In the Winter Woods

by Isabelle Adler

  “Oh, dear.” Martha sighed, her hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry about that, Mr. Kensington.”

  I took a deep breath, willing myself to calm down even though my stomach churned with unspent fury. “I’m okay. He had no right to speak to you that way, though, Mrs. Dutton.”

  “Mr. Kensington is right.”

  The man Porter had been talking to (or more accurately, yelling at) came over to my corner. It made me a bit uncomfortable, sitting there with people standing over me, but I couldn’t do anything about it at the moment.

  “I apologize for Frank,” he said. “He does get carried away sometimes, and tact isn’t one of his strongest suits, but he means well. Most of the time. I’m William Atwood, Maplewood’s Chief Administrative Officer.”

  Up close he looked to be about fifty, with a full head of hair graying gracefully at the temples. Even with his jacket on, I could see how trim and athletic he was.

  I introduced myself, though it was mostly perfunctory at this point, since the entire village already seemed to know my business, and we shook hands.

  “Welcome to Maplewood,” he said with an easy smile. “I heard yesterday about you coming back to your family cabin to work on your new book. It’s a great piece of real estate. I hope you don’t let the local eccentrics scare you away. The rest of us are a friendly lot, really. Martha, can I have my coffee to go, please?”

  “Do you know a place I can get my car fixed?” I asked as she scurried to get his order. As the village CAO, he was in a perfect position to direct me to the right place.

  “You might want to check out Logan Davis’s workshop. It’s right here around the bend, can’t miss it. Though I must say I’m not much of a car person. I ride my bike everywhere around here.”

  “Like, a motor bike?”

  “God, no.” Atwood chuckled. “A mountain bike. I recently upgraded to a Santa Cruz Bronson.”

  “That’s nice,” I offered politely.

  “Not a rider, are you? Anyway, if you ever want a recommendation for a scenic bicycle trail by the lake, feel free to ask. There are several nice routes that cut close to where your cabin is, over on Pine Grove.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced at the door where Mr. Porter had made his grand exit. “What’s got him so riled up, anyway?”

  Atwood grimaced. “Mr. Porter is one of those people who don’t like change. But life can’t stand still forever, not even in a small town like ours. The mayor and I started an initiative to build a theme park between the lakeshore and the village, but Frank’s been vehemently opposed to the idea from the start.”

  “A theme park?”

  “I suppose you’ve heard about Champ, our local lake monster?” Atwood asked.

  I nodded, recalling the cutesy display of merchandise in Janice’s store.

  “A park dedicated to Champ would be a good way to boost tourism around these parts. Rides, boat tours, a gift shop, a museum dedicated to ancient monster mysteries around the world. Mr. Porter is concerned this might attract all sorts of whackos into the village, but I don’t see the harm. It’d be just a small thing, all in all, geared toward families looking for something more to do around here than fishing and touring maple farms.”

  “Sounds great,” I said. “So Mr. Porter was trying to impede the proposition?”

  It sounded like one of the cheesiest ideas I’d ever heard, but Atwood was clearly excited about the prospect, and I supposed it was rather a clever way to attract more visitors during the busy season.

  “Oh, it’s more than a proposition; it’s a done deal,” Atwood said. “Save Mr. Porter, the council and the planning commission are all in agreement, and we have our sponsors lined up. Construction is scheduled to begin in the spring. I’m sorry, but I should be going now.”

  Martha handed him his coffee, and he bid me good day before hurrying outside with the Styrofoam cup.

  Chapter Three

  The rest of the breakfast served to remedy my foul mood somewhat, but the residue of it lingered as I drove over to the car repair shop.

  I knew better than to assign any importance to the words of a cantankerous old man, especially one who was deliberately trying to hurt me. And yet they sat unpleasantly with me, though perhaps not in the way he’d intended.

