The wireless Internet was disconnected, of course, as was the telephone line, and there was no TV. That left me with only my laptop, my cell phone, and the books for company. I mentally added renewing the Wi-Fi to the ever-expanding to-do list while checking messages and emails on my phone.
Finally, I ran out of things to distract myself with, and sat down on the couch, huddled with my laptop. I supposed a vintage typing machine would have been more in keeping with the general milieu, but I’d never been that keen on those things. A laptop worked fine for me; I always found those who insisted on using outdated devices unnecessarily pretentious.
Well, a laptop usually worked. At least, it used to until this damned writing block happened. Though I suspected it wasn’t really a writing block, not in the sense of when people think about the tortured writer grasping for the elusive muse. I was simply discouraged.
After all, feedback (and let’s be honest, it’s all about positive feedback) is the food authors thrive on, its own kind of ambrosia. And when it turns poisoned, or runs dry, the recipient eventually withers.
I shook my head. That was a little too melodramatic, and I never did like purple prose. I took a bite of my sandwich, opened the word processor, and started typing.
*
About an hour later, I was ready to admit defeat. I had jotted down the beginnings of a prologue for the next installment of Owen Graves, but upon rereading it, found it too lackluster. My hero was once again going through the motions, but he didn’t really feel alive, not like in those first books when he and I were both young and eager for adventure.
By then it was almost completely dark. The storm had hit the eastern shore of Lake Champlain in full force, and thunder cracked above the treetops at regular intervals. Wind howled outside with wild abandon, and suddenly, I was glad I’d had the foresight to bring in as much firewood as I could carry last night. There was something primevally reassuring about an open fire on a night like this, when one could imagine the forces of evil roaming outside with some malevolent intent. It was a dark and stormy night, indeed.
Not for the first time since coming here, I found myself wondering whether I’d made the right decision. After the hustle and bustle of the metropolis, I found the cottage eerily quiet, the raging storm outside notwithstanding. The writer’s retreat I’d envisioned was beginning to look a lot like solitary confinement, with my imagination playing the role of an unwilling warden.
I briefly entertained the thought of calling someone to boost my spirits. Jenny, or Alexis, my agent, or one of my friends in Manhattan. Come to think of it, I hadn’t told anyone I was going to Vermont, which probably wasn’t the wisest decision. But I knew I’d have to explain myself over and over again, and that was the last thing I wanted, on top of everything else that was troubling me.
I reached for my phone and scrolled through my contacts, doing my best to ignore the shrill shrieking of the wind outside. If this were a movie, it would be where the ominous music would intensify, and a dark shadow would loom behind the poor unsuspecting victim—
The sound of breaking glass made me jump with an undignified yelp. I tangled with the throw I’d pulled over my legs, narrowly avoiding falling over and bringing the laptop down with me. I bumped my knee against the coffee table and let out a curse but managed to balance the computer in my hands. Sustaining bodily damage was preferable to buying a new one, with the way my finances were looking.
I set the laptop down carefully on the coffee table and turned in the direction of where the noise had come from. The window above the desk in the study nook was shattered. Yellowed lace curtains billowed like the wings of an elderly angel, and sleet and snow blew all over the mahogany desktop.
At first, I thought a branch had broken off one of the surrounding maple trees, hurled into the window by the force of the storm, but instead, a lump was now lying on the desk. The snow was beginning to wet the paper covering it.
It took a moment to gather my wits, but then I pushed myself up and went over to the desk, limping on my bruised leg. I quickly unwrapped the damp paper to reveal rock. It looked like one of the larger pebbles that lined the shoreline. The paper was thoroughly crumpled, but there was no mistaking the glued letters spelling yet another message.
Get out while you still can.
I looked down at the rock in my hand as the snow piled around it blew onto the floorboards. I was lucky I hadn’t decided to sit here while attempting to write, opting instead for the warm coziness of the sofa and the burning fireplace. This thing could’ve hit me square on the head.
My hands shook, and I grabbed the edge of the desk to steady myself. I hadn’t taken this threat lightly, but I also hadn’t been really frightened by it either. Not until now.
Was someone truly out to hurt me? And if so, why? Why did they want me gone?
I raised my eyes to the window but couldn’t see anything other than the shadows of violently swinging branches. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say the perpetrator was long gone, but I couldn’t be sure.
As far-fetched as it sounded, someone out there meant me harm.
Maybe, if I were the hero of a movie, I’d pick up my trusty fire poker and charge into the night after the miscreant on my own. But this was real life, and I wasn’t anywhere near that brave—or that reckless. So I did the only sensible thing that popped into my mind.
Commissioner Monroe’s business card was still in the pocket of my coat, which hung on a rack by the door. I fished it out and went in search of my cell phone.
Chapter Four
I had to give it to Monroe. When he’d heard me out on the phone, he only said: “I’m on my way.”
