Snow Shadow (9 page)

“But now she is dead.” Suddenly a new thought struck me. “How did she die?”

“A guess?” He looked amused. “Yes, now we are concerned with that Her doctor, after official inquiry, was disturbed. He had tried to talk Miss Elizabeth into an autopsy. At that time she refused; since he had only vague suspicions he could not push it. Now it is a police matter.”

“But why—if she were going to buy—
Oh!”
Again I thought I could guess. “There might be those who would object to such a sum of money going out of the family—
was
it her money?”

“No. It was the last of the Austin estate, as far as we have been able to discover. And to pay that much for some sheets of paper, no matter what was written on them—yes, there could be objections to that. Especially when there was a chance that the trust will naturally otherwise come to an end in a year's time. It was only to hold for twenty years.

“Horvath's her heir. She had only life interest in her husband's estate. The rest, her personal holdings, will be divided between Miss Austin and her nephew Charles. That remainder might be sizable. Mrs. Emma was a good businesswoman. Her will was made years ago when she was left trustee. But there have been rumors that she was thinking of revising it.”

The matter seemed bleakly plain. Miss Austin struggling to keep up the house with limited funds, Charles Frimsbee, now an invalid, both needing money badly.

“What about Charles Frimsbee?”

Mark shook his head. “He's the only one with an absolutely airtight alibi for anything. The poor fellow had a third operation last week. He's been in the hospital since they released him as a POW from Vietnam. But there's his wife—”

“But you are not sure there was anything wrong with Mrs. Horvath's death. And Roderick might have been killed by someone with no connection with the family at all!”

“I am afraid that would be overly optimistic.”

I was back in the place where the past and present revolved dizzily together.

“So you want me to watch the suspects for you? How did you know where I was today?”

“You were followed.”

“I should have invited my tail’ to share a taxi, then,” I flared. “And I have no talent for spying! What right—”

“Have I to ask you to do so?” he finished.

“Yes, what indeed?”

“Someday—” His face was unreadable, and chilled me by its closed-in quality, its lack of expression. “We shall have some explanations. In the meantime—yes, I have no right to ask this of you. I'm on a job. I was called in because of Roderick. I will not meddle at all if this proves to be a routine crime investigation, but I have a hunch. Sometimes one develops a sixth sense.”

I nodded.

“I honestly believe, Erica, that the murderer of Roderick Frimsbee is now living in the Abbey. And I think that uncovering of what lies behind all this is important. You can refuse to help, however, if you wish.”

For a long moment I looked down at the tablecloth, seeing neither the fabric nor our dishes. He was deadly serious about this. If I had become another and wiser person, as I had hoped, this was a chance to prove it

“All right. What must I do?”

“Gordon Cantrell is the only one, other than the police and you, who knows that I was at the Abbey last night. It was pure bad luck running into him. He will have to be satisfied with a story—”

“I don't know how!” My protest was swift. I might be a writer of creative fiction, but this baffled me.

“Just back me up. You have only to go along with it.” He looked at his watch. “Do you have any more shopping?”

“No. The shoes are all I really needed. And I mostly wanted to get out of the Abbey.”

“Good enough. I'll drive you to the Cantrells’. You introduce me to Mrs. Cantrell—I met you—we discussed last night—enough for a social contact.”

I could not find any ready excuse. Obediently I arose from the table, slipped into the coat he held ready. A black car had pulled to the curb outside. The driver got out and Mark took his place.

“Back by six,” he told the other.

Our talk, as he drove, was not polite chatter. To my surprise, Mark spoke of my book as if he had read it—though I would hardly think it would be of interest to him. He asked about the research I was now doing, and I outlined the task before me. But both of us avoided the “do-you-remembers” which might have been normal.

As we came into the street of the Horvath house I
saw that the gate leading to the theater was closed, the police cars gone. We pulled into the courtyard of the carriage house, I was out quickly, reaching for the knocker before Mark caught up. I wanted to get this over quickly.

Theodosia opened the door, and I introduced my companion with a steady voice. She welcomed us as if she had been hoping for such an interruption.

“I don't know whether you are aware of it or not, Colonel Rohmer, but writers live on coffee when in the throes of work, and I have a pot on the boil now. Sit down and share it, both of you.”

I was content to sip my coffee, leaving conversation to them. They got along well. Mark engaged in easy shop talk. I wondered how much homework he had put in learning the fields of interest of those he needed to contact. Now he was deep in the Kitteridge case with Theodosia.

My watch marked three-thirty, and I knew, without being told, Mark wanted to stay until Gordon arrived. But that might not be for hours! I heard him skillfully guiding the talk to the Abbey and Theodosia holding forth on the fantastic truth which would not be allowed in fiction.

