by Pam Stucky
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
Death at Glacier Lake
acknowledgments
more by pam stucky
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Pam Stucky
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For information and permission requests, contact www.pamstucky.com.
Published in the United States by Wishing Rock Press.
Cover design by www.ebooklaunch.com.
ISBN (print): 978-1-940800-16-5
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-940800-17-2
www.wishingrockpress.com
for Agatha
“To die of old age is a death rare, extraordinary, and singular, and, therefore, so much less natural than the others; ’tis the last and extremest sort of dying.”
— Michel de Montaigne, 1533–1592
ONE
The river raced by with an indifferent confidence, coursing along on the path it had chosen. It was running unusually high, its silky surface moving like a sheet, masking the hidden treachery lurking just beneath.
“You don’t realize how loud rivers can be until you live next to one, do you?” Megan Montaigne said. She’d been living in this apartment above the library for a few months now, but was sure she’d never tire of this view. Her apartment, along with this spectacular balcony, was a perk of her job. What was now a library had once been a mansion, a house far too big for the needs of just the library. As such, the library board had decided to convert the upper rooms to living quarters for the Library Director. That was Megan. She was grateful.
“I mean, not loud, really,” Megan continued. “But nonstop. Not quiet. Peaceful, but in a different way.” Below her, the waters of the Skagit River, in the northern part of Washington state, rushed by. The library was situated on a bump of land at a turn of the river, offering an expansive and uninterrupted view. “The Skagit River,” Megan said, shaking her head. “Someone called the other day and pronounced it wrong. I swear the tourism people need to adopt my slogan. ‘Skagit, Rhymes with Gadget, More or Less.’ Catchy, right?” She reached for a slice of apple from the plate on the table between her and her guest, topped it with a slice of sharp cheddar, and took a bite. “Thanks so much for the snack,” she said.
“It’s the least I could do,” smiled Romy Garrison, cozy and content curled up in her Adirondack chair. Romy was better known to her readers as Rosemary Grace Garrison—a name that was splashed across the fifty-and-counting novels she’d written over the past twenty-five years. “You’re so nice to let me stay here while my new hardwoods cure.” A cool April evening breeze blew a strand of her short blonde hair across her eyes, and she absentmindedly brushed the lock away. “This construction has gone on twice as long as they told me it would. They were supposed to be done before I moved in, but, that’s the way it goes, I guess.” She leaned forward and twisted to the right, squinting down the river at the land on the other side. “I wondered if I’d be able to see my house from here, but I guess not,” she said, leaning back. “You’re right, though. I had no idea. My bedroom looks out over the river, and at night that white noise just puts me right to sleep. I suppose you get used to it. The susurrus of the river. Susurration.”
Megan smiled at the word and repeated it. “Susurration. Yes, that’s it. The whispering of the water. Such a good word. I suppose that’s why you’re a writer,” she said. Being around the world-famous author still made her a little nervous. Romy’s move to the tiny town of Emerson Falls had been the buzz of the community for more than a year—as were her ongoing construction woes. She was building her dream home on the other side of the river, and construction was supposed to be done months ago. Romy’s original plan was to have the house completed by September, at which point she would move in. As it happened, the building had been nowhere near finished in September. Finally, by January, it had been at least livable, and she’d chosen to exist within the chaos, hoping, she’d said, that her presence would speed things along.
At a recent library board meeting, the vice president had mentioned that Romy would soon need somewhere to stay for a few days while the fumes from the finish of the reclaimed wood floors dissipated. Without even thinking, Megan had blurted out, “The guest rooms at the library! She could stay there.” Wanting to gain favor with the writer, the board immediately jumped on the idea. Before the meeting was over, Romy had been invited and the offer accepted.
If she was honest, Megan welcomed the company, despite the disruption of her own routine. At fourteen thousand square feet, the home was far too big for one person alone. What was now the library had originally been the preposterously large vacation retreat of Edison Finley Wright—and his now-ex-wife. To spite his ex, rumor had it, Edison had donated it to the community for its current use. The library board hadn’t known what to do with the mansion at first. Emerson Falls was a small town, and even if you brought in books for the people in every town within a twenty-mile radius, the community library still didn’t need such a huge space. After much discussion, the board had finally come up with a solution everyone loved: the main level would house the books and library activities, the lower level would be converted into conference rooms and other community gathering spaces, and the top floor would be remodeled as a living space for the Library Director.
“I’m still getting used to it,” Megan said. “It’s not too noisy here, which is good. One time, when we went to Hawaii, we stayed in a condo right on the water. I couldn’t believe how loud the waves were. There we were, in paradise, and it turned out paradise roared. We kept the windows open at night, of course, and sometimes a big, crashing wave would actually wake me up. Never underestimate the power of water.”
