Cold River (15 page)

“I understand you two go way back.” Vivian shuffled closer to the walk, the tips of her long skis edging out of the snow. “I don’t mean to be intrusive, but you know what I’m asking. Bowie will be working here for at least the next two weeks. We’re having company for New Year’s. He has a criminal record.”

“Honestly, Mrs. Whittaker—”

“Vivian.”

“Vivian. Honestly, I don’t know what you’re asking.”

She lifted her ski poles out of the snow and seemed to struggle to hold back a caustic response. “I’m asking, Hannah,” she said coolly, “if you and Bowie O’Rourke are romantically involved and if that’s going to be a problem for Lowell and me. That’s all. I’m sorry to be blunt, but with all that’s gone on here this year, I feel the need to speak my mind.”

“No problem.”

She settled back on her skis. “But you’re not going to answer me, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

Sean came out of the guesthouse and walked down the porch steps, but Vivian ignored him, her gaze leveled on Hannah. “I understand your parents are both gone and you’re alone in the world. Bowie must be a force of strength and continuity in your life.”

Hannah tried to keep any defensiveness out of her tone. “I’m not alone in the world. I have two brothers. We have assorted relatives, just none in a position to have been their guardian.” She glanced back at Sean, who seemed unconcerned about the ice on the walk. She turned to Vivian Whittaker. Why was she explaining herself to this woman? “I have to go.”

“The Robinsons have enormous respect for you and your accomplishments. I trust their judgment.” Vivian gestured toward her sprawling farmhouse on the hill. “Do you have time for coffee or tea? We’ve a fire going. Lowell’s filled the wood box to the brim. He loves his country chores.”

“Thank you, but I can’t stay.”

“Another time, perhaps.” Vivian smiled at Sean as he came closer. “I imagine you can’t wait to be back in California, given this cold weather.”

Hannah didn’t wait for his response. She lost her footing
on a slippery section of the walk but didn’t fall. She was used to ice. Cold. Long winters. This was her world, she thought as she headed to her car. Sean was from Black Falls, but it wasn’t his world any longer.

She half expected him to have blocked her in with Elijah’s truck, but he hadn’t. She yanked open her frozen car door. How much did Sean know about her father? How much did all the Camerons know and not say? Drew undoubtedly had been aware of Tobias Shay’s multiple arrests.

“I’ve done a lot of stupid things,” her father had told Hannah when she was eleven. “I’m not proud.”

“Then why don’t you be good?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

He hadn’t been an alcoholic, a drug addict or a sociopath. He’d been a man who’d made some very bad decisions and had never quite been able to keep his life together.

“I wouldn’t trade your father for a Prince Charming,” her mother had said.

Then again, maybe that hadn’t been a good decision on her mother’s part. Hannah had loved them both, just as she loved her brothers, who were now about to go off to California. She shivered, the cold wind downright painful.

Why did it feel as if Sean Cameron were stealing her brothers from her?

She knew it was ridiculous. Devin and Toby were doing what they wanted to do. Sean was just helping them.

He was suddenly behind her. “Your hands must be cold,” he said.

“Frozen. I should have worn gloves.”

“You were in a hurry.”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“I shouldn’t have let you come out here alone.”

“And how would you have stopped me?”

He smiled, the cold having no apparent effect on him.
“Would you like me to count the ways?” Before she could respond, he touched a thumb to her injured cheek. “Looks better today.”

“It feels better. My wrist, too. I see you’re not wearing gloves, either.”

“Serves us both right if we get frostbite. Bowie’s injuries look bad, but he’s just cut, scraped and bruised. And oblivious.” Sean eyed her a moment. “He wouldn’t tell me what you two talked about.”

“Stonework,” Hannah said. “He’s a stonemason. I’m the daughter of a stonemason. We often talk about stonework.”

Sean’s eyes narrowed as he stood back from her. Finally he said, “Go on. I won’t keep you out here in the cold. I’ll see you in town.”

“Sean—”

“It’s okay. Go.”

She climbed into her car. She could see Vivian Whittaker shuffling gracefully on her skis down to the little duck pond, covered now in snow, below the guesthouse. Hannah didn’t blame the woman for being suspicious. Who wasn’t, after the events of the past year?

