It took me some time to get the fire going, but eventually it was crackling behind the cast-iron vertical grate, and pleasant warmth was spreading through the living room. Having stocked the little fridge in the kitchen (which was thankfully in working order), I settled down in front of the fireplace with a cup of coffee and my laptop.
The silence was by no means complete, with the sounds of the burning wood and the gentle lapping of the waves filtering in, but after half an hour or so of staring at a blank screen, I found it oppressive. Perhaps I was simply tired after a long drive and needed a couple of minutes to decompress before diving into work.
I retrieved a book from one of the shelves, sat back down on the sofa, and pulled a knitted throw over my legs. I didn’t know what made me choose a collection of poems by Robert Frost; I’d never been a great lover of poetry. But something in his words resonated with me tonight, and I turned the yellowed pages with a sense of a mellow sort of melancholy until I drifted into sleep.
*
I don’t know what woke me, but I came to with a jolt that sent the book tumbling from my hands. Diffused morning sunlight streamed in from the windows, and for a minute, I watched the dust specks dancing in the air. I was used to waking up to the sounds of a busy city, and now the quiet threw me off.
I groaned as I sat up on the sofa and stretched my neck. The fire had died out during the night, and the room was once again cold and damp as a tomb.
“Coffee,” I muttered and dragged myself to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
After brushing my teeth and fueling up with two cups of coffee, I felt marginally better. It was promising to be a beautiful day, crisp but bright, and I decided to take a walk around the cabin, maybe go down to the water’s edge to get a better view of the beautiful lake. Yesterday, it had been too dark to survey the surroundings, though it seemed the driveway was in dire need of clearing if I wanted to park any closer to the entrance.
There should be a shovel in the shed. I put on my coat and threw open the front door, fully intending to start the day by busily procrastinating, but as soon as I stepped out onto the porch, all thoughts of work of any kind evaporated.
I stared at the piece of paper pinned to the door, my heart thumping wildly. Large letters, cut out of some printed text, were glued sloppily and unevenly to it, but the message they spelled was clear.
Get out or die.
Chapter Two
The Maplewood Public Safety and Outreach Department occupied the same building as the town hall. Unlike most of the rest of the buildings along Main Street, its redbrick facade was left unadorned by seasonal decorations, aside from the picturesque snowdrifts piled on both sides of the shallow marble steps. A brass plaque on the side of the building proudly proclaimed that the village was established in 1811.
The clerk showed me to the commissioner’s office, which was located on the first floor. It was only large enough to accommodate two desks and a filing cabinet. One of the desks, which I presumed belonged to the deputy, Gleason, was empty. The second one stood farther in, next to the window. Commissioner Monroe looked up from his computer, and for a moment, I was transfixed by the way the light touched his hair, creating a sort of halo around his head.
He’d been wearing a hat yesterday, so I hadn’t seen that his hair was blond, verging on golden. His eyes met mine, and I detected an awareness sharpening his gaze, something akin to appreciation.
Was Commissioner Monroe checking me out?
I hadn’t caught any vibes of interest from him before, but admittedly, I’d been too cranky and tired to notice. In any case, I doubted he really liked what he saw. I supposed I rocked the nerdy writer look well enough—thin frame, wavy dark hair that constantly got in my eyes, pale complexion, and an impressive array of knitted sweaters. Glasses would have completed the image, but I’d had Lasik done a couple of years ago and could boast nearly perfect vision.
I was also thirty-four and one step away from unemployment, which was bound to be a major put-off.
“Good morning, Mr. Kensington,” Monroe said when the silence stretched for a bit too long. I thought I could detect a trace of California in his speech now that I was paying more attention to him. “What can I do for you?”
I shook myself out of my preoccupation with his rather striking good looks (had I really compared him to a D-lister yesterday?) and my lack thereof, and said:
“I received an anonymous letter.”