Romy’s eyebrows lifted. “‘We’?” she said. “Someone special?” She broke off a small piece of cheese and nibbled on it, her eyes sparkling with interest.
The light was growing dim as evening crept in. Megan looked up, wondering about the possibility of a sunset. She hesitated in answering Romy’s question. It had been almost a year, and she had, more or less, “moved on.” In her mind, the phrase always had quotation marks around it. What could it mean to “move on” from a person whose life had infused her own? She sighed. It was an innocent enough question. “Zeus. I mean, Luke. He went by Zeus. He was a river rafter. That’s what they called him.”
This news clearly delighted Romy. “Zeus! How did he get that name? Those are some big shoes.”
Megan blinked. “Well, the river rafters, lots of them lead guided tours with people who come to see the bald eagles.” She glanced at the treetops to see if any of the white-headed birds were present. “They had a sort of competition, n
ot an official competition or anything, but they always competed to see whose boat could spot the most eagles during the rafting trips. Zeus always won. By far. He was the eagle whisperer.” She smiled lightly at the memory. “His clients would come back glowing, raving about seeing dozens of eagles, fifty or seventy every trip. The girlfriend of one of the other guides was a Greek mythology buff. She told us that Zeus—the Greek god, that is, not Luke—had an eagle as a personal messenger and companion. Aetos Dios, the Eagle of Zeus. Aetos Dios was a golden eagle, not a bald eagle, but it was close enough. People started calling Luke Zeus, and the name stuck.” She looked back at the cottonwoods lining the riverbank on the opposite side, knowing she was unlikely to see any of the birds, whether bald or golden. Wrong time of day; wrong time of year. Still, she looked. Every time Megan saw an eagle in flight, her heart leapt, a little hopeless prayer that the sighting was meant just for her.
“What a fabulous nickname,” said Romy. “Your Greek god is no longer in the picture, I take it?” She, too, was scanning the river for eagles, but her unpracticed eyes were less focused. Her powers of observation were strongest with humans.
Megan sighed internally. She hated this part. “No,” she said. “He died.”
Whoosh. Megan was used to it by now, the way speaking those words sucked the energy out of a space and stopped all conversation. The author let out a quick, hard breath. Her arm dropped and her fingertips gently touched the arm of the weathered Adirondack chair she was sitting in, the way she might have touched Megan, in comfort, if the two women had been closer either physically or emotionally, or both. “I’m so sorry. That’s … well, that’s unbearable, I suppose. Do you want to talk about it?”
Normally, Megan would have said no. In fact, usually she did say no. “I’m fine” and “Oh, don’t worry about me” had become a part of her regular vocabulary. Something about Romy, though, made Megan want to share. Or maybe it was the cloak of impending night, the susurration of the water washing away her inhibitions. “Yes,” she said, “actually I do.”
“I’m listening,” said Romy, filling their wine glasses with the red blend she’d brought over when she first knocked on Megan's door earlier that evening. “Tell me what you need someone to hear.”
Megan took a deep breath. She swirled the red wine in her glass and watched the tiny whirlpool chase the liquid up the sides and then settle again. “Zeus,” she finally said, “Zeus was a good guy. Stubborn, but in a ‘nothing and no one is going to stop me’ kind of way. When he wanted something, he’d go for it. He doubted himself more than he’d ever let on. He always wanted to put on a strong show, but I saw the side he didn’t let too many people see. The side of him that believed if he was ever weak, people would think he wasn’t a real man. He was fiercely loyal and always had my back. He believed in me far more than I ever believed in myself. He was a free spirit, completely unconcerned with convention and society’s rules. He was not the kind of guy I expected to fall in love with, but I did.” A jolt of pain shot through her heart. She swirled the wine again, then took a sip.
“Sounds like a good guy,” said Romy, echoing Megan. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him. How did he die, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Plane accident,” Megan said after a moment, tucking her long, slightly wavy, dark brunette hair behind her ear. “He was trying to learn to fly. He wanted to surprise me. But he was always doing too much, working too hard, not getting enough rest. On his third time out solo, he fell asleep and crashed. The irony was not lost on me that the God of the Sky died in a plane crash.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Romy, and Megan could feel that she really was. “I can’t imagine. How long ago?”
“About a year. It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, if I could change it I would, but …”
Romy’s sudden silence was full and awkward. Megan looked up and saw a strange expression on Romy’s face, intense and concentrated, like she was trying to remember something, or like she’d remembered something that unsettled her. “A plane crash?” she said, but the words seemed to be intended for herself.
The intensity was too much for Megan. What was Romy thinking about? Maybe she didn’t want to know. “Enough about me,” Megan said, shaking her head to dispel the memories. “Tell me about you.”
“Well,” said Romy. Eyes to the sky, she seemed to scroll through a list of her life stories before speaking. “Well, I was married once, for many years.”
