by Nero Blanc
“Is there a local constable you—?”
“I appreciate your sense of decorum, Mr. Polycrates. But the snow seems to have knocked out the phone lines. Agnes just tried to reach an ambulance service—”
“I’ll get our cell phone,” Belle offered while Rosco returned his gaze to the body on the bed, and then gradually took in the fact that the other bed hadn’t been slept in, and that the new widow was swathed in blanketing.
At that moment, everyone else crowded into the room appeared to notice the same thing, and there was an uneasy shuffling of slippered feet as Marcia, again trying to control her fear and shock, began to speak. “Gene and I … You all know we had that itsy-bitsy little blowup at dinner … and then, well, he was kind of in his cups … I mean, weren’t we all?” She looked beseechingly around the room. Blank faces gazed back. “So, I decided … well, you know what they say about arguing when under the influence … So, I thought I’d just curl up by the fire downstairs … and sort of let the heat up here cool off … And then I guess I dozed off …”
Again, she looked to her friends, who again ignored her unspoken pleas. “After I woke up, I thought I’d just creep back and climb into bed …’Cause I thought, you know, that Gene and I could kiss and make up in the morning. But, but—” She began to sob anew.
“So you only entered the bedroom a few minutes ago, Mrs. Jaffe?”
All faces swiveled toward Rosco, then swung back toward Marcia as though they were watching a tennis match.
“Well, you know how Gene can be when he—” She bit her lip; her chest rose and fell. “No, I guess you don’t …” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Yes, yes, I slept downstairs … All by my lonesome …”
The guest who’d first addressed Rosco took the lead again. “Look, Polycrates—or whatever your name is—I don’t know why you’re here, but it’s obvious that Mrs. Jaffe is in a highly agitated state … She needs sympathy and care, not an interrogation. None of us do. Gene Jaffe was both friend and colleague—”
But Rosco was not to be browbeaten. “And you are?”
“Sacks … Chuck Sacks … Charlotte, my wife,” he added as an afterthought, indicating a woman in a black dressing gown trimmed with glossy maribou feathers, then waved his hand to indicate the third couple who made up the party. “Bob Tyler and his wife, Bobbi—”
Belle reappeared at that moment, silently handing Rosco the cell phone; who then diplomatically passed it to the inn’s host.
The room was silent while the emergency call was made, and the death reported. Finney flipped the receiver shut. “There’s been a car wreck,” he said. “On the other side of the covered bridge. A bad one. No one can get through until they cut the driver out and a tow truck moves the vehicle—and someone assesses structural damage to the bridge. We’ve been advised to sit tight.”
“Not much else we can do in the middle of the night, in the middle of a snowstorm,” observed Bob Tyler. His mouth was hard. He shrugged. “Sorry, I’m just being practical.”
“The night is darkest just before the dawn.” It was Sara who offered this bit of homespun wisdom. She smiled sympathetically as she spoke, the very image of an old woman with a heart of gold and demeanor to match. “Why don’t we all go downstairs and have some cocoa. It’s a comfort in terrible times like these to feel that one is not among strangers.” She looked at Belle, who glanced at Rosco; all three nodded in private collusion while Sara moved to Marcia Jaffe’s side. “I’m so sorry, my dear … I’m a widow myself …”
Marcia said nothing.
STILL in their robes, the residents of the Misty Valley Inn sat clustered in front of the fire in the first-floor parlor. Lori and Agnes passed around mugs of cocoa and coffee, which some sipped at but no one truly drank.
“Cosby’s Coffee,” Chuck Sacks announced in a tone that was overloud and overebullient. “I’d recognize the taste anywhere.”
His black-clad wife snorted, and grasped her coffee mug so tightly her vermilion-colored nails looked like bloodied talons. “Can’t we talk about something other than business, business, business?”
“C’mon, you two—” began a sincere Bobbi Tyler, but Charlotte fixed her with a withering stare:
“Are you telling me you enjoy discussing—?”