Monroe gestured for me to sit in the chair facing his desk, which I did. I opened my messenger bag and took out the note. I’d carefully placed it in a plastic sheet protector I’d found inside a desk drawer in the cabin’s study nook.
“‘Get out or die,’” he read aloud and then looked at me. “That’s very…unspecific. Did you have a row with anyone yesterday evening?”
“No, I didn’t. I drove straight to my cabin after leaving the convenience store and stayed there all night. Alone.”
Monroe flipped open a notebook next to his computer and scribbled something in it.
“What’s the address?”
“123 Pine Grove Lane.”
“Did you see anyone on the premises?”
I shook my head. “No. But it felt to me like someone was there, watching me.”
He jotted that down. At least, I hoped that was what he was writing, and not something along the lines of “this neurotic New Yorker is wasting my time.”
“This looks to be cut out of the newspaper,” he said. “I recognize the print.”
“Right. The St. Albans Messenger? I saw you buying it yesterday.”
He nodded in acknowledgment. “That’s the one. I’ll keep the note, if you don’t mind?”
“By all means. I only handled it with tissue, so you could check it for fingerprints. I’m a mystery writer,” I explained when he looked at me questioningly. “This is basic stuff.”
Monroe sighed and leaned forward on the table, steepling his fingers. His expression took on that slightly exasperated quality of a kindergarten teacher addressing a particularly stubborn toddler, and my hackles instantly rose.
“Mr. Kensington. I understand you’re upset, and justifiably so. But this”—he nodded toward the letter—“looks to me like a simple prank.”
“A prank? This isn’t funny!” I tapped my finger against the plastic protector for emphasis. “This is a death threat!”
“I’m sure whoever sent it thought it was funny. Look,” he continued at my affronted silence, “someone must have seen you arrive in town yesterday and decided to pull your leg for kicks. It may come as no surprise to you that there’s not much for kids to do for fun around here, especially in the wintertime. Besides, we don’t have the means in Maplewood to conduct a thorough examination of the note—fingerprints and whatnot—and right now, I see no reason to put in a special request with the county sheriff.”
His tone wasn’t unkind, but his dismissal left me seething.
“So you won’t pursue this?”
“There’s nothing to pursue. If you get any more of these, let me know.”
“Why? So you can ignore them too?”
If he struggled for patience, he didn’t let on. In fact, he’d remained polite and professional throughout our conversation.
“I don’t believe there’s anything more sinister at play here than someone’s unfortunate sense of humor,” he said. “But I could be wrong, and if I am, I’d like to know as soon as possible, so I can make sure you stay safe.”
His answer took the edge off my earlier indignation, but I was still far from happy.
“Why would anyone do this?” I grumbled, mostly to myself. “Fun isn’t what it used to be.”
Loud voices sounded from the hallway, and Monroe’s posture instantly changed. It was subtle, but his entire body seemed to go on high alert in a way that made me wonder if he’d ever been in the military—or at least in a different kind of law enforcement.
“This kind of chicanery will not stand!” an elderl
y male voice shouted, breaking on the high notes. “Not while I’m still alive and kicking!”
Another male voice mumbled something soothing, too low to hear, but it seemed to agitate the first speaker even further.
“I’m sure you don’t want to hear it, but you will. You mark my words, George. You mark my words!”
I winced as the voice became particularly shrill, but then, thankfully, a door slammed, signifying the end of the argument.
A few seconds later, a man poked his head into the office. He wore a dark gray suit that was a bit tight around the middle. High color spotted his cheeks, and he ran an unsteady hand across his thinning dark hair.
“What was that?” Monroe asked, relaxing a fraction at the man’s appearance.
“Old Frank Porter stirring the pot again, or trying to. Would you believe he was accusing town hall of—” Noticing me, he continued, “Oh, hello there.”
“Mayor Hartwell, this is Mr. Kensington,” Monroe said. “He’s a writer.”
“A reporter?” The possibility seemed to alarm Hartwell, who stared at me with something close to genuine panic.
