folded the empty paper bag. He was lanky and fair-haired, a year older t
han she was, but he still had no sign of gray in his hair. “I find the dark, cold nights up here cozy and comforting,” he said. “They make me want to curl up by the fire with a good book.”

  “Yes, I suppose there’s that advantage.”

  He opened a lower cupboard and placed the paper bag on a stack of other bags he’d saved. She’d have tossed them all on the fire. He loved to play the frugal country farmer, but he’d been a reasonably successful investment banker for fifteen years. Vivian had finally talked him into leaving the working world two years ago, after their younger daughter had graduated college. They could easily live off her trust fund. He had his own money, but it was for his little projects.

  He pulled out a chair across the round table from her and sat down heavily, as if he’d been chopping wood all day instead of running to the grocery. Vivian abruptly pushed back her chair but didn’t get up. Having Lowell at the table immediately irritated her. She’d been enjoying her time alone, and now he was crowding her. She flipped the book shut. It was one her book club in New York had assigned, but she couldn’t concentrate on it now.

  She tried to suppress her irritation as Lowell spoke. “Bowie O’Rourke is supposed to stop by. He’s obviously running a little late. I imagine he’ll be here any minute. I’m going over the work on the guesthouse with him. It won’t take long. He already has a good idea of what needs to be done. This is just a last-minute check before he starts tomorrow. I wasn’t sure at first about having the guesthouse redone, but I see your point now. Fresh paint will help erase some of the bad memories. We’ll all be happier here.”

  “You do know that Bowie is an ex-convict, don’t you, Lowell?”

  “He was in a scuffle at his cousin’s bar with several drunken ski bums who, from what I’ve heard, had it coming.”

  “He went to jail. He’s on probation.”

  “He didn’t really fight the charges against him. If it’d been a Cameron who’d drawn blood, I wonder if there’d even have been an arrest.”

  Vivian noticed her tea was cold and decided she didn’t want it any longer. “Hannah Shay was the one the ski bums were insulting when Bowie lost control and started throwing punches. Are you sure hiring him isn’t just a means for you to get closer to her?”