The Architecture of Snow (The David Morrell Short Fiction Collection #4) Read Online Free

I’m not about to start now.”
     
    * * *
     
    Outside, a pickup truck rattled past. A few more locals appeared on the sidewalk. Another rumpled guy came out of an alley. A half-block to my right, a Jeep was parked outside an office marked TIPTON REALTY. I walked over and pretended to admire a display of properties for sale: farms, cabins, and historic-looking homes.
    When I stepped inside, the hardwood floor creaked. The smell of furniture polish reminded me of my grandmother’s house.
    At an antique desk, an attractive red-haired woman looked up from a computer screen. “May I help you?” Her voice was pleasant.
    “I was wondering if you had a map of the roads around here. My Vermont map doesn’t provide much detail.”
    “Looking for property?”
    “Don’t know yet. As you can probably tell, I’m not from around here. But the scenery’s so magnificent, I thought I might drive around and see if anything appeals to me.”
    “A weekend place to live?”
    “Something like that.”
    “You’re from New York, right?”
    “It’s that obvious?”
    “I meet a lot of people passing through. I’m a good judge of accents. New York’s a little far to have a weekend place here.”
    “I’m not sure it would be just for weekends. I’m a book editor. But I’ve given some thought to writing a novel.”
    This attracted her interest.
    “I hear the location has inspired other writers,” I said. “Doesn’t John Irving live in Vermont?”
    “And David Mamet and Grace Paley.”
    “And R. J. Wentworth,” I said. “Doesn’t he live around here?”
    Her expression became guarded.
    “Great writer,” I said.
    Her tone was now curt. “You’ll find maps on that table.”
     
    * * *
     
    As I walked to my car, I thought that the CIA or the mafia ought to send their recruits for training in Tipton. The townspeople knew how to keep secrets. I chose north, driving along brilliantly wooded back roads. The fragrance of the falling leaves was powerful, reminding me of my boyhood on Long Island, of helping my father rake the yard. He burned the leaves in a pit behind our house. He always let me strike the match. He died from a heart attack when I was twelve.
    I turned up a dirt road, passed a cabin, reached a wall of trees, and went back to the main road. Farther along, I turned up another dirt road, passed two cabins, reached a stream that blocked the road, and again went back.
    My search wasn’t as aimless as it seemed. After all, I knew what I was looking for: a high fence that enclosed a couple of acres. The female student who’d been fortunate enough to get an interview with Wentworth years earlier described the property. The high gate was almost indistinguishable from the fence, she wrote. The mailbox was embedded in the fence and had a hatch on the opposite side so that Wentworth didn’t need to leave the compound to get his mail. A sign warned NO SOLICITORS. NO TRESPASSING.
    But nothing in the north sector matched that description. Of course, the student’s interview was two decades old. Wentworth might have changed things since then, in which case I was wasting my time. How far away from town would he have wanted to live? I arbitrarily decided that fifteen miles was too far and switched my search to the side roads in the west. More farms and cabins, more falling leaves and wood smoke. By the time I finished the western sector and headed south, the afternoon light was fading.
    My cell phone rang.
    “Have you found him yet?” my boss demanded.
    The reception was so poor, I could barely hear him. When I explained the problems I was having, he interrupted. “Just get it done. If Wentworth wrote this book, remind him his last contract with March & Sons gives us the option on it. There’s no way I’m going to let anybody else publish it. Do you have the agreement with you?”
    “In my jacket.”
    “Make sure you get him to sign it.”
    “He’ll want to talk to an agent.”
    “You told me his agent’s dead.