The Kingdom - Peter Collinson

He was the only guest aside from Mr. Hodgkins not to succumb to the geniality of that pleasant, fire-lit evening. He had kept to himself at dinner, seated next to Mr. Hodgkins, eating methodically. They were the only two not to ask any questions about Rebecca’s interview with Luther Trait. Since dinner, he had spent the evening ensconced behind the New York Times — not hiding, necessarily, but separated from the rest, an outsider. Perhaps it had something to do with his traveling through all-white Vermont. But would a college football coach lavish the better part of an evening on the Times’ ? Rebecca could not get a good read on him. When pushed for his favorite meal, he pointed to his plate as he chewed. “This is it,” he said, “right here.”

Rebecca found herself missing the Times for the first time since leaving New York. She kept up with it online, but news was so ephemeral in cyberspace. Printed on paper, it seemed intractable, authoritative, final.

She roused herself out of the rocking chair. In the sitting room near the kitchen there was an overstuffed sofa with navy blue throw pillows sunk like napping children in the curves of its plush, welcoming arms. The sofa was Fern, the pillows her guests.

“In here, dear.”

Fern was inside the saloon doors, past a sign that read Employees Only .

“Oh, never mind the sign,” she said. “That’s just to keep out the riffraff.”

Rebecca pushed through into the warm kitchen. “You get a lot of riffraff here?”

The room was square, arranged around a large, central butcher-block island. The sink and countertops had been wiped down, the trash paper bagged, recyclables separated and ready to go. Fern fed muffin pans to a large stove built into an exposed brick wall, then pulled the string on her apron, lifting the neck loop over her neat, peppery hair, and padded in moccasin shoes over to the faucet to refill the kettle. Fern struck Rebecca as an old-guard lesbian, a distinguished veteran of the gender-identity wars, her commission honorably resigned. If she was alone, it was certainly by choice, and yet she wasn’t alone. She had her guests and, as Rebecca set her cup on the counter, Ruby the cat came rubbing against her leg.

“Hi, there,” said Rebecca, kneeling to pat Ruby’s slinky black coat. “I remember you.”

“Ruby, come here,” Fern tsk-tsk ed, pouring a dish of milk and setting it on the floor. Ruby’s belly pouch swayed as she sauntered over to the dish on silent, white-mittened paws. Fern stroked her tail as the cat lapped.

Rebecca asked, “Is she an indoor or outdoor cat?”

“She’s no mouser. She’s too lazy. You’re lazy .” Fern worked the cat’s soft head, scruffing the blaze of white between her forehead and her nose. “She’s too skittish, the old girl. I don’t know what she’d do with herself if she ever got outside. She’s too sheltered. You’re too sheltered .” Ruby had stopped drinking altogether, back arched, eyes narrowed to a squint as she luxuriated under Fern’s small hand.

“Thanks again for arranging things.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Fern. She was up and washing her hands in the sink. “I’m thanking you . When’s the next one coming?”

“Soon, I hope,” said Rebecca, as Fern pulled a bag of oranges from the pantry and spilled them onto the butcher’s island. She halved them with a long knife pulled from a magnetic strip on the wall. “I don’t suppose there’s anywhere I could get a New York newspaper at this hour?”

“No. I know that Mr. Hodgkins has been driving up to Newport for his. He usually leaves it around here somewhere.”

“Mr. Kells has it,” she said. The dishwasher began to breathe steam and Rebecca slid down the counter away from it. “Has Mr. Hodgkins been here awhile?”

“Four days. A nice, quiet guest. Private bath, uses a lot of towels. He must have some friends near town. He’s always driving off.”

The kettle whistled and Rebecca filled her cup. “What about Mr. Kells?”

Fern paused to think, her knife blade poised over a Sunkist as though determining its fate. “His second night. He skipped dinner yesterday. I don’t know him that well. Funny thing, though.”

“What?”

“No skis. Neither of them. No winter sports gear whatsoever. This time of year, that’s usually what I see. Not people traveling alone and without skis.”

“I’m traveling alone,” Rebecca said. “And I don’t have skis.”

“Ah,” said Fern, winking and pulling a juicer out of the island cabinet. “Everyone is a suspect.”

Rebecca returned to the parlor with her tea. Dr. Rosen and Darla had slipped away, and Robert and Mia were chatting in French over a game of Mastermind. Bert-and-Rita had moved on to back issues of Consumer Reports they had brought along with them. Terry was watching SportsCenter with the volume turned down. Coe was still tending to the fire.

The Times was folded on the piano stool next to the plate of crumbs and Kells was gone. Rebecca picked up the wrinkled newspaper and glanced at the headlines, then dropped it back onto the stool. She was less interested in its content than she had thought.

She opened the French doors onto the glassed-in porch. The chill was refreshing after the heat of the parlor fireplace and the warmth of the kitchen stove. She couldn’t find a light switch, so she followed the dim passageway toward the darker rear of the house, letting her eyes adjust. She set her teacup down on a wicker plant stand and crossed her arms to the cold, looking out at the snow shaking out of the unseen sky and tumbling onto the grounds. A glowing white carpet stretched to the bare trees at the foot of the mountains and the silence was absolute. She wondered at the strangeness of the day, a study in contrast: ADX Gilchrist and Luther Trait standing in sharp relief against the agreeableness of the inn. She thought of killers and innkeepers and bestselling sequels and wondered what direction her life and her career were taking.

“Excuse me.”

The voice was low and perfunctory — but still Rebecca jumped as Kells walked out of the shadows at the dark end of the porch, stepping past her.

“Didn’t want to startle you,” he said.

“Right,” she said, nervously touching her throat with her hand. “Thanks.”

He was already on his way back to the parlor door. She stood there a moment, angry with herself for being spooked, then she turned her attention back to Kells. There was an air of tensile strength in the way he carried himself. What had he been doing on the porch?

She returned to the parlor door, but he was gone again, as was the plate of crumbs. Rebecca ignored the growing cold and continued stealthily along the outer porch almost to the front entrance of the inn, stopping at the twin French doors. She saw Kells there, just inside the saloon doors, handing Fern the small plate and saying goodnight. Rebecca edged back from the wall to avoid being seen, and peeked out again as he moved past the reception desk to start up the carpeted stairs to the guest rooms, a hardcover book in his hand.

She made her way back to the porch door. She found her cup of tea on the plant stand and then, curious, she rounded that last corner, following the porch to the end. Another pair of doors led to an outside stairway going up, and they were locked. Before the doors was Fern’s communal library, the built-in bookshelves packed with chipped paperback spines of varying widths and lengths: chubby romances, thin humor books, self-published Vermontalia, and the familiar stripes of last year’s thrillers. But what surprised her was the top shelf where earlier that day she had viewed Fern’s autographed copy of Last Words above the sign admonishing borrowers, “... Except This One.”