  I loved both my parents, of course, and they both loved Jenny and me to pieces. But my father was the one who spent more time at home with us, the one who took us on holidays and weekend getaways, who attended soccer practices and read us bedtime stories. Mom had been the more career-oriented between them, being a senior partner in a large financial advisory firm. Even as a child, I knew she didn’t love us any less for being less available, but I couldn’t help but grow more attached to Dad as a result. And now I was feeling guilty for missing him more than her.

  In my heart, I wondered if my missing him had anything to do with my decision to come to this godforsaken corner of New England.

  As Atwood had predicted, I had no trouble at all finding Davis’s car shop. An expansive junk yard, half covered in snow, surrounded the shop, yet there was plenty of space to park near the garage, under the huge sign that read: Lagrange Automotive Tires and Repairs.

  Logan Davis turned out to be a tall, wide-shouldered man about my age, or maybe a little younger, whose hairline was already beginning to lose the battle against male-patterned baldness. I found him arranging some tools inside the garage, and we shook hands once I introduced myself and stated my reason for coming.

  “I can fix that taillight in no time,” Logan said after quoting me the price. “You may as well wait here for a few minutes. Can I get you anything? Coffee, maybe?”

  “No, thanks. Just had the biggest breakfast I’ve ever eaten at Dutton’s Diner.”

  I followed Logan outside, where he set to work with his toolkit, and leaned against the passenger door, wrapping my arms around myself against the cold.

  “Mrs. Dutton does love to feed people,” Logan commented good-naturedly as he took off the busted light. There was something open and guileless in his demeanor which made me instantly like him. “And her pancakes are to die for.”

  I assented. “It’s a nice place, very…old-timey.”

  “The tourists like it.” Logan crouched in front of the Honda’s bumper with a screwdriver in his hand. “I think she likes it too. She’s into all things Americana, Martha is.”

  “I kinda noticed. Too bad Mr. Porter had to make such an ugly scene.”

  Logan paused with the screwdriver in his hand.

  “Frank Porter?”

  “Yes,” I said, a little surprised by his reaction. I could have imagined the tension in his posture, or the way his jaw clenched. “I understand he’s a little…crotchety.”

  “That he is,” Logan said, a lot more dryly.

  “I understand we’re close neighbors. His cottage is just down the lane from my own. Does he live at the cottage all year round?”

  “Yeah. It’s a tiny little thing too. But make no mistake. That man is only roughing it because he’s a skimpy old miser. He owns half the properties in Maplewood, and many around the county besides. That’s the only reason they tolerate him being on the town council. If he wasn’t rich, they’d have kick him out years ago.”

  He resumed his work, and for a few minutes, I watched him in silence.

  “Do you know of anyone around here who might be playing tricks on the tourists?” I asked. “You know, folks who rent cabins and cottages on the lake?”

  It occurred to me that if the proper authorities wouldn’t investigate the threat I’d received, I could at least do a little bit of digging myself. Despite what Commissioner Monroe might believe, this didn’t feel like a teenage prank. I couldn’t think of a single teenager who would resort to cutting letters of out of a newspaper and gluing them to a piece of paper; this was something an Agatha Christie villain would do.

  “What kinds of tricks?” Logan asked, looking up at me.

  “Oh, you know.” I waved a vague hand. �
��Egging doors, sending creepy notes, that sort of thing.”

  “Can’t think of anyone who would do that, really,” Logan said, going back to fixing on a new light. “Lakefront cabins aren’t within easy walking distance from the village. They’d have to drive all the way up there to pull that sort of shit. Why, did someone egg your door?”

  I was saved from answering by the appearance of a young woman in jeans and a fleece coat, carrying a thermos. An ugly knitted hat covered her hair, but even so, I could see how pretty she was, with big hazel eyes framed with long dark lashes.

  “Got you some coffee to keep you warm,” she said, handing Logan the thermos. “It’s freezing out here. Would you like some, too, Mr…?”

  “Declan Kensington,” I said, and we shook hands. “No, thank you, I’m good.”

  “Hailey Davis.” She eyed my car, then turned to me. “I overheard you talking about Frank. If you met him, you get why everyone in the village hates him.”

