The Cabin (25 page)

Susanna gave a small shiver, he pulled the comforter

over them. She could feel herself drifting to sleep, her

head on his shoulder. For that moment, it was if she’d

never left him and had told him long ago about Beau

McGarrity and Alice—and wasn’t still keeping any se-

crets from him.

��

Thirteen

Jack awoke at dawn, reached over and switched on the

electric blanket. He wasn’t cold. He was taking the

down comforter and thought it’d be decent to make sure

Susanna didn’t get cold. He grabbed the comforter off

the bed, pulled on his pants and gathered up the rest of

his clothes, heading for the bedroom door.

He knew Susanna. Never mind that she was his wife

and Iris, Maggie and Ellen had all seen them wake up

in bed together—this was different. Easier for Susanna

to have him wake up in the loft. Less complicated, less

explaining, less trying to pretend she didn’t care that

they all knew what she’d been up to in the dead of night.

He glanced back at her, asleep in the gray light. He

felt a rush of emotion, a tightness in his chest. He knew

her love for him had enriched her life, and there was no

question his love for her was soul deep. But this was his

breaking point. He wasn’t going back to San Antonio

with matters between them unresolved. There’d be no

more status quo.

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He crept through the kitchen and past the fireplace

in the living room, over to the stairs and up them as qui-

etly as he could. The sofa bed in the loft was still made

up with its scrawny blankets. He climbed in, pulling the

comforter over him and shivering for a few minutes

until the bed warmed up.

In the morning, he discovered it was Iris who kept

turning down the heat. If an old lady could take it, so

could he. She said it was because of tuberculosis. She

was drinking coffee at the table while the girls were

making whole-grain pancakes.

“Tuberculosis was the scourge of the late nineteenth

and early twentieth century,” she said. “We forget now-

adays. They called it the White Plague. In the 1870s, a

doctor by the name of Edward Livingston Trudeau came

to Saranac Lake when he thought he was dying of tu-

berculosis, but he ended up being ‘cured.’ He credited

a strict regimen of mountain air, rest, good food, light

exercise and a lack of stress. He was convinced it would

cure other sufferers, and he helped turn Saranac Lake

into a health resort. Thousands upon thousands came

until antibiotics were discovered in the late 1940s and

1950s. They’d stay weeks, months, even years, until

they were well enough to leave. They called it ‘curing,’

although the disease didn’t actually go away—it went

into a kind of remission, as I understand.”

Jack poured himself a mug of coffee, said good-

morning to the girls and sat at the table across from their

great-grandmother. “This cure involved a cold house?”

Iris ignored his teasing tone. “Patients were required

to spend eight to ten hours outside. It didn’t matter the

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time of year. When you drive into Saranac, you’ll see

many of the older homes have porches—upstairs, down-

stairs, the front of the house, the back. Wherever they

could stick one. The porches gave the patients a place

to sit or lie down while they did their outdoor curing.

They call them ‘cure cottages.’”

“Amazing,” Jack said, meaning it.

“My mother was a nurse at a cure cottage when she was

young. My father took her away from that life and brought

her up here to Blackwater Lake. But she never lost her be-

lief in the restorative powers of the mountain air.”

Jack drank some of his coffee. “Iris, it’s ten de-

grees out.”

She smiled, not too sweetly. “It’s supposed to get into

the upper twenties today. That’s not bad for the Adiron-

dacks this time of year.” She adjusted her shawl, and if

she was cold, Jack knew she’d never admit it. “The Tru-

deau cure was remarkably effective. Tuberculosis tends

to run in cycles of wellness and sickness—patients often

had to return for another round of curing.”

Maggie swung over with a platter of hot pancakes.

She was wearing a brightly striped top from about 1976.

“Yuck. I’m never taking antibiotics for granted again.”

“They ended Saranac’s days as a health resort. For

years,
everyone
came up here. Actors, writers, politicians,

bankers, war veterans, European royalty, circus people.

There were curing places for the rich and the poor. But I

don’t remember it as a sad place at all. People had hope—

they didn’t come to die. They came to cure.”

“Then why are you going to the cemetery?” Ellen

asked, setting a pitcher of hot syrup on the table.

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Jack grimaced at her frank question, but Iris took it

in stride. “Because I’m an old woman,” she said. “Most

of the people I knew when I was a girl are dead.”

“Oh,” Ellen said. “
Duh.
Sorry, Gran.”

Jack helped get plates, forks and napkins on the

table, making no comment about Susanna’s absence.

He remembered the taste of her, and almost spilled the

hot syrup.

While he was distracted, Maggie and Ellen cooked up

a plan for him to take them cross-country skiing while

their mother and Iris went and looked at old tombstones.

Many of their friends in Texas skied in Colorado and

Utah, but he’d never been big on winter sports. He pre-

ferred his ten-mile runs, the weight room and his heavy

bag. But he was cornered, and he knew it. Cross-coun-

try skiing. He’d gone a few times when he was at Har-

vard. Fell a lot.

He’d planned to check out Destin Wright, then track

down Alice Parker and figure out who’d slipped into

Iris’s house the other night and hit him on the head. Des-

tin was a possibility. It wasn’t as if he was after Susanna

for pizza money.

But he said, “Sure, I’ll take you cross-country skiing.”

Susanna finally wandered out of her bedroom, look-

ing as if she’d done some lovemaking last night—but

Jack thought only he would notice. She was dressed for

tramping in a northern cemetery in the winter cold. A

heavy, expensive Norwegian sweater in a black-and-

white geometric print and slim black pants. Hair pulled

back. Very sexy.

She didn’t say good-morning to anyone until she’d

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211

got a mug from the cabinet and poured herself coffee.

