Iced

by Carol Higgins Clark

  Mentally he reviewed his plans. After the painting disappeared, there’d be a lot of confusion. He would put it in the false bottom of the car where the other Beasley was now resting. There was no problem about parking the car only a few feet from the emergency exit door of the dining room.

  Listening to Judd and Willeen was exhilarating—the moment of danger, and ultimately of triumph, was approaching.

  “Bye-bye, folks,” he said, turning off the set and pulling out the plug. “See you tonight.”

  57

  MARVIN WINKLE WAS on an airplane thousands and thousands of feet over the state of Illinois, enjoying a cocktail and anxious as a child on Christmas Eve. His every nerve was twittering with excitement. The bearer of good tidings, that’s what I am, he thought.

  It was all so unbelievable.

  Just wait until Geraldine heard the news. He was sure that she wouldn’t mind that, instead of phoning her, he’d quickly packed a bag and raced to the airport, rushing back inside his house just once to grab the short skis he had had since high school. Maybe after his good work was completed, Geraldine would urge him to stay on in Aspen. Being that it was Christmas week, and all the hotels were charging premium rates, he’d probably be invited to stay at the Spoonfellow estate.

  He stared at the phone attached to the seat in front of him. It looked so inviting. Just slip in a credit card and call anywhere.

  Should he splurge? Why not? The two Scotches were working their magic and Winkle was in the holiday spirit. Humming “Winter Wonderland,” he reached under the seat in front of him and pulled out his worn black briefcase. Pushing the buttons on either side at the same moment always gave him a minor thrill. The pistol-like sound of the locks releasing, springing open and snapping to attention made him smile. Just for the fun of it he reattached them and fired them off another time. And then again.

  His seatmate, with whom he had unsuccessfully tried to start a friendly conversation, glowered at him.

  Winkle sighed and pulled out his wallet from the briefcase. He liked to keep it in there because he knew how pickpockets were everywhere, especially during the holiday season. He found himself briefly studying his Pennsylvania driver’s license, which was a little frayed at the edges, and then pulled out his credit card.

  With his briefcase resting on his lap, he slid the credit card into the phone apparatus and dialed his number. His machine picked up on the second ring, which meant there was a message. He punched in his secret code and waited while the electronic voice informed him he had one message.

  Suddenly Geraldine Spoonfellow’s voice was screaming at him, forty thousand feet in the air. Winkle tried to smile and hoped that his seatmate couldn’t hear what her tape-recorded voice was saying.

  “I’m going to get me another investigator if you’re never there to take my calls. Call me back!” Winkle sat there looking out the window of the plane as the phone clicked in his ear.

  He pushed the disconnect button, not wanting to be charged for an extra minute, and shrugged.

  Oh well, he thought to himself. I don’t want to call her now. I’ll give her the good news at the party tonight. I’ll go straight there when I land. She’ll be so happy, she’ll have all the publicity people taking pictures of them.

  He jiggled the ice cubes in his glass. Who knows? After tonight I might be considered the next Sherlock Holmes.

  58

  GERALDINE STOOD IN front of the mirror, pinning a silver broach on her black high-necked taffeta dress. Normally she eschewed jewelry, but in honor of Pop-Pop she had decided that tonight was a night to wear silver. She’d had the dress for over twenty years, wearing it to the few formal events she attended.

  Today she had written her speech. It meant tearing herself away from his diary, but the excitement of tonight had started to build in her stomach that afternoon. Finally Pop-Pop would be getting some of the recognition he deserved. Aspen would sit up and take notice of his contributions to this town, and she’d made sure to lay them out one by one. They hadn’t told her how long she was supposed to talk, but they wouldn’t dare try to stop her in the middle of her message to the people, she thought.

  Applying a bit of lipstick, which for her was an occasion, Geraldine studied her reflection. It’s hard to believe that I’m seventy-five years old, she thought. I feel so much younger, but at the same time I think I’ve lived through three lifetimes of sadness. Not that there weren’t good times too. But not having a family always made the holidays more difficult.