“You wouldn’t have that new fur coat you were dolled up in yesterday if it weren’t for—”
“Cosby’s Coffee?” Sara supplied the words. She’d been sitting near Belle and Marcia, and idly penciling in answers to the crossword recipe. “You mean, the Cosby Café chain? Are you young people connected with that extraordinarily successful enterprise? Why, your attractive shops are all over the country. Almost on every street corner.”
Bob Tyler answered. His voice had an aw-shucks openness. “Founders and partners. At least, we men are. Started the business back in our college days. Harvard, of course.”
The smile was a little too smug for Rosco, but he said nothing as Tyler pushed on:
“Small time—a way to earn a little extra dough. We all roomed together, but by senior year we’d picked up an apartment in Cosby House, so the name kind of stuck. It was Gene who supplied our start-up capital; Stan’s the bean counter … No pun intended.”
“Well, isn’t that wonderful!” Sara said. “And you’ve been good friends since then.”
“Some of us,” was Charlotte’s steely reply.
“Hon,” her husband began, but she retaliated with a waspish:
“I suppose you’ve conveniently forgotten what Gene announced last night—”
“This isn’t the time—”
“Oh, stop it,” moaned Marcia. “Gene loved everyone here. You know he did! Besides, if you hated his idea so much, you should have spoken up.”
None of the others responded, and the remark echoed with ominous portent through the quiet room while beyond the still-dark windows the snow fell and fell and fell.
“38-Across,” Sara mused, “PUDDING PART … Oh, I see, it’s ESSENCE OF ALMOND …”
Belle looked at her friend while the old lady returned the glance, adding a sly and subtle wink. “My young friends and traveling companions are married,” she said at length. “Rosco, as you’ve surmised, owns an investigative agency; Belle is none other than Annabella Graham, the crossword editor of Newcastle, Massachusetts’s Evening Crier. It was for her sake that your missing friend created this marvelous crossword recipe—”
“That would be Stacy Lavoro,” put in Bobbi Tyler.
At the mention of the name, Marcia gave a violent shudder, but Sara appeared to overlook the intensity of the reaction. “Cold, dear? Of course you are. You’ve had a terrible shock … Why don’t you move closer to the fire?”
Dry-eyed, Marcia did as she was told while Sara calmly turned the crossword toward her. “And here’s your name, dear … JAFFE at 21-Across and MARCIA at 25-Down. Wasn’t that sweet of your friend to put you in the puzzle?”
Again, a conspiratorial glance passed from Sara to Belle while Marcia hunched her shoulders into a taut and bitter line and failed to reply.
DAWN came, and there was still no sign of the town constable—or of a plow. Rosco took Frank Finney aside, suggested that the dead man’s room be put off-limits, but didn’t allude to his suspicions. However, the inn’s host obviously understood the gravity of the situation; in turn, he relayed his own hopes that the guests show respect for the deceased and allow the room to be locked. No one batted an eye at the request, and Rosco and Belle went back upstairs to carry out the plan.
“Surgical gloves?” Belle asked in a whisper as they reentered the Jaffes’ room. “Since when do you pack surgical gloves for a vacation?”
“Since the last time I used the suitcase for an investigation, and didn’t remember to unpack them.”
“I take it you don’t think we’re looking at coronary disease.”
“Astute as always—”
“My middle name.” Belle pulled a pair of driving gloves from her bathrobe pocket, and
dangled them in front of Rosco’s eyes. “Let it not be said that I venture off on holiday weekends ill prepared.” She donned the gloves. “Do you think Sara’s okay?”
“You mean left alone with Charlotte Sacks, the snake in fancy feathers?”
Belle shook her head. “What I mean is this is almost Sara’s birthday … It’s not exactly what you’d call a festive atmosphere.” They both stared at the bed where Jaffe lay.
“I wouldn’t worry, Belle. You know how much Sara likes being in the thick of things—”
“Well, she’s got her wish. A dead man … and a bunch of warring friends.” Belle sighed. “This was supposed to be a quiet weekend getaway … a special celebration just for her …” The words trailed off.
