A Cold and Lonely Place: A Novel Read online

  “Probably his keys just fell out of his pocket in the lake.” This had happened to me when I’d dived into Lake Champlain last summer to rescue Paul. But I wasn’t going to discuss the forces of water and current and the deepness of Carhartt pants pockets.

  Win sat up straighter. “I’d like to go talk to the state police. I haven’t been able to get answers over the phone, and I’d like to go in person. I wondered if you might like to go, although I know you have a lot to do.”

  Sure, I had lots to do, but I wasn’t going to pass this up.

  “Do you …” I stopped, then started again. “Do you know why the state police are investigating?”

  “My parents may be pushing it. They may want someone to blame.”

  “Blame … as in, it’s an accident someone had something to do with? Or that someone did it on purpose?” It’s a common refrain with parents—their child couldn’t be at fault. My boy never would use drugs … cheat on his exams … haze his fraternity brother … drink until his blood alcohol level was so high he could hardly walk. But somehow, they did.

  “They won’t discuss it. I don’t know that they’ve thought it through, just that Tobin moved to this town, where no one he knows lives, and he died—so someone has to be at fault. But I think it likely would have been declared an accidental death if not for that article, and maybe my parents.”

  “And the truck,” I said without thinking.

  “Yes, the truck. That’s the thing that doesn’t make sense—unless someone hid the truck so no one would realize Tobin was missing.” She saw the expression on my face. “Yes, I’ve thought of all kinds of possible scenarios.”

  So Win wasn’t just here to grapple with loss and walk in her brother’s footsteps. I cleared my throat. “I didn’t know if you had thought about that. You’ve had a lot going on.”

  She gave an odd smile. She was smart, very smart, I realized, and her brain worked at things whether she mentioned them or not. Sort of like me.

  “Oh, I’ve thought about it,” she said lightly. “I’ve thought of all kinds of things.”

  I spoke impulsively. “You know I have no idea what happened to Tobin.”

  This time her smile was wry. “I know you don’t, Troy. You wear your honesty on the outside.”

  And this left me with nothing to say. I went up and sent a quick e-mail to Jameson, telling him about the break-in. And then we headed off to the state police headquarters.

  Win had deliberately not called ahead, but we didn’t wait long, and someone brought us coffee. When Jessamyn and I had been interviewed, mind you, we hadn’t been offered anything. But Win had that manner that made people pay attention, and she was the sister of the victim, and not a suspect.

  I could tell the investigator thought it was odd I was there with Win, but he didn’t object. She told him we were friends and that I was writing a series of articles on Tobin. His look said he was well aware I was writing a series of articles on Tobin, and wasn’t entirely happy about it. But his letting me sit in pretty much told me they didn’t suspect me of anything.

  He went through the basics quickly: No, they hadn’t yet gotten all the toxicology reports. Yes, the preliminary findings showed water in the lungs, indicating drowning, and some bruising that neither definitively indicated foul play nor the lack thereof (he actually said the words foul play), which could have been caused by a fall onto or into the ice, or in the water. No, no keys were found with Mr. Winslow, only his wallet. He brought it out in its plastic bag and let Win look at it, take it out and thumb through it, glance at the bills inside, remove every crumpled and dried-out scrap of paper that had been put in there by her brother’s hands.

  Win looked up at the investigator. “Could I have a photocopy of everything that’s in there? Not the money, of course, but everything else.”

  Now he blinked. He’d been prepared to tell Win she couldn’t have the wallet, but apparently hadn’t anticipated this. Then he nodded, took the wallet and its contents, and started out of the room.

  “Everything on one or two sheets is fine,” Win said as he reached the door. “I don’t need each thing on a separate page.”

  He smiled then, what seemed like a genuine smile. It was almost impossible not to like Win. Then he was back, waiting for Win’s next question.

  “Someone supposedly said that Tobin had a lot of cash that night—but this was all the cash found on him?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Did you find out anything from the people in the bar with him that night?”

