Winter at the Door

by Sarah Graves

  “Here,” he said, and when she protested: “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a good layer of blubber to protect me.”

  It wasn’t blubber; when his arm had been around her, she’d felt its solidness. Meanwhile, over his protests, the old man got lifted onto a gurney and then hoisted up through the bay doors of the emergency vehicle.

  “Call my son!” he yelled. “Call my son, he’s the lord of the forest!” The old man could still be heard yelling from inside.

  Then the bay doors closed, the vehicle rolled away, and moments later nothing remained to show that anything untoward had happened except the scooter, lying there with its underside up in the air like a turned turtle.

  No one had asked her anything, and it seemed as if the techs knew their patient. “Maybe he does this often?” she hazarded.

  She walked with Washburn back toward the lit area of the parking lot, the vet carrying a brown paper shopping bag. In it she spied three baking potatoes, a couple of steaks, and mixed salad greens; her stomach growled hungrily.

  “Yeah,” he answered her question. “Old Dan’s a well-known escape artist from the nursing home, a couple blocks thataway.”

  They reached his car, a shiny black BMW X3 glittering in the parking lot’s lights. Flipping up the hatchback, he stowed his groceries, then came back around to where she stood admiring the vehicle.

  Veterinarians made decent money here, apparently. “No, keep it for tonight,” he said as she began pulling off his jacket, but she was already pushing it toward him.

  “Thanks, but I have one. It’s just in my car. Really, I—”

  Smiling, he allowed her to press it into his hands. Then he paused, lifting it to his face.

  His bright gaze met hers. “Smells better than it did.”

  Foolishly she felt hot color rising to her cheeks as he put the jacket around her again. “It’s Lizzie, right? Lizzie Snow?”

  “Yes,” she managed, furious with herself. Had living way out here in the boondocks already turned her into a woman who blushed when a man spoke to her, especially one that she didn’t even find attractive?

  Except she did, sort of. He was so … so friendly, simple, and normal without being the least bit simpleminded. The opposite of that, actually, and she always found the opposite of simpleminded very attractive, indeed.

  His cell phone burbled; holding up an apologetic finger, he took the brief call, and when he’d hung up:

  “Listen, that was a buddy of mine. I was supposed to cook for the two of us, but he’s tied up. So it’s either I eat all that food I bought by myself, thus adding even more meat and potatoes to my already sturdy frame …”

  He was sturdy, too; the kind of person that another person could lean on, and why in the world was she thinking that?

  “… or I could make dinner for the two of us,” he finished.

  “You mean you and me?” she managed, then realized how dumb that sounded.

  But he only laughed. “Yes, and I broil a mean tenderloin.”

  Her stomach growled again. And he was … not cute, really, but pleasant. More substantial than the word cute had room for.

  Still …“I can’t. I’ve got a dog waiting.” And Tattoo Kid waiting also, she realized suddenly.

  At Washburn’s inquisitive look, she explained about Rascal; to her surprise, he knew the animal.

  Of course he does, you dope, he’s the veterinarian. “Glad to hear he’s found a home,” said Washburn.

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d put it that optimistically. Foster care, maybe.” Chevrier had been urgently persuasive and she had succumbed, but now she wondered how she would even have time for the creature.

  Washburn went on. “You know what, though? I seem to recall old Rascal being due for his rabies shot. Couple of other things he might need, too, maybe? You could kill two birds, et cetera.”

  He smiled coaxingly at her. “You bring the dog over, let me cook up a nice meal, and meanwhile my vet tech can do Rascal’s shots and so on, okay? That way, you won’t need to—”

  Again with the insistent “feed me” sounds from her famished midsection. This time she was pretty sure he heard them.

  “Got a good burgundy waiting. Goes fine with rare steak,” he added persuasively. “Yum yum.”

  He rubbed his own middle. It made her laugh, and she liked the feeling. She liked it a lot. “Okay, you sold me. But if that mutt’s got fleas, you have to promise to get rid of those, too.”

  “Deal,” he agreed swiftly, following up with directions to his place.

