Snowjob

by Ted Wood

  “I’ll explain, Ella, Can we come in, please?”

  She frowned, looking as if the action caused her pain, then she seemed to decide it was too much trouble to argue and waved us in.

  The room looked as if she’d been drinking all weekend. It was littered with newspaper, separated into sections and dropped, and there were a couple of glasses around, one on top of the television, the other on the table. There was no liquor in sight but there was a big glass jug that still held about an inch of orange juice on the floor beside the couch.

  Maloney was shocked. “Good God Almighty, Ella. What’s happening to you?”

  “What do you mean?” She said it with the cut-glass clarity of the careful drunk.

  It was no place for a stranger and I opted out. “Would you like me to make some coffee, Ms. Frazer?”

  She opened her mouth to argue but Maloney cut her off. “Good idea.” She sat down, not arguing. I went into the kitchen, shutting the door behind me.

  The sink was full of dirty dishes and there was a half gallon of vodka sitting on the draining board. Most of it was gone. I took off my parka, found coffee and rinsed the pot and set it on. While I was waiting I ran some hot water and washed up. I could hear Maloney’s voice from the other room, low and angry-sounding, like the father of a teenager disappointed with his grades. If Ms. Frazer was answering it was too softly for me to hear. I made sure to clatter noisily before going in with the coffee.

  Ms. Frazer was still sitting in the same chair. She had been crying. Her mascara had smeared up over her left eye and her lipstick was smudged. The room was tidier. The papers had been picked up and folded and the jug and empty glasses were on the coffee table. I set down the tray and picked up the debris and took it into the kitchen, Then I rejoined them. Maloney was pouring coffee. He spoke first, continuing the conversation he had been having in my absence. “It’s eating you up,” he said.

  Ms. Frazer reached for the cup he was holding out to her and spoke. “I’ve worked there twenty-two years. I can’t just walk away. Who in hell would hire me today? I’m fifty-three years old and there’s a million people looking for jobs.”

  I sat down, on a chair out of her line of sight. It looked as if Maloney had been right. It would have been better if I’d stayed outside. She was easy with him as she might have been with a brother.

  He was very careful with his next words. “That’s true. But I have to suggest that when this business blows up, because it’s going to, you can count on that, when it does there’s going to be dirt on everybody. As head of the accounting department, you’ll be caught up in it.”

  Her voice was very low when she answered. “What can I do? If I make waves they’ll fire me.”

  “I need some documentation, that’s all. When did this start? How much money is involved? If possible, where does the money come from every month to pay for the credit card receipts? That will do for a start. Later we may need more detail.”

  She raised her shoulders and let them flop. “What’s that going to do?”

  “I’ll worry about that. Can you do it for me?”

  She shrugged again. “I guess.”

  “Good.” He looked across at me. “I want to talk to Ella for a minute or two, Reid. Could you wait in the car, please?”

  “Sure.” I went to the kitchen for my coat and left, not speaking to either of them. It was cold but sunny and I paced to the corner and back while I waited for Maloney to come out. He did, after perhaps a quarter of an hour. He drove up the street to me and picked me up. He didn’t say anything when he opened the door and I kept quiet. It looked to me as if he had a soft spot for Ms. Frazer and didn’t like what was happening to her.

  At last he spoke. “She’s only been drinking since her husband walked out on her. Up until then she was outgoing, cheerful. Day like this she’d have been out on the slopes.”

  “You think the stress of this money business has anything to do with the way she’s acting?”

  He didn’t answer directly. “Dammit. It’s enough to make you want to go home and tip all your liquor down the sink.”

  “It has to be each person’s choice. You can’t help anyone unless they want help.”

  “That’s why I stayed,” he said, gripping the wheel very tight. “I wanted to see if she would do it, if she’d pour her goddamn vodka away.” He slowed at an intersection and then made a left turn. “She said no. Said she wouldn’t drink but she wasn’t going to make any gestures.”

