Naughty on Ice

by Maia Chance

  Peletier and Clarence burst out laughing. “Nice try!” Peletier wheezed, slapping his thigh. “Ha-ha-ha! How’d you get up on the ridge? Reindeer sleigh? Ha-ha-ha!”

  “I saw Slipperyback!” I blurted.

  Both men went quiet. Then, meeting each other’s eyes, they burst into fresh gales of laughter. “That’s—a—hoot!” Clarence managed between guffaws.

  “I snapped a photograph!” I cried. “But, um … Maynard Coburn stole the film.”

  “You really reckon we’ll buy that? This isn’t New York City, girls. We got brains up here in Vermont. Ha-ha-ha!”

  It all sounded outlandish. I couldn’t deny that.

  My weary mind rummaged around for a new plan. Berta’s and my arrest was imminent. I felt it in my bones. These boys would be slapping the cuffs on us just as soon as they laughed themselves out.

  Berta said loudly, to be heard over the men’s chortling, “Would it interest you to know that the cave in question sits on the Goddard family’s land? That we strongly suspect the smuggling caves are somehow related to the three deaths in that family? No? Then you are very foolish men.” Her Swedish accent had thickened with anger.

  The men fell silent. Clarence wiped a tear from his eye.

  Peletier’s eyes narrowed. “What was that you said about foolish men?”

  I trod on Berta’s toe to stop her.

  No dice. “My partner, Mrs. Woodby, has discovered criminal activity that lies, presumably, within your jurisdiction, but you are doing nothing but laughing like two hyenas. Thus, you. Are. Fools!”

  Peletier’s face turned an unappealing shade of magenta. “That’s funny, because the joke’s on you, Mrs. Lundgren. You’re under arr—”

  “Oh!” I yelped. “I’ve just remembered something in the truck! A clue!” I bugged my eyes at Berta. “Come on. Let’s go get the—um—the clue!”

  “Not so fast,” Peletier snarled. “Mrs. Lundgren, you’re under arr—”

  “Go,” Berta murmured to me. “Quickly. I will take care of myself. There are still the milk bottles to be considered, Mrs. Woodby.”

  “But—”

  “Go!”

  I went. I trotted right out of that police station, Peletier and Clarence shouting after me. I slipped and slid across the snow, threw myself behind the wheel of the Speedwagon, and got the engine growling just as Peletier burst from the door, shouting and shaking his fist.

  I gave him a twiddly-fingered goodbye and gassed the truck onto the road.

  I drove as quickly as I dared, given that I was quivering with nerves. I kept glancing into the rearview mirror, expecting to see headlamps bearing down, but I reached the center of Maple Hill without seeing any.

  I wondered if Berta had figured out a way to stall the cops. Cookies in her handbag, perhaps. She often had some stashed in there, much in the way mailmen carry dog biscuits to keep the hounds at bay.

  Okay. Okay. Think, Lola, think. Berta had been arrested. Now I was on the run, but to what end? Maynard Coburn was already in the process of beating us to the punch. Perhaps I ought to turn around and turn myself i—

  Wait. The milk bottles. Maynard Coburn knew nothing about the milk bottles. And that meant I had—possibly—one last chance to nab the killer before he did.

  Before I was arrested.

  An idea thunderbolted at me—and, boy, was it a doozy.

  I circled to the back of the inn and parked.

  Above the garage, Maynard’s windows were dark. Where was he? Still gliding on his skis through the deep dark woods?

  I switched off the engine and got out. I’d go inside the back way. The police would come looking for me at the inn. Of course they would. They’d expect me to cower there, or at least make a grab for my suitcase. But I had to see Ralph, let him know what was happening. He was sleeping off a bad head injury, of course, but maybe he could also help me figure out what to do next. Where to hide.

  The inn’s kitchen windows shone out onto the snowy ground. I heard the muted clatter of dishes, caught the mingled aromas of spices and sizzling fat. I went to the kitchen door and peeked through the lace-curtained window.

  Ralph was sitting at the kitchen table, forking food into his mouth. He must have been too hungry to sleep. He appeared bleary and pale. Grandma Yarker was hovering over him. The table was cluttered with bowls and canisters, as though Grandma Yarker were in the middle of baking something.

  I heard Cedric yap somewhere. He could always sense my presence.

  Rats. Grandma Yarker was a stick in the spokes. She was a local. She’d squeal to Peletier, easy.

  The churn of an engine had manifested in the distance, growing incrementally louder. It would be a motorcar carrying Peletier, Clarence, or both.

  With my gloved index finger, I got to work digging and scraping at the frost on the nearest kitchen window. When I was done, it said—backwards, so Ralph could easily read it from inside—YES.

  Then I bolted. I dodged behind the garage just as headlamps shot out from around the corner of the inn, illuminating the snow behind me.

  I couldn’t have been seen, but they’d be able to find my footprints if they looked.

  I circled the inn’s garage, and then I hurried along the sidewalk, kicking through snow, leaning into the stinging wind. My big boots were soaked. All the shops on River Street were dark. The wooden houses looked smug and unwelcoming with their shuttered windows and curling smoke.

