A Deadly Snow Fall (7 page)

Then, almost as if Agatha herself had taken
pen to paper, I wrote: I must investigate this case because I seem
to be the only person in the entire village, including the law, who
saw something irregular at the crime scene and that irregularity
could be the difference between the verdict of suicide and
MURDER.

I picked up the cell phone and punched in
Daphne’s number.

“Hi. How about sharing my humble dinner.
Daphne?”

“Hi. Sure. Got to eat somewhere so might as
well be your place. See you about six, got to drive to Barnstable
with a painting for a show at the Cape Cod Art Association gallery.
Toodleoo.”

In the kitchen, I took four jumbo shrimp out
of the refrigerator and set about making a potent garlic stuffing
for them. This mindless work gave me more time think about the
challenging conundrum. Did I have what it takes to be an amateur
sleuth? Could I weather the repercussions if I found the murderer
and it was someone well-loved and respected who just lost it and in
a moment of passion tossed the old man over the side of Pilgrim
Monument?

Wait a minute! Smashing six elephant garlic
cloves, it occurred to me that this might not have anything to do
with his real or imagined manuscript full of real or imagined
scandals and secrets. Of course. It made no sense whatsoever that
the frail, old man chose to jump to his death from the Pilgrim
Monument. He might have been annoying and difficult but he wasn’t
stupid. If he’d wanted to end his life there were easier ways. I
could come up with no reason for his choosing to climb hundreds of
stairs in an icy tower on a snowy night to make the fatal jump.

Thus, I engaged a helpful theory learned in
university physics class. William of Occam’s, Occam’s Razor, in
modern vernacular, KISS, Keep It Simple Stupid, states that once
you discard everything unlikely what you ought to be left with is
the truth of the matter.

Applying this to the case of Edwin Snow’s
death, it seemed to me that the truth was that someone either
forced or carried the old man up those stairs. Either way, didn’t
that point to someone younger and stronger? Insert that fact and
what you get is that it was unlikely that the killer was concerned
about the possible revelation of old secrets and scandals.

Daphne’s arrival put paid to my
sleuth-related contemplations. “Tea or coffee?” I asked her.

“Gin.” Said my glamorous friend. Then,
“What’s for dinner?”

“I’ve prepared a shrimp scampi, risotto with
a mild pesto sauce, spinach, mandarin orange and purple onion
salad, Aunt Libby’s wonderful squash dinner rolls and her favorite
pie, cranberry pecan. Will that do, my food compacter friend?”

“Sure. Why not? Hey, everyone loved my
painting and I think I might even have already sold it to the
gallery director who grew up in this village. She simply drooled
over it.”

“Messy, I’d say.”

“Very funny. Getting out this afternoon was
impossible. I had to clip Kilty Goldfarb’s nails, just couldn’t put
it off another day. She’s shredded the house. Thankfully, she was
in a particularly good mood since I promised her a few sardines if
she cooperated.”

“I keep meaning to ask you, Daphne; why that
weird name for your poor innocent cat?”

“Read it in a novel just before she wandered
in with her lovely gray coat all full of knots and an infected sore
on her paw. Just seemed like an omen. Kilty was a difficult person
with psychological knots therefore….”

Just before Daphne’s arrival, I’d attempted
to reach Nigel Hoppington in London. The longer I put it off, the
more it would niggle around in my head driving me to distraction.
Reaching only his voicemail, I left a brief message telling my old
friend that I would call again the next day.

Sipping her gin and tonic, Daphne was full of
stories picked up at the gallery. I tried to concentrate on her
words but my mind kept drifting off. Pulling myself back to the
present and my loquacious friend, I asked, “Did you do the cat
grooming in that getup, Daph?”

“Can’t you tell by all the gray hairs on this
skirt?” She stood, did a quick perfunctory shaking of the skirt,
sat down again and picked up her glass exclaiming, “Alright, sock
it to me. What happened at the meeting with the Boston attorney?
Did the old guy leave you his Gothic mansion because he liked the
cut of your jib, matey?”

Rather than answer her, I simply held out the
letter. The letter from the old curmudgeon who’d had the audacity
to demand that I find his murderer.