  He was angry and worried and there was nothing to say so I sat silent until he said, “I thought I’d go and see Paid Grant, let him know what’s been happening to Jack.”

  “You won’t want me there for that,” I said. “I’d be as welcome as a shark in a swimming pool.”

  He managed a faint grin. “Probably. I shouldn’t be long, though. You could wait in the car. Would you mind?”

  “Sure. I don’t know what else I could do this morning.”

  “Good.” He picked up speed a little and drove to the center of town, pulling into the driveway of a big brick house. “Shouldn’t be long,” he said again and left.

  He left the car running, with the heater on and the radio tuned to the same classical station. They were playing something dreary with lots of screeching violins so I pressed buttons until I found a country station and sat back listening to George Jones. Idly I checked the house. It looked as if Grant used it as a showcase for his products. There was a multileveled deck around the front door and a number of floodlights set in the snow as well as awnings on all the windows. There were two vehicles parked in the driveway, a Cadillac and a pickup truck with the name and address of the hardware store on the door. There was a garage as well but it was drifted in with snow and I guessed that Grant had his workshop in there with lots of power tools. The place looked typical successful Middle America, comfortable affluence in a sparkling clean little town. I wondered what Maloney could dig out here that would help Doug. Maybe there was something rotten at the core, but it was well hidden. He’d have to dig deep to find it.

  I couldn’t see the Oldsmobile that Jack Grant had been driving but that didn’t surprise me. It figured he had his own pad somewhere. If he was the black sheep of the family they were probably glad to have him gone.

  Maloney was in the house for about twenty minutes and when he came out a man his own age came to the door with him. They stood talking, while the other man rubbed his shirt-sleeved arms against the cold, then he closed the door and Maloney came back to the car. I readjusted the radio to his classical station as he crunched over the snow to the car.

  He got in, looking thoughtful. “Paul hadn’t heard about last night,” he said. “Jack didn’t come home.”

  “He lives here, with them?”

  “I told you he was a spoiled brat.” He looked back over his shoulder and reversed into the roadway. “Twenty-nine years old and his mother still makes his bed for him. Only this morning there was no need because he’s still on the tiles.”

  “I’d imagine that’s standard, from what you’ve said about his sex life.” The kid was probably getting up about now, I thought, allowing some lucky girl to make breakfast for him.

  “That’s not his pattern. Not according to his father. Paul realizes that the boy screws around a lot but apparently he’s always home for breakfast, no questions asked. He just shows up and that’s it.”

  “You want to talk to him?”

  “It might help.” He backed out of the driveway and pulled off away up the street. “I’ve known him since he was born. He’s my godson, for what that’s worth. Maybe he’ll open up a little.”

  He didn’t say anything and I prodded. “Where to now?”

  “Do you ski?” he asked suddenly.

  “I’m not the Canadian champion but I know how.”

  “Then let’s go out to Cat’s Cradle and get some fresh air.” The idea pleased him so I didn’t argue, just sat back and enjoyed the ride. He didn’t say much until we got there. T
he lot was full of cars as usual and we had to park on the roadway, a couple of hundred yards back from the gate. Maloney unlocked his trunk and took out some coveralls. “I’m not a good enough skier to dress fancy,” he said with a small, neat smile. “These are warm, go over my clothes and they make me look like a farmer, which makes my siding look better than it is.” He looked at my blue jeans. “Will you be okay like that?”

  “Same kind of disguise,” I said. “Let’s do it.” We walked back to the gate and were just about to turn in when I heard a siren back down the road behind us.

  “First broken leg of the day,” Maloney said cheerfully as an ambulance pulled past us. But then a car came in right behind it, driving just as fast, and I recognized Pat Hinton at the wheel.

  “That’s the detectives,” I said. “Maybe it’s something else.” I wondered if there had been a holdup and somebody had been shot. Vermont is peaceful but violent crime is spreading everywhere. It might have reached as far as Chambers.

