by Maia Chance
“But why?” I asked. In past years, Berta had regaled me with tales of special Swedish Advent treats—saffransbullar, pepparkakor, and glögg—luminous candles, and visits from Jultomten, the Swedish Santa Claus.
“I do not know. Perhaps it is the way the detecting profession requires one to be so very clear-eyed and without sentiment. Because truly, Mrs. Woodby, are our memories of Christmases past not embellished with a fictional golden glow?”
“Surely not!”
Berta sighed again. “Then perhaps it simply means I am growing old and sad.”
My own heart wrenched. Berta couldn’t grow old and sad. She was my business partner and, well, she’d become almost like family to me.
My feet grew heavy as we walked.
It wasn’t long before little snowballs accumulated in Cedric’s toe fluff and he mutely insisted that I pick him up.
My feet felt heavier still. Perhaps high-heeled snow boots hadn’t been the most prudent choice.
Berta and I talked over our goals in interviewing the suspects.
“Number one,” I said, “we must sniff out possible murder motives. I mean, they all had the opportunity to poison Judith and, as for means, well, cyanide isn’t difficult to come by.”
“Also, we must attempt to discern each suspect’s feelings regarding Judith’s death. Are they grieving? Or are they pleased, or relieved? Are they masking emotions of any kind? Recall that the great detective Thad Parker”—Thad was a fictional dime-novel detective—“says ‘before a lie is uttered, a flicker of truth appears upon the countenance. Take heed of the flicker.’”
“Sure,” I said, twiddling my fingers. Berta forgets that dime novels aren’t meant to be instruction manuals.
We passed a skating pond edged with tall reeds. A dozen people glided or wobbled on the ice, everyone laughing. We crossed a covered bridge, our boots clopping hollow against the wood. On the other side only one house stood, backing onto a tree-covered slope. A packed snowy track led to the front gate. An open garage to one side contained a green Crossley motorcar.
“This must be Roy’s house,” I said. “Swish motorcar.”
“And what a charming little home.”
“That ridge up there—” I pointed. “—that’s where Goddard Farm stands. I’d bet this was originally the caretaker’s cottage—it looks like a miniature version of Goddard Farm.” The cottage had the same yellow clapboard and white pillars and pilasters as the mansion. Shutters framed large, sparkling windows, and a picket fence ringed a small yard. Everything was covered in snow, but I assumed that the various lumps and bumps in the garden were ornamental shrubs. The front walk had been shoveled, and smoke curled from a brick chimney. “It looks as though he’s home,” I said.
We unlatched the gate and went to the front door. The brass knocker was shaped like a cow’s head. I rapped, and we waited, but nobody came.
“Perhaps he is in the bath, or at the back of the house,” Berta whispered.
“He might even still be asleep,” I whispered back. “It isn’t yet noon, and I happened to notice him twice refilling his glass with wine last night.”
“The pathway around the house is clear. We could go to the back and knock at the kitchen door.”
“All right.”
We crunched along the snowy side path and found a small porch. I rapped upon the kitchen door, whose window was covered with a lace curtain.
Deep barking erupted somewhere inside.
Cedric vibrated in my arms, growling.
“That sounds like a rather large dog,” Berta whispered.
The barking was just on the other side of the door now. The door shuddered—the dog must have jumped against it.
Cedric squirmed and yipped in my arms. Snowflake sweater or no, he imagined himself to be a roughie.
“Since no one seems to be at home, one is tempted to have a peek in the kitchen,” Berta said over the sound of barking. She was peering around the porch railing to the side of the house. “That window is not too terribly far from the ground, is it, Mrs. Woodby?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “No monkey business.”
Berta adopted a logical tone. “But we are already here, and since no one seems to be at home, why, this would be a fine opportunity to take a peek at the domestic arrangements of one of our suspects.”
“Oh, all right.” I thrust Cedric at Berta, stomped down the kitchen steps, and went over to the windows at the side of the house. They were about five feet up, so in order to get a good look inside, I’d need a boost. Luckily, the house had a high foundation of uneven stones.