I sat quietly while Daphne read it. I watched
the expressions on her face change like badly timed traffic
lights.

“You have got to be kidding. Wowzer.
Why?”

“My question exactly. Why me? I just don’t
need this. I have a nice life here and I don’t need some old coot
interfering. Probably a big joke. Black humor.”

“But, come on, Liz. Aren’t you salivating to
read that enigmatic manuscript?”

“Daphne, I doubt that anything in that man’s
writing is worth reading. In fact, I suspect it is more like a list
of complaints. Probably an inventory of every slight, every insult,
ever rebuff the man ever encountered from the villagers. Not worth
the paper it’s written on.”

“But, Edward Granger. What if the old guy had
hung around with him? Maybe even partook in a few spicy scandals
with the Granger gang from New York who came to stay. You cannot
discount that the writing might be worth reading. Granger was a
paragon in his time. The man inspired an entire movement in art
that still shows up in local galleries. His subjects were
so…angular.”

“Angular?”

“I mean, rooflines and shingles and the
general architectural lines of nineteenth century New England
buildings were so damned serious. So unrelentingly angular. After
growing up around charming stone house with crenellations and
towers and curved windows and arches covered in strangling vines,
one is impressed by the difference in New England. I prefer our
softer, more aesthetically pleasing architecture but you have to
like the man’s style.”

“Daphne, it occurs to me that you know just
about everything about me, my icy parents, my lonely childhood, my
school experiences, even my lovers and yet you have revealed very
little. Time to dish the dirt. Crenellations, towers, etc. Are you
a princess?”

“Hardly. Just a happy-go-lucky refugee from
an extremely wealthy family. No big deal.”

“Interesting. We shall return to that
subject. For now though, time to eat.”

After dinner, we returned to the subject of
the Edwin Snow letter. “So you must see, Daph, after reading the
crazy old man’s letter, in his usual fashion he intended to stir up
trouble even after death. I am hardly going out looking for a
murderer that might not exist.”

“Whatever. But, consider this, pal of mine.
This is your chance to be one of your favorite cozy sleuths.
Charge!!!” Daph stood wielding the antique walking stick with a
carved eagle head for a handle that she pulled from among my
growing collection standing in a tall crock next to the side
table.

“Damn. Oh Daph, maybe you’re correct. I
suppose I would be out of my squash if I didn’t go for it, to use
one of your favorite expressions.”

“It’s out of your gourd, but anyway, close
enough. Tell me honestly. In your gut what do you believe? Suicide
or murder?”

“I have toyed with the following scenario;
some old timer in the village decided to have it out with Edwin and
finally tell him all the things that have annoyed him over the
years. He intended it to be strictly verbal but it got out of hand.
Before he knew it, their encounter turned really sour and without
knowing what he was doing he just lost it and tossed him off the
top of the Monument. Not pre-meditated but a crime of passion. He’s
probably a wreck about what he did. Of course, that leaves a really
big question unanswered. Why on earth would two old men climb
hundreds of stairs just to have a chin wag?”

“Exactly.” Daphne grinned like the Cheshire
cat. “Although, old people get some pretty strange ideas. Maybe the
two old men, just for something different to do, climbed the
hundreds of stairs in the frosty tower to have a smoke. Hey, I’ve
got it. Yes, this is much better. When they were young they shared
their very first smoke up there at the top of the Monument. Back
then it would have been a lark; the steps would have meant nothing
to the boys. But this time, it would have been too much for them.
They would have been tired and grumpier than usual when they
arrived at the top, so when Edwin said something nasty, the other
guy, we’ll call him Georgie, lost it and tossed him. Then he
climbed down and went home to feed his dog.”

Laughing like fools felt really good. I chose
not to tell Daph about the international phone call I still had to
complete before I could even consider taking on an Agatha Raisin or
Miss Marple persona. Best to wait until I had all my chickens in a
line or was it ducks? I guessed I’d never really sound
American.