  “Hailey, you shouldn’t say such things,” Logan warned, but without any real heat.

  “Why not? If Mr. Kensington is going to be his neighbor, he should know it’s best to avoid him.”

  “I did have a run-in with him at the diner already,” I admitted. “I was a bit taken aback, to be honest.”

  “I can’t imagine how someone would just go about the village every day, picking fights and making other people miserable,” she said, frowning, and tucked a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear. “Someone ought to do something about him.”

  “Hailey!”

  “Well, they should! I bet if someone stands up to him for once, instead of just letting him always have his way and excusing his behavior, he’ll think twice before doing it again.”

  She nodded at me and then crouched to plant a kiss on Logan’s forehead.

  Springing lightly on her feet, she was off again, disappearing inside the garage. Logan stared after her with an expression that could only be described as “moonstruck.” It was kind of adorable, really; even I, cynical as I was, couldn’t keep back a smile.

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes. She’s just mad at Porter because he’s been giving us a hard time over zoning permits to build a new garage.” He nodded at the sign. “The workshop used to belong to her uncle. I only took over a year ago, when he’d had a stroke. We’ve been wanting to expand the business, offer more services, maybe add a car rental. But it’s been hard.”

  “I can’t imagine Maplewood sees much traffic,” I remarked.

  “Not in the low season, no. That’s why I pick up odd jobs around the village, fixing broken appliances and whatnot. Anything to get by. Hailey does what she can, too, tutoring the neighbors’ kids.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “About a year and a half. I came here on a holiday and, well, ended up staying.” His eyes crinkled with genuine contentment. “Funny how things work out sometimes.”

  “Yeah,” I said, hoping I was able to keep the note of bitterness out of my voice. “Real funny.”

  Were things ever going to work out for me? Considering my track record, it didn’t seem very likely.

  “Where are you from originally?” I asked, to change the subject.

  Logan gave me an odd look but dropped his eyes back to the taillight before I could interpret his expression.

  “I grew up in Philadelphia,” he said, almost reluctantly, though I had no idea why he’d be embarrassed about it.

  Whatever the reason, he was clearly not interested in talking about his past, so I didn’t press him. Instead, I watched the dark gray clouds gathering over the horizon. The weather was promising to deteriorate, and I’d have to get going soon if I didn’t want to be caught in the storm. Though, to be honest, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to going back to the house—and any potential nasty surprises I might find there.

  “There you go, Mr. Kensington, good as new,” Logan said, getting up and wiping his hands on a rag. “Should keep you out of trouble.”

  “Somehow, I doubt it’s gonna cut it,” I replied.

  *

  Since I had to circle back to the village anyway to take the forest road to my cabin, I took the opportunity to drop by the supermarket. That detour cost me another forty or forty-five minutes, but at least I’d stocked up on some household essentials and cleaning products needed to make the place livable after years of neglect.

  As I walked out of the store, juggling several paper bags, I spotted Commissioner Monroe headed for the little coffee shop across the street.

  My first instinct was to back away before he saw me, but I was already too late. He spotted me before I could take another step and waved at me.

  I nodded politely back, both my hands occupied by my purchases. He must have noticed I was struggling because he jogged over to help me—not before looking both ways when crossing the street, of course.

  “Here, allow me,” he said, grabbing some of the heavy bags.

  It seemed easier to let him do it rather than make a fuss about being able to fend for myself.

  “Thanks,” I said curtly. “My car is over there.”

  “Looks like we keep bumping into each other,” he said as I opened the trunk.

  I shrugged. “It’s a small village. And you’re a hard man to miss.”

  That came out a lot less scathing than it sounded in my mind. Perhaps I didn’t really mean it to.

  “Look, it seems we’ve gotten off to a rather lousy start,” Monroe said when I shut the trunk. “Can I at least buy you a coffee?”

  “Is that part of your public outreach program?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You don’t have to go to all the trouble, Commissioner.”

  “Please. So you know Maplewood isn’t as inhospitable as you might think.”