  “Five miles out.” He waved down the street past her office. “Big white sign says ‘Great North Woods Animal Care.’ ”

  He climbed into his snazzy SUV. “See you soon.”

  Then he drove off, leaving her there with doubt rising in her; what had she just done? Still, she really was starving, and as she glanced back at the Food King, she saw the store’s lights going out and a clerk putting the CLOSED sign on the door; they rolled the sidewalks up early around here, apparently.

  Besides, she was still wrapped in Washburn’s jacket. So she’d have to return it.

  “… and that’s the story,” she finished a few hours later.

  The den in Trey Washburn’s sprawling ranch-style house was a haven of dark mahogany paneling, rugs in rich, dark jewel colors, and big, softly upholstered chairs and sofas. A fire in the huge stone fireplace flickered warmly; two liver-spotted retrievers occupied twin plaid dog beds, one on either side of the hearth.

  “Wow,” said Washburn. She’d said more than she’d planned to. “Guess you’ve got your work cut out for you, then.”

  She laughed, not with amusement. “That’s an understatement.” It was the first time in a very long while that she’d confided in anyone; maybe it was the wine, which had in fact been very good, a California burgundy several cuts above what she usually drank.

  She hoped she wasn’t making a mistake by having a second glass. But Washburn was a good listener, smart and sympathetic without trying to seem to understand too much, too fast. She’d wound up telling him about quitting her job in Boston when Dylan Hudson got a series of tips, accompanied by a mysterious set of photographs, suggesting that her niece might be here in Maine.

  She hadn’t said any more about Dylan; you didn’t tell a guy who had just broiled you a good steak about your once-faithless, now-back-in-your-life-again ex-lover. Nor had she mentioned the assignment Chevrier had given her.

  “Bottom line, I think my niece might be in the area. I want to find her and—”

  She stopped, brought up short for the second time in as many days by the question of What then?

  Washburn sipped his wine, set it aside. “And see what action turns out to be required? Or what’s possible?”

  “Yes,” she said, relieved at hearing it put that way. “I don’t know why I’ve been having such trouble articulating that.”

  He got up to stir the fire. “I know the feeling. Sometimes when I’m really close to a situation, it helps me to hear someone else describe it. You know, minus all the drama?”

  He turned from poking a log back into the orange flames. “Not that I think you’re overdramatizing anything,” he added hastily.

  But she understood. “No, I get it. And you’re right, my problem is I don’t like all the what thens that might come up.”

  “Cody tell you about Carl Bogart?” He changed the subject abruptly. “The sheriff before Cody got the job?” He smoothed one of his dogs’ ears. “He was Cody’s mentor, you might say. But more than that, he took Cody under his wing.”

  Washburn looked up. “Back in the day, Cody was a wild kid. I see now what old Carl must’ve liked in a teenage hellion. But in those days, and for quite a while even after he got hired on as a sheriff’s deputy, nobody else did.”

  He got to his feet. “And then a few weeks ago, Carl Bogart died. Shot himself; it tore Cody up pretty bad. Course, Carl was an old man. But …”

  “But Cody’s more upset t
han you expected?” She put it out there carefully.

  “Yeah. Thing is, Cody keeps it all pretty close to the vest. But if there’s anything I can do to help him …”

  She thought about telling the truth, that Chevrier had added four dead cops together and come up with murder. But …

  She put her glass down. “He hasn’t said anything about it to me. It’s always hard when people leave you, though. Or anything you love. But you know about that, too, I guess.”

  She gestured at the dogs, now peacefully snoring, “You do your best as a vet for them, I’m sure, but you can’t control all the—”

  “Right,” he said, letting her change the subject this time, but she got the strong feeling that he was backing off deliberately.

  That if she didn’t want to talk more about Cody Chevrier’s state of mind—or about Cody’s suspicions, she thought suddenly—he wouldn’t force the subject. She wondered abruptly who else around here had questions about Chevrier, or had the big vet only been making casual conversation?