“Sara’s nobody’s fool, Belle … and she’s not the kind of person who expects life to be one continual party. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she isn’t busy prying guilty secrets from that crowd downstairs.” Rosco walked to the head of the bed. “Jaffe was obviously struggling when he died …”
Belle drew in another troubled breath, then again shook her head as if to clear her brain and banish further concerns over her elderly friend. “Couldn’t that have been the result of sudden heart failure—as Marcia suggested? He wakes up from a sound sleep … a lot of booze in his system … experiences palpitations, maybe severe chest pains, and tries to call out for his wife, but she’s not here—”
“Possible … But there’s something unnatural in this guy’s pose … in his expression, too. I may be playing devil’s advocate here, but I have a strong hunch that Jaffe was killed … asphyxiation, I’d guess … although there aren’t any marks on his throat to indicate he was strangled …” Rosco bent closer to the body. “He could have been smothered by a pillow.”
Belle thought. “Smothered …” Again, she shook her head, and repressed an additional sigh. “Well … what about an undiagnosed allergy … to nuts, or something like that? And he went into anaphylactic shock—which might look a lot like asphyxiation … I had a high school friend who couldn’t get within twenty feet of almond extract.”
“And so this is all a tragic accident?”
Belle nodded, her eyes serious. “Rosco, I just can’t imagine one of these people snuck out of bed in the middle of the night, crept along the corridor, and slunk into this room.”
“Slunk?”
“You’d prefer slank? Slinked? Anyway, he—or she—would have to have been aware that Marcia was curled up downstairs … Besides, this is an old building; nearly every floorboard and step creaks. Someone would have heard something …” A chill ran up Belle’s spine. “If Jaffe was murdered, that means the killer is still in the house, sipping cocoa and Cosby’s Coffee, and pretending—”
“What about Marcia?”
“Rosco, the woman’s a basket case.” Belle added a soft, “I would be, too …”
Rosco nodded. “I understand what you’re saying, and I sincerely hope you’re right … But a voice in my brain keeps insisting we’re looking at homicide.” He picked up the overturned glass, stared at it, then sniffed it. “I’m not detecting anything unusual, but a poison could present as a violent reaction—like heart failure or a food allergy … It wouldn’t take much.”
“The perfidious pudding.”
“Don’t joke, Belle. We all ate it.”
“I know.”
IT was on the stair landing that Belle paused to look out the window. The snow had ceased and morning had officially arrived, but the sky remained leaden and threatening. She gazed at the drifts so freshly formed, at the evergreens shrouded in white, at the inn’s drive and car park, which had disappeared save for the guests’ and owners’ vehicles looking like so many ice cream boats topped with whipped cream. As the window began to steam up, she wiped it with her sleeve, then suddenly gasped.
“What is it?”
“Snowshoe tracks.”
Rosco followed her glance. “Entering the rear of the inn … no, entering one of the attached outbuildings … walking in—not out.”
Both craned their necks to see further.
“Unless the person used another exit, we’ve got ourselves a visitor,” Rosco said.
“YOU mean a visitor in addition to you and our other guests? There’s another person here?” Frank Finney stared at Rosco in utter bewilderment. They were removed from the rest of the party, and talking in hushed, tense tones in the service pantry.
“Belle and I examined every view from the second-floor windows. The snowshoe tracks come toward the inn; they don’t walk away.”
“But who would come up here during a storm?”
Rosco decided it was time to take Finney into his confidence. “I have reason to suspect that Jaffe may not have died from natural circumstances.”
The inn’s host didn’t speak for several long minutes. Rosco could see his shoulders droop, and his carefully groomed mustache twitch with an effort at courage and resolution before sagging into nervous dejection. “I can’t afford that kind of publicity. It’s bad enough if a guest dies under normal conditions …” He looked at Rosco again, his once ruddy cheeks pale and slack, his princely demeanor crushed. “Are you suggesting a murderer found his way up here, and is hiding somewhere among us?”
Rosco didn’t supply an answer to the question. There was no need. Instead he said, “Do you know if Jaffe had enemies who wanted to see him dead?”
