Naughty on Ice

by Maia Chance

“What were you doing in the general store?” I asked. “What are you hiding?”

  “Hiding?” Rosemary scoffed. “I’m not hiding anything. You, on the other hand—”

  “Did you mark a milk bottle with grease pencil?”

  “Grease pencil? You’re mad.”

  “What did you purchase?”

  “It is none of your affair, but—nutmeg and cloves.”

  “Why are you still here in Maple Hill?”

  “To bury my brother Fenton, you fool! Now, you listen to me. Leave Maple Hill. Leave today, or you’ll be sorry.” Rosemary’s glasses gleamed, and I couldn’t see her eyes. “Two people are dead. Murdered. You must face facts. You’re out of your depth.”

  “What are you suggesting, Mrs. Rogerson? That you intend to murder me if I don’t obey your instructions?”

  “Oh, I don’t need to murder you.” A smile stretched Rosemary’s sallow cheeks. “I have this.” She reached into her handbag and fished out a handful of glossy photographic prints. “That’s right. Have a nice, hard look. I motored over to the camera shop in Waterbury yesterday to have these developed. I think this one’s my favorite.” She held up a photograph of Berta and me hunched over the open breadbox at Goddard Farm. “Mother’s ruby ring still hasn’t turned up, you know. That ring is mine! It was passed down from mother to daughter on that side of my family for generations, and now it’s simply gone, and George has gotten practically everything else. It’s not fair!”

  “I figured you took the ring,” I said.

  “Oh, shut up. Now, this one—” Rosemary shuffled the photographs. “—comes in a close second in terms of favorites.” The photograph depicted Berta and me in Goddard Farm’s butler’s pantry, among the gleaming silver. It must have been taken our first evening there, when we were trying to decide whether or not to skedaddle after Judith’s death. “Last but not least, there’s this one.” Rosemary shifted the third photograph to the top.

  Exceptionally wide-looking likenesses of Berta and me stood in Goddard Farm’s kitchen. Berta was holding up a silver teaspoon as though assessing its value. It would’ve been taken when we put together a coffee tray for hungover Aunt Daphne.

  “Did you spy on us?” I asked Rosemary.

  “Don’t be stupid. Fenton did. I developed the roll of film that was in his camera when he died.”

  “What else was on that roll? Whom did he photograph at the carnival that night? He could’ve—”

  “That is none of your affair.” Rosemary stuffed the photographs back into her handbag. “I can make these photographs turn up at the police station whenever I please. Sergeant Peletier is awfully eager to arrest you and your sidekick. All he’s looking for is an excuse. I’ll tell him lots of jewelry and silver and things have gone missing at the house—not just the ruby ring. It’ll all be utterly clear what you’ve done. Unless, of course, you and that grifter granny accomplice of yours do as I say and leave Maple Hill on this afternoon’s train. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Quite. One bitty question, though—why are you so desperate for us to leave town?”

  Without answering, Rosemary swung around, slammed herself back into her motorcar, started the engine, and rolled away in a haze of foul-smelling exhaust.

  “Lola.” Ralph was standing on the other side of the snowbank. “You okay?”

  I nodded. I climbed atop the snowbank, and Ralph put his hands on my waist and helped me hop down.

  “What happened with Titus?” I asked.

  “He went straight to the icebox, took the marked milk bottle, paid for it—didn’t say a word—and left. Whoever marked the bottle had to have come through that door leading out the back of the store. I had my eye on the front door the whole time I was up at the counter talking to Green. I went and had a look around the back of the store. There are a couple doors back there—delivery doors, you know—and they weren’t even locked.” Ralph shook his head. “We messed up, Lola. The person who marked the milk bottle—today, at least—they came in through the back.”

  “And Rosemary.” I scowled. “What if she went in there simply to distract us? What if she’s working with someone? Because the timing…”

  “Yeah.”

  I told Ralph about Rosemary’s incriminating photographs, and her threats.

  “You and Berta were correct,” I said. “We shouldn’t have stayed up here. We should’ve gone home when we had the chance.”