  It’s a good thing I’m a pain in the neck, she thought, or else I’d be sitting around here feeling sorry for myself. I’d rather be yelling at Rip Van Winkle than crying, she thought. Of course he hadn’t called back yet. Where in tarnation was he, and what was he doing anyway?

  Geraldine picked up her silver brush and smoothed a few wisps of hair into her bun. If only my brother Charles had gotten married and had children, she thought, at least I’d have somebody to spoil. And someone to share tonight with. Pop-Pop is being honored and I’m the only relative to soak in the adulation.

  At least I can turn my energies to this town. I could get a fortune for that Beasley painting, but I don’t need it. I’ve got plenty of money to last my lifetime. I guess I shouldn’t complain. My life’s work will be to keep the Spoonfellow name alive by helping with the new museum and donating all the junk in the barn to the cause. The parade on New Year’s Day, led by Pop-Pop’s painting, will be just the beginning.

  Replacing the hairbrush on the dresser, she picked up a perfume bottle that had been resting on the same doily since her boyfriend died last year and smiled. I never bother with this stuff, but why not tonight, she thought. I gave up fussing over myself a long time ago, but tonight, well, tonight I just feel like it. She pulled on the neck of her dress, poking the bottle under the taffeta. She spritzed a few times and then misted her wrists. Before putting it back, she sprayed all around her dress.

  Checking her lipstick again, she smiled. I’m not dead yet, she thought. After all, who knows just what excitement tonight will bring?

  59

  WHEN MARVIN WINKLE arrived in Denver at 5 P.M., he was distraught to find that visibility in Aspen was dropping rapidly and there would be no more planes flying in there tonight. The airport was closed until morning and conditions changed.

  Tomorrow wasn’t good enough. Suppose the original Greek runner had taken a couple of days to get where he was going to announce “Victory, Victory”? He might have lived longer but there wouldn’t be marathons run all over the world today.

  “I need to get to Aspen tonight,” he told the ticket agent.

  She pointed with her well-manicured blood-red fingertip. “The car rentals are right over there.”

  There was a long line.

  Winkle hurried over and pulled out his credit card. It’s the second time I’ve used it in the space of a few hours, he thought. The last time, what did I get for it? Geraldine screaming at me. Let’s hope I have better luck this time.

  He calculated rapidly. It would take four hours to drive to Aspen. He waited on line for what seemed like forever and finally was taken care of. He completed the paperwork and was told to sit down and wait for the shuttle bus to the big parking lot full of rental cars. Everything was taking so much time!

  He consoled himself, as he sat there waiting with his luggage and the short skis, which in the cold light of the terminal were a great embarrassment. Geraldine had told him that the highlight of her life would be to present her grandfather’s picture to the museum. When she finished, he’d present her with a highlight that would even top that.

  60

  AT NINE O’CLOCK it was obvious that the party was a great success. Louis was beaming happily as he listened to the compliments on the restaurant and the paintings. The Louis painting was widely admired, and he was hearing himself referred to as the King. He loved it. He had already posed for several pictures in front of the fireplace with celebrities and moguls and the elite of As
pen.

  The reception area was filled with over six hundred people sipping cocktails and mingling and checking out the latest designer evening wear adorning many of the women in the room.

  The most serious looker was Ida. Threading through the crowd, she was having the time of her life, pretending to admire every black dress she was caught staring at. Where, oh where is the one I held in my hands just yesterday morning? she thought. I’ve got to find it, I’ve just got to.

  Slowly the assemblage was herded into the banquet room for the dinner, dancing and program.

  At a well-placed table bordering the dance floor, Kendra, Sam, Luke, and Nora took their seats. Regan, wearing a black velvet dress, found Ida in the crowd and ushered her to the table.

  “I want you to sit down for a few minutes,” Regan told her. “You’ve been wandering around this party for too long.”