  Yes, a number of people had been interviewed. No, Mr. Winslow apparently hadn’t done or said anything out of the ordinary. No one had reported seeing him after he’d been at the Waterhole.

  Chowder saw him leave, I thought, and wondered if he’d told the police.

  “So do you think his truck was stolen? Abandoned? Is there a chance it’s in the lake?” Win asked.

  “No, if a truck had been driven across the ice and gone through, almost certainly people would have seen tracks in the snow and a large opening, even the next morning.”

  A woman came in and handed him several sheets of paper and the plastic bag with the wallet. He thanked her, and handed the papers to Win. She smiled her thanks.

  “Miss Winslow, I understand you had a break-in last night.”

  So they were paying attention; this wasn’t just paint-by-number.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m heading there now to clean up.”

  “You have no idea who would have done this?”

  She shook her head.

  “Who do you know here?” he asked.

  “Troy and Tobin’s girlfriend, Jessamyn, and their roommates Brent and Patrick,” she said. “And Dean”—she looked at me, and I supplied his last name, Whitaker—“Dean Whitaker, who was a friend of Tobin’s and lives near him. And I’ve met a few other of Tobin’s friends here, just briefly.”

  “Would Miss Field have any reason to resent you? Or to want to look for something at Mr. Winslow’s cabin?”

  Win shook her head. “No, we’re friends, and she would have had months to search his cabin before I showed up. And she was with me all afternoon until she went to work.”

  His eyes turned to me. “You as well, Miss Chance?”

  “No, but I was out with Win all evening. And I have no reason to search Tobin’s cabin. If I want something for the newspaper articles, all I have to do is ask Win—she’s been very helpful.”

  Somehow I kept getting myself in the middle of these situations, and not managing to keep my mouth shut. This was just the sort of behavior that makes the police think you might be involved. Like firebugs who set fires so they can help put them out, and nuts who commit crimes and show up afterward and want to be helpful.

  He started to rise, the signal, I figured, that this interview was over. But then he turned to Win. “Your older brother drowned as well, correct?”

  Her face blanched. I’d thought of Win as extraordinarily tough, but suddenly she seemed fragile, the bones in her face prominent, and you could see what she would look like as an old woman. It seemed a horrid thing to ask and a horrid way to ask it. But Win pulled herself together and said calmly, “Yes, he did,” recited the date and place of her older brother’s death, and then she stood and we were on our way out the door.

  In the car, I spoke first. “I knew I didn’t like that guy.”

  Win gave a shaky laugh. “He was blunt, wasn’t he? I guess he was implying that Tobin decided to drown himself because his brother did, or that I’m bumping my brothers off so I can inherit their share of our grandfather’s trust fund—which I suppose I will, actually.” She tried to laugh again, but her voice broke. I looked away while she regained control.

  “Hardware store,” she said. It sounded like an order, but I knew it was all she could get out. I drove to Aubuchon, where she picked out the most expensive and sturdiest deadbolt keyed lock they had, heavy trash bags, and cleaning supplies.

  When
we reached the house, Brent and Jessamyn were in the front hallway, putting on jackets. Jessamyn was wearing ski boots, and two sets of skis and poles were leaning against the wall. It took a moment for it to sink in that Brent was taking her cross-country skiing—Jessamyn, who had probably never done a voluntary bit of exercise in her life.

  “We’re going skiing,” Jessamyn said, unnecessarily, and with no trace of her animosity of last night. “Where have you guys been?”

  “Long story,” I said. She didn’t need to hear now that her former boyfriend’s cabin had been trashed, and I didn’t feel like telling it. “I’ll tell you later. You going to Hoevenberg?”

  She nodded.

  “Have fun.”

  She gave me a curious look. Another time I would have ribbed her unmercifully, asked if she realized that skis didn’t come with little motors, that there were no ski lifts to go up hills. I forced a smile, and she picked up her borrowed skis and poles and out they went.

  I was glad she was going, glad she was trying something different, glad she was becoming friends or whatever she was becoming with Brent. But it gave me an odd feeling, as if I was the one stuck in the past. Me and Win. The last Winslow child.