As she backed out onto the road, she noticed Sean didn’t get into the truck and figured he’d go back and try again with Bowie. Would Bowie tell him about her questions about Drew and stonework and old cellar holes? Would he invite more Cameron scrutiny?

“I never should have come out here,” Hannah said to herself.

Her car had lost most of its heat. By the time she got it warm again, she’d be back at the café, with the same questions she’d started out with and no answers.

V
ivian paused in the soft snow on the bank of the pond. The ducks that had been there all summer and through the fall had vanished. She supposed it was because of the ice and cold, but maybe on some level they’d been aware of the violence in Black Falls and hadn’t wanted to be there any longer. It was how
she
felt, but she’d made a conscious decision not to give in to her fear and revulsion and be driven from her dream home in Vermont.

At least this morning. By this afternoon, she could easily change her mind and call a real estate agent.

She hated her conflicting emotions. All these strong emotions, period. She preferred a more sedate, predictable life.

A groomed trail would have been helpful, but she’d enjoyed breaking through the fresh snow. She’d dressed appropriately for the conditions, but the cold was worse than she’d anticipated, freezing her face, chapping her lips. She refused to give in to her discomfort.

She skied over to Lowell, who stood next to a weeping willow in front of an old stone wall. He’d tramped down the road in his boots and then through the snow to the pond.

“Hannah was here,” she said. “Did you see her?”

“Not to speak to, no.”

“I’m sure that’s a huge disappointment.”

“Vivian, please. Hannah’s an intriguing, lovely woman, but she’s not—”

“You’ve had an eye for her ever since we started to come up here. She’s not as pretty as Dominique, though, is she? And Beth with her copper hair and those deep turquoise eyes of hers. Hannah seems rather mousy in comparison.”

He reached down and dug snow out of the top edge of his boot. He had on a leather jacket that was perpetually either too warm or not warm enough for the conditions, never quite right. Typical.

“Are you going to speak?” she asked sharply.

“Hannah is hardworking and intelligent. She’s proved herself to everyone in Black Falls. We should applaud her success.”

Vivian scoffed at him. “What success? She and two friends own a small Vermont café, and she’s been in law school forever. She’s finally finished, but she hasn’t taken the bar exam yet. She’s not working as an attorney.”

“Judge Robinson thinks very highly of her.” Lowell rose, teetering slightly. He’d have been better off on skis or snowshoes than in boots. “Vivian, I don’t have my eye on Hannah or anyone else in Black Falls—or anywhere else for that matter. You do believe me, don’t you?”

Vivian felt a little aghast, and annoyed, at his crushed look. “Of course. I didn’t mean…” She suddenly realized she didn’t know what she’d meant. “Sean was with her just now. I think there’s something between the two of them. I really do.”

“I’d trust your instincts.” He raised a gloved hand and pointed at the guesthouse. “Have you talked to Bowie yet this morning?”

“No, I haven’t. I think he’s a complication for Hannah and Sean. It’ll be interesting to see what happens when Sean
returns to California. I just don’t want us to get caught in the middle.”

“I stopped in to see Bowie just now,” Lowell said. “I only stayed a minute. His injuries don’t seem to bother him or to be impeding his work.”

“It’s a hazardous occupation, being a stonemason.” Vivian repositioned her ski poles in the snow. “I wish he didn’t live just up the road. It’s unnerving. We’re here alone at night. He could just—” She stopped herself, then said, “Anything could happen. I hadn’t realized he’d moved back. Did you know?”

“I noticed smoke coming out of his chimney when I took a walk out past his place before Christmas. I assumed he’d moved back but didn’t think anything of it.”

“I wish you’d told me. If he’s got a temper, we don’t want to provoke him.”

She looked back toward the guesthouse and felt a dryness in her throat, a sense of dread she’d never felt before, even when Kyle Rigby and Melanie Kendall were guests there. But she hadn’t known they were killers. Bowie O’Rourke? What was he?

“Everything will be all right, Vivian,” Lowell said quietly.

Even his reassurances irritated her. She glared at him. “Just don’t start in on me again about getting a dog. I don’t want to hear it.”

She skied back over to the guesthouse, staying in the snow to the side of the walk as Bowie came out onto the porch. He looked terrible. In addition to his bruises and cuts, his heavily bandaged hand, she noticed his stubble of beard, his torn orange sweatshirt, his muscular build. Although he’d spent only sixty days in jail, he had the air of a hardened ex-convict about him.