  “Don’t worry, Regan. This is the best time I’ve had in years. I’m just getting frustrated that I haven’t seen the dress or my customer!”

  Kit and Regan had been standing in the cocktail area with Derwood and Stewart and flashes of Larry when Regan went to find Ida. Larry was making the best of every last moment of socializing.

  “I hate to sit down at the table, Regan,” he said. “I get antsy. That’s why when I get married, it’ll be a buffet reception.”

  “I can’t wait,” Regan had said. “I’ll see you guys inside.”

  After Ida had sat down and started chatting with the group, Regan looked around the room. The band was playing music with a pulsating energy. Everyone looked great and the drinks were flowing. The party had that indefinable quality that made it a winner. Louis should be happy, Regan thought. So far so good.

  Regan spotted Geraldine Spoonfellow at the table closest to the stage, in a place of honor with the Rescue Aspen’s Past group. Her seat was closest to her grandfather’s paintings, which were now both onstage. The Beasley was covered with a drop cloth with a blue-spruce decor, the symbol of Colorado. The other Pop-Pop, a portrait of a resplendent senior citizen with white goatee, string tie and a sternly benevolent expression, was highlighted and impossible to ignore.

  Regan hurried over to say hello. Geraldine shook her hand and seemed genuinely glad to see her. “Regan, the other day when you and Louis first came to the house, I didn’t think we’d be together here tonight,” she said warmly, covering Regan’s hand with hers.

  “I’m awfully glad we are, Geraldine,” Regan said. “I can’t wait to hear you speak.”

  Geraldine held up a notebook. “It’s all in here.”

  From over Geraldine’s shoulder, Regan could see a tall older man approaching. It was Angus Ludwig, the old-time resident she’d met when she visited him with the reporter. He was crisp and elegant in his tuxedo with a red cummerbund. “You look mighty sharp, sir,” she said admiringly.

  “Thank you, Regan. You look very sharp yourself. I just came over here to see if this pretty lady would like to share this dance with me. But I’m a little nervous, seeing as how she turned me down nearly sixty years ago. My feelings are still a little hurt.”

  Geraldine’s head swiveled and she looked up at the man she hadn’t laid eyes on since she was a young girl. Her mouth dropped and her heart raced. “Angus Ludwig,” she whispered.

  Simultaneously they both laughed and said, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Angus took her hand in his. “My lady?”

  Geraldine rose from her chair, never taking her eyes off him.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Regan…” Angus said.

  “Of course,” Regan replied and walked back toward her table. Let’s see, she thought, who might come back looking for me in fifty years? She couldn’t think of anyone.

  Kit was making a beeline for the bathroom from the cocktail area. Regan hurried to follow her. “Kit, wait up,” she yelled.

  Kit turned and smiled. She was wearing a bright red dress, her blond hair swept up in a chignon. “Regan, I feel like a louse,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Derwood just asked if he could come and visit me in Connecticut in a couple of weeks.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I was seeing someone and it was starting to get serious.”

  Regan paused. “Poor thing. He really seemed to like you.”

  “There’s just no chemistry. He’s nice, but I don’t think it’s there for us. I figured that was the best way of getting out of it.”

  “It is. It’s just too bad that it had to happen tonight.”

  Kit’s face looked pensive. Her eyes wandered and quickly they brightened. “Look, Regan. He doesn’t waste any time. He’s already out dancing with somebody else.”

  Regan turned and there was Derwood out on the floor, dancing his heart out with a very attractive blonde.

  “I guess he likes you blondes,” Regan said. “I never had a chance with him.”

  Kit laughed. “I feel better now. He is a nice guy. I still say you should go for his friend Stewart.”

  “Whatever.” They pushed open the ladies’ room door and went inside.

  61

  JUDD AND WILLEEN were randomly seated at a table for eight, which the other people at the table sourly observed might as well be in the kitchen. But it suited Judd and Willeen’s purposes admirably. Only a scant twelve feet behind them was a discreet arrow that pointed to the rest rooms.