  We picked up our pace up the driveway which was lined with cars and followed into the lot where the ambulance was standing with its rear doors open. A crowd had formed around it and we joined it, waiting while the ambulance men brought their gurney around the side of the building with something on it, covered completely by a blanket. Pat Hinton was following, with a couple of ski patrol people, a man and woman in neat brown outfits.

  The crowd parted as the ambulance men wheeled the gurney through and then Hinton saw me. He broke off talking to the ski patrollers and took six quick steps to stand in front of me. “Come with me,” he said.

  I followed as he held up a finger to the ski people to wait and ted the way to his car. We didn’t get in but as we reached the car he stopped and asked his question. “Where were you last night after you got out of the cells?”

  “I went home with Mr. Maloney. He invited me to stay over so I did.”

  “That’s good,” he said fervently. “Otherwise I’d be taking you downtown right now.”

  “What’s going on?”

  He turned and pointed at the gondola lift and then pointed higher up the slope. “See that wooded part, close to the top of the lift?”

  I nodded. Just below the wheelhouse there was a false crest covered with pines which reached almost up to the gondola cars. “He was thrown out there, in the trees,” Hinton said. “We might not have found him for days but some guy took somebody else’s wife into the trees for a quick nibble.”

  “Who was thrown out? Who’s dead?”

  He looked at me closely, checking my face as he gave me the news. “Jack Grant. And the fall didn’t kill him. He was stabbed in the heart first.”

  EIGHT

  The ambulance men had closed the door by now and were heading back down the driveway, lights flashing. Hinton turned to watch them go, then flicked a glance at me. “Will Maloney back you up?”

  “Go ask him.” I was almost angry. I had no right to expect friendship from this man, but at least a little professional courtesy for the fact that I was a cop, like him.

  He turned away. “No need,” he said. “Listen, you’re going to be questioned by the chief, I guess, about this. So’s Maloney. But so far as I’m concerned, you’re a brother officer. Seen many homicides?”

  “I worked homicide for a year in Toronto.”

  “Good. Those clowns from the ski patrol rushed in like the goddamn seventh cavalry. They’ve tramped the crime scene into a shambles, but let’s get up there and see what we can find.”

  That pleased me. “Right. I’ll tell Frank.”

  I went to Maloney and filled him in quickly. He asked only, “Are they sure it’s Jack?”

  Hinton had joined me and he nodded. “I identified him.”

  “In that case, would you like me to break the news to the family?”

  “That would be very kind, sir. I was going to send an officer, but you’re a family friend. Would you go to the station first and pick up a uniform guy?”

  “Of course.” Maloney nodded. “Then I’ll go home. Join me when you’re through, Reid.”

  Maloney left and Hinton led me back to the ski patrol people. They got us a pair of snowmobiles and we rode up the slope, startling a whole series of skiers. On the bunny slope, a couple of them tumbled as we approached. It was a steep ride toward the top but I do a lot of skidooing in the winter at home and Hinton looked as if he’d ridden a snow machine before so we reached the scene in five minutes. It was a hundred meters or so from the mogul field that dominated this run.

  We parked at the side of the ski trail and went into the trees. The ski patrol had left a man there and he was busily trying to shoo away the sightseers who were crowding in. He yelled at us as we approached, but Hinton flipped out his badge and he gave in gratefully. “I’ve done what I could, officer, but everybody and his goddamn brother wants to take a look.”

  “You did well. Thanks for the help. What’s your name?” Hinton was professional. He took the name and clapped the man on the back, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a roll of orange tape. He flipped it to me and said, “Ten yards each way should be good.”

  I quickly made a circle around the place where he was standing, moving the spectators back as I tied the tape to trees at chest height. The onlookers jostled but the barrier worked. None of them ducked under it to approach us. Then I joined Hinton. He was looking up at the trees above his head. As we watched a gondola car passed over and Hinton spoke. “There’s not much forward momentum. He must have fallen just about straight down. See where those branches are broken?”