“Mrs. Whittaker,” he said, his tone polite if not friendly.

“Is everything all right here?” she asked. “I know my
husband stopped by, but do you have any questions I can answer?”

“All set.”

He barely looked at her, and his distant manner made her wonder if he’d overheard her and Lowell. Well, what of it? She and her husband had been together for decades. They had a way of talking to each other that other people could either understand or not. She didn’t care if Bowie O’Rourke disapproved.

Bowie went back inside without further comment, and Vivian headed back to the tracks she’d made skiing down the slope from the farmhouse. Even with a trail, the going was much more difficult going back. She had to fight the wind as well as ski uphill, and seeing Hannah, Sean and Bowie had left her drained and uneasy.

She found Lowell coming out of the small woodshed behind the house. He’d carefully stacked cordwood inside and outside the shed all fall. “You’ll fill the wood box, won’t you?” Vivian asked him. “I want to keep a fire going all day. Just looking at flames makes me feel warmer. Doesn’t it you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You’re not even paying attention. Don’t just humor me.”

He tightened the latch on the shed door. “Are you sure you can tolerate being here? If you can’t, we can leave.”

“I can. I refuse…” She looked down the slope toward the guesthouse. “The more I think about Bowie, the less I like having him here. Do you suppose he could be involved with the murders?”

“I don’t want to believe anyone from here is involved.”

“No one does, Lowell, but we have to face reality. Whoever the mastermind of these killers is must be intelligent and calculating. Bowie seems too simple.”

“I suppose he could be involved without being the mastermind.”

She shuddered but felt a wave of irritation at her husband. “You say that without conviction. You like Bowie, don’t you? You think my concerns are ridiculous.”

“I didn’t say that.”

No passion. No emotion whatsoever. She stepped onto the back walk, suddenly feeling trapped in her skis. She couldn’t wait to be out of them. “Even if I’m wrong about Hannah and Sean, there’s still something going on between her and Bowie,” Vivian said, then sighed. “Well, these small-town connections are impossible for an outsider to follow. Joining the local historical society won’t change anything. These people will never let us in.”

“Would you want to be let in?” Lowell asked.

“I might. You never know. The Camerons and Harpers are interesting families.” She breathed in the cold air and took a moment to appreciate the beauty of their spot on the river, the play of light and shadows on the ice and snow, the starkness and stillness of the landscape. “I don’t want these killings to ruin this place for us.”

Lowell pretended not to hear her and headed to his neat woodpile in front of the shed. Vivian skied over to the back door of the farmhouse to tackle getting her skis off. “I’m going up to shower,” she called to him. “Please build a fire before I come back down, won’t you?”

He waved to her. “Of course.”

She left her skis by the back door and peeled off her winter clothing just inside. She took the stairs up to the master suite, welcoming its neutral colors and clean lines. She hadn’t wanted any fussy, clunky country furnishings. She immediately felt more centered. She looked out the window and saw a deer prancing through the leafless brush down by the frozen river. She’d left the bedroom door open and could hear Lowell clanking fireplace tools. The smell of woody smoke soothed her and irritated her at the same
time. A
little
smoke was fine, even homey, but he always created too much smoke when he started a fire.

She placed her forehead against the smooth, painted wood trim. Had she ever asked for much in life? A good husband and children. Friends. Holidays. Buying this place had been her idea, but it fit Lowell’s fantasies of playing the Vermont country gentleman.

What damn fools they’d been.

As she raised her head, a movement far to her left caught her eye, and she noticed a solitary male figure down by the duck pond. She couldn’t see him clearly from this distance, but it had to be Bowie. She stood a moment and watched him.

She heard a sound behind her and turned. Lowell was standing in the bedroom doorway. “Please don’t worry, Vivian,” he said. “All will be well.”

“I just don’t want any more disruptions to our lives. These people will never stop searching, digging. The Camerons, the Harpers.” She tried to stem a sudden sense of panic—and anger, she thought. Everything about the past five weeks infuriated her. “They’ll have their answers, no matter who’s hurt in the process. I don’t know if I could be so relentless. I think if I had the choice I’d just pretend nothing happened.”