  Claude, the master planner of the art ring, who had arranged the appointment for the supposed sale of the Beasley in Vail, had secured blueprints of Louis’s inn. Willeen knew exactly where to go downstairs when the time came for the heist. When she supposedly went to the ladies’ room last night, she had established that the box and the switch were exactly where they were supposed to be.

  The fake handicapped sign in the window of their car had ensured privileged parking and privileged escape. To ensure that spot, they’d arrived in plenty of time for the seven-thirty cocktail hour, but instead of mingling had sat in a quiet corner of the bar sipping club soda. Both of them were too keyed up even to attempt small talk.

  At the dinner table, the woman seated to the right of Judd insisted on carrying on a steady stream of conversation. “I’m from Florida. My husband and I met in school. We love to give dinner parties. Isn’t the salmon mousse delicious? I never eat soup. It fills me up too much. But look at my husband. He’s really enjoying the cream of broccoli. I like the idea of dancing between courses. It sort of works off what you eat. My husband hates to dance. Do you like to dance?”

  “No,” Judd said shortly, wishing he could strangle her, as he studied from a distance the drop cloth with the treasure behind it that would soon be his.

  Finally they were serving the filet mignon. He knew that when this course was finished the presentation would be made. He looked around with a glimmer of satisfaction and started to feel reassured. A lot of people had had enough to drink and were obviously feeling pretty relaxed. In the left wing of the stage he could make out the figure of an older man in a security uniform who, according to their sources, was a retired Aspen cop and now worked for the museum. He was in charge of guarding the painting during the evening. It had been dropped off by a security car earlier and was to be picked up by the same car and returned to the bank vault at the end of the evening. Or at least that was their plan, Judd thought.

  The waiters started to clear the main-course plates. Judd watched as a man from the table situated front and center to the stage stood up and offered his arm to an elderly woman. The ceremony was about to begin.

  He turned to Willeen and mouthed, “Now.”

  Ida obviously had taken her appointment as amateur sleuth seriously. Regan watched with gratitude as Ida wandered through the room between courses, stopping at various tables with a friendly hello for some of the clients from the cleaner’s. She was also keeping a hawkeye on the dancing couples.

  When she returned to the table each time, she gave Regan a shake of the head. “No luck so f
ar. There are so many people here.”

  After the main course had been cleared, trumpets blared and the spotlight fell on Geraldine Spoonfellow, who was being escorted to the stage by the president of the Rescue Aspen’s Past Association.

  “The ceremonies are starting? Aren’t they going to serve dessert and coffee? I guess they want to make sure everyone stays for the speeches,” Ida commented. Then her gaze became fixed. “Regan,” she said urgently. “You see that woman over there in the hallway? The one with the black-and-silver shoulder straps? That’s the dress we pressed! I’m sure of it! I guess she’s going to the rest room.”

  Regan stood up. Louis had just pulled up a chair at their table to hear the speeches. She was aware of his reproachful gaze as she murmured “Excuse me” and Geraldine’s decisive voice resounded over the microphone. “My beloved grandfather, Burton Spoonfellow…”

  The Coyote had also observed Willeen leaving the room. He noticed the glance she threw over her shoulder, establishing eye contact with Judd. He quietly slipped past the outside tables until he was at the entrance to the ballroom. The foyer leading to the rest rooms was on the right; on the left was the first emergency exit from the ballroom. It was the one he would use after he was sure that Judd had successfully completed phase one of his plan to have the Beasley painting in his possession that night.

  Willeen disappeared down the corridor. Not, he knew, to the ladies’ room but down the dark narrow stairs that led to the basement and the master switch, which would plunge the entire restaurant into chaotic darkness. As he watched, Judd, on schedule, left his chair and began to make his way toward the stage just as Geraldine Spoonfellow was being announced. Then the Coyote frowned. Regan Reilly, always a nagging worry, was making her way swiftly from her privileged seat, weaving her way through the tables. He had no doubt that she was following Willeen. How much did she suspect?