Inside, the barking grew fiercer.
I wedged a boot toe into a crack, gripped the windowsill, heaved myself up, and smushed my face against the icy window. “It’s the kitchen.”
“Why do you sound strangled, Mrs. Woodby?” Berta was standing below me with Cedric in her arms. “Is your scarf too tight?”
“This isn’t easy, you know!”
“What do you see in there?”
“Big white cooking range—you’d adore it, looks like a Wedgewood. Table and chairs. No people. Bottles of wine and a glass on the table— Oh!” A big black dog’s head had bounced up just on the other side of the window. A string of slobber swept across the glass.
“Good heavens!” someone cried behind us.
I started, lost my footing, and my gloved fingertips slipped. I clawed at the windowsill for a fraction of a second, and then thumped backward onto the ground with an “oompf.” Luckily, my fall was broken by about three feet of snow. Flakes puffed up.
Feeling like an overturned tortoise, I struggled to my feet. I turned to see a man standing on the other side of the picket fence, watching me with interest.
He wore a black overcoat and the sort of hat you only ever see on the clergy. Despite his austere garb, however, he had a pale, handsome face and intelligent hazel eyes.
“Is there any particular reason you are peering through Mr. Ives’s window?” he asked. Inside, the dog was still bow-wowing. “I beg your pardon, but you very much give the impression of being, well, burglars.”
“Any particular reason you have just wandered down from the Goddard family’s private woods?” I asked.
“That is quite simple.” The man appeared to be amused. “I am Mr. Currier, the minister of Maple Hill Methodist Church, and I have just been up to Goddard Farm to counsel the bereaved family.”
“Oh,” I said, brushing snow from my coat to conceal my embarrassment. “And how are they, um, holding up?”
“As well as can be expected. Rosemary is seeking solace by going forward with her charitable work, George always keeps himself diverted, and Fenton, well…” A sigh. “I am worried about Fenton.” Currier watched me brush snow off my hips with a distracted sort of interest. He caught me looking, and cleared his throat. “Terrible business—but wait. Who are you, and how do you know—?” Understanding glimmered in his eyes. “Ah. You must be the mysterious lady detectives who turned up uninvited at the family gathering last night. Mrs. Rogerson mentioned you.”
Mrs. Rogerson? Oh yes—that was Judith’s daughter Rosemary’s married name. It also rang another bell. Phooey—what was it?
“We are indeed detectives,” Berta said, “but we were invited.”
“Yes,” I said, “and it wasn’t our fault that whoever invited us didn’t cop to it.”
“Either way, your appearance here in Maple Hill has—ahem—has aroused some interest.” Currier’s cheeks flushed, and his eyes strayed once again to my hips.
Berta smirked. I pretended not to notice.
“You’ve roused the beast,” Currier said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The dog.” Currier gestured to the window, where a furry black blob was bouncing in and out of sight. “Ammut.”
“He didn’t look like a mutt,” I said.
“No, no. Mr. Ives named his dog after the ancient Egyptian devourer of souls, Ammut.”
“Eek.”
“Quite. The dog is enormous—a Newfoundland—but really quite harmless. It is only that he takes his duties as guard dog seriously—like a sentry to the ancient Egyptian underworld.” Currier’s lips twitched at his little joke.
There was a rattle behind me, and a window sash rumbled upward. Roy Ives’s face appeared sideways in the gap. He seemed to have just gotten out of bed, with red-rimmed eyes and tufting hair. “Goodness me,” he said with a yawn. “Has a village meeting been called in my yard? Quiet, Ammut!”
At last, the dog fell silent.
“Good morning, Mr. Ives,” Currier called up to Roy. “These ladies took a wrong turn and ended up on the wrong side of your picket fence. I have set them to rights.” He lifted his hat in farewell, shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, and crunched away in the direction of the village, a black silhouette against the glittering snow.
“Now that we’re here,” Berta said to Roy, “do you suppose we could come inside and speak to you for a moment?”
“It’s about my sister Judy kicking the bucket, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, all right. Come around to the front door. I was just about to make some coffee.” The window clacked shut.
