by Leslie Caine
“Yep. In fifty-dollar bills,” Susan replied, setting aside her ham and cheese on rye. Then she added in a conspiratorial tone, “And wouldn’t you know, that dashing young man who was just killed … Cameron Baker? He had opened a private account at the bank and had been withdrawing a lot of fifties!”
“But …” I stammered, “he only arrived in town the day before Angie was killed. You’re saying he withdrew a thousand dollars the same day Angie was killed? Right after he opened the account?”
Susan squirmed in her seat and made a face. “Actually, he withdrew money four times. Two thousand twice a couple of weeks ago, then again a week after that, and finally a thousand on the Friday before Angie was killed. I remember stuff like that.”
I was speechless. Cameron had to have been in town off and on before the meeting when we saw each other for the first time in all those years. Then again, this time frame wasn’t really all that hard to fathom; he’d worked for Wendell for years. I knew he’d been focused lately on a different project back east, but it was reasonable that he’d periodically traveled into Snowcap to see his boss.
Even so, Cameron was now looking more and more guilty of a white-collar crime, at the very least. Would he have been so foolhardy as to open a bank account in the same small town where he was bribing its citizens, though? Maybe, I answered myself. Cameron’s biggest fault had been his arrogance; he might have assumed nobody from a small town was smart enough to follow his money trail. And that, if they did catch on to him, a few thousand dollars in bribes was irrelevant.
“Has Greg Mackey asked you about any of this?” Mikara asked.
“Hell, no,” Susan snorted. “His election to town sheriff was bought and paid for by Wendell Barton. You know that! Everybody knows that!”
“We’ve just verified my worst fears, Erin,” Mikara said once we’d returned to my van. “I was right. Angie was taking bribes. But I don’t see how it could have been Cameron who was making the payoffs. His boss, Wendell Barton, wants the inn to open on time to protect his investment.”
“Unless he actually doesn’t,” I muttered, deep in thought.
“What do you mean?”
I started the engine, but allowed it to idle. “For all we know, Wendell could have been talking out of both sides of his mouth all along. Maybe he doesn’t really want the inn to be a success. Maybe he’d be better off with the inn in forfeiture, so he can then buy it at a reduced price and become the sole owner, like he’s wanted all along.”
“So he could plow it down and put up yet more condos, you mean?”
“Exactly. And so maybe, if Cameron truly was the middleman who was giving your sister bribes, the payments might have been to flunk the inn’s inspections.”
Audrey was waiting for me when we returned, worried that I’d developed symptoms of a concussion and had gone to the hospital. The three of us made and ate a quick lunch, but Mikara was withdrawn, obviously still saddened by what we’d learned. She picked at her turkey sandwich and said she was going back to her old house for a while.
I gave Audrey a brief rundown on what Mikara and the bank teller had told me. Audrey listened patiently, then said, “I know you’re deeply suspicious of Wendell, and much as I hate this aspect to his personality, he openly admits to bribing public officials, under various legal guises. Frankly, it would be just like him to turn a blind eye while Cameron handed out cash under the table …or inside a secret compartment of a fence post. But, Erin, the bribes might have nothing whatsoever to do with the murders. And, meanwhile, you’re overlooking Ben’s behavior.”
“What behavior? And why would he kill Angie or Cameron?”
“I don’t know his motives, but I’ve been watching him carefully for the past several days. For one thing, I’m certain that Ben resents having this place converted to an inn much more deeply than he lets on. I’ve seen a look of sheer hatred on his face, when he thinks nobody is watching. Usually it’s after someone’s asked him to make an alteration.”
“Okay, but—”
“Let me finish. If nothing else, he has a misplaced sense of entitlement regarding this house. You’ve heard how he keeps talking about his family building this place.” She hesitated. “And here’s something else that’s just a little odd. A couple of times, en route to the wine cellar, I’ve found him rooting around in the same old plywood box in the basement.”
“A plywood box?”
“I suspect he’s looking for evidence, or something that incriminates himself.”