  “We still have a chance, Lola. Heck, everyone’s just dying for you to leave.”

  “That’s just it, though. If everyone wants to get rid of me, that means I’m close to cracking this case. I’m not running off just because the kitchen has gotten hot.”

  “Things could get dangerous.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “You’re really something, you know that, kid?” Ralph’s lips twitched.

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  He laughed. “I can’t do without you, you know.”

  What did that mean? And why had he laughed? I said airily, “Food, shelter, water, Lola. The bare necessities.”

  “You got it.” He bent and kissed me, our lips cold and dry, our frozen breath escaping in little puffs. My heart, however, felt like a melting marshmallow.

  We went back into the store and purchased the little things we’d selected during our stake-out. Oh, I had been outsmarted, but at least my Christmas shopping was complete. If, that is, I managed to spend Christmas at home rather than in the clink.

  * * *

  Back at the inn, Ralph and I went up to Berta’s room to find her in an armchair with pillows mounded around her. She was alone except for Cedric, who was basking in front of the electric fire.

  “How is your ankle?” I asked, sitting in the other armchair. Ralph leaned on the wall and folded his arms.

  “The village doctor—Dr. Best—pronounced it sprained, and with a name like that, why, who am I to question him?” Berta picked up an open box of chocolates from the table beside her and held it out. “Cherry cordial?”

  I selected one. Ralph said no, thanks.

  “Now I see why Mr. Strom and Mr. Pickard were buying up the general store this morning,” I said, looking around the room. There were stacks of newspapers and magazines, boxes of chocolates, tins of cookies, and a potted orchid. “Orchids in December?”

  Berta patted her bun. “Mr. Strom feels terribly guilty—he believes, quite rightly, that he was to blame for my injury—and he seems to have gotten his hopes up about getting an answer from me regarding—” Her eyes flicked to Ralph and back. “—a question.”

  “A question?” I repeated.

  “Yes. He posed it to me last night in Dr. Best’s examination room. Of course, Mr. Pickard posed an identical question only half an hour ago, when he brought his gifts.”

  I swallowed cherry cordial, and the sugar seemed to burn my throat. “Oh,” I said. This could mean only one thing. Marriage proposals. Would Berta really up and leave our agency—and me, and Cedric, and New York—to live with a crusty-yet-devoted old fellow in the yonder of Vermont? She would certainly attain the domestic stability she apparently yearned for. “And have you come to any conclusions regarding your answer?”

  “Not yet, no. But enough of that.” Berta leaned forward. “Tell me what happened this morning at the general store.”

  Ralph and I told her.

  “Outsmarted! And Rosemary, attempting to extort us?” Berta’s face was furious. “What could it all mean?”

  Ralph said, “About the markings Lola saw, let’s see … the roman numeral two—that must mean something’s happening for the second time, or it means there’s two of something, like, oh, I dunno, two people, or two vehicles.”

  “And the six?” Berta said.

  “Well, the fact that it’s not a roman numeral, like the two, makes me believe the two and the six mean different things. As for the p, well, if we were in England it would mean ‘pence,’ but—”

  “Time
.” My breath caught. “Six P.M. That must be what the p indicates. Six o’clock. This evening. We must see what Titus Staples does at six this evening!”

  “I wonder if you’ll catch Rosemary red-handed,” Berta said. “Or perhaps it will be Maynard, or even George. It’ll be bootleg, of course.” She selected another cherry cordial.

  “Bootleg,” I said. “You’re probably right.” I stuffed another cordial into my own mouth.

  “You’re looking a little green about this, Lola,” Ralph said. “You don’t have to go, you know. Fact is, it would be safer if I went it alo—”

  “Absolutely not,” Berta said. “This is our investigation. Mrs. Woodby must go.”

  “I want to go, Ralph,” I said. I pushed all my trembly, bunny-rabbit fear to the back of my mind. “How do you suppose we might stake out the sugar shack without being seen? All this fresh snow … the tire marks, you know.”

  “We’ll have to walk in.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Or ski,” Berta said.

  “Ugh!”