Mark's charm was not surface-obvious as was Gordon's, nor had it become threadbare over the passing years. I felt the old pull and kept reminding myself that there were darker sides to his nature. He could be as cruel as his Blackfoot ancestors had once been said to be.

It had never bothered me that Mark was Indian. In fact, that had added to his attraction. Though education
and wide travel had divorced him from what one might expect of his race, yet I was sure under that outer shell he must be governed by the mores of another people.

“Theo!” The front door opened and there sounded the bellow of a thoroughly exasperated man. “Who in the hell parked that car so I can't pull in?”

Mark arose with that feline grace of movement particularly his. Theodosia was clearly annoyed.

“Gordon, we have guests! Come in—”

Gordon appeared in the doorway. He did not even blink when he saw the guests, or at least one of them.

We were all very polite, exchanging neat platitudes for the next few minutes. But I knew Theodosia was irked. I wondered then if she knew what Mark had told me about Gordon and Leslie. Gordon's attitude might be termed wary.

I was reluctant to end the scene, though I refused to analyze why. Mark glanced at his watch, but he lingered—as if he were setting the stage for some future role.

When he finally left, Theodosia spoke first:

“Where did you meet him?”

Remembering my pretense of ignorance with Gordon, I had to be wary.

“Last night—he's the one who chased me. We ran into each other in town and he wanted to apologize today about that. Now—I must go. Bucking the shopping crowds was something. I'm going back and put my feet up. Thanks for the coffee and the loan of the coat.”

Theodosia smiled. Another time that knowing look
would have made me squirm. But suddenly I
was
tired, as if I had been under a strain which had drained my energy. I put on Irene's coat and walked back across the garden.

A car was pulling up under the portico. Its license plate bore the green seal of a doctor.

Miss Elizabeth—had she taken a turn for the worse? I hurried in—yet I wanted no more Austin burdens, only the peace and quiet to be found in my room.

9

As I climbed the stairs I heard voices and in the upper hall I came face to face with Irene and the doctor. Since our meeting in the morning, the younger Mrs. Frimsbee's appearance had deteriorated even more. Lacking makeup, her face had an unhealthy gray look and there were brown stains under her eyes. She pushed at loose ends of hair impatiently and about her mouth were brackets of mulish stubbornness.

“—not there,” she was saying. “He's too little, he wouldn't understand. They don't really care—with them it's all routine and efficiency. He'd be frightened to death. And surely he can't be
that
sick!”

“Under the circumstances,” the doctor cut in, “I would seriously consider it, Mrs. Frimsbee. It is very easy for such a condition to slip into pneumonia.”

Irene shook her head. “I have the vaporizer and you
gave him the shots. Hell be all right, I know he will! Stuart is not going to any hospital!” She spat out the last word as if it were loathsome.

The doctor shrugged. “I haven't been able to locate a nurse to help you here—”

“I don't need one, I know how to take care of my own child! Goodness knows, Stuart's had enough colds in the past.”

“This may be more than a cold before we are through, Mrs. Frimsbee. If there is any change, if he starts the heavy coughing again, call me at once.”

Irene, one hand on the knob of her bedroom door, plainly begrudged the time spent in listening to such admonitions.

“He's calling me now. Stuart doesn't want anyone but me. A strange nurse would only frighten him. If I took him to the hospital, he would be scared to death. Ever since Aunt Emma yelled at him that time—” Her lips twisted. “Thank you for coming, Doctor. I'll be in touch.” She went in, closing the door firmly behind her.

The doctor uttered an annoyed exclamation and I asked:

“Is the child seriously ill?”

“A bad case of bronchial virus. She should have him in the hospital. If you can influence Mrs. Frimsbee to understand that, you would be doing them both a favor. Hello, Maud.” The maid had materialized like an apparition out of the wall.

“Doctor, can you come to Miss Elizabeth? She's greatly disturbed.”

“As who wouldn't be in this house now!” the doctor
exploded. “I'd like to pack her off, too. All this commotion isn't doing that heart of hers any good. Well, let's see what can be done.”

With a feeling of guilt I could not account for, I trailed the other two down the hall. This was repeating something—Aunt Otilda! In her last year she had depended upon me so much that even a necessary shopping trip, demanding only a short absence, was enough to thoroughly upset her for the rest of the day. But
I
was in no way responsible for Miss Elizabeth.

I could hear Miss Elizabeth's voice—muffled but raised in uncharacteristic argument. Was Mrs. Anne in there? But surely Maud would not have then left her charge. The voice went on and on, seeming to repeat the same words. Then I knew she must be talking to herself, or to shadows she alone saw. My suspicion was confirmed when Maud, sighting me, stepped before the door to bar my way.

