Monroe opened his trusty notebook and scribbled something down.
“Will we find your fingerprints on it, do you think?”
Considering I’d already admitted it was my shovel, it seemed a nonsensical question.
“If nobody wiped it down, then yes. My father’s and mine. Maybe my sister’s too. A lot of people have used it over the years.”
“The shovel was found lying next to the body. It was used to hit him over the head, several times. You can imagine the end result,” Monroe said.
“No, I really can’t.”
Monroe harrumphed. “When did you notice it was missing, exactly?”
“Yesterday, when I came home. It was about 3 p.m., I think.”
“Was the toolshed locked when you checked it?”
“It wasn’t locked to begin with. There isn’t anything worth stealing in there—or so I thought. There’s only a latch to keep the animals from going inside.”
“Did you go to Mr. Porter’s cabin at any point yesterday?”
“You don’t seriously think I did it?” I said indignantly. “What kind of nonsense is that?”
“Seems like an awfully convenient coincidence, you settling in in a cabin right next to his, and him showing up dead the day after,” Gleason said behind me. “Too convenient, if you ask me.”
“Jack,” Monroe said warningly, and the other man fell silent, resuming his angry typing.
I gritted my teeth. “Come on. What possible motive would I have? I never even talked to the man before yesterday!”
Monroe flipped through his notebook. “Nevertheless, you had an altercation with him at Dutton’s Diner.”
“Who told you that?”
He simply looked at me.
“It wasn’t an altercation,” I said sulkily. “He was making a scene, I asked if he was drunk, and then he proceeded to act like an asshole. From what I understand, it wasn’t a rare occurrence.”
Gleason snorted, and this time Monroe couldn’t refrain from rolling his eyes.
“There’s no need to get defensive, Mr. Kensington,” he said. “I’m merely trying to establish the timeline and get all the facts in order. As you can imagine, we don’t often have to deal with murder here in Maplewood.”
I recalled what he’d said to me last night about returning home to this remote corner of the world to find some peace. There was no doubt a violent murder was the last thing he expected to be confronted with.
“I didn’t go anywhere near his cabin,” I said as calmly as I could—which, I was afraid, wasn’t very, despite my best intentions. “In fact, I was rather hoping to avoid seeing him at all.”
Monroe made a small sound that could reasonably be construed as sympathy.
“I noticed the lights were out at his place when I went out to the toolshed. As I told you, this was around 3 p.m.”
Monroe made a note.
“Does that help?” I ventured.
“He was last seen leaving the convenience store at 4 p.m.,” Monroe said. “We don’t know exactly when he arrived at the cottage, but it looks like he never made it inside.”
“Was his cottage burglarized?” I asked. Yesterday, Logan Davis had told me Porter was a very wealthy man. He didn’t strike me as someone who’d keep a lot of valuables around his house, but you never knew. Maybe he had a cache of priceless art stashed in his pantry.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll be the one asking questions right now.” Monroe’s tone wasn’t hostile, exactly, but it held a hint of steel.
“Sorry. It’s just that if this was a case of burglary or home invasion, I have a reason to be worried too, you know?”
Monroe looked at me for a moment with an unreadable expression. Just when I thought he was going to pointedly ignore my concerns, he said:
“The cottage was locked and appears to be undisturbed. We’ve yet to conduct a more thorough search, but it seems nothing of value was taken. Porter had his house and car keys on him, as well as his wallet, still intact.” He frowned a little. “Whoever killed him must have had a different motive than robbery.”
I suspected any number of people all around Maplewood wanted poor Mr. Porter dead for all sorts of reasons, but I wisely kept my mouth shut.
“You called me at around 4:30 p.m. regarding the rock thrown at your window, is that correct?” Monroe asked.
I assented.
“As I recall, I left shortly after 7 p.m. after responding to your call. Did you see or hear anything suspicious after that? Maybe something that didn’t seem important at the time?”
I shook my head. The wording of “responding to your call” unexpectedly stung. Perhaps I’d been reading too much into it, but at the time, it felt like there was more to it than just a public safety officer doing his job. He didn’t have to stay with me until I calmed down, and he certainly didn’t have to have heart-to-heart chats over a cup of coffee.
Whether it’d been simple friendliness or something more, it sure dissipated quickly now that I was apparently a prime suspect in his murder investigation.
“I didn’t see anything,” I said, stomping down firmly on my disappointment.
“How about a car approaching or driving away from Mr. Porter’s cottage?”
“No. But it doesn’t mean there weren’t any. Pine Grove Lane leads up to my cabin and then passes his cottage, but there’s a service road that diverges from it and cuts through the woods straight to the cottage and the lakeshore behind it. I assume it was the shortcut Porter himself was using because I never saw him drive past my cabin.”
That must also have been the reason I hadn’t noticed the state police and the coroner arrive there this morning. I must really have slept like a log if I missed the aftermath of a violent murder happening a few hundred yards away. I shivered at the thought.
Monroe gazed at me impassively. I didn’t know what, if anything, he took from my wordy explanation.
“What did you do after I left?”
