скачать книгу бесплатно
“Or loved him,” Fletcher finished.
Maggie paused, then looked over her shoulder. “Do you always have to have the last word?” She repositioned the bag and tramped out, letting the door slam behind her.
Fletcher grinned. “Always.” He walked to the screen door of the cabin and watched her slender figure disappearing through the trees, wondering how much of her grief was real and how much was a calculated act. He knew she had intentionally handed him three major suspects on a silver platter, all without lying or stretching the truth, and he was aware that whomever she was protecting had probably been carefully excluded from the conversation. He sat down on his now-clean bed and took the notebook out, adding a few sharp scribbles to it, pausing only to click the pen twice. You’re playing a dangerous game, Maggie, he thought. And you’re not as good at it as you think you are.
Aaron flopped down on Fletcher’s ancient sofa, the bottle of Green Label Jack Daniel’s held loosely in his hand. “Men should stick together, me boyo,” he said, exaggerating the fake Irish brogue he always adopted when intoxicated, or when he wanted to appear intoxicated.
Fletcher noticed that the bottle was open but still full, and he wondered if it was the first bottle…or the second. He went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee anyway, hoping to distract his friend from the whiskey. “You aren’t going to try to convince me you have women problems, are you?”
Aaron wagged his finger in the air, at no one in particular.“I am not as much the ladies’ man as my publicist would have the world believe, dear Fletcher. It is far more hype than history.”
Fletcher returned to the dimly lit living room and sat opposite Aaron in the sagging leather recliner he refused to get rid of. “So those thousands of women you’ve dated…”
Aaron shook his head. “Less than a hundred, I promise.”
Fletcher laughed. “More than most men can claim. Or would want to.”
Aaron sat up and peered at the bottle, clearly wanting to take a swig. “Well, most men could claim a bit of love along the way.”
Fletcher leaned back in his recliner. “If you’re expecting sympathy from me, you’re going about it in the wrong way.”
Aaron shook his head. “Nope. No sympathy. Just want to crash on your couch tonight. Don’t feel like driving back up to the retreat.”
Fletcher frowned. “What about the apartment? Korie—”
Aaron laughed abruptly. “Korie?” He paused and finally drank from the bottle, but the swallowing seemed painful and he grimaced. “Korie is…Korie is ‘en salon’ tonight. She couldn’t care less.”
“‘En salon’?”
Aaron put the bottle on the floor, lay down on the couch and propped his feet up on one arm. “Holding court with all her ‘artistes.’ She has illusions she’s the reincarnation of Mabel Dodge. Has dreams of re-creating a salon society and influencing the art world the way Dodge did a hundred years ago. They are all over the apartment. She won’t miss me until it’s time to order something, pay for something or tip someone for carrying something she’s bought.”
Fletcher was silent. After a moment, Aaron sat up. “I’m going to be sick now. Can I still stay?”
“As long as you want.”
Aaron laughed again as he headed for the bathroom. “Judson, my dear fellow, you may regret that offer.”
Fletcher grimaced as the door shut. Judson, the one name he hated hearing, the one name Aaron teased him with the most. It was going to be a long night.
The night turned into a week, and Korie had never once called or checked up on Aaron once during those seven days. Aaron’s anger and disgust at his wife dulled to a quiet cynicism, and at the end of the week, they had returned in separate cars to New Hampshire. Now she stood to inherit everything. If—and it was a big if—Maggie was right.
Fletcher threw his notebook on the bed and opened the door. Gazing up toward the lodge, he could see Maggie on the deck, looking in his direction. After a moment, she walked down the steps and disappeared along one of the trails. But if Korie were the killer, why would Maggie protect her? They hate each other. Fletcher smiled wryly. Perhaps, Maggie, me dear, you’ve muddied the water more than you realize.
Her feet cold and her mind numb, Maggie tramped through the woods behind the lodge again. She’d tried to do her job, had called the restaurant about tonight’s dinner and the cleaning service for Fletcher’s cabin, but nothing else. Her anger and grief of the morning seemed to have faded away, but it left nothing behind except a nagging twinge of guilt. Work should be her therapy, but she felt frozen, and everything in her office reminded her of Aaron. Thinking some cool air might help, she had gone out on the deck, then realized she just wanted to walk. She’d started down one of the trails, then left it, wandering aimlessly at first over the soft ground, relishing the last of the tiny white and purple wildflowers that dotted the ground in between spots of bright orange fungus on the tree roots. This land had been farm country until about seventy-five years ago, so the trees were relatively young and sparse, allowing for a lot of undergrowth. Maggie liked spotting new plants and trying to identify them, making almost every trip a bit of an adventure. She stopped, pulling a slice of bark off a birch tree. Breaking it into tiny bits as she looked around to get her bearings, she realized she was gradually heading west toward the edge of the property and an old logging road that only had one destination: Cookie’s.
