A Cold and Lonely Place: A Novel Read online

  I could imagine her setting them all straight, then buying everyone a round, comfortable in an unfamiliar setting with a bunch of strangers in a way I could never be. She seemed to have that skill, to fit in anywhere. The crowd had probably transferred their loyalty straight to her and, by extension, to Jessamyn.

  “Well, good, that’ll take some of the pressure off Jessamyn,” I said.

  “Do you think she’s gone to work? I heard someone leaving.”

  I shook my head. “Probably one of the guys going out to ski. I imagine Jessamyn’s still sleeping. She’s not working now; she got laid off.”

  Win raised her eyebrows.

  “Because of the thing with Tobin, because of all the news coverage.”

  She frowned. “Her employer can’t let her go because of that.”

  “Well, he did. They said business was slow, but it isn’t, not this time of year, and she was one of their best waitresses.” I didn’t try to explain that business owners here basically did what they wanted. If people wanted to fire you, they fired you. You either found another job or moved on. There was always someone willing to take your place.

  Win was silent a moment. “Troy, do you think you could … would you mind taking me out there?”

  My confusion must have showed.

  “To the lake, to the ice palace.”

  It didn’t surprise me. I guessed it’s what I would need to do, if it had been my brother who had died.

  On the way she asked if we could stop at the restaurant where Jessamyn had been working. I didn’t ask what she wanted to do, because I had a pretty good idea. She hadn’t liked Jessamyn losing her job, and she had decided to fix it. She did it masterfully, carrying off that person-of-importance thing Philippe did, possibly even better than he did. Win was pleasant and charming, and by the end the manager was in wholehearted agreement that not employing Jessamyn during this time of bereavement just wouldn’t do. I suspect he was on the phone before we were out the door, offering Jessamyn the best shifts. Someone would be annoyed at being bumped to afternoons.

  We fell quiet as we neared Saranac Lake. We parked behind the Lakeview Deli and walked across the street. Men were at work, cutting ice blocks, moving them with a forklift. A half dozen rows had been set into place, starting to reach toward the sky. You could see the footprint of the palace, a hint of what it would become. This felt more than a little unreal, as if I were replaying the last time I’d been out on this ice, before Tobin’s body had been found, before this had all become like a bad dream.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” I asked Win before we stepped onto the ice.

  She nodded.

  Matt Boudoin saw us, and didn’t manage to hide his surprise. I introduced Win, and he shook her hand.

  “I just wanted … wanted to see where Tobin was,” she said. His face reflected the pain on hers. Probably mine did too.

  He nodded. “Anything I can do, let me know.”

  I took her over to the wooden blockades set up around the hole. She walked to the edge to look over, and, I think without realizing it, reached out toward me. I grasped her hand and she held on while she looked down at the hole in the ice. Water had seeped in, and it was starting to freeze.

  Win pulled back and walked a few paces away, staring across the ice at the homes across the lake, blinking hard.

  “What was he doing out here?” she said, her voice faint.

  I shook my head. “Maybe just taking a walk, and went out too far.” She didn’t need to know the other things I’d thought of. Not now, maybe not ever.

  “It would have been dark then.”

  “Moonlight,” I said. “Just moonlight.”

  “It’s so cold.” I didn’t think she was referring to how cold it was now, but how cold it had been the night Tobin went missing, when he had gone under the forming ice of this lake. It didn’t seem that anything I could say would help, so I said nothing.

  We went back to the deli and bought cocoa, and drank it down like we were trying to warm our souls. A beep from my pocket told me I’d missed a call. I took my phone out and glanced at it: George. Might as well get this over with.

  “Listen,” I told Win, “the editor of the newspaper has been calling me. It’s just a few blocks from here and I’d like to stop in to see him. Do you mind? You could wait here. Or come with me.”

  Coming with me suited her, and she wanted to walk. By the time we reached the newspaper building the warmth of the cocoa had long since left us.