“Can you show me the box?” I asked. “If it’s still down there.”
She led the way into the unfinished basement, a dark, dank space. Three rows of a half dozen metal posts supported the first story. The ceiling and walls were concrete, illuminated by three simple overhead light fixtures.
We located the plain plywood box and opened it. I rummaged through its contents: old, inexpensive toys—wooden cars, miniature trains, a spinning top, a small bat, ball, and glove, and some child-size tools. “This is certainly nothing worth killing for,” I said.
“Nor is it anything worth being so secretive about. He doesn’t have any children. So you’ve got to wonder what his interest is in some old toys.”
“Maybe he was looking to see if there were things he could give to charity.” Yet I didn’t actually believe my own words, and added, “I have to admit, there’s something a tad …creepy about this. You didn’t happen to find a child’s sled named ‘Rosebud,’ did you?”
We both jumped at the sound of footsteps on the staircase. I hadn’t realized we’d left the door ajar. It was Henry. “What are you two doing down here?” he asked as he approached, his voice sounding idly curious.
“We were searching for more Christmas decorations,” I lied. “Such as eleven pipers piping.”
He chuckled a little when he spotted the box at our feet. “That brings back memories.”
“Were these old toys yours?”
“No, they were Ben’s, as a matter of fact.”
“He kept toys in your house?” Audrey asked.
“That’s right. Even though Ben was exactly my age, and he and his dad were over here all the time, his father didn’t want Ben to play with my stuff. So he brought that box of Ben’s toys to the basement and insisted Ben play down here all by himself.”
“Why?” I asked, appalled.
Henry shook his head. “I don’t know. His dad was a real craftsman. Hell of a carpenter. But when it came to fatherhood, he was kind of a bastard.”
“Did Ben blame you? Did he think you’d told his dad you didn’t want him to play with your toys, I mean?”
“No. I don’t think so. We were kind of friends at school, but then had sort of an unspoken agreement to act like total strangers after hours. To avoid any hassles from his father. But, you know how things go,” he added and grimaced slightly. “After a while, you fall in with a crowd that’s just …easier somehow, you know? Both of us did. By the time we graduated high school, we were pretty much strangers …just like we’d pretended to be as kids.”
Chapter 22
Ben came down the stairs a moment later and flinched when he spotted us with his open toy box by our feet. Beneath the scruffy four-day beard, his cheeks turned rose-petal red. “I thought maybe I’d accidentally left the lights on when I was down here earlier.” He glanced at the furnace and added, “I changed the filter on the furnace. Trying to keep our carbon footprint under control.” Clearly embarrassed at our having discovered that he’d kept his shabby childhood toys here, he shifted his weight and stepped back toward the stairs, as if eager to turn and run.
“Look what the ladies found,” Henry said with a smile, gesturing at the box. “These are your old toys. Remember?”
“Yeah, you know, I noticed these down here last week. I, uh, looked through ’em to see if there was maybe something worth selling on eBay, but it’s nothing but junk. And not very much junk, even at that. A couple of toy trucks.”
I was still so
shaken by the image of a young boy forced to entertain himself with such meager playthings inside this cold, hard space that I felt like crying. I glanced at Audrey. She, too, looked immensely sad.
Oblivious, Henry chuckled. “No kidding. I don’t know what you found to keep yourself occupied all those hours when you were a kid.”
“Well, I had some old comic books, too. Must’ve taken those with me. I’ll bet those would’ve been worth something nowadays.”
“Oh, jeez,” Henry said, striking his forehead with the heel of his hand. “That stack of comic books were yours, after all! When we were in eighth grade, something like that, my dad gave me a batch of Spider-Mans and Fantastic Fours that he found down here. I tried to tell him they were probably yours, but he said he’d already asked your dad about them.” He shook his head. “I just read ’em once and tossed ’em. How dumb can you get.”
“They weren’t dumb,” Ben retorted. “They were classics!”