  “Yeah. He must have landed here.” We looked down at our feet. The snow, about two feet deep, was tramped flat all around us.

  “Great,” Hinton said angrily. “If there’s anything here we won’t find it until spring. Why did the damn ski patrol move the goddamn body?”

  “We’ll search anyway. I’ll work down the slope from the point of impact. You want to work up?”

  “Right.” Hinton looked disgusted. He was wearing city clothes, a good topcoat and low shoes with toe rubbers. His pants were white with snow to the knees already. He had no hat. I was wearing a toque and had a hood on my parka. “Stick this on,” I said and gave him my toque.

  “Thanks very much.” He put it on gratefully. Then I flipped up my hood and laced the front and stepped behind the tree where Grant had fallen. Even here the snow was trampled and I reached up and cut off a small branch with my clasp knife and quickly trimmed it until I had a small rake. Then I crouched and started sifting the trampled snow.

  It was laborious work and produced nothing within the area I had taped off. But below that spot the snow was untrampled and I went forward, faster, looking for holes in the virgin snow, places where things had fallen since the last snowfall. There were lots of them and I dug up twigs and pine cones with my little rake. And then, forty yards from the place where Grant had been found, right at the edge of the small grove of trees, I saw a hole that looked artificial. It was almost square. I dug into it, brushing the snow aside as carefully as an archaeologist an ancient tomb. And deep down in the soft snow, almost to the ground, I found a billfold.

  There was no need to mark the spot. My footsteps were the only impressions on the snow here, in the woods. I stood up and trudged back up to Hinton who was still working in the trampled area immediately around the body.

  He looked up at me. “This is impossible. I’m going to call in a metal detector to look for the weapon.”

  “Found something,” I said and held out the billfold on the end of my twig. He opened both gloved hands like a begging bowl and I dropped the billfold into them.

  He stood there, holding it flat on his hands. “Can you open the flap with that stick?”

  I did so and he indicated the second little flap on the left side. “Should be a license under there.”

  I lifted that one as well and we bent forward to check the name. It was Grant’s own wallet. “Pity,” Hinton said. “Would’ve bee
n neat if this was the perp’s. But that doesn’t happen in real life.”

  “It looks thin. The guy who dropped it probably went through it and took out his money and credit cards. There may be fingerprints.”

  He looked at me wide-eyed. “Wouldn’t that be great.” He bit the fingers of his right glove and pulled it off, then dug into his coat pocket and came out with an evidence bag. I took it from him and held it open while he slipped the billfold into it, not touching it with his bare fingers. “Good,” he said. “There could be prints, if the guy who killed him went through it. And if the sonofabitch took his gloves off to do it.”

  “One small step for police kind,” I said. “I’ve gone as far as the edge of the wood. Want me to help you here?”

  “Yeah. Please. I phoned for some guys soon’s I saw we had a homicide but there’s hardly anybody working on a Sunday morning. They’ll have to round ’em up and bring them in. Meantime, let’s give this our best shot.”

  So I got back down on my knees and went over the ground. It’s the kind of unglamorous and mostly unproductive work that cops have to do. And we knew we were working at a disadvantage. The place was so public, so trampled by the skiers who had found the body, so open to contamination from the chair lift above us that there wasn’t much chance we could tie anything we found to any killer. Even if we’d found the murderer’s wallet a sharp lawyer would make the case that his client had dropped it while riding the lift overhead. But you don’t know what you haven’t got while you still haven’t got it, so we probed and got wetter and colder for almost an hour. Then a couple of guys in city overcoats came ducking under the tape. It was Lieutenant Cassidy and Morgan. And Cassidy was blazing. He pointed a finger at me. “What in hell’s this guy doing here?”

  “He’s a trained homicide officer, assisting me at my request, Lieutenant.” Hinton was just as angry but was faultlessly polite.

  “You’ve embarrassed the whole Chambers PD,” Cassidy snapped. “This man’s got a record in town.”