  I stepped into the newsroom, leaving Win on a chair in the front lobby. George was at his desk, punishing his keyboard. He didn’t look up for a few moments, and when he did he nodded and kept typing. When he finished, he pushed back from the desk.

  “Got your messages,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Let’s go in my office,” he said, standing up. I’d only been in his office once or twice—it was for business meetings, paperwork, and the rare occasion when someone was in trouble.

  I loved this place. I loved the newsroom and its vague smell of dust and newspapers and ink, its old desks and battered computers, the break room with the rickety table and chairs. I loved how the paper covered the parades, the births, the softball games, all the minutiae that made up this town, kept it from seeming like just another Adirondack village. If George was going to cut me loose, it would hurt—losing my connection to this paper would be like being shunned from the first place I felt I belonged. There was an odd taste in my mouth.

  Win looked up as we approached, and I introduced her to George. He shook her hand and muttered condolences, and led me into his office and shut the door.

  He pointed to an ugly metal chair. I sat.

  He cleared his throat. “Troy,” he started, then stopped. A lump grew in my throat. “Troy, I don’t know if you know, but there’s been some rumors.” He stopped again.

  I prompted him. “About Jessamyn and Tobin?”

  “Mmm. Sort of. More about them and you.”

  My expression told him I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “It was the kid I fired. You were right about him, Troy. I never should have given him a big story, but I took a chance on him. He had no judgment and no ethics. But because you took Jessamyn’s name out of his article he started a rumor that you, well, that you were mixed up with Jessamyn.”

  “Mixed up with?” I was confused.

  George’s face was red. He cleared his throat. “Involved with,” he managed to say. “And that Tobin was knocking her around, and that—”

  I stared at him, trying to take this in. “That we bumped him off? Or I bumped him off?”

  He nodded. So this was what the state investigator had been hinting at, although he’d seemed to be fishing as much as anything.

  George cleared his throat again, now all business. “Here’s what I want, Troy. I want you to do a series of articles on Tobin, three or four of them, in-depth, magazine-style. On him, his life before he came here, what his life here was like, how his death has affected people, how he died, whatever the police find out. And cover the piece that got on the Internet and the effect it had. I can put you on salary, or pay a flat rate per piece, your choice. You’ll own all but the first publication rights, so you’ll get the income if other papers pick it up or if you sell it to a magazine.”

  I stared at him. He was proposing a series that a New York Times or Washington Post reporter would do, not something that would run in a small-town paper with a circulation of six thousand. This would take time and energy and a lot of emotional resources. You couldn’t write this type of thing without digging deep.

  “George, are you sure?” This would stir things up for the paper, the town, for everyone involved.

  He nodded. “This is a good paper. This is a good town. We don’t deserve to be dragged through the muck—and neither do you or Jessamyn. I’m the one who hired the kid who started this, and I’m the one who let him try this story.”

  “I’ll need to ask Je
ssamyn and Tobin’s sister—it would involve them both, his sister the most.”

  “Bring her in,” he said.

  He explained it to her, succinctly and without the embarrassment he’d shown when talking to me. At the end she nodded.

  “I think it’s a great idea. I’ll help out however I can. And I think Jessamyn will be fine with it.”

  And, just like that, I had the biggest assignment of my writing career.

  He paused, and then pushed back from his desk. “Look,” he said. “This made the paper look bad. It made the town look bad. It made Tobin and everyone involved look bad. It’s my responsibility to set this right.”

  I looked at George. He knew what he was doing, I realized. In a way this assignment was a gift, a gift to make up for the article that had been sent around, the gossip, the effect this had had on me and my roommates and everyone involved. He knew this could win some acclaim for the paper, but it would also be my chance to set the record straight, to show the town and its people for what they were, to tell Tobin’s story, whatever it may be.

  It was a huge responsibility, and I had no idea if I was up to it. I took a deep breath.