Henry’s eyes widened. “No, I meant it was stupid of me to throw them out. I should’ve stuck them in my backpack and brought them to you at school.”
“Yeah. No problem. Well, now you can just toss out my ratty toys, as well.”
He pivoted and headed back upstairs.
Henry watched him go, then said quietly to us, “Man. I think I really ticked him off. But it’s not like there’s anything I can do about things that happened thirty years ago.”
“I hope you remembered to give him the dollar-an-hour raise you promised him the other day,” I said.
“No kidding,” Henry replied. “I guess we invaded his private space down here.”
Audrey arched an eyebrow when our eyes met. As she had suggested earlier, Ben’s recent behavior could, indeed, be considered suspicious. But although he and Ben had some painful baggage in their past relationship, there was no immediate, obvious connection between that and Angie’s or Cam’s deaths.
For that matter, Mikara also had a large axe to grind with Henry. Maybe, in the dark, Cameron could have been mistaken for Henry. They were roughly the same height and build.
“Henry?” Chiffon called down from the top of the stairs. Suddenly the basement was Grand Central. If nothing else, this was a good reminder that, because the door to the basement opened off the central hallway, we needed to install a door lock before the inn opened.
“Yeah?”
“Is there an official meeting in the basement that I’m unaware of?” she asked.
I stifled a smile. If this were a TV sitcom, everyone in the entire house would traipse down those stairs and join us, and the last person would manage to lock the door after himself.
“No. I’ll be right up.” He rolled his eyes, and my hunch was that he was having second thoughts about dating her.
He caught me looking at him. “I’m starting to feel hemmed in,” he acknowledged in a low voice, giving both Audrey and me a sheepish smile. “Just like always.”
“Like always?” I snapped. “You got engaged to Mikara of your own free will, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. And I really loved her. But there were always prettier girls out there, and in the end, I realized it was better for both of us to just make a clean break, before we said vows that I knew full well I was never going to keep.”
“Too bad you didn’t realize that before you popped the question,” Audrey muttered.
“Yeah. Timing’s everything.”
Chiffon was waiting for Henry when we came upstairs. She promptly clutched his arm with both hands and shot me a don’t-touch-my-guy glare. “Ben looked really upset when he came upstairs. What were you guys talking about?”
“It was really no big deal,” Henry replied, shaking loose from Chiffon. “I’m going to grab something to drink. Can I get anyone else anything?”
“I’d like a diet cola,” Chiffon said. “Thanks, honey.”
Audrey and I said, “No, thanks,” in unison.
“I’ve got a meeting with my producer at the Snowcap studio,” Audrey said. “I’d better go get ready.” She gave me a smile, then stopped to admire our partridge-and-pear-tree display on the large, square coffee table. “Erin. With all the excitement of your ski accident this morning, I forgot to tell you how much I love this. It’s absolutely gorgeous!”
“Thanks, Audrey,” I exclaimed. She headed upstairs.
In order to escape Chiffon’s company myself, I was about to claim to need more pain medication when she touched my arm and peered into my eyes. “Erin, I have to tell you something that’s going to be a major shocker.”
“Oh? What?”
“I was examining your skis just now, and—”
“Why were you examining my skis?”
“I’d noticed that the binding on one was broken. Then Henry told me that Audrey told him you’d had an accident on the slope. Point is, I’m something of an expert at skis, and someone tampered with both of your bindings. There are file marks on one ski where the fasteners were sheared off. Your other release was set so high that it wouldn’t have come free. Your ski was practically fused to your boot.”
“The guys on the ski rescue patrol already told me that, Chiffon.”
“But …you realize what happened, don’t you?”
I spread my arms. “Somebody wanted me out of the way and tampered with my skis.”
“No, Erin. Somebody wanted me out of the way, and got our skis mixed up.”
“But that—”
She held up a hand to stop me. “I’ve been thinking about this, and I’m all but positive. You ski so slowly that you couldn’t have gotten hurt all that badly. I’m a way better skier than you are, and I ski much faster. If my ski had come loose in the middle of one of my runs, I could easily have broken my neck.”