“Is there any way I can help?”

“Thank you, no, miss. Miss Elizabeth is wandering-like. We'll see to her.” Maud eyed me warily as if she expected me to try to push by, intrude on her mistress. I nodded and turned away.

However, I was not to find in my room the haven I sought. On the hearth were the ashes of a burned-out fire, some puffed onto the edge of the carpet. Though the bed had been made, missing was that aura of good housekeeping which had been so noticeable before.

At the side window which overlooked the garden, the shade was askew as if someone had had an observation post there. Balanced on the sill was an ashtray containing three crushed-out cigarettes. Someone
had
stood here, long enough to smoke three cigarettes. Irene? Anne? Leslie?

Angrily I dumped the contents of the tray into a piece of paper, folded that into a tight packet for the wastebasket. I sniffed the air resignedly. Being allergic to smoke, I would have to air out the room or expect a headache. I opened the window.

There was nothing to be seen in the garden. I tried to locate the burial ground and the theater. The line of dark yews walling in the first was all which could be sighted. And only the roof of the latter could be marked. Had the watcher here been spying on the police activity of the morning?

I shivered with more than the chill of the open window. Had that watcher been regretting a ruined plan?

It had been a recklessly daring plan—spoiled by Anne's insistence upon the coffin being opened. Therefore, Anne herself could not have been responsible for the substitution. As if she could have had anything to do with the murder of her own son!

I closed the window, dropped into the wing chair by the fireplace and tried to think. Other things—mainly memories—kept getting in the way.

We are molded by our environment in childhood. If nothing forces us to break those early patterns, we continue our lives within their limits. In basic matters I could only judge the motives and actions of others by those standards drilled into me. But because my training would not allow this or that derivation from the rules, it did not mean others were so monitored.

Actions which appeared to me without sensible motivation might be entirely necessary to those involved.
How could I judge anyone under this roof? Not by my standards of conduct anyway.

I had come to know—without the strength to alter them—that some of my rules were awry in this modern world. This led me to deceive myself concerning the actions of others. During the past few hours the thin shell, resulting from years of repression and self-discipline, had cracked, leaving me afraid and defenseless.

There was no escape from seeing Mark again, save flight for a second time. That was out of the question. I must reconstruct my armor. My fingers twisted together until I was dimly aware of pain. I must
not
let my thinking always circle back to Mark! That door was closed—must be kept so.

Not Mark—but murder. Only, that violent act seemed unreal, having little to do with me. Murder was something which happened in books or you read about with distaste in the newspapers. It did not engulf the ordinary people one meets and talks with, occur in a house in which one actually lives!

Irene, Anne, Leslie—I knew only what I had gained from surface impressions. By all the rules of justice I must make no assumptions.

Irene had good reason to hate Emma Horvath. But what possible reason could move her to kill a long-missing brother-in-law? If a woman had been connected with this crime, she must have a male confederate. Otherwise the exchange of bodies would have been impossible. Irene was small, giving no impression of strength. Her mother-in-law was even less robust.

It would be easy to nominate Leslie to head the list of suspects. She represented all I disliked in my own
sex. Only there was no possible motive, no link with Roderick. If it had not been for those cigarettes—

Pain stabbed above my eyes. Either I had not aired the room long enough, or my nerves were attacking. I hunted out the tablets which would stop the headache, but I needed water to wash them down.

Which meant descent to the kitchen. I found the cook was not alone, though she occupied her rocking chair, staring out of the window with the air of one divorcing herself from the activity behind her. The reason for her withdrawal was at the stove, fussing with a small saucepan.

Anne Frimsbee had again applied the amount of makeup she had worn on her arrival, but not to such lacquered results. She frowned with irritation as she twisted the pan back and forth. But, to my surprise, she gave me a sourish smile.

“Some gruel for Stuart—” She moved the saucepan an inch to the right. “When Charles was small he thought only I could make gruel. He used to have these same heavy colds.” She shook her head, but this show of maternal concern did not fit her. The picture of an anxious grandmother brewing a potion for her grandson was not really in focus.

“A cup of tea.” She abandoned the gruel and spoke to me. “A cup of tea is so refreshing, don't you agree, Miss Jansen? Will you join me in having one?”

I could not refuse, though neither Mrs. Frimsbee's fussing, not the brooding Reena, made me want to stay in the kitchen.

Anne Frimsbee did not consult the silent presence in the bay window, but proceeded to search through cupboards
until she lined up cups and saucers, a tea kettle, a box of tea bags, and had put water on to boil. Her exploration of a breadbox led to the appearance of some crumbling odds and ends of sweet rolls, and a snort from Reena, which Anne deliberately ignored, as she assembled all her finds on a tray.