After Daphne headed home, taking with her the
leftovers from dinner that she planned to enjoy the next night
rather than a T.V. dinner, I sat to re-read nasty, presumptuous
Edwin’s letter, again. A combination of annoyance and thrill of the
hunt overtook me.

Dear Elizabeth,

May I address you by your given name? Well,
if you are reading this then I am already dead so this is a moot
question. We have not been properly introduced although Patton
showed his approval of you and that carries weight with me. This
bequest will surely take you by surprise because you do not know
the history behind it. Thus, let me begin at the beginning.

When I was a young man with endless promise,
I met and befriended the artist Edward Granger and his lovely wife
Ellyn. We met at the Atlantic House bar one stormy summer night and
after a few drinks we became the best of friends. In those days,
the drinks were cheap and the regulations about public imbibing
were few. Thus, the partying never ended and no one was censured
for their behavior. Ed was a heavy drinker. We had a lot of good
times, many laughs and much alcohol in that long-lost summer of my
youth. Eventually, they and their heavy partying New York theatre
friends returned to the city. I took the train into New York one
weekend that following winter only to discover that ours had been
only a summer idyll.

My death is the result of what I know and
what my murderer does not want to reach the eyes and ears of the
world. I knew your departed aunt, Libby. She was one of the few
people in this cruel town who was kind to me. Libby was far too
good for a town overrun with immoral artists and socialists.
Eventually, we had a falling out, one that could not be mended and
so we parted with bad feelings. What she foisted off on me was too,
too unfair and unkind. For the rest of my life, those angry,
displaced spirits plagued me. My death will end their hold on me.
Or, perhaps not. I suppose I shall be one of their ilk. Despite the
bitter ending of our friendship, I had intended to leave my
manuscript to darling Libby. When she died before me, I despaired
that all of my hard work would be lost. Thus, when her will named
her niece I regained my hope.

Now, you must solve the mystery that I leave
behind me. Perhaps, the revenants will return to their original
home and they shall be yours to placate. Keep this manuscript or
toss it out but think on this; therein lie truths that will earn
you (and posthumously, I) fame and glory.

As you now know, via my Boston attorney, my
life has been threatened numerous times. Now, obviously, the
murderer has succeeded. Curiosity drives me to wonder how the man
will finally take my life. That is for you to know---if you have
the courage. Libby was a courageous woman. I suspect you are, as
well.

FIND MY MURDERER!

Edwin M. Snow III

Chapter Nine

First thing the next morning, I picked up my
cell phone from the bedside table. I needed to catch MI6 Forensic
Agent Nigel Hoppington before he departed for his usual long lunch
at his favorite pub the Whistle and Owl in the shadow of Tower
Bridge, just steps from the famous Black Friars. I was well aware
that I was opening a Pandora’s Box but it could not be helped. I
needed Nigel’s expert advice. Nigel and I had grown up together.
Both children of preoccupied parents who’d left our rearing to
hired help. We had ridden to the hunt, side by side, competed in
steeple chases, taken jousting lessons and dancing lessons and even
gone to the same summer camps for rich children. I always knew that
Nigel loved me. Well, I loved him too but not that way. He still
expected me to get through my independent phase and come home to
marry him. It was not going to happen.

A wave of homesickness rolled over me while I
waited for Nigel to pick up. I envisioned Big Ben’s mighty face
looming over the Thames--boats of all sizes passing in the noonday
sun or mist as the case may be in that flighty London climate. The
ubiquitous tourists crowding the sidewalks and Ben’s magnificent
peal ringing out over the city. For a fraction of a second I was
achingly homesick.

Then, reminding myself that the Cranberry Inn
had become more homelike to me than any place I’d ever resided
except for my wonderful years at Oxford, I quickly nipped that
false emotion in the bud. Sure I missed the city. That city. But
red, double decker buses and telephone booths, deep fog and dank
rooms, the Haymarket Theatre and straight as a rod Buckingham
Palace guards had been replaced by white sandy beaches, rusty
fishing boats, crimson lobsters and sandpipers dancing along the
shore. London, a great place to visit, but Provincetown was now
home.

“Agent Nigel Hoppington here.”

“Hello, Nigel; its Elizabeth calling from
America.”