Cold River - Carla Neggers [70]
“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