Lowell didn’t respond for a moment. “Would you have me killed if you could?” he asked quietly.

Vivian gasped. “What a terrible thing to say! Of course not.”

He shrugged, standing still in the doorway. “You didn’t ask me if I’d have you killed.”

“You have a bizarre sense of humor,” she said irritably. “Let’s not talk about killing.”

He looked past her toward the window. “These killers aren’t about passion, Vivian. They’re just doing a job.”

“On behalf of people who
are
about passion.”

“Yes,” he said, “I suppose you’re right.”

His shoulders slumped and he turned back into the hall. In another moment, Vivian heard his footsteps as he headed back downstairs.

She wanted to throw a shoe at him. Why couldn’t he ever show some spine?

She peered out the window again, but saw only the wind blowing the fine snow into sunlit drifts.

Lowell sat in his favorite chair in front of the fire, roaring now, not so smoky—more to Vivian’s liking. He could hear the shower running upstairs and appreciated having the fire to himself. The big, comfortable room. His wife had decorated it, of course, but he’d approved her choices, the blend of modern and traditional. Neither of them had wanted moose heads on the wall or log-cabin quilts on the beds.

He slowly opened his fingers, giving a low moan at the pain that coursed through his hand. Fortunately, whatever bruising there was was faint, not obviously discoloring the skin.

He shut his eyes, forcing himself to remain calm. He’d always been cerebral and quiet, not one to let emotions intrude on his work. Lately, however, he felt as if his life were spinning out of control and he were hanging on by his fingernails, just trying to survive.

Vivian would just tell him what a fool and a failure he was.

In a few minutes, when he heard her on the stairs, he got to his feet and slipped out to the back hall. He took his coat and walking stick and eased outside, not making a sound. He didn’t want her to follow him. He didn’t want company right now.

He walked down their long driveway back out to the road that wound along the river. The cold made him feel alive, energized. He continued down to the turnaround, but
Bowie’s van wasn’t there. He must have gone for supplies, or to take a lunch break.

Lowell paused, out of breath.

Vivian’s concerns about Bowie weren’t an overreaction.
He
was concerned. Bowie O’Rourke was the perfect choice for opportunistic killers looking for an ally in Black Falls—for someone to deal with a potential liability.

Melanie Kendall had become a liability. That was why she was dead now. If Elijah Cameron hadn’t killed Kyle Rigby and Kyle had failed in his mission to get rid of Nora Asher and Devin Shay, he, too, would have been a liability, marked for death. Both he and Melanie were professionals who’d understood the score.

The less you know about some things, the better
.

Lowell forced himself not to think about matters over which he had no control.

Hannah
.

Thinking about her calmed him. She was so brave, so beautiful. Seeing her with Sean Cameron didn’t sit well with him. Last night, again just now. Was she in love with Sean? With Bowie?

Were both men in love with her?

Lowell hardly felt the cold anymore. Vivian was right. Sean was everything her husband wasn’t.

He continued down the narrow road. It curved close to the river along an old stone wall. Would he have survived here two hundred years ago, with such harsh conditions?

Yes
.

He was a survivor.

He pictured Hannah’s soft mouth, her pale eyes and the gentlest spray of freckles on her cheeks. He’d been fascinated with her ever since he’d first walked into Three Sisters Café shortly after it had opened, when its future was still uncertain. He and Vivian had come to Black Falls shortly
after the bar fight at O’Rourke’s. He’d heard different accounts about Hannah’s role. He’d run into Drew Cameron not long after he and Chief Harper had gone to the river hollow to find Bowie.

“Bowie screwed up,” Drew had said. “No question. But I have a feeling he’s not telling all he knows about why he did what he did.”

“Do you think he was protecting someone?”

The older man had shrugged without comment.

Lowell had persisted. “Was he protecting Hannah?”

Again Drew hadn’t answered.

Lowell stared out at the ice formations on a bend in the river. What had Hannah seen yesterday at the crypt? What did she suspect?

What did she
know?

She wasn’t as meek as Lowell had thought. He’d expected her to run after she’d heard her name eerily whispered in the isolated cemetery. Instead she’d grabbed a shovel and kept coming, determined to find Bowie. She was strong—in her own way as tough as any Cameron or Harper, if softer, more vulnerable.