Megan curled her lips around her teeth and pressed them together, a subconscious move telling her body: say nothing. Of course she knew Romy had been married. When word had first hit that Romy was moving to the area, the town gossips had dug up every scrap of data on her. Romy’s life story became common currency. Everyone knew there was a divorce, too, but the reasons behind the split had never made it to the tabloids. “What happened?” Megan asked, then immediately regretted it. “I mean, sorry, I don’t mean to pry. That’s private.”
Romy laughed and waved her hand in the air. “Oh, it’s fine. It’s in the past.” By now the sunlight was beginning to fade; shadows were beginning to grow as night reclaimed the sky. “I was always wrong, and he was always right. That’s what happened. It took me forever to realize that things were not always my fault, and I didn’t actually have to apologize for everything I did that he didn’t like.” She stared deep into the wine for a long time, as if it carried all her memories. “Eventually I figured it out.”
“What a jerk,” Megan said. “I’m sorry.”
“No, he’s not a jerk,” Romy said, shaking her head slowly, sadly. “That’s what made it hard to leave. I always thought one day he’d learn to trust me enough to be vulnerable with me, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t a jerk. Just broken. I know he loved me. I just couldn’t take on all his pain anymore. I couldn’t bear the weight of his insecurity. Much of the time things were great, but every time we had a disagreement I ended up feeling like the world’s biggest loser. I had to leave. Long overdue, but I had to leave.”
Megan took this in. She’d been lucky with Zeus. He was strong, and had fierce opinions. But he’d known how to be soft, how to let his guard down, how to reach back when she reached out, how to say he was sorry. A bolt of pain went through her chest. “I miss him,” she said, forgetting Romy was not inside her brain with her, or maybe forgetting she wasn’t alone.
Romy’s eyes were soft. She nodded. “I miss Gus too. I still love him. He’s not a bad person. I would go back in a minute if I didn’t think it would wreck the shreds of self-confidence I’ve built up since I left. But he would never take me back. I think he still loves me, too, but he was furious when I left him. Public embarrassment and making him look like the bad guy and whatnot. I tried to keep it all neutral in the press, but he felt like I’d made him out to look awful. He just can’t handle being held accountable for the consequences of his actions.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, you were saying you miss Zeus and I made it about me. I guess you made me feel safe. Tell me more about Zeus.”
Megan smiled and hugged her knees to her chest. “No need to apologize.”
And so as the night fell, Megan found herself spilling everything, all of it. Romy listened intently, eyes wide, her expression shifting subtly to show she caught the fine nuances of every tale, asking questions and coaxing out answers like a story whisperer, drawing out secrets like Rumpelstiltskin gathering straw.
“It’s funny, isn’t it, how life doesn’t turn out at all like we think it’s going to. But it manages to turn out okay in the end.” Romy nudged Megan and winked. “I mean, Edison as your patron, that’s not a bad thing, right? He’s cute?”
The outside lights had come on, casting sharp shadows and throwing the night into even thicker darkness. “Edison Finley Wright?” said Megan, who thought of the man as three names, not just one. The opposite of Oprah or Elvis or Cher, Edison Finley Wright, in her mind, bore the weight of all his syllables. “Do you know Edison well?” Megan asked. A glimmer of misc
hief flitted past Romy‘s eyes, and as she often had before, Megan marveled at how people could read each other‘s emotions almost like they could read books. Was it something about the squint of Romy’s eyes? The lift of an eyebrow? A twitch in the cheek from a quickly suppressed smile? It happened so fast there was no way Megan could catalog it, but yet somehow she knew: mischief. “Is there a story there between you and Edison?” she smiled.
“Oh, Edison,” said Romy, her voice filled with glee. “He’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” said Megan. “How so?”
“All charm. You know him, right?”
“From the library board, yes,” Megan said.
“Well then, you know. He, uh…” she coughed lightly and scratched her neck. “He came to one of my book launches once, friend of a friend, and he flirted with me over canapés and champagne. A man who can make you laugh, that’s what he is. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Maybe one day I’ll give in and let him date me.”
“Give in?” said Megan.
“He’s asked me out a dozen times,” said Romy. “I keep telling him no. I’m too busy with the house remodel and getting settled here to think about dating. He can wait. But,” she laughed, “I have seen the way the local ladies look at him. Maybe if I wait too long, he’ll be off the market.” She looked inward for a few moments, then changed the subject. “So, tell me. What made you want to be a librarian? Did you always want to be one?”
Megan smiled. “It all started with Nancy Drew, to be honest. I couldn’t get enough Nancy Drew. I used to have all the books, carefully cataloged in a notebook and shelved in order. Foreshadowing, I’d say. You must have read her, too?”
“She’s why I write mysteries,” Romy beamed. “I loved that old strawberry blonde.”