  I reached the Methodist church. Its windows were dark, its spire disappearing into the purple-black sky. Next door, however, the minister’s house was all lit up and, unlike the other houses in the village, it seemed … safe.

  Surely Mr. Currier wouldn’t give me up to the police.

  I pushed through his gate, went up the scraped walk, took a deep breath, and hit the door knocker.

  34

  Mr. Currier let me in, wide eyed, and led me straight to his parlor. There, I explained to him that Berta had probably been arrested and I was on the lam (“Good gracious!” he exclaimed), that we were innocent of any wrongdoing (“Of course”), and that I needed a place to stay for the night so that I could take one last crack at catching the killer.

  “Well, it is of course most irregular for a lady to stay under an unmarried minister’s roof,” Currier said with a cough. “On the other hand, I have a comfortable spare room that Miss Albans always keeps ready for guests, and, well, if it is in the name of bringing a murderer to justice … Very well.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs. Woodby? Something to eat? There is a nice fresh fruitcake in the—”

  “Only tea, thanks,” I said quickly.

  A few minutes later, Currier carried a tea tray in and set it on the table before the fire. The tray held a teapot, two teacups on saucers, a little jug of cream painted with holly berries, a bowl of sugar lumps, and a half-full jug of Rogerson’s Brand Maple Syrup.

  Oh, Vermont.

  “Mrs. Woodby, would you care for some, ah, maple syrup in your tea?” Currier asked, fussing with a teacup and saucer. “Strictly for medicinal purposes, of course.”

  “Medicinal maple syrup? You Vermonters certainly have some peculiar customs. I’ll take my tea with cream only, thank you.”

  “But it’s—” Currier cleared his throat. “Mrs. Woodby, you must understand that it is medicinal syrup. For your nerves—for, I beg your pardon if this seems too forward, you are joggling your foot.”

  I looked at my foot, which was indeed vibrating. “So I am. But I don’t think maple syrup is going to help.”

  Currier raked a lock of hair from his forehead. “Mrs. Woodby, it is whiskey.”

  I blinked. I stared at the jug of maple syrup. “Why do you keep your whiskey in a maple syrup jug?”

  “That is the way Miss Albans brings it to me.”

  “Hester Albans is your … tiddly supplier?”

  “Yes—but you must understand that I consume it for strictly medicinal purposes.�
��

  “Doesn’t everyone? By the way, I will have a splash. Does Hester always bring your, um, medicine in maple syrup jugs?”

  “Yes.” Currier was looking a little pinched. Embarrassed, I supposed.

  I leaned forward tensely. “Hester works year-round at Rogerson’s Maple Syrup Factory, I understand. Shipping crates of syrup down to Rogerson’s Stores in Cleveland. Is she really shipping whiskey?”

  Currier swallowed, his pale Adam’s apple jostling. “No, no. Miss Albans told me that some of the crates—only a very few—contain whiskey, something she discovered quite by accident.”

  “But where does the whiskey come from? Who puts it into the syrup bottles?”

  “Well, Mrs. Woodby, based upon what you have conveyed to me this evening about the smuggling caves on Goddard land, I think you know precisely from whence it comes.”

  My mind was leaping like a deer to conclusions.

  Rosemary Rogerson. The smuggler—the killer—was surely Rosemary, perhaps working in conjunction with her husband, the grocery store tycoon. As a result of the three deaths, Rosemary was now sole heir to the Goddard estate. She had gained complete control over the Goddard land, with its smuggling route and caves, control that might’ve been threatened if her mother or brothers had discovered her scheme, or if they decided to sell off the land.

  And Rosemary’s sneaking around in the village … were those secretive housewives in on her smuggling scheme, too, even as they cozily baked pies?

  “What do you intend to do in the morning?” Currier asked.

  “I’m going to trap the killer—trap Rosemary. Force her hand. Make her talk in front of witnesses. Perhaps even in front of the police, if I can manage it. She must be brought to justice. Would … would you be a witness, Mr. Currier? People always believe clergymen.”

  “I will,” Currier said. “I am anxious for our pleasant little village to return to normal. Now, you really must get some sleep, Mrs. Woodby. You have had a most shocking day.”

  * * *

  I woke at dawn after a lot of sweaty, tossy-turny business. I probably would’ve felt more rested if I hadn’t even tried to sleep. My neck felt like a piece of scrap metal. My eyes were puffed.

  Because I’d slept in my clothes—I had refused a loan of Currier’s striped pajamas—getting dressed consisted of lacing up my man-boots and trying to plaster down my flyaway bob in the bathroom mirror.

  Currier was awake and dressed in his small kitchen when I entered, making coffee. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning. Have you pen and paper I could use?”

  “Yes, of course. In my study.”

  “Thanks.”

  I went to Currier’s study and, surrounded by religious treatises, got busy penning threatening little notes. After a few crumpled-up tries, I felt as though I had struck the proper tone:

  The jig is up. We know who you are and we figured out your game—where the stuff comes from, how it’s transferred, where it’s going—and you’re going to share in the profits, or we’ll sing to the fuzz. Meet us to negotiate a deal at the maple syrup factory at nine o’clock sharp this morning, or you’ll be sorry.