Cordelia Holokaj, but all her nieces and nephews called her Ciotka Cookie. Maggie had found the Hansel-and-Gretel cottage on one of her first escapes into the woods to get away from the flaring temperaments of the retreat’s writers. Cookie had taken her in, served her hot chocolate and fresh gingersnaps, and told her stories from the world wars that made the retreat’s resident writers sound like poor amateurs. Cookie’s had been her retreat ever since.
The cottage always smelled like wood smoke, ginger, fresh bread and cabbage, and today was no different. Maggie stepped across the threshold and inhaled, much of her tension flooding away. “It’s so good to be here,” she murmured as Cookie gave her a hug. She bent down and scratched Cookie’s ancient mutt, Pepper, behind the ears. The overweight dachshund/sheltie mix grunted her contentment with the gesture.
“I was wondering when I’d see you,” Cookie said, her voice like gravel in a blender from her almost eighty years of cigarettes and New England winters. She motioned for Maggie to sit in one of the doily-covered horsehair chairs that crowded a tiny living room clustered with pictures, icons and books. A rickety upright piano sat against one wall, its stool covered with a well-worn blanket and its ivory keys yellow from years of enthusiastic fingers.
Maggie sat, curling her long legs beneath her, in one of the chairs next to the fireplace. Pepper waddled over to a spot between the chair and the fire, turned around once, then sank to the floor with a satisfied sigh. Pepper’s low, broad body was a perfect match to Cookie’s comfortable and huggable size.
Maggie took the offered cup of chamomile tea and found herself staring blankly into the gentle blazes of Cookie’s low fire. Cookie waited, stirring her tea and munching on a gingersnap.
“I didn’t realize how much it would hurt now that he’s gone,” Maggie said, finally. Cookie merely nodded and handed the younger woman a cookie. Maggie held it, then laid it on the arm of the chair. “I mean, I hadn’t loved him—I mean, been in love with him—for a long time. But, I mean, to have Korie acting like…and Fletcher MacAllister running around as if…” Maggie’s voice trailed off. Her numbness was giving way to confusion. What had happened to the resolve she’d felt earlier, to keep Fletcher at bay?
“What are you afraid of?”
Maggie was silent, uncertain if she should even tell Cookie.
The old woman cleared her throat. “This is a small town, Maggie. Never forget that. Never. Jackson’s Retreat does not exist in a vacuum. Word gets around. We mostly know who’s sleeping with whom, married or not. Or married to someone else. We also tend to know who’s trying to make a move, and whether the proposition’s been accepted.”
Maggie stared at her. “What are you saying?”
Cookie’s gaze was steady. “I’m saying most everyone around knows who Korie was sleeping with, and I don’t mean Aaron. How long are you going to keep quiet about it?”
“As long as I have to. Enough people have already been hurt.”
Cookie nodded. “One of them even killed.”
The tears slid from Maggie’s eyes and she set her cup aside. She got up, then knelt in front of Cookie, burying her face against the old woman’s knees. “Cookie, I was so angry! But now it just hurts. And I’m so scared.”
Cordelia Holokaj’s Polish parents had been killed in the concentration camps of World War II, and her only son had disappeared into the jungles of Laos, never to return. She knew grief, and fear, like few other people. She stroked Maggie Weston’s auburn curls. “You’ve gotta keep your head clear, baby. Don’t let what you felt for Aaron get in the way here. Don’t be lying to Fletcher MacAllister. Not only is it wrong, but it’ll come back to haunt you quicker than anything else you can do.”
Maggie raised her head, her eyes pleading. “But he could destroy everything I love.”
Cookie shook her head. “Not him. What’s done is done. He’s gonna shine some light on it, but his being around doesn’t make it more or less true.” She wiped Maggie’s face with her apron, and pushed her shoulders back. “You’re stronger than this. Be who you are. And stop lying to the man.”
Maggie got up and sat back in her chair. “I haven’t lied to him.”
Cookie raised both eyebrows. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
Maggie chewed her lower lip.
Cookie nodded. “Small town. Very small town.”
Maggie picked up her cup and stared into the tea.
Cookie watched her for a few moments. “What else, baby? This isn’t just about Aaron.”
Maggie sat up a bit straighter. “Not sure. Maybe Fletcher. I tried to lie to him, but I couldn’t—”
“Good thing. You’re a lousy liar. God’s too close to your heart.”
“Mama said it was ‘God’s finger’ poking at you.”
“Good mama. She knew you. When you believe as strongly as you do, it’s hard to turn your back on what you know is right, what you know God wants you to do.”