I sat in front of the fire, huddled under the throw, watching the snow pile on the desktop and shivering with the freezing cold coming through the broken window. It was a damn nuisance, but I didn’t want to do anything before Commissioner Monroe had the chance to witness the scene of the crime for myself. All that research I’d done for my mystery books was finally paying off; it just wasn’t currently in my favor.
The forceful knock on the door made me jump. With the gales doing an impersonation of a raving banshee, I hadn’t heard a car approaching. I berated myself for acting foolish. A criminal would hardly knock on my door to announce their presence. Gathering all my courage, I got up to answer the door.
Yes, okay, I did have the poker at the ready as I opened the door. But I lowered it immediately when I saw Monroe’s face. It may have taken him only twenty minutes to get here, but I was never happier to see anyone in my life.
“May I come in?” he inquired, for all the world as if this were a social call. I expected him to tip his hat like some old-fashioned cowboy, but to my disappointment, he didn’t.
He did take it off after I let him in, along with his gloves. He kept his uniform padded jacket on, though, as he went to inspect the wreckage caused by the offending projectile. I set the poker aside by the door and trailed behind him.
“What happened?”
“Someone delivered another love letter for me. Via the window.”
I handed him the piece of paper. His eyebrows drew together in consternation as he studied it, and he went so far as to sniff it, though what he hoped to pick up amid the strong scents of ozone and pine wafting on the wind, I couldn’t say.
“Did you see anyone loitering about? Notice anything suspicious?” he asked, echoing his questions from this morning.
“No.” I certainly wasn’t about to tell him of the sensation of being watched by someone or something malicious hiding in the woods. I got the impression Commissioner Monroe was all about hard evidence and would be less than impressed by such superstitious nonsense. “I got home at about three o’clock and saw nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Did you go right inside?”
“Yes. I mean, I went to the toolshed first to fetch a shovel to clear the snow, but it wasn’t there. It must have been misplaced some time ago.”
“I see. You stay
here, and I’ll take a look outside, okay?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t entirely comfortable with letting him go alone. I stood at the door, peering through the crack, my teeth chattering with the chill. Monroe’s flashlight beam was barely strong enough to penetrate the darkness. It disappeared entirely as he circled the cabin, and I listened tensely for any signs of a struggle. After another few minutes, he came around the other side and shook his head.
“Nothing. But it’s difficult to see much of anything right now. I might have to pop in tomorrow to take a look.”
“Tomorrow?”
The thought of him coming over again held an unexpected appeal, but it also meant there was nothing more for him to do here. The idea of being left all alone in the cabin held considerably less appeal.
“Yeah.” His blue eyes appeared darker in the low, yellowish lighting. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”
“No! No. I mean, of course I want you to,” I finished lamely. To divert his attention from how flustered I was, I nodded to the window. “Who would want to come out here in the middle of a thunderstorm just to throw stones at my window? I mean, I suppose they could have hit me, though it’s not the best time to have a window open, but still.”
Monroe frowned. “I don’t know. But it looks like it’s someone very determined. I wouldn’t let a dog out in this weather.”
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I didn’t know who else to call.”
He shook his head. “It’s no trouble. You did the right thing.”
He took a clear plastic evidence bag and a latex glove out of his pocket and carefully put both the pebble and the paper note inside.
The fact that he agreed with me now regarding the seriousness of what was going on left me anything but smug. I would have much preferred a case of an overactive imagination to the possibility of someone wishing me ill.
Monroe swept his gaze around the cabin before lingering on the ruined study nook.
“Do you know why someone would want you gone from this house, Mr. Kensington? Maybe someone who has a beef with you or your family?”
“No. I’m not aware of anything like that. And, please, call me Declan.”
“Declan,” he said after an infinitesimal pause. “Look, I don’t think whoever broke your window is coming back tonight. They’ve delivered their message, and as far as they’re concerned, the ball is in your court now. Still, on the off chance the perp is on the prowl, it’d be best if you could find another place to spend the night.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t really know anyone in the village. I guess I could find a motel. But I don’t like the idea of running away with my tail between my legs. That’s what they want, isn’t it?”
“It’s for your own safety,” Monroe said with mild reproof.
I knew that, of course, but the more he insisted, the more my stubborn and contrary nature reared up. Whoever my mystery stalker was, and whatever their reasons, I refused to cave in under pressure.
“Like you said, it’s unlikely anyone is coming back here tonight,” I said, raising my chin defiantly and telling myself I wasn’t acting foolishly, no matter how it looked. “Leaving the cabin now won’t achieve anything besides showing them that I’m scared.”
“Have it your way.” Monroe gestured to the window with his thumb. “Since you’re staying, we should fix this before your living room freezes over.”
Together, we managed to board up the window. Well, Monroe did most of the work; all I did was trudge over to the toolshed to fetch hammer and nails and rummage around to find some old wood planks to fit over the window frame. When he completed the job, warmth was still seeping out, but it managed to stop the rain and snow from being blown in.
Monroe had only been outside for a few minutes, but his jacket was already soaking wet.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked on some inexplicable impulse.