6
A few minutes later, Berta and I were sitting in Roy’s tiny dining room while Roy rattled around in his kitchen making coffee. A bright fire crackled in a small, ornate corner fireplace. Art prints in gilt frames cluttered the walls, nearly obscuring the yellow chinoiserie wallpaper beneath. An arrangement of pine boughs and red roses decorated the table. I felt as though we were crammed inside a very costly dollhouse.
Ammut, having sniffed Berta and me and found us boring, curled up on the hearth. He was a mountain of wafting black fur, huge tufty paws, and jumbo jowls streaked with drool. He was sweet, actually, although Cedric, rigid on my lap, was not inclined to agree. He kept growling in warning. Ammut ignored him.
“Almost ready!” Roy called from the kitchen.
“Splendid!” Berta called back.
I was in the midst of my second round of visually inspecting the room, and my gaze fell upon a few charred curls of paper—paper with handwritten letters—underneath the fireplace hob.
Roy had been burning documents of some kind? Interesting. And I had a few moments, surely, before he returned.
I went over to the fireplace, bent, and carefully plucked up one of the charred paper curls. Ash billowed. A few fragmented lines were visible:
ocery store tycoo
ayboy bachelor.
y club poetry luncheo
“Berta!” I whispered. “This is your handwriting—this is from the stolen dossier!”
“He is coming,” Berta whispered back.
I dropped the charred paper into the fireplace and threw myself back into my chair a split second before Roy came in with a tray of coffee things.
“Now then, what’s this visit all about?” Roy asked, placing the tray on the table. He sat. “I can’t imagine you would be so foolish as to intrude upon the police investigation.” He was somewhere around fifty years of age, with rough, florid skin through which gray whiskers sprouted. Maroon veins threaded his nose. His melon-shaped body was belted inside an olive green brocade robe. “Not to mention spying through my window,” he said in an accusing tone, even as he poured out coffees.
Berta unbuckled her handbag, extracted one of our cards, and slid it across the tablecloth.
Roy glanced at it without picking it up. “Mm, yes. Sergeant Peletier mentioned that the two of you claim to be gumshoes. What a bizarre occupation for women. Well, well. Detectives on the scene from the get-go. Why, it’s almost as though somebody knew in advance that Judy would be killed.” His tone was wry, but I noted his coffee cup shook as he lifted it again to his parched lips.
Anxious? Or merely hungover?
“Who hired you to investigate?” he asked.
“No one, actually,” I said. “I mean to say, someone anonymously hired us to retrieve a ring from Aunt Daphne—”
“I recall Sergeant Peletier mentioning that last night, too.”
“And now he is most unfairly suspicious of us,” Berta said, “so we must clear our names.”
“Otherwise, we’re stuck in Maple Hill indefinitely,” I said.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Roy said. “Being stuck in Maple Hill, I mean. I have been for more than five years.”
“Stuck?” Berta said.
“In a manner of speaking. Once you settle in here, something comes over you. It’s like you’re always half asleep, and you watch the seasons go by, one after the other, in a trance. Of course, it’s a wonderful place to do my work in peace, and the scenery here is wonderful inspiration.”
“What is your work?” I asked.
“I am an artist. Oil painting and poetry.”
“And your house—did you decorate it yourself?”
“You’re trying to get at whether or not I own this house, aren’t you?” Roy said, his voice barbed. “Everyone wants to know.”
“I—”
“It’s a logical question—why on earth is rich, beautiful Mrs. Goddard’s pudgy, dreary older brother living in the caretaker’s cottage on her country estate? What’s the catch? Pity? Blackmail?”
Berta and I sipped our coffees, all ears.
“Alas, it’s not that interesting,” Roy said. “Sorry to puncture your tire. It came about by happenstance. I was up here for the summer five years ago—this was the summer before her husband Elmer died—and I fell off a horse and broke my leg, and since the main house was absolutely overrun with noisy brats and raucous guests—Judy ran with a, shall we say, fun-loving set in Cleveland—I requested to convalesce here in the caretaker’s cottage. No one was using it—all the servants lived up at the main house—and I took the library on the main floor as a bedroom, since stairs were unmanageable.”