“You’d have to ask his wife or his friends. I only knew Gene as an affable guest—a once-a-year guest. I gather last night’s festivities witnessed some unpleasantness pertaining to a joint business venture. I believe Gene was planning to sell out to the Moon-Bean chain, but that’s as much as I know.”
“If someone entered surreptitiously, are there places to hide?”
Finney gave a defeated groan. “In an old building like this—with the barn attached to the house, with the root cellar attached to that? There are places even I haven’t fully explored yet.” He shook his head slowly. “This is a nightmare.”
Rosco thought. “Do these particular guests always opt for the same accommodations during their visits?”
“You mean, would an outsider be able to learn which room the Jaffes use?”
Rosco nodded while Finney’s brooding silence gave Rosco the information he did—and didn’t—want.
“Yes,” Finney finally admitted. “They always take the same room—as the guest register indicates.”
It now seemed logical that the killer had entered one of the attached outbuildings, crept into the residence, found the Jaffes’ room, then retreated to his hiding place. How this person had intended to avoid Marcia, Rosco didn’t know. Unless the party’s first evening at the inn was always an overly bibulous one; and well oiled with wines and cordials, the group was notorious for sleeping through anything.
However, what to do with this theory was unclear. Should Rosco share his concerns with the other guests and risk pandemonium? Say nothing and risk the possibility that the criminal might reappear?
“Is it possible to seal off the outbuildings so that no one can come in or out?”
“There are entrances on each floor—including the cellar.”
“Do the doors have locks?”
“Old-fashioned brass ones.”
“Let’s hope they still work.” As a seeming afterthought, Rosco added a cheerful, “By the way, is there any of that terrific Hunter’s Pudding left over?”
Finney looked chagrined. “Sorry, no … I finished the last of the crumbs when I was cleaning up last night.”
“But we each have a copy of the recipe, right? I mean, if we wanted to recreate the experience?”
“That’s right. I followed it to a tee.”
RETURNING to the parlor, Rosco found the group even edgier and more hostile toward one another, and Sara’s placid puzzle solving seemed to only exacerbate the situation. “Look at this,” she said brightly to Belle. “Here’s a reference to COSBY at 50-Across … and SACKS—why, that must be
Charlotte and Chuck—at 26-Across.”
“Let me see that.” Charlotte barreled across the room, the feathers of her dressing gown flying into her open mouth and sticking to her lips until she was forced to spit them out. “Where’s my name?”
“Oh, and here’s LAVORO at 48-Down,” was Sara’s calm reply.
Charlotte grabbed the crossword. “Where does that so-and-so get off putting my name in a puzzle?”
“You and your husband, dear.”
“And what’s this stuff about COSBY?” Charlotte wheeled on Marcia while throwing the word game to the floor. “Did the Lavoros know in advance what that creep husband of yours was planning to do? Were the four of you aiming to cheat us?”
“Hon …” Chuck Sacks cautioned although he began eying Marcia Jaffe intently.
“Gene thought you’d all be thrilled with his idea!” Marcia finally offered, her voice a wisp. “Your stock value would have been—”
“Tell me another funny story!” Charlotte snorted as she reached down and grabbed Marcia’s arm. “Is that why Tad and Stacy canceled out at the last minute …’cause they were waiting for you to drop this bombshell?”
“I don’t know why they canceled,” Marcia fought back. “And I don’t care, either.”
“Why, look at that,” interrupted Sara at the window. “Snowshoe tracks walking toward the inn. What a perfect winter’s scene.”
Belle winced; Rosco winced while the feuding Tylers, Sackses, and the forlorn Marcia Jaffe all hurried to the old lady’s side.
“Who made ’em?” Naturally, it was Chuck Sacks who spoke first.
“I would imagine our host or our hostess,” offered Sara, “checking to ascertain potential damage during the—”
“How come they’re just walking toward the inn and not around it?” Sacks argued.
“You probably need to ask Mr. or Mrs. Finney.”
But at that moment a collective and frightening insight seemed to dawn. “Someone coming in and not going out …” Bobbi Tyler said in the barest of whispers, then suddenly turned around to face Rosco. “What if Gene was murdered?”