Maggie’s mouth twisted. “Yet I can’t let him know about—” She stopped and sipped her tea, her eyes starting to water. “He confuses me. He’s different than I remembered.”
“What’s different?”
Maggie shrugged. “I’m not sure. I saw him in his cabin this morning, and he was so calm, almost as if he were determined to make me talk.” She smiled. “And talk I did.”
Cookie snorted. “And you didn’t lie to him.”
Maggie shook her head.
“Just threw a little dirt around?”
Maggie stared at Cookie, a bit of her humor finally breaking through. “Now why in the world would I want to do that?
The old woman wagged her finger. “Now don’t think you can start trying to fool me either, baby. I know you too well.” She then stood up, motioning for Maggie to follow. “Come on. I have some dough rising on the stove. Let’s go whack some bread around.”
Maggie smiled finally and followed the old woman into the kitchen.
A local restaurant catered the retreat’s evening meals. Every day Maggie would help them set the trays of food on the counter separating the kitchen from the open and airy main room of the lodge, and the writers would go down the buffet line. Today was no different. As the restaurant workers left, Maggie started the coffeemaker, set out plates, napkins and glasses, then pulled assorted soft drinks, carafes of tea and Scott’s requested spring water out of the refrigerator.
She looked over the spread once more, then frowned. Three of the coffee cups were missing. She found one in the dishwasher, and she washed it and put it on the counter. She crossed the lodge to Tim’s room, knocking softly. He occasionally took coffee to his room after breakfast.
There was no answer, and she pushed the door open slowly. She hated invading his privacy; this was his home, too. Tim had only been here a few months, but he was as much a part of Aaron’s “extended family” as she was. She, for one, was grateful for Tim’s patience. They’d lost two groundskeepers before due to Aaron’s temper.
Tim’s room smelled faintly of machine oil and freshly mowed grass, but it was relatively neat. A computer that she had given him took up most of his desk, surrounded by printouts from landscaping sites and veterans groups. I didn’t know he was a veteran, Maggie thought. She tried not to look at the other papers, already feeling like a spy.
The two missing cups were on the nightstand, and Maggie grabbed them quickly and hurried back to the main room. She washed them, put them on the counter then checked over the table one more time. Sighing, she poured herself a cup of coffee and plopped down on an overstuffed couch in front of the fire, grateful for a few minutes of peace.
She looked around the room, feeling a melancholy sense of pride in what she saw. The A-frame lodge had been Aaron’s idea, as had many of the rules for the retreat. But the rest had been hers. She’d moved into the house when it was newly finished, still smelling of fresh wood and paint. She’d decorated it, shipping in some items from New York. Others were from local artisans. In addition to the main room, there were five bedrooms and a game room with a big-screen television in the basement. An extensive library and computer had been set up in the main room’s loft. A laundry and kitchen, which were open for anyone’s use, were at the beginning of the north wing, with her office on the other side of the main room from the kitchen at the end of the south hallway. One of the bedrooms was for visitors, with one each reserved for her, Tim and Aaron. The fifth one was reserved for one of the writers, and was a perk that was assigned on a first-come, first-deserved (in Aaron’s opinion, of course) basis. Currently, Tonya Marino, who had been at the retreat for almost two years, lived there, but she was so quiet and reserved, Maggie often forgot the young writer was even in the house.
Maggie had done it all, but the main room was her true source of pride. The room was perfectly square, with floor-to-ceiling panes of glass on the front and back walls and heavy oak paneling on the others. A fireplace interrupted the glass on the back wall, as did a door that led out onto the wooden deck. The sitting area Maggie had arranged in front of the fireplace was cozy and filled with fat pillows and thick throws to hold off the chill of the New Hampshire winters. The dining table, which could seat fifteen, was near the front, where the sloping front lawn could be seen during meals. That wall also let in the best sun of the day and gave the residents a view of gorgeous sunsets in good weather.
The colors throughout the house were rich and dark, more masculine than feminine, and the art of both sculptors and painters from the nearby town of Mercer dotted the walls, adding a dramatic brightness to the atmosphere. This was Maggie’s home as well as her workplace, and she cherished each piece. And she was terrified she was about to lose it all.
When Korie inherits…The thought was a weight in her head that both hurt and angered her as well as adding to her confusion. What would I do? New York was no longer home. She loved this place more than she’d believed she could. She loved Mercer, with its conservative yet artsy ways. The reserved but loving people there. And Cookie. She’d made a lot of friends here, far more than Aaron, who had stayed to himself, and Korie, who was seldom around except on the occasional weekends. Maggie swirled the coffee around in her cup, watching the brown liquid lap up the sides. A few drops spilled over. She watched them hit the hardwood floor, but she didn’t care. Why should I care about anything?
“Should I get you a mop?”