She paused for air. “Furthermore, most of the time, my skis were at my condo. Just this past weekend, I happened to bring them here and I left them in the mudroom, along with yours. That has to be when it happened. See what I mean?”
Not really, I thought, but I lacked the energy to ask her to explain. “That’s an interesting theory, Chiffon, but for one thing, I haven’t skied in two weeks, so we don’t know when the skis were messed with.” I wasn’t about to tell her that this was the second attempt on my life; I’d never told her about the eggnog. “Plus, frankly, this isn’t the first time I’ve gotten caught up in a murder investigation. I’ve had a horrible propensity for finding dead bodies ever since I moved to Colorado. Maybe I was a coroner in a previous life.”
“Irregardless, Erin, I’m the celebrity. I’m the skier. My fame makes me the target for all kinds of things.”
You’re also a drama queen who wants to constantly put yourself in the spotlight.
“The more I think about it, the more certain I am that this attempt was meant for me.”
“That’s possible, but I’m highly skeptical.”
“I’m calling my publicist,” Chiffon said, just as Henry dutifully returned to the hallway with her glass of diet cola. She waved at him to set it on the coffee table. “Something’s come up,” she said to him by way of explanation. A moment later she cried, “Richard!” into the phone; she must have had the poor guy’s number on speed dial. “The most terrible thing has happened! There was an attempt on my life!” She drew a breath, as if to add dramatic tension. “It was made at the hand of some maniac!”
Henry slid her glass next to the pear tree and gave me a quick what’s-up gesture. I whispered, “She thinks whoever tampered with my ski bindings accidentally chose the wrong pair …that her skis were supposed to be booby-trapped.”
Henry rolled his eyes, but Chiffon grabbed his arm as if for support during her terrifying ordeal.
“I’ll be in my room if anyone needs me,” I said and headed for the staircase. Chiffon blathered away to her publicist about the sabotaged bindings, which, “fortunately, thanks to the good Lord above, accidentally wound up being on the wrong pair of skis.”
I thought back to Mackey’s accusations. Chiffon could h
ave tampered with my skis and concocted this story in advance, to make herself look innocent. Granted, I couldn’t think of any plausible motive for her to kill Cameron, let alone Angie, but that didn’t mean she was innocent. Chiffon seemed to be jealous of all women and to compulsively crave attention. Her troubles could run a lot deeper than that. Maybe Angie had once done something unforgivable in Chiffon’s eyes. Furthermore, Chiffon’s dinner date with Cameron might have gone nothing like she’d described it yesterday. Something could have happened then that led her to make Cameron a second victim.
Later that afternoon, Steve and I cuddled together on our bed, while he told me his very dull story of how long it had taken him to ship the silver wreaths back, due to crowds and logistics troubles; I told him my relatively riveting story of my conversations with the bank teller, Henry, Ben, and finally, Chiffon, followed by my suspicions regarding the latter.
Steve furrowed his brow. “I do have to admit that Chiffon tends to come on really strong to me whenever you’re not around.”
“She does?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Apparently I’m going to have to stop leaving you alone so often,” I muttered.
He gave me a sexy grin. “I’m all for that. Chiffon is nothing in comparison to you.”
At that, our bedroom door was flung open and Chiffon barged into the room unannounced. “Oh, oops,” she said with an edge to her voice. “I didn’t know you were here. I was just having fun, trying to follow your course of the Twelve Days of Christmas.”
“We’ve only gotten days one through five done,” Steve said. “More like days four-and-three-fifths, even.”
“You know, I thought there were more than three golden rings!” she exclaimed. She noticed my unhappy expression and said, “I should leave. ’Scuse the interruption.” She tiptoed out and ever so slowly shut the door behind her.
I sat there seething, certain that she’d had her ear pressed to our door, eavesdropping on our private conversation.
“Think she heard us?” Sullivan asked.