Then she turned, leaning against the counter, her eyes

meeting his for an instant before she smiled. “Gran,

you ready?” she asked.

Maggie frowned. “Aren’t you going to eat? Ellen

and I made pancakes.”

“They smell wonderful. I’ll take a couple and eat

them on my way.”

“Cold? With no butter and syrup?” Ellen shuddered.

“Yuck.”

She and her sister headed upstairs, Gran behind

them, to get ready for their excursions. Jack cleared the

table, aware that Susanna was on edge, maybe a little

tired and testy. He came up next to her, touched the hair

at her ear. “Mad I climbed into bed with you—or mad

I climbed out?”

A smile tried to develop. “You stole my down com-

forter.”

“Ah.”

“And I’m not mad. Preoccupied.”

Probably because she still had to tell him about the

ten million. He’d told her he always knew everything,

but she hadn’t seemed to take that as an indication he

knew about the money. Well, he was in a fine mood. His

head didn’t hurt anymore, and he’d made love to his

wife last night. Find Alice Parker and figure out who got

the jump on him the other night, and he’d be a charmed

man. He didn’t even mind cross-country skiing for a

couple of hours.

“We can talk at lunch,” he said. “I need to make a

couple of calls.”

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She nodded, but he could see she had a lot on her

mind.
And
she was tired. He could have gone easier on

her last night, but she hadn’t seemed to want that—and

their second bout of lovemaking had been at her insti-

gation. Not that he objected.

He started for the mud room, but she caught the tips

of his fingers. “Jack—no regrets about last night?” she

asked softly. “That’s not why you left?”

“No, that was to spare you the knowing looks this

morning.”

But she didn’t smile. “It wasn’t the fire we let go out,

you know. It was the light.”

“What?”

Now she did smile, shaking her head. “Nothing. Go

make your calls. We’ll talk later.”

To get a better signal, he went outside and stood in

the driveway in half a foot of fresh snow. The sun was

out, sparkling on the white drifts, and it was very cold.

Fortunately, Sam Temple picked up on the first ring.

“I’ve got two minutes before hypothermia sets in,”

Jack said. “Any news?”

“Yes.” Sam was all business. “I tried to get through

to you last night—I left a message on your voice mail.

McGarrity took off.”

Jack went very still, focusing on a nearby pine tree,

its branches arced almost to the ground with snow. Wind

gusted suddenly up from the lake, dumping some of the

snow off a branch, spraying it in his face. “Where?”

“His cleaning lady said hunting. I don’t believe it. He

took his truck.”

“Have you checked with the airport and airlines?”

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213

“Nothing yet. There’s more, Jack. The cleaning

woman overheard McGarrity talking to Alice Parker

way the hell back in January. Her English isn’t great, but

it’s better than McGarrity thinks.”

Jack’s Spanish was decent, but Sam was fluent, mov-

ing between Spanish and English with ease. “What’s

your schedule like?” Jack asked him.

“Already talked to the captain. I’m on my way to the

airport now. My flight leaves for Boston in an hour.”

“How much time does McGarrity have on us?”

“A day. The cleaning woman said he went alone. No

hunting buddies.”

“I’m missing something,” Jack said. “I’ve been miss-

ing it all along.”

“I’ll call you when I get to Boston.” Sam’s tone

lightened, static creeping into their cell signal. “What

about you and Susanna? Has she come clean about

being rich?”

“No.”

“Just going to let her agonize and think you don’t

have a clue?”

“Susanna doesn’t agonize.”

“You know, if I had a rich wife, I’d be happier than

you are.”

“If you had a rich wife, you’d turn in your badge and

run for governor.” Jack could feel his jaw set hard, the

cold seeping into him. Sam had found out about Su-

sanna’s money on his own, from coming around the

house and talking to her. Jack hadn’t told him. “We

need to find McGarrity.”

Jack didn’t need to tell Sam Temple to watch his

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back. He knew. He was a professional, but he’d also

seen the crime scene pictures of Rachel McGarrity.

He turned to head back into the cabin, but Maggie

was there, shivering in the snow, her arms crossed on

her chest. She wasn’t wearing a coat. “I came out to ask

you what time you want to leave.” Her dark eyes lev-

eled on him, wide and scared, with a touch of her

mother’s grit. “Dad….do you mean Beau McGarrity,

the man they think shot his wife?”

“Maggie—”

“Is he after Mom?” she asked quietly.

Jack settled back on his heels. When she was a little

girl, Maggie had wanted to be a Texas Ranger. Now she

was talking about anthropology. He moved toward her,

noticed she hadn’t changed into a warm high-tech shirt.

She still had on that one from the 1970s. “Why would

McGarrity be after your mother?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know anything, if that’s

what you’re thinking. God forbid anybody tells me any-

thing. You were talking to Sam, right?”

Jack didn’t like one thing about this conversation.

“Sergeant Temple, yes.”

“Dad. I’m not stupid. If you’re here and this guy Mc-

Garrity has disappeared—”

“No one said he’s disappeared.”

She snorted. “You asked if Sam—Sergeant Tem-

ple—checked the airports and airlines. That sounds like

disappearing.”

“He said he went hunting.”

Maggie’s teeth were chattering now, partly with the

cold, but also anger. “Why don’t you just tell me to

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215

mind my own business? I wouldn’t mind that as much

as you acting as if you’re telling me something when

you’re really not telling me anything.”

Jack tried to keep himself from glaring at her. Why

the hell couldn’t his wife and daughters be
easier?
“I

don’t want you or your sister to worry about Beau Mc-

Garrity or Alice Parker.”