  It didn’t feel like it. But maybe that was merely the wine she’d drunk. Washburn stood, all six feet of him, and smiled down at her where she’d curled her stockinged feet up into the chair.

  Which was when she realized that looking straight at him was fine, but being smiled down at by him wasn’t half shabby, either.

  “What say we go check on old Rascal?” he said, and she told herself she wasn’t disappointed as she slid her feet into her boots.

  “Yes. Thanks so much, it’s been lovely. But you’re right, I should probably …”

  She glanced around for a clock, didn’t find one among the rustic lamps, woven wool throws, and plump cushions in the den.

  It struck her again that he seemed to do well for himself, caring for animals way out here at the back end of beyond.

  They collected the dog from the kennel area, connected to the house by a slate-tiled breezeway. His clinic technician, a pleasant young woman named Bonnie who’d apparently stayed late just for Lizzie, had done a thorough checkup and shots on the dog, cleaned his teeth, clipped his huge, jet-black nails, and bathed him.

  Thanking Bonnie profusely, Lizzie followed Washburn out, Rascal padding behind with Eau de Mutt no longer radiating from him.

  “The place feels more like a hospital for people than a vet’s,” she told Washburn, impressed by the modern, clean-smelling facility with its fresh white paint and antiseptically gleaming surfaces.

  “Thanks. We try.” On their way back through the house, they went down a hall lined with photographs of prize horses, some massive draft animals with shaggy hooves and bulging muscles, yoked four across and pulling carts or farm equipment; others tall, blond beauty queens or sturdy ponies looking as if they belonged on the Russian tundra.

  “Some are mine,” Washburn said when she asked about the horses. “Some patients. It’s not just house pets around here, you know?”

  So maybe fancy-horse upkeep paid the freight on this outfit. They passed through a kitchen bright with copper, slate polished to a shine, and an elaborate gas stove with six grated burners, a griddle, and a warming oven. He was the only person she’d ever met who owned such a thing, and he knew how to use it, too; for dessert he’d made crème brûlée, wielding a flame over the sugar expertly.

  “There’s dairy farms, sheep, and some people will keep a pig or a steer even if they don’t live on a farm,” he went on, “for a meat animal. The 4-H kids and the FFAers, too. Future Farmers of America,” he added at her questioning glance.

  “So I have a pretty sizable large-animal practice, one way and another. I drive all over the County visiting farms, besides keeping my hours here.”

  Outside, the hound Cody Chevrier had foisted on her waited as Washburn held her jacket. Stepping out over the threshold, she realized with a pang that she wanted to stay. Because—

  Because he’s nice, all right? Because he seems like a decent guy. A sweet, smart, non-law-enforcement human being.

  And—oh, why not admit it? she thought as they reached her car and he wrapped her in an affectionate bear hug—because I’ve been alone for a long time.

  She stepped from his embrace reluctantly, knowing that the smile on her face must be sheepish. “Thanks again. For dinner and—”

  He shrugged shyly, suddenly reminding her of a bashful kid. “My pleasure. Come back in daylight, I’ll show you around more.”

  From where they stood on the wide pea-gravel driveway, he waved at the hills rolling away under a moonlit sky, the streams gleaming between sloping pastures, square plowed fields, and the vast, black expanses of forest, looking now like huge shapeless holes that all the rest was in danger of falling into.

  Or being devoured by; much more forest than anything else. A city street could look ominous, too, whether emptily menacing or full of trouble. But it never looked … implacable, as if it would do whatever it wished with you without explanation.

  As if once you were in it, you’d be just another specimen of prey, engaged in the age-old dance of the hunter and hunted. Trey spoke, breaking the spell.

  “Yeah, huh?” he said as he gazed over the dark landscape. “Quite the view.”

  “Indeed.” He’d put his arm around her. She let it stay. “It must look even more amazing in the daytime. How do you ever get any work done? With that to look at, I mean. Or do you get used to it?”

  “Huh. Good question. No, you don’t. Or I don’t, at least.” He took his arm away, waving to take in the entire scene.