  Win followed me up to my rooms and I scanned in the copies the police had made for Win of the items in Tobin’s wallet. She told me to keep a copy, in case there was anything I could use for my article.

  “You ready to go get started cleaning the cabin?” I asked when I was done.

  She made a sound that was half laugh, half exclamation. “This isn’t your job, Troy. You have articles to write.”

  “Win, you can’t do this alone. My stuff can wait a few hours.”

  She brushed away a tear and stood. “Okay, then,” she said. Maybe at home she would have hired a cleaning crew, but not here, not for this.

  Downstairs, Patrick came in when I was gathering up rags to take along, and when he heard about the break-in, surprised me by saying he had nothing to do and might as well come with us. So we loaded up tools and bucket and rags and the three of us got into my car.

  CHAPTER 22

  We stood for a moment in the doorway of the cabin, taking it in. I was glad Patrick was there, because otherwise we might have sat down and cried. It looked worse in daylight, and the sense of invasion was overpowering. I took photos. The owner had told Win he wasn’t going to bother with an insurance claim, but it seemed we should document this. Then we got started. I spun out the screws to remove the old lock and put the new one in place. Patrick grabbed a broom and started sweeping up broken glass while Win carried anything washable to her car—sheets, mattress pad, towels, clothes. Next I got a bucket of hot water and Pine-Sol and started scrubbing the floor; Win picked up papers while Patrick ripped off the dangling bottom of the box springs and put the bed back together, then she doused it with a liberal spraying of Lysol. Guaranteed to kill intruder germs.

  Patrick moved on to tackle the bathroom, and Win and I surveyed the sofa and its slit cushion covers.

  “We could fix the covers, then turn them over so the patched area doesn’t show,” I said. “Do you think it’s worth salvaging?”

  She thought for a moment and then said, “Let’s do it. I don’t want to feel that these people destroyed anything, even an old sofa.” So we wrestled the foam cushions out of their zippered covers and added the covers to the pile in the back of her car, and moved on to the kitchen.

  We wiped down the countertop and then the cupboards and drawers, washed the dishes that hadn’t broken, and started to put it all back together, like a film running backward. Win began scanning the kitchen area.

  “Where’s the coffee maker?” she asked.

  I looked around. There was the grinder, lying on its side under the table. But no coffee maker.

  I handed Win the grinder, and she set it on the countertop. “I’m really upset that they took Tobin’s coffee maker.” She sounded almost prim. Her lips were quivering and she sat in one of the kitchen chairs. “They took his coffee maker,” she said, her words punctuated with sobs, like hiccups. “They took Tobin’s coffee maker.”

  Patrick glanced out of the bathroom, and retreated—it was going to be a spectacularly clean bathroom. I sat beside Win at the small table. “I know,” I said. She didn’t need to hear that she could buy a new coffee maker. She needed the one that had belonged to her brother who had lived in this rustic cabin far from family, but still wanted his fresh-ground coffee every morning.

  When her sobs slowed, Win dried her face. She looked around at the kitchen, and decided this was enough cleaning for now.

  As we filed out, she locked the front door behind us. I handed Patrick my keys and asked him to drive my car so I could ride with Win, and climbed into her passenger seat.

  When we pulled up at the house she seemed calm. “Thank you so much, and please thank Patrick again for me—I want to head on to the Laundromat, and the store to pick up some things and dump the trash.”

  “Want company?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Stop back here when you’re done,” I said, and she agreed.

  I watched her drive off, then collected my car keys from Patrick and headed upstairs to my computer. I e-mailed George about the break-in, then my brother.

  The phone rang almost immediately. It was a 613 area code, Ottawa. I answered: Jameson.

  “I e-mailed you this morning,” I said, surprised.

  “Yes, I know.” This was his deliberately patient tone. His you’re-telling-me-something-I-already-know tone. “The break-in. Tell me about it.”