Maggie leaped to her feet, sloshing the coffee down the front of her skirt. “Fletcher MacAllister! Don’t you ever knock?”
His left eyebrow cocked. “I didn’t realize we had to.”
Maggie’s fist clutched the soaked fabric. “No, no. You don’t have to. But could you at least have the courtesy to make a little noise so you don’t scare a person half to death?”
He scuffed his feet.
Maggie glared at him, fighting a smile. He stared back, amusement lighting in his eyes.
“I’m starved! Let’s get this show on the road!” Scott Jonas’s voice rang out from the back door, and Maggie blinked first, turning to look at him. Lily, his wife, followed, tripping a bit as she stepped through the door. She grabbed the door frame with her right hand, since her right tightly gripped an open bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. Maggie winced, and glanced at Fletcher, whose eyes narrowed as he looked over Scott and Lily, head to toe. His focus lingered on the bottle, and Maggie felt a chill move through her. She started forward, forgetting about the wet spot on her skirt.
“Here, Scott, help me take the foil off the trays. Everything just got here, so it’s still hot.” Maggie opened up one tray after another, putting tongs or large spoons into each of the dishes.
“I’m not really all that hungry,” Lily announced. “I just came because we have to.” She plucked a glass off the bar and poured the last drops of champagne into it, frowning. Then she smiled sweetly at Maggie. “Sorry, hon, looks like I’ll have to go get another one.”
Maggie’s stomach cramped. She went to Lily and took the shorter, darker woman by the arm, speaking softly. “Don’t you think you should wait?”
Lily flipped her long hair over her shoulder. “No,” she said, in a loud stage whisper. “Why should I?”
Maggie closed her eyes. “Out of respect. And we have company,” she said, nodding at Fletcher.
Lily glared at her. “Respect? Give me one good—”
Maggie grabbed Lily’s wrists suddenly, locking eyes with her and startling the young actress. “Just because,” Maggie said firmly.
Lily froze, then slowly relaxed under Maggie’s gaze. Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Mitten. I know he was special to you.”
Maggie let go of her and pulled the empty bottle away. “Thank you. Please promise me that you’ll eat.” Lily nodded, looking suddenly very small and young as she sank down into a chair at the table.
Maggie went into the kitchen and paused, staring at the bottle in her hand. Most people would look at the expensive drink with affection. It was a symbol of so many celebrations. But Maggie despised it, despised what it had done to one of the most talented actresses she’d ever seen perform. And when Maggie refused to stock it for her, Lily had it shipped in, two cases a month, storing it in the cabin. It was an image that everyone at the retreat knew well: Lily and her bottle, wandering through the morning mist, like Catherine searching for Heathcliff on the moor.
Lily had promised she would try to cut down, but Maggie knew, all too well, that Lily used it to cope with her marriage recently—as well as other things. Maggie also knew that Lily sometimes appeared drunk when she wasn’t, just to keep Scott at bay. He hated it when she drank, and these days, Lily preferred him to be angry instead of affectionate.
Scowling, Maggie flung the bottle into the trash, where it landed with a leaden thud. She grimaced at the sound, and she felt flushed, as if her blood were racing. Please let her be acting. She promised to lay off it tonight.
Maggie returned to the great room, then realized that the room was much noisier. The rest of the residents had arrived and were gossiping and filling their plates. Maggie stopped, looking around.
They sat and started eating, talking about the day’s work. No one seemed to notice Aaron’s absence. Only a day had passed, and it was as if nothing had changed, and that any minute, the tall blond man who had so captivated her a few years ago would open the door and stroll into the room with that casual lanky way he had about him.
Maggie felt like screaming. How can you all be so callous? She stared out over the room, feeling numb again. Lily came to her, distracting her. The younger woman leaned close, whispering, “You didn’t tell me he was a cop.”
“He’s not anymore.”
Lily’s lips pursed. “Very funny, Mitten. Why is he here?”
“Korie wants him to be.”
“Korie!” Lily’s suddenly loud voice echoed, and several people stopped talking. Over her shoulder, Maggie could see Fletcher watching them.
Maggie nodded. “Yes—Korie,” she said, in her normal voice. Stepping away, she announced generally, “Korie won’t be here tonight. She called this afternoon, and she’s going to a show opening in Boston. She’ll be back tomorrow night, and will stay until—”
“Yeah, right.” Scott’s cynicism was undisguised. “I doubt we’ll see much of her ever again. She’s finally free.”
Fletcher had finished filling his plate and sat down on the opposite side of the table from Scott. “Why do you say that?”
“Who are you?” Scott asked, as he broke open the cap on a bottle of spring water.
“Fletcher MacAllister. I’m—”
“Judson MacLean,” Scott finished.