“I had another cup of coffee, tidied up a bit, and went to bed around 9:30. Early, I know, but I was tired, and I was stuck in my writing anyway. It was a while until I fell asleep though. I didn’t hear anything—and trust me, I was listening very carefully after that whole broken window business.”
Monroe diligently wrote it all down.
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“Not unless you count the mice in the cellar,” I said testily, but that didn’t seem to faze him. Instead of getting angry with me, Monroe simply changed tactics.
“So you didn’t know Mr. Porter before you arrived at the village?”
“I already told you. No.”
“How about when you came here on holidays with your family? He was your closest neighbor, after all.”
“If I met him then, I don’t remember it. If he popped in during our stays, my father must have dealt with him. To be honest, I wasn’t very interested in what was going around here when I was a teenager.”
My dad (and sometimes Mom) were usually the ones to drive into the village for provisions, so I didn’t know any of its inhabitants. I certainly didn’t remember ever meeting the young Curtis Monroe, and I had a feeling I would have.
“My sister, Jenny, might remember more,” I said reluctantly. “She’s the sociable one among us.”
“May I have her contact information?”
I hesitated. Jenny didn’t know I’d left New York, and she’d be unnecessarily worried if a public official were to call her out of the blue, telling her I’d gotten myself in trouble in the one place that was supposed to be trouble free. But Monroe was looking at me expectantly, his eyebrow raised.
“Fine,” I sighed. “Though I don’t know what you’re expecting to get from her. She hasn’t been up here for nearly five years.”
I took out my cell phone, flipped through my contacts, and gave him Jenny’s address and phone number, making a mental note to check in with her first.
“Will that be all?” I asked, putting the phone bac
k in my pocket.
“Why—you in a hurry to get somewhere?” Gleason inquired.
What was it with that guy?
“We’ll want your fingerprints, for comparison. If you’re all right with that.”
“Whatever you need, officer,” I said, though uneasiness stirred at the pit of my stomach at the idea.
At Monroe’s signal, Gleason took out a digital fingerprint kit. He was brisk about it, but I imagined a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes as he pressed my fingertips one by one to the scanner pad. The unease intensified.
“Can I go now?” I asked once he was done. Perhaps I was coming off as uncourteous, but I’d had enough pressure put on me for one morning and was itching to go.
“Yes, that’ll be all for now,” Monroe said, leaning back in his chair and tapping a pen on an open page of his notebook. “Thank you for coming.”
“No problem.”
I got up and went to the door, pointedly ignoring Gleason on my way out.
“Oh, and Mr. Kensington?” Monroe called after me as I pressed the handle. “I’d advise you not to leave town for the time being.”
Chapter Six
The thing was, I still needed to deal with my driveway.
Strangely enough, that was the thought that occupied my mind as I drove down Main Street, away from the town hall. Last night’s storm had added a layer of debris to the snowdrifts, and it had taken me a considerable amount of time this morning to basically dig my Honda out of it all with my bare hands. I’d have to clear all the mess if I wanted to park anywhere near the cabin again. And for that, I needed a shovel.
I shuddered as I imagined the tool, remembered so well from my childhood, being used to batter a helpless old man to death. It felt as though someone had spilled something icky and disgusting over a treasured photograph, tainting the memory.
Thankfully, nothing was too difficult to locate in Maplewood. The hardware store was on the same block as the gas station and the convenience store. I parked my car on the street, killed the engine, and just sat for a few moments, trying to wrap my head around the events of the morning. Despite my display of false bravado at Monroe’s office, I was rattled by the realization that the local authorities apparently believed I had something to do with a murder—let alone one so brutal and seemingly senseless. Deputy Gleason had already made it clear he’d love to pin it on the newcomer, though what he had against me personally, I had no idea. Apart from occasional book signings and promotional tours, I led a rather quiet, almost sheltered life, basking in the protective indifference of a big city. I didn’t know of anyone who might hold a grudge against me, especially someone I’d never met before in my life.
And if it wasn’t personal, who was to say the diligent public servants wouldn’t simply choose me as the most convenient solution to their unexpected murder problem? My prints were probably all over the murder weapon, and if Porter had been killed late last night, I had no alibi. Accusing me was certainly easier than tracking down a deranged killer through the winter woods. Things would get wrapped up quickly, and Monroe could return to his uncomplicated life of writing parking tickets and giving lectures at the youth center.
I probably wasn’t being fair to the man, but I didn’t know him enough to be fair. He’d talked a pretty talk last night, and perhaps he had been entirely sincere. So sincere, if fact, that I had been looking forward to spending more time with him, even calling him a friend. But I wasn’t blind enough to believe that the tentative beginning of a friendship would stand up to the harsh reality of a murder investigation.
I took a deep breath and ran a hand over my face. Time to think clearly and not succumb to panic, I reminded myself sternly. The police—even backwater county police—couldn’t arrest someone without evidence, and so far, their evidence against me was tenuous at best. And with someone like Porter, there had to be dozens of potential suspects. It wouldn’t hurt to see if I could find out something useful while I was stuck here in oh-so-charming Maplewood, something that would make the law enforcement dig in other people’s backyards and piles of dirty secrets.