  CHAPTER 18

  My mind was buzzing, firing on cylinders I hadn’t known I possessed. I could see the articles, the words on the page. I could see the arc of the story, the portrait of a young man’s life, of this town and its people and how their confluence ended in a death.

  “This could have a lot of repercussions for you and your family,” I told Win as we walked back to my car. “Do you want to talk to anyone? What about your parents?”

  She shook her head. “No, I think this is good. Maybe it’s time to air the linen.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I was thinking what I’d need to do, who I’d need to talk to. First on the list would be to tell Jessamyn. I’d mentally leaped past asking permission to wondering, How is she going to take this?

  As we were getting back into my car, Win turned to me. “I think I’d like to stay out at Tobin’s cabin while I’m here.”

  “What?”

  “His cabin. I want to stay out there. I just … it may sound silly, but I want to stay where Tobin stayed.”

  I glanced over at her. “I don’t think it’s silly at all, Win. I mean, it was your brother’s home. But it’s kind of desolate—do you think you’ll be all right out there?”

  “I think so. I’ll have my cell phone. And that fellow Dean lives nearby, right? So it’s not like I’d be completely isolated. I’ll ask the cabin’s owner if it’s all right with him.”

  She made the call as we drove, and I could tell it was going her way. “He knew Tobin at Princeton,” she said as she hung up. “He said he used to use the cabin all the time, but with a wife and new baby he never gets up here anymore. So it’s fine with him for me to stay there. Maybe in a year or two, when their baby is bigger, they’ll start coming up again.”

  “Do you want to go out there today?” I asked as we pulled up to the house.

  “I think so,” she said. “I’ll tell Jessamyn about it, make sure she’s okay with it. And I’ll tell her about the articles, too, if that’s all right. Then she’ll know it’s fine with me.”

  I nodded, and she went upstairs to find Jessamyn. They came down a few minutes later, Jessamyn happily telling us the restaurant owner had called and asked her back to work. Win didn’t mention her chat with him, and neither did I. They went off together, to shop for things for the cabin.

  I went up and sat at my desk. To say I was overwhelmed would be putting it mildly. I was going to have to interview people about a friend who had died, try to talk to Win’s parents, deal with bereaved sister and girlfriend, sort through rumor and innuendo, and weave it all into articles that were neither too maudlin nor too detailed. And do it all relatively quickly.

  I picked up the phone and called Baker, and filled her in.

  “What are you the most worried about?” she asked.

  “That I can’t do it,” I said promptly.

  “Of course you can,” she said just as promptly. “What else?”

  I thought. “That it will be really, really hard.”

  “That’s never stopped you, Troy. You didn’t know anything about team sports when you came here, and you were the best sports editor the paper ever had.”

  I thought more. “Afraid of what I’ll turn up.”

  “That you can’t help,” she said. “But you’ll deal with it.”

  I felt calmer when I hung up. But what I hadn’t articulated ran deeper: the fear that I would like this, too much—that I’d want to keep writing pieces this involved and difficult, and would no longer be content to write about rugby tournaments and sled-dog races and three-day canoe events.

  The phone rang. Baker again.

  “Mmm?” I said, meaning What’s up?

  “What’s Tobin’s sister like?”

  Baker never asked anything without a reason. “She’s nice, really nice. Sad, but not over the top or anything. Rich, I think.”

  “The guys are having a thing tonight at the Waterhole, sort of in Tobin’s honor. Matt Boudoin told people his sister was in town and they want her to come.”

  “Something organized?” I tried to picture the guys standing up in the bar, giving testimonials between rounds.

  “No, just the guys getting together. Talking. Drinking.”

  “So—I should take his sister.”

  “I think so. It’ll be good for the guys. And maybe for her.”

  And I can get some reactions, quotes to use in the articles. I didn’t say it out loud. Sometimes I hated it that my brain did this, went right to figuring out pragmatic things. And, I thought as I hung up, if there were any hints of rumors about me and Tobin or Jessamyn, it wouldn’t hurt for me to show up with Tobin’s sister.