“We can go into the breakfast room. I'll just wait until the water boils—”

I carried the tray. The room had an air of neglect I could not associate with Miss Elizabeth's house. Rumpled and strewn with crumbs, the tablecloth had not been changed. I set down the tray and went to look out to the garden.

“Very dreary now,” Anne commented as she hurried in. “But in summer it is really quite pleasant. My sister is an enthusiastic gardener, and she carried out Father's plan of an Austen garden in great detail.”

“An Austen garden?”

“An arrangement of all the flowers and shrubs which would have been in Jane Austen's own garden. Of course, lately Elizabeth has not had the time to care for it properly. Most of the bushes should have been pruned, and the wisteria down at the arbor is quite out of control. But I must admit that the delphiniums made a pure wall of color last year. Very noticeable. A photographer came from some garden magazine to take a picture.”

“I never heard of an Austen garden before.”

“Oh, Father's interests spread beyond just Miss Austen's works. That was what he insisted we call her— ‘Miss Austen.’ He said she would have been appalled to know that ‘Jane’ was familiarly used by strangers.
Father always believed that Austin and Austen had a common beginning and we could claim kin. The money he spent on genealogical research trying to prove that!” Anne Frimsbee came back to the table. “Father's enthusiasms ran very deep, and were not confined to the books. There was the year he concentrated on the theater. That was a very gay time. They presented
Pride and Prejudice
and were in rehearsal for
Persuasion
—” She paused to pour hot water into a flowered cup with care, drop in a tea bag. “I was disappointed when it was not given.”

“Why wasn't it?”

“We were lacking a Captain Wentworth on opening night.” Anne's lips set under their coating of paint. She might have been one of Aunt Otilda's generation deploring a moral lapse. “My sister Elinor—of course she had always been too restricted, Father had some very old-fashioned ideas about what was becoming for a daughter—and Elinor, poor thing, never knew how to handle Father. He could be most charming when one approached him properly. Elinor was such an intense girl—I think she got on Father's nerves—demanding, mind you demanding—to be sent to college and the like. Father was extremely upset.

“Well, Elinor eloped with the young actor who was to play Captain Wentworth. He was very handsome and in that uniform—”

Her spat of reminiscence came to an abrupt end. Was it that uniform in which Roderick had been found? I glanced up and caught a sly, measuring look, veiled in the instant her eyes met mine. Why was all this family history being poured out with the tea?

“Naturally Father was furious and we never heard from Elinor again,” she swept on, “It was very sad and upsetting. Father was more strict with all of us after that. He closed the theater at once, and everything was put away. Though the play had been quite well received, written up in newspapers and magazines.”

She was ignoring that the theater must have been used by Roderick for a shelter. By her present attitude, one might believe that Roderick Frimsbee had never existed. Was this her escape from unpleasant fact?

“I think that it was Elinor's elopement which made Father really eccentric. He became quite a recluse before his death. Only Preston Donner saw him during the whole year before he died. Even Elizabeth had to talk to him through the door. And he cared less and less for the family. It was his wish to establish the Austin Library as a gift to the university. He admired Emma's business sense—she was like him in some ways. She always knew just what she wanted and went after it. Money
does
make a vast difference in one's view of life. Don't you agree, Miss Jansen?”

I swallowed a bite of stale bun to answer.

“Never having had very much that I did not earn, I can't pretend to be an authority on the subject.”

“Yes, and a government pension doesn't lead to expanded ideas either.” Her statement was acid. “Emma married Alexis Horvath when she was eighteen. But she didn't get what she expected, not for quite a while. Alexis had old-fashioned ideas about women, and he held the purse strings—tight. But Emma worked out her own arrangements after a bit and she was quite comfortable. She had stores charge things she didn't
buy, and collected the money after Alexis paid the bills. I don't think he ever discovered she was playing the market. Emma was one of the few people who sold out before the Twenty-Nine Crash. She seemed to have a sixth sense about money. Of course, she was only left life interest in the Hovarth estate.

“Hanno will get that now. He is the only son of Alexis’ younger brother. But there's Emma's own money, and Charles always was her favorite.” Anne was foreseeing a rosy future.

But what, I mused, about the recent break between Irene and Miss Emma? The will was an old one, Mark had said. Emma Horvath might just have left a more recent one.

“Yes, Charles was always her favorite,” Anne repeated happily. “Though she was always close-mouthed, her personal estate must be more than comfortable. Father came to rely on her judgment in financial matters. He made her the major trustee of the library fund.”

“Did she buy much for that?” Perhaps Anne Frims-bee might have heard a rumor about a manuscript