“Then, after your leg healed, you felt at home,” Berta said, “and you did not wish to go.”
“And of course it must be a financial boon to have such accommodations,” I said.
“Aren’t you the cheeky one,” Roy snapped.
Bulls-eye. Roy was living here for free. Starving artist (metaphorically speaking, I mean) and poor relation? The one thing that didn’t tally up was the richness of the décor. As undersized as the cottage was, the furnishings must’ve cost a mint. French wine doesn’t come cheap, either, and Roy’s robe had the sheen of the costliest silk. Then there was that gorgeous green Crossley out in the garage.
“What happened to Elmer Goddard?” Berta asked.
“Motorcar accident. In Cleveland, not here. Tragic, et cetera, although Judy weathered widowhood quite nicely. I’m surprised it took her five years to become engaged again, to be honest, but she then, she did enjoy her freedom.” Roy’s bloodshot eyes glinted with malice.
“You’ll forgive me for asking,” I said, “but what will become of your living arrangement, now that your sister is gone?”
“Ah, well, there’s the rub. Depending on which one of Judy’s wee darlings inherits the estate, I could be out on my ear—ah, I see you two exchanging looks. No, no, don’t deny it—it’s quite all right. Although surely you do see that, if you’re trying to deduce who poisoned Judy, I of all the family have quite the opposite of a murder motive. Her death could leave me without a home. You’re exchanging another look—you two really are very transparent—I know the real reason you’ve come today. To try to figure whether I knocked off old Judy. No, I’m not in mourning, and I won’t apologize. Judy was an insufferable cow, and although it never crossed my mind to hope she would die, I am not at all sad that she has.” Roy stopped, panting slightly, and regarded Berta and me with a lift of his chin.
“You’re afraid that whoever inherits the estate will turn you out of this house?” I asked.
“Of course I’m afraid! Those children might simply sell off the estate—it’s worth a fortune, thousands of acres of forest stretching to the north and
east. Rosemary is the only one with any sentimental attachment to it—you’ve seen that drivel she pens in those books of hers, all about heritage and traditions? George has no sentimental attachment to anything, animal, vegetable, or mineral, and Fenton, well, you met Fenton.”
“He spends a fair amount of time in the cellar, I understand,” I said.
“How odd that you say that. I happened to see him coming out of the cellar door—it’s in the kitchen—only yesterday.”
“Have you any notion what he does down there?” I asked.
“No. Although I can very easily picture him hanging upside down from the ceiling like a bat.”
At that moment, my eyes happened to rest on one of the small, gilt-framed prints on the wall. My impression of the prints had been vague, but now I saw, first, that they depicted picturesque New England villages and landscapes, and second, that one print in particular looked awfully familiar, right down to the golden, curlicued font reading Have a Merry Christmas.
“Mr. Ives,” I said, “are these prints your work?”
“Yes.”
“They are lovely,” Berta said, “but why are they all so very small?”
“Because they’re greeting cards,” I said. I turned to Roy. “You’re a greeting card artist—”
“I thought every frumpy middle-aged woman under the sun had heard of LeRoy Ives.”
“LeRoy Ives!” Berta exclaimed. “Why, I have seen boxes of your Christmas cards at the stationery shop in New York City. Selling like hotcakes, I might add.”
I frowned. Did this mean Roy wasn’t a starving artist and poor relation, after all?
I said, “You mentioned that you’re a poet, Mr. Ives, so I suppose that means you write the verse inside the cards, too?”
“You mean the nauseatingly sentimental treacle?” Roy poured himself more coffee. “Mm. I have frequent nightmares about finding words that rhyme with ‘stockings’ and ‘mincemeat pie.’”
“It’s not nauseating,” I said with an inexplicable sense of dismay. “It’s nice.”
Roy snorted. “Pandering to moist-eyed nostalgic patsies who long for a sort of Christmas that never, in fact, existed?”