  “In a way, though, I’m obliged to pay attention to it. I own,” he confessed, “about half of it. Forty years ago my old man owned the whole thing. All you see.”

  She turned, amazed. “You’re kidding. That must be … well, I don’t even know how to guess how many acres. How did he ever get so much—”

  Washburn laughed. “Won it in a poker game? No, I’m kidding. His great-grandfather got some in one of the original land grants after the Treaty of 1842. That’s when the Canadian border got put smack in the middle of the Saint John River.”

  He took a breath. “All the settlers who’d been on their land since before 1836 got to keep it, basically, whether they’d gotten it from the British or from the U.S. of A. And some who were really only squatters stayed, too.”

  His voice grew enthusiastic. “See, until then nobody could agree on a border. They even almost had a war, the Aroostook War, with troops marching here and plenty of fighting words, but—”

  He stopped suddenly as, with a deep sigh, Rascal lay down to wait some more. “But you’re tired and freezing out here, aren’t you? I’ll tell you the rest of it another time.”

  He let Rascal into the car’s back seat. “About the war, and my dad and his many thousands of acres,” he finished as she slid behind the wheel.

  She looked up at him, noticing the wry twist his voice put on the final words; wry, and something else that was considerably less pleasant. So. More to the story, she thought.

  “I’d like that,” she said. Rascal stretched out with a whining yawn of satisfaction, ready to ride. “Good night.”

  “Oh, and listen, one other thing.”

  He bent and leaned into the car, his voice still casual but with something else in it now, something different. Something important.

  “If you ever want to meet one of those ponies in the pictures”—from the corridor between his office building and the house, he meant—“there’s a woman just outside of town, she’s got a couple of really nice ones. Althea Sprague, her name is. If you stop in, you can tell her I sent you.”

  The name pinged a memory. “Sprague? Was her husband by any chance an ex-cop?”

  He was already nodding, like maybe it was a connection he’d wanted her to make. Behind him, the crescent moon low in the sky was pale silver, the color of a knife blade.

  In its faint glow, the distant tree line stood sharply in silhouette, the fir tops like pointy teeth. “Yep,” he confirmed, and went on:

  “Alth
ea’s a widow now. Since nearly a year ago. I’d say it was a shame, but I can’t help thinking her life’s a lot easier as a result. Anyway, good night.”

  She backed the car around, heading out, saw him wave from the porch steps in her rearview mirror as her tires crunched down the white, beautifully maintained gravel driveway.

  A lot more to the story, maybe. With the trees rising up on both sides, the empty, curving road back toward Bearkill was like a lightless tunnel with a broken yellow stripe running down the middle of it.

  “You know, Rascal,” she said, unexpectedly shaken by the enormity of the darkness, the utter completeness of it. A low “wuff” came from the back seat as if the dog understood what she was saying, although of course that couldn’t be.

  “You know, now that you don’t smell bad, I’ve got a feeling you’re going to be mighty welcome company around here, once in a while.”

  No lit-up signs or other hints of life pierced the night, just here and there an isolated farm driveway with a yard light, barn doors, and shed fronts harshly illuminated like stage sets for a play that might turn violent at any moment.

  More to the story. Like how, after he got his thousands of acres …

  God, but it was really dark out here. An animal scuttled into the road; startled, she hit the brakes and horn together and barely missed it. But the creature, some lumpily gray-furred thing, seemed oblivious in its calm moseying across the pavement, unaware of the bloody fate it had barely escaped.

  A mile later she reached the slightly larger highway leading into town. By then her thoughts had returned to what the country veterinarian had said, his hints—were they deliberate?—that he knew why Cody Chevrier had hired her.

  That Chevrier might be … well, not unhinged. But maybe not entirely reasonable, either, about his old mentor Carl Bogart’s death. That Lizzie should perhaps meet one of the other dead ex-cops’ widows, Althea Sprague.

  And—admit it, she told herself, pulling at last into the driveway of her dark little house and shutting off the ignition—that they should see each other again, and not only because there was more to tell of the story of his dad’s thousands of acres.