Chapter 5 #2
“These aren't luxury accommodations, by any means,” Eugene warned, his tone suggesting he'd dealt with disappointed city dwellers before.
“Most of the heat is from the fireplaces, but there are propane space heaters. Running water works but takes time to warm up. The generators can manage the lights, plus a handful of electronics, but they have a mind of their own. Push them too far, and they will trip, leaving you in the dark.”
“The accommodations will work just fine,” Brook replied, maintaining eye contact.
“Stocked each cabin with firewood myself,” Eugene continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “More in the shed behind cabin six if you need to replenish. There are basic supplies in the kitchenettes—coffee, tea, and some canned goods. Town is about ten minutes by car if you need anything else.”
A particularly sharp gust of wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it the clean scent of pine and wood smoke. Eugene seemed impervious to the cold, standing motionless as snowflakes began to drift down around them.
He shifted his weight, and for the first time, Brook noticed he was slightly favoring his left leg.
An old injury, perhaps, aggravated by the cold or the exertion of preparing the cabins.
He carried himself with the rigid posture of someone who'd spent a lifetime engaged in physical labor and refused to yield to its toll on his body.
“Nearest neighbor is a half mile through those trees,” Eugene added, jerking his head toward the eastern edge of the clearing. “But folks around here keep to themselves, especially in winter. Won't hear much besides the wind and maybe some wildlife.”
Eugene removed his right glove before reaching into his pocket. He then extended four sets of keys toward Brook.
“Cabins one through four,” Eugene said as he began to work his glove back on. “They’re all the same.”
Each key was attached to a small wooden tag with numbers carved into both sides. She slipped them into her pocket to keep her hands warm.
“If you’re not Feds, then you’re private detectives.” Eugene continued to push the issue, as if he wasn’t comfortable renting out his cabins without knowing who was staying in them. “That Moore girl died eleven years ago. Since I know they didn’t hire you, why are you here to stir up the past?”
She kept her expression neutral.
Sylvie wisely remained silent, allowing Brook to take the lead.
“I probably don’t need to tell you that desperation makes people protective of what little they have, and it took Brian and Jillian a long time to get their feet back underneath them.
” Eugene didn’t seem fazed by the bitter wind in the least. Brook wished she could say the same.
It was a struggle to keep her teeth from chattering as another gust hit her face first. “The past is the past. You should leave it alone.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bernard, but we can’t do that,” Brook replied as she curled her fingers into the palms of her hands.
“It’s come to our attention that another murder took place around a year after Heather’s death, with similarities that can’t be ignored, not that your friend in the sheriff’s department would be privy to that information. ”
“Boone was just looking out for me,” Eugene warned, lifting a finger to get his point across. “We watch out for our own around here.”
“As it should be,” Brook replied with a nod of respect. “I come from a small town myself, Mr. Bernard. I also know that locals tend to ignore all the warning signs when something…someone…isn’t right. We can sometimes protect the wrong people. All we want is to give closure to the Moores.”
“Well, I knew the young woman, and she was a sweet thing. Good with the children she taught. Always had paint under her fingernails.” The memory seemed to catch him off guard, and he visibly tightened his jaw, as if he could push them away.
“She used to buy those little watercolor sets from the drugstore for her students when the school budget ran out every year. The elementary school eventually shut down and was merged into the district a town over. Thirty-five-minute bus ride on the back roads, but the weather sometimes makes it so they have a lot of snow days.”
Brook stored that information away, making a mental note to speak with Eugene in depth at a later date. She no longer had any sensation in her legs. The cold had saturated her jeans, and it was as if they were stiff as ice.
“I live about a hundred yards north of here. I don’t carry a cell phone, but I do have a landline.
Left the number on my contact sheets in the cabins.
Call if there’s a problem.” Eugene took a step backward, creating distance between them that was more symbolic than physical.
“Just remember, Ms. Sloane, truth doesn't always bring peace.
Sometimes it just tears open old wounds, and this town's had enough of that.”
Without waiting for a response, Eugene turned and began to trudge away.
Neither she nor Sylvie moved until he’d settled himself on the leather seat of the snowmobile.
He turned the key, bringing the engine to life, before pulling down his ski goggles.
He finally disappeared among the first line of trees at the edge of the clearing.
“Was that a veiled threat?” Sylvie murmured as she began to shift her weight back and forth. In addition, she lifted the scarf to press it against her red cheeks. “I don’t think he took too kindly to your suggestion that one of the locals murdered Heather Moore.”
“No, he didn’t,” Brook said quietly as she turned to collect their luggage.
Sylvie followed suit, and by the time Brook opened the back of the SUV, another thought had occurred to her. Small towns like Harrowick survived on carefully maintained equilibria. Social balances that had adjusted over time to accommodate tragedy, to absorb it into the collective narrative.
The resistance had already begun.
It would escalate as they dug deeper, too. Someone in this town had information about Heather Moore's death. And by dinnertime, every resident of Harrowick would know that S&E Investigations wasn’t here at the request of the Bureau.