  “I don’t think that.” I wavered, but he was looking at me expectantly, and I found I couldn’t keep being peeved at him. “Okay, sure.”

  “Let me guess. Americano?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “It’s a professional secret.” His tone was grave, but it was a mock gravity this time, and I cracked a reluctant smile in return.

  “Wait here just a sec.” Monroe walked over to the coffee shop and returned a few minutes later with two large paper cups adorned with a holly pattern. He handed one of them to me.

  “What are you drinking?” I nodded to his own cup, curious despite myself.

  “Chestnut latte.”

  “Really?”

  Monroe shrugged. “What can I say? I’m feeling the holiday spirit.” He gestured to the car. “I see you got the taillight fixed.”

  “Wouldn’t want to get on the bad side of the law,” I said jokingly.

  “Speaking of that, I wanted to give you this.”

  Monroe took out a business card from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to me.

  “This is my cell number. If you get any more notes, or see anything suspicious around your cabin, don’t hesitate to call. It’ll be quicker than calling the office; I’m out and about more often than not.”

  I took the card, trying very hard not to read anything into the fact that he was giving me his number. He was a city official; I was a citizen currently under his jurisdiction caught in a spell of trouble; there was hardly anything significant about it. Yet, somehow, it felt as though I was being entrusted with something infinitely precious.

  “I will. Thank you for the coffee,” I said, gesturing with my cup.

  “No problem. Have a nice day, Mr. Kensington.” He waved goodbye as I got into the car.

  Remembering my conversation with Logan, I was more mindful of the drive to the cabin this time after concluding my shopping. He was right in that Pine Grove Lane was too out of the way to see much traffic. I hadn’t spotted a single car toiling up the road amid the snow-dusted pines.

  That didn’t mean someone wouldn’t make the trip for the sake of toying with the clueless newcomer, of cou
rse. If anything, it supported my theory that this wasn’t a random prank by an ennui-ridden teenager, no matter what Commissioner Monroe believed. No, whoever did this, did it deliberately; I just couldn’t understand why.

  The morning had been beautiful, crisp and full of sunshine, but by the time I got back to my cabin, heavy clouds had gathered above the lake, and the distant flashes of lightning heralded an approaching storm. The afternoon light was quickly fading, and soon darkness would descend on the forest. It was an unwelcome thought, and one that made me decidedly uneasy, but I chased it away.

  The snowdrifts around the driveway seemed to have grown while I was away. I sighed as I pulled the keys out of the ignition. Perhaps I still had time to clear away a decent path before the storm hit.

  The tools were stored in the shed that stood opposite the wood rack. Telling myself I was doing some much-needed maintenance and by no means procrastinating, I loped to the shed in search of a shovel. I knew the exact one, with its slightly curved handle, its butt painted with red. I remembered Dad using it to dig out a firepit just beyond the deck, so we could sit by the edge of the water on those long summer evenings and make s’mores.

  I knew exactly what I was looking for, so it was doubly frustrating to discover it wasn’t there. I searched the entire shed but could not find the red shovel—or any shovel, for that matter. Nothing else seemed to be missing, so I guessed it was stored somewhere else or lying forgotten under layers of snow.

  It looked like my housekeeping instincts were thwarted after all. I shut the door to the shed and took a look around, my breath coming out in quickly dissipating white clouds. Some distance behind the trees, I could make out the shape of the other cabin. The lights were out, and it was still relatively early in the day, so old Mr. Porter was apparently away, probably still busy raising Cain and throwing insults. I certainly hoped he wouldn’t be popping in to check on what I was doing when he got back home.

  Muttering to myself, I returned to my car and got out the paper bags full of toiletries and bleach. The cabin was cold as a grave again, and I hastened to get the fire going. I was still kind of full from my breakfast special and the coffee I finished on the way (which was very good, as far as peace offerings went). It was only about 3 p.m., although the rapidly advancing storm made it appear as if it were late evening, so I made myself a cold sandwich and took a soda out of the fridge.