“No, I’m a mystery author,” I said. “Purely fiction. The Owen Graves series?”
Hartwell returned a blank look.
“Mr. Kensington has taken a cottage, up on Pine Grove,” Monroe said.
“It’s my family’s,” I explained. I wasn’t sure why it mattered; I was still a stranger to their tight-knit community. No amount of holiday weekends spent by the lake would make me one of their own.
Not that I wanted to be. I was here temporarily, until the muse struck, and my agent managed to strong-arm the publisher into giving me an advance. Then I would be back in New York, and my personal world order would be restored—ruggedly handsome public safety officers notwithstanding.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” the mayor cooed with relief. “Glad to have you joining us for the holidays, Mr. Kensington. Will you be staying for the Christmas festival?”
“The festival?”
“It’s this weekend,” Monroe supplied.
Right. The weekend before Christmas. Kinda showed I wasn’t feeling the holiday spirit.
“Sure, I guess,” I said, probably sounding less than enthusiastic.
“Excellent! Looking forward to seeing you there. Now, I must be going. It may be a small village, but you know what they say. No rest for the wicked! Good day, Mr. Kensington, Commissioner Monroe.”
The mayor tipped an invisible hat and strode off, whistling “Jingle Bells” off-key.
“I should be going too,” I said, rising from my chair. “Thank you for seeing me, Commissioner Monroe.”
“Don’t forget that taillight!” he called after me right before I shut the door on my way out.
*
Annoyingly, he was right, and I knew, unlike the case of my anonymous well-wisher, he wasn’t about to let this go. But first, I needed to get something more substantial than coffee in my stomach, so I headed to the diner across the street.
The interior boasted a classic Americana-style decor, down to the red leatherette banquettes and a vintage jukebox in the corner currently playing Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.” Like the rest of what I’d seen of the village so far, it was all just a little bit shabby and worn around the edges, but charming, nonetheless. “Quaint” was probably the correct word, though it was beginning to wear thin with overuse.
Late morning was creeping toward midday, and it wasn’t quite lunchtime; however, the place was pretty packed. Everybody looked up when I entered and returned to their phones and conversations just as quickly.
I chose an empty corner booth and picked up a menu.
“Coffee?” a waitress asked, coming over to my table with an empty cup and a steaming pot.
I could never say no to coffee.
“Please,” I said, and she poured me a cup of a strong-smelling fresh brew.
“So, you’re the famous writer.” She directed a wide smile at me. “How’s that new book coming along?”
She was about forty or so, her red hair pulled up in a bun and her makeup, though heavy, expertly done. She wasn’t wearing a uniform, only a crisp white apron over a vintage-style dress. If I were to describe her as a character in one of my books, I’d probably call her “exuberant.”
“How do you know who I am?” I asked, more intrigued than peeved.
“It’s a small town, sweetie. Word gets around pretty fast. Especially if you stop by Janice’s place first.” She winked at me.
I smiled back at her. “Yes, I’m the writer, though I don’t know about the ‘famous’ bit. Declan Kensington.”
“I’m Martha Dutton. I own this place.” She gestured around with the half-empty pot. “Can I get you anything else? Our breakfast special, maybe?”
“Surprise me.”
She beamed at me and returned a few minutes later with a selection of plates that included an omelet, toast, bacon, home fries, and a stack of fluffy pancakes with maple syrup.
It was basically a heart attack waiting to happen, but I was hungry, and it all looked delicious—and, most importantly, steaming hot.
“These are excellent,” I told Martha, pointing at the pancakes, when she made another round to refill my coffee.
Her smile, which had been pleasantly friendly before, became positively radiant.
“Why, thank you! That’s our own Vermont maple syrup, you know. My husband and I have a maple farm just outside of town. It’s been in his family for generations, and our maple is still the best in the county!”
She gestured at the glass bottle that came along with the pancakes. The red-and-gold label read: Dutton Family Farm Pure Maple Syrup. Dark Amber A-Grade.