Perhaps “dig” wasn’t the best word choice in this situation.
It was quickly getting too cold to sit in the car with the heat off, so I hurried inside. Coming out a few minutes later with a brand-new snow shovel, the only thing I needed now was some salt.
Several customers were browsing the isles of the convenience store, and Janice sat behind the counter, doing a crossword puzzle with her glasses perched daintily on the tip of her nose. The TV beside her was showing Dolly Parton’s Unlikely Angel in the true spirit of the holiday season.
As soon as I walked in, accompanied by the bell chimes, Janice’s attention snapped to me.
“Mr. Kensington!” she cried in genuine delight. “How good of you to drop by again.”
Well, at least someone was happy to see me.
“Good morning,” I said, going up to the counter.
“Have you heard what happened?” Janice whispered loudly enough to be heard all the way to the frozen goods section at the back. “Poor Frank! How dreadful.”
“As a matter of fact, I did. I was just at the commissioner’s office, being interviewed.”
“Oh?” She perked up with interest. “Did you see anything, then?”
“I’m afraid not. The storm had me cooped up at home last night. Didn’t hear a thing.”
“Oh,” she said again, this time with evident disappointment.
Janice didn’t seem grief-stricken over Porter’s death, but she seemed eager to talk about it, and I had the sense she’d prove a valuable source of information. Information I desperately needed if I wanted to understand what was going on in this town. And before the local powers that be decided to pin a murder on me on the strength of my owning a gardening tool.
In a sudden flash of inspiration, I leaned casually on the counter and lowered my voice, gazing earnestly into her eyes.
“You know, when I heard about the murder, I got this idea. When tragedy strikes so close, one feels almost compelled to examine it, to make some sort of sense out of it. And as a mystery writer, there is really only one way I know how to do it.”
“Oh, Mr. Kensington!” Her eyes glittered with anticipation. “You mean you want to write a book about Frank’s murder?”
“Precisely. A true-crime novel, told from the point of view of a firsthand witness. But as an outsider, I’m afraid I might get the details wrong. Maybe you could help me with that? I mean, there’s no one who knows the folks here in Maplewood as well as you.”
True crime was never my thing, not even as a choice of reading material, but she didn’t need to know that. And didn’t Alexis tell me to look into writing other genres? I could legitimately say I was exploring the possibility of diversifying into nonfiction. It didn’t mean I was actually going to go through with it.
Her mouth flew open, and she raised a hand to her lips.
“Of course! I’d be honored to help in any way I can. Imagine, a whole book about our little village! Wait till I tell the girls at the book club about this.”
I had no doubt the entire village and most of the county would know I was writing a book about Porter’s untimely demise by nightfall. But that would surely work to my advantage. Writing a book was the oldest excuse in the, well, book for snooping around, and in my case, people would be inclined to believe it. It was easier to confide in someone if you presumed to know what he was after.
Still, although I reassured myself my ruse was both justified and useful, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt in the face of Janice’s undiluted excitement. I promised myself that whatever book I wrote next, I’d make sure to include her in the acknowledgments.
“So how would you go about it, Mr. Kensington?” Janice asked. “The book, I mean.”
“The first thing is to do thorough research. Talk to people who knew the victim, follow the investigation. I daresay it’s a bit like being an investigative journalist.” I didn
’t have the first clue about being a reporter, but it didn’t really matter as long as I sounded confident enough. “And by the way, there’s no need to be so formal. Being on a first-name basis with everybody is one of the perks of living in a small village, right?” I cranked up my smile to my most charming. “Please, call me Declan.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet of you, Declan. And I’m Janice, as I’ve already told you.” She laughed, and we shook hands over the counter. She had a firm handshake, but her hands were thin, the delicate brown skin beginning to dot with darker age spots.
She was definitely not strong enough to bludgeon a grown man to death—not that I had seriously suspected the friendly store owner of sneaking into the woods in the middle of a storm with murderous intent.
“Say, Janice… Do you know if Mr. Porter was receiving threats lately?”
“Threats?” Her eyes went wide behind the golden frames. “What kind of threats?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Phone calls, letters, maybe notes delivered to his doorstep?”
“He didn’t mention anything of the sort,” she said, frowning slightly. “And if he did, he’d make sure the whole village knew he wouldn’t be intimidated. But he’d been extra riled up for the last few days, now that I think about it, and he was hinting about certain people wanting to shut him up.”
I vaguely remembered Porter saying something to that effect, but admittedly, I hadn’t been paying close attention.
“Did he say who wanted to shut him up?”
Janice shook her head. “No, but he’d say things like that all the time. No one took him seriously.” She leaned in closer, dropping her voice just a bit. “He liked to feel he was important, the poor soul.”
“What was he so riled up about?”
“Probably that theme park the mayor is so bent on opening up. Frank was always going around telling everyone what a bad idea it was.” Janice sighed. “Yes, it’s silly, but he just couldn’t understand that people in this town could use the extra tourist income. He wasn’t one of those small business owners who are struggling to get ends to meet. All that money, and he barely ever spent any of it.”
In the Winter Woods Page 6