  So I did. I told him we’d gotten things cleaned up, a new lock installed. That we’d just been to the state police.

  “Nothing stolen?” he asked.

  “Nothing to speak of,” I said. “I mean, just a coffee maker. A really nice one, but that’s all.”

  “You got this newspaper assignment what, yesterday? And you met Tobin’s sister the day before?”

  It seemed longer ago, but yes.

  A long pause. “I don’t like this, Troy. Is she going to stay out there?”

  “I don’t know—maybe this will scare her off.” I didn’t say the obvious, that maybe that’s what it was meant to do.

  “Mmmm,” he said. “Keep me posted. And the next time something happens, call me, don’t e-mail.”

  I promised.

  Win arrived back, laundry finished, reporting that she’d found someone at a yarn shop who would repair the sofa cushions, and had gotten more groceries.

  “So you’re going back out there?”

  She nodded, and I gave her a look.

  “We have the new lock,” she said stubbornly. “I can call Dean if I need to. And my cell phone works there just fine.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But I’m coming out too, until you finish getting it set up. And I’ll leave Tiger with you for a night or two.”

  “You don’t need to do that—”

  I stood. I think she realized I was as stubborn as she was. We drove out in tandem, and I helped carry in the clean bedding and towels. We worked in unison, putting sheets on the bed, towels in place, food in the fridge. She’d picked up a new coffee maker, a cheap one she could leave behind without a second thought. Tiger lay beside the woodstove, watching.

  “You have some questions, for the article,” she said.

  “Sure. You mean now?” I was startled.

  “Why not? You probably want to get started as soon as you can. And this certainly slowed things down for you.”

  I looked around. I didn’t even have a pad of paper. “I didn’t bring anything with me—I usually use a tape recorder or take notes on my computer.”

  “You can use my laptop. It’s right here, and I have extra flash drives.” She pulled her computer out of its small bag and set it on the kitchen table, and handed me a flash drive.

  This felt odd and it wasn’t how I’d planned to do this, but one thing you learn as a writer is to talk to people when they w
ant to talk. You never say Maybe later. And I’d passed normal journalistic boundaries some time ago: I’d known the victim, lived with his girlfriend, and was becoming friends with his sister.

  I started with basics: date of birth, names of schools. As we went, Win began talking faster and faster, anecdotes spilling out between names and dates and places. I can type just about as fast as most people talk, if I don’t capitalize or punctuate or try to spell correctly. I didn’t look down, just let my fingers dance across the keys. Finally she paused.

  The room had gotten chilly, and I got up to put more wood on the fire. Win started poking around in the kitchen. “I think I’ll see about fixing something to eat,” she said. “Are you hungry?” I nodded and she got out cheese and bread and butter and tomato soup, the fancy kind in boxes, and made toasted cheese sandwiches. She asked if I thought Tiger would like the can of beef stew she’d found on the shelves. Tiger did—apparently Dinty Moore beat Purina One all hollow. We ate the crispy cheese sandwiches and sipped the soup, in a companionable silence.

  Then she started talking again, and I went back to typing, page after page, getting it down nearly verbatim. Some of this was background: Tobin’s favorite books, the stuffed rabbit he kept on his bed, the first time he picked blackberries on a visit to their grandfather. Some of it was her painting a picture of their childhood, a picture she needed to paint: parents who seemed detached, a grandfather the kids adored, how it all fragmented after Trey drowned. She didn’t say what had brought Tobin to the Adirondacks, why he dropped out of college after their brother died, what happened in the years between. But she was telling the story she needed to tell in the way she needed to tell it, and I wasn’t going to push. Not now. Eventually I stood and stretched, and went to take Tiger out and bring in more firewood. It was snowing, and snowing heavily. Win held the door open as I carried in an armload of wood and looked out into the darkness.

  “I should go,” I said. “The snow’s starting to come down fast.”

  Win shivered. “Troy, you’re going to think I’m the biggest baby in the world, and I’m sorry, I’d thought I would be okay … but is there any chance you could stay here tonight? After the first night, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”