  I checked the time. Jessamyn would be working, so I wouldn’t have to avoid asking her. I knew enough guys in Saranac Lake to introduce Win around, but they likely didn’t know Jessamyn. I figured they could handle meeting Tobin’s bereaved sister, but his girlfriend would be one bereaved female too many.

  I sent Win a text from my computer, which you can do if you know the person’s cell phone provider: Can you stop at the house before you go to the cabin?

  Sure thing, she texted back.

  • • •

  Win was in good spirits when she showed up. She and Jessamyn had made the rounds of the town shops, getting new sheets, groceries, warmer clothes. She showed me her thick mittens and insulated boots, more suited to the weather here than the ones she’d arrived with.

  “The guys in Saranac Lake are having a thing at the bar tonight,” I told her. “Sort of a get-together in Tobin’s honor. Nothing formal, just guys getting together. They told my friend Baker they’d like to meet you.”

  “Sure,” she said without hesitation.

  “It would be around seven. I could take you over there and introduce you.”

  “That would be great,” she said. “I’ll run out to the cabin and set things up, and then come back here—say, six thirty?”

  I nodded. “Listen,” I said as she rose to go, “do you know how to use a woodstove?”

  She stopped. I could see her thinking, realizing it wasn’t like a gas fire where you just turned it on.

  “I’ll come out and show you,” I said. You can’t explain a woodstove to someone; you pretty much have to show them. I led the way to the cabin, Win’s rental fishtailing slightly in the tracks my car made.

  It didn’t take long to get a fire going. I showed Win how to open the damper and vent, how to lay a fire and feed it, how to monitor the temperature gauge.

  “When you get too many ashes, you scoop them into the bucket.” I pointed to the metal can beside the stove. “But that takes a while.” I didn’t figure she’d be staying that long.

  “It heats up fast,” Win said as she moved away from the stove. She opened the small fridge and frowned at the contents. I could see it held lit
tle besides a bottle of ketchup. I suppose she expected to find curdled milk, withered fruit, dried-out containers of takeout. “I would have thought Tobin would have had some food here. I guess someone cleaned it out.”

  “I imagine so—maybe Jessamyn emptied it when she came out here a while back. Or Tobin’s friend Dean.”

  She nodded. “I’d like some coffee,” she said. “How about you?”

  “Sure,” I said. I could see a gleaming coffee maker in the corner, a fancy one, and Win rooted around in the cupboard before triumphantly pulling out a canister of coffee beans and a grinder. She smiled. “Tobin was insistent about fresh-ground coffee. I gambled that he’d have things here—I didn’t even buy coffee.” She buzzed the beans through the grinder and set the coffee to brewing, then served it in Tobin’s heavy white mugs, with half-and-half, and some thin Pepperidge Farm cookies on a plate.

  “Roughing it in style,” I said, raising the mug in a toast.

  She clinked mugs with me, and made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “That was Tobin. He loved his coffee. I used to tease him about it. It was one thing he would never economize on.”

  She buried her face in her mug, and it was a moment before she spoke again. “Troy, I want these articles to show Tobin’s life, good, bad, whatever. I want them to show who he was and what he could have been.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said. I tried not to show that this rattled me—she was taking an enormous amount on faith. As far as I knew she’d never read any of my articles, just that one report on Tobin’s death. I spoke up: “Win, this may turn up stuff you don’t like. I’m going to have to ask a lot of personal questions. This isn’t going to be easy.”

  She gave a half laugh. “I know,” she said. I hoped she did.

  It was warm now in the cabin. I showed Win how to add wood to the stove, how to poke the logs and keep the fire going.

  “You’ll be okay here now?” I said. She nodded, and I left for home. I wasn’t entirely sure her staying out there was a good idea, but she seemed determined.

  CHAPTER 19