Perhaps it wasn’t entirely inexplicable. There was something about Monroe, about his very presence, that grounded and calmed. He was brisk and businesslike, but that wasn’t born out of superciliousness as I’d first supposed. He hadn’t been afraid to admit he might have made an error in judgment, and he carried himself with a sort of quiet efficiency that I wasn’t too blind too appreciate.
His eyebrow quirked, and I hastened to explain:
“I mean, just coffee. As in, a hot beverage. I don’t know how to make a latte, but I have some instant. Or, or tea, if you prefer. I don’t actually have any cocoa, but…”
Under his blue gaze, I was painfully aware that I was rambling. Why was it that I could be plenty abrasive when my feathers were ruffled, but couldn’t string two cogent words together when I was around someone I was growing to like?
Monroe smiled and shrugged off his jacket. It was an easy sort of smile, the same one I saw on his face earlier today outside the coffee shop, and it took the edge off my social anxiety.
“Instant coffee is fine, thanks. In fact, do you mind if I stay for a bit longer, at least until the storm calms down? The roads are all turned to mud.”
As if to emphasize his words, thunder rolled overhead, a deep menacing sound that seemed to shake the walls of the cabin.
“Yes, of course. You’re more than welcome to stay.”
I hoped I didn’t sound too relieved. For all my earlier bravado, the prospect of being left alone for the remainder of the night creeped me out.
Monroe sat down while I got some rags to wipe the puddle beginning to form on the desktop. Despite being a real antique made of beautiful aged mahogany, it wasn’t worth much, but I refused to let some hooligan ruin it.
“Do you need help with that?” Monroe asked, looking over the back of the sofa.
“No. You’ve done enough, thank you. I got it.”
After that, I put the kettle on. If I planned on staying here for a while, I probably should bite the bullet and invest in a good coffee maker, I mused, as I stirred the instant coffee in two stoneware mugs. But was I? Maplewood was a nice enough village. It had its bumps and lumps, for sure, but it wasn’t different from any other small town in New England. I just wasn’t sure I would ever truly belong here, even for a little while.
We both settled in front of the fire with our mugs, keeping a polite distance from each other on the two ends of the sofa. I noted absently how the glow of the firelight brought out the golden tones in his hair. Really, he was too handsome, though I had no business paying attention to his looks. I was rather sure he wouldn’t have appreciated my admiration.
Monroe took a sip of his coffee and nodded toward the laptop on the coffee table, its screen long since gone dark.
“What are you writing?”
I glanced at the laptop. Frankly, I’d forgotten all about it and my earlier attempts at creativity.
“Oh. I’m starting a new book, I guess. I write mystery thrillers.”
“I know. I’ve read them.”
“You have?” For some reason, I was more astonished now than when I learned that the middle-aged Janice was a devoted fan.
“Yeah. Why—are you surprised I like reading mysteries?”
“No. To tell you the truth, I’m still a bit taken aback every time someone tells me they’ve read my books. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but it still doesn’t feel real somehow.”
And it might become even less real, unless I somehow managed to produce a bestseller, which, at the moment, felt about as likely as catching sight of Champ frolicking in the ice-cold lake.
“I think they’re really good,” Monroe said. “You’re very talented.”
“Thank you, though I’m sure there are a lot of people who would disagree.”
“Why?”
“My books haven’t been selling well recently. Not as well as in the beginning, anyway. And now I must come up with something decent I can send to my agent if I want to keep doing this.”
My professional pride prevented me from telling him that the last installment of th
e Owen Graves series had been a total flop, but I was sure he knew that already. He was just too polite to say so.
I looked away, focusing on the bright flames dancing behind the grate. I didn’t know why I was telling him all of this. Maybe I just needed to get it off my chest to someone who didn’t know me enough to offer either judgment or pity, but who was perhaps not entirely indifferent.
“It doesn’t mean you’re not talented, just that you’ve hit a bump in the road.” Monroe shifted, leaning further back against the cushions. “That’s why you came here, right? To figure things out?”
“That, and not being able to afford my rent anymore,” I said bitterly. “This is the only place I could go. Well, I could always crash at my sister Jenny’s, but she and her husband are expecting a baby, and the last thing they need right now is me mooching off them.”
“Isn’t there anyone else you could turn to?”
Was I imagining things, or was he subtly asking me something else? I wasn’t sure, so I avoided giving a direct answer to an unasked question.
“I have some friends back in the city. And my best friend, Peter, just moved to LA to be a screenwriter. I suppose I could stay with him for a while, but I’ve never been a surf and sunshine kind of guy.”
“Me neither,” Monroe said, taking another sip. “And I lived there for ten years.”
“Really?” Intrigued, I turned back to him. “Were you with the LAPD?”
“Yes, I was a detective there. I was born and raised here in Maplewood, but my wife was from LA. She was a real-estate agent there. Still is.”
“Wife?”
“Ex-wife. Linda lives in LA, and I transferred back here about three years ago.”
In the Winter Woods Page 4