  Ralph thought about it. Then he broke into a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Ever tried snowshoes?”

  I folded my arms. “No.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Lola. Say yes.” Ralph’s gray eyes twinkled. “Just say yes.”

  Pickard and Strom arrived after that, both eager to help Berta to the ski jumping hill for the big contest. They planned to motor her the short distance in Pickard’s depot hack and install her on a portable stool so that she could view the contest in comfort.

  “Are you two coming to the contest?” Strom asked Ralph and me.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. I had a mind to rest up for my evening of snowshoeing into the icebound wilderness. “Sporting events aren’t really my cup of tea.”

  Strom and Pickard looked shocked.

  “It could be a gas,” Ralph said.

  “In addition, it may be interesting to observe George Goddard’s behavior now that he has inherited a fortune,” Berta said, giving me a meaningful look. “Perhaps have a few words with him?”

  I got the message: Despite all the cloak-and-dagger business with the milk bottles, and despite Rosemary’s threats, George was still our most obvious suspect. He had inherited the lion’s share of the Goddard estate as the result of the two deaths, and he alone insisted that Fenton had committed suicide.

  “All right,” I said. “We’ll meet you there.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Ralph and I, having eaten breakfast and dressed ourselves warmly, descended the stairs in the lobby. Patience Yarker was just sitting down at the stool behind the front desk.

  “Good morning,” I said to her, pausing. “Will you attend the ski jumping contest, or must you work?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Patience’s eyes were glassy and her cheeks red. “Oh! The contest?” She touched a hand to her chin. “No. Dad’s abed and my cousin’s gone to Waterbury, so I’ve got to stay and mind the desk.”

  I stared at her hand. Something was glittering there, a gemstone the same rich pinky-red as a pomegranate. A ruby.

  The ruby.

  Ralph had noticed it, too.

  “Patience,” I said slowly, “where did you get that ring?”

  She tucked the ring out of sight under her other hand, on her lap. “Oh! I—well, I haven’t told Dad yet, so I shouldn’t—”

  “George?” I asked softly. My pulse thrummed. “Did George Goddard ask you to marry him?” Those swanky hotel brochures. Those were for her honeymoon with George!

  “Yes.” Patience’s blue eyes sparkled. “Yes. We’re to be married! It’s—I’m so relieved—” Her hand fluttered to her belly, and the ring glittered darkly. “—so happy, I mean to say. Now everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Congratulations,” Ralph said.

  “Don’t tell Dad,” Patience whispered, “okay? I want to tell him myself—when he’s feeling a little better.”

  “Mum’s the word,” I whispered back.

  30

  Ralph and I walked through the village toward the ski jump hill, following a straggling stream of others on their way there, too. Cedric was burrowed inside my coat, only his head protruding between two buttons. I couldn’t blame him. The cold was making my nostrils stick together.

  My mind fizzed with theories.

  “Suddenly, it all makes sense,” I said softly to Ralph. “Think about it. Judith Goddard was by all accounts a snob, so she wouldn’t have approved of George marrying the innkeeper’s daughter. The fact of George and Patience’s little Pea would have made things even worse. Judith might’ve threatened to cut George out of her will, or—or something. By getting rid of his mother and Fenton—with whom he would’ve had to share half his inheritance—George paved the way for himself and Patience and their Pea to live happily—and wealthily—ever after.”

  “But what about Titus Staples and the milk-bottle business?” Ralph asked. “What about how your dossier was burned in Roy’s fireplace? What about George’s other girlfriend in Cleveland? Then there are the sightings of this so-called bear that strolls around on two legs—and didn’t you say Patience had some kinda passionate argument with Maynard Co—?”

  “Okay, well, almost all of it makes sense!”

  “I’m not trying to rain on your parade, kid. I’m just here to help.”

  I spread my arms wide. “Must every itsy-bitsy little detail add up? Can’t there be a few rough edges and extra pieces? This is life. Life is untidy.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Ralph didn’t say more, but in the back of my mind, I fretted. Were there too many misfit pieces? What was I forgetting or failing to spot?