Admittedly, I probably couldn’t tell one type of syrup from another, but I made polite noises. Martha departed to chat with the other customers, and I tucked in while scrolling through my Twitter feed, which was why I missed the beginning of an argument before the shouting began.
“It’s an abomination, that’s what it is! Been so from the start. Cheap entertainment for the masses! Is that the sort of people you want coming here, apple-knockers and whack jobs with their crackpot theories? And now all this monkey business is just adding insult to injury, Atwood. This whole town is going to the dogs, unless I do something to prevent it!”
It wasn’t difficult to recognize the angry voice from the town hall. This time, I was able to connect it to a person—a tall, reedy man of about sixty or seventy was leaning against the counter, shaking his finger at another man in a sporty insulated jacket, the other guy edging away from him and looking extremely uncomfortable.
“It’s up to me now”—the older gentleman continued his tirade now that the attention of everyone present was riveted to him—“to save our village from ruin and corruption. It runs deep, but I finally have proof of all the shady dealings going on behind honest citizens’ backs. You won’t get away with this mischief, none of you!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Frank, calm down,” the other man said, glancing around with a long-suffering expression. “There’s no need to make a damn spectacle or harass me at work. If you want to discuss something remiss, just bring it up at the next council meeting.”
“You would love to hush me up, wouldn’t you, Will? Well, I won’t be silenced!” the old man announced, still wagging his finger in the air as if brandishing a sword. His bald head and his high-neck sweater reminded me of a very angry, very determined tortoise.
“Is he drunk?” I asked Martha, who paused next to my booth, watching the squabble with pursed lips. “Should I call the authorities?”
It wasn’t as if I was looking for reasons to talk to Commissioner Monroe again, I told myself. It’s just that secondhand embarrassment was a thing, and I hated seeing people—especially old, fragile people—make fools of themselves.
“No,” Martha said, shaking her head. “That’s our Mr. Porter. He’s on the village council, the chair of the planning commission, very a
ctive in the community. He just gets…overzealous, you might say, when he suspects some kind of wrongdoing. Poor Mr. Atwood over there usually carries the brunt of his accusations.”
“Is there any wrongdoing going on, you think?”
She gave me a look, the genteel equivalent of an eye roll.
“I guess he’s just lonely,” she said. “He never married, you see, and has no children or any other close relatives. I’d probably look for something to give my life meaning, too, if I had nobody to take care of.”
“That’s really sad,” I remarked, though deep down I feared I might not be that far from becoming a lonely old man myself.
Unfortunately, Frank Porter had just ran out of steam and must have heard me because he abandoned Atwood for a moment, and rounded up on me.
“And who are you?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Martha beat me to it.
“That’s Declan Kensington. He’s just moved into the cabin next to yours, Frank. You remember the Kensingtons, don’t you? They used to come here every summer.”
“So you’re one of those brats, are you?” Porter said with distaste.
What he had against me, I have no idea; even as a teenager on a summer vacation, I was always hiding somewhere with my nose in a book rather than causing mischief with the neighbors.
“Where are your parents?” he demanded when I didn’t deign to respond. “They coming here too?”
“They’re dead,” I said curtly.
Porter snorted derisively. “There’s no great loss there. Your dad always was kind of a bum, as I recall, letting his kids run wild and letting that place rot. Hope you take better care of your property than he did.”
All thoughts of being kind to my fellow man and showing respect for old age were drowned by a tidal wave of rage. I realized I was clutching a table knife, and made myself release it.
“Frank, what an awful thing to say!” Martha exclaimed. “Really, that’s going too far. I understand you must be upset—”
“Shut up, Martha,” he said irritably. “Go fry some eggs, or something, and mind your own business.” He turned to Atwood. “And don’t think we’re done here!” He stormed out of the diner under the accompaniment of excited whispers. The door slammed in his wake with a whoosh of cold air.
In the Winter Woods Page 2