  We walked in silence, passing the village green—the igloo, ice sculptures, and ice castle eerily abandoned—the shut-up maple syrup factory, the town hall with its empty message board.

  Ralph said, “You know, if you tell Rosemary that Patience has the ruby ring, maybe she won’t hand those incriminating photographs over to the police. ’Cause it seems to me that Rosemary’s chief concern is getting hold of that ring.”

  “But then I’ll be breaking my promise to Patience,” I said. “I can’t do that. I’ll have to take my chances—and surely Rosemary won’t be watching the ski jumping contest. I’ll tell Berta what’s happened, and try to speak with George after the contest, and decide what to do after that.”

  * * *

  A crowd of a few hundred milled at the bottom of the ski hill. The frozen breath of hundreds billowed in the air, and hundreds of boots packed the ground to an ice slick. Bundled-up newspapermen brandished cameras, jostling for front-row positions around the bottom of the slope. Mr. Persons was right up at the front.

  The sky was still blue, but although it was not yet noon, the sun skimmed the southern hills. The balsam firs on either side of the ski slope looked black. Stray snowflakes meandered through the air. And call me a jitterbug, but the jump’s wooden scaffolding looked especially precarious.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Pickard’s voice squawked through a red megaphone. “Welcome to Maple Hill and the Alpine Club’s Annual Winter Carnival Ski Jump Contest!”

  “Quite a mouthful,” I said, arriving at Berta’s side. She sat on a portable stool with wool blankets heaped on her lap.

  “Hello, Mrs. Woodby,” she said. “Mr. Woodby.”

  I leaned close to her ear. “There’s been an astonishing development,” I whispered. “Patience is engaged to George—and she’s got the ruby ring!”

  “Could we discuss this after the contest, Mrs. Woodby?”

  “Of course.”

  Well. That sealed it: Berta no longer cared about our investigation. The knowledge made me feel bereft. At least I still had Cedric, even if hauling him around under my coat like an infant was making my lumbar ache. And at least I still had Ralph—even if he didn’t like my detecting theories and even if he joked about the idea of marrying me. I peeked his impossibly handsome profile. He caught me looking,
and winked.

  It was unfair, so cosmically unfair, that one twitch of his eyelid should make me weak in the knees.

  “What exactly is the point of ski jumping?” I asked Berta.

  She clucked her tongue. “The skier launches from the top of the jump, gains momentum, swoops up the jump, and sails through the air and down the hill, landing, one hopes, upon both skis.”

  “Yes, I know, but how shall we know who’s the winner? Is it a race?”

  Berta pointed to a black line I hadn’t noticed in the snow near the bottom of the hill. Strom stood beside it, hands on his hips. “The contestants—there are five—will take turns, both aiming to land at that line or beyond it. The line is thirty yards down from the jump. The man who lands the farthest down the hill is the winner.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Pickard cried through his megaphone. “As our first contestant, I give you the one, the only, the world-famous three-time Chamonix third-place champion, Maynard Coburn!”

  Wild cheering. And there, up on the scaffolding, was Maynard. He positioned himself at the very top of the run. He rolled his shoulders. He bent his knees.

  The crowd held its breath.

  Maynard slid down the jump, faster, faster, gaining speed—then up into the air he flipped, and he was sailing, spinning his arms as though trying to swim through the air—

  “He would do much better if he leaned forward over his skis,” Berta muttered.

  —and then—plunk—Maynard landed a few feet past the black line.

  The crowd cheered. Photographers shoved each other for the best angles. Maynard swirled to a stop and waved, beaming, at the crowd.

  “Can our second contestant, George Goddard, top that, folks?” Pickard boomed through his megaphone. “CAN HE TOP THAT?”

  The crowd roared.

  Down, down the white swoop of the ramp George went, then up the curve at the end—there was an extra little bump at the top—and he was sailing high into the air.

  Except one of his skis had come off and it was twirling through the air, and George’s arms waved frantically—

  “Oh no,” Berta said with a gasp. “No!”

  Screams and shocked murmurs from the crowd—