  That would, hopefully, do the trick.

  I put on my coat. I folded the note small and placed it in my pocket.

  “Don’t you require coffee, Mrs. Woodby?” Currier asked, poking his head out of the kitchen.

  “When I return. It’s almost eight o’clock. Back in a jiffy. Oh—and you do have a telephone, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  I went out the front door. I was nervous, but a sense of focused determination had settled over me. Rosemary Rogerson wouldn’t know what hit her. Ha.

  I hurried along the sidewalk, keeping my head low. A pale peach sunrise was seeping across white rooftops and snowy streets.

  The general store was only two blocks away, and Green was just unlocking the door when I arrived.

  “Morning,” he said gruffly. “Say, didn’t I hear something about the police wanting to talk with you?”

  “Oh, that?” I gave a cocktail-party laugh. “All a silly mix-up. Tell me, Mr. Green, has the morning milk arrived yet?”

  “Just set it out.” He shook his head. “You and your milk.”

  I passed him, walking swiftly toward the icebox. When I got there, I peeked over my shoulder. Green was rearranging his window display, his back turned.

  I took the folded note from my pocket and opened the icebox. I wedged the note snugly under the lightning stopper’s wire clamp on the milk bottle in the back corner. I grabbed another bottle of milk, straightened, and shut the icebox. I took the milk to the counter and paid.

  Green watched me go with slitted eyes.

  Now for the next bit.

  I returned to Currier’s house without being seen—or, rather, without noticing anyone’s seeing me. People might’ve been peering from behind curtains.

  When Currier let me back into his house, he looked a little queasy.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, removing my snow-caked boots.

  “Nothing, only … Mrs. Woodby, perhaps this plan of yours is a little … foolhardy. Perhaps you should turn the matter entirely over to the police.” His eyes were wide. “You could be endangering yourself!”

  “I’m used to danger. Where’s your telephone?”

  Currier sighed, and led me to a telephone.

  I passed him the bottle of milk.

  “I’ll go and make a fresh pot of coffee,” he said, and disappeared into the back of the house.

  I dialed 0 and asked the exchange girl for the Maple Hill police station.

  Three rings.

  “Peletier,” came the grunted reply.

  Thank goodness he was there already. Or had he spent the night at the station, guarding Berta? “Hello, Sergeant Peletier, this is Lola Woodby.”

  “Woodby!”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re under arrest!”

  “I think you’ll find that phrase doesn’t work very well over the telephone. Listen here, Sergeant Peletier, I’ve figured out who killed the Goddards, and I am going to trap them at Rogerson’s Maple Syrup Factory at nine o’clock—”

  “Of all the harebrained—”

  “I know it’s quite a risk telephoning you about this—”

  “You bet it is! Green from the general store telephoned a few minutes ago and said—”

  “—but I thought it only right to let you in on the plan. After, if the killer makes a confession, it would be well and good for you to be there with the bracelets.”

  “Oh, I’ll have the bracelets, all right.”

  “Please, Sergeant Peletier. I only ask you not to arrest me until you hear what the killer says first.” I hung up the earpiece.

  Jeez. Talk about a girl raising the stakes on herself.

  35

  At twenty minutes till nine o’clock, I walked alone to the Rogerson’s Brand Maple Syrup Factory. I was early, very early, for my appointment with Rosemary-the-killer, and that was precisely the point. I wished to familiarize myself with the interior of the factory before she arrived. Mr. Currier was to arrive a bit later and sneak in through a door, which I would unlock. And the police, well, I hoped they would show up, too, but not until after Rosemary was singing like a soprano at the Metropolitan Opera.

  I tried the main door and it was, unsurprisingly, locked. I circled the building and found another, more secluded door. Also locked. I had my skeleton key in my coat pocket, but—ah—here was a sash window with an unfastened latch. With a lot of acrobatic wiggling, I got it open and squeezed through. I dropped onto the cold wooden floor, got up, and dusted myself off. I closed the window and looked around.

  Only a little light leaked in through the high windows. Tall crates cast deep shadows on the floorboards. Over on the far side, the boiling and bottling equipment gleamed dim and metallic.

  Plenty of places for someone to hide. My scalp crawled.

 
; I went to the main door and unlocked it for Mr. Currier and the police.

  Now. Where to position myself for Rosemary’s arrival?

  “You’re early,” came a woman’s voice from behind a stack of crates.

  The tiny hairs sprang up on my arms and neck. That didn’t sound like Rosemary.

  Slowly, I circled around the crates. My breath caught. “Roy?”

  A mote-swirled shaft lit up Roy Ives, in cotton pajama pants stuffed into untied snow boots and that wine-stained olive green brocade robe. His ruddy, bristly face was slack with terror. His eyes were wide and watery.

  One of his arms was twisted awkwardly behind his back, and there was a figure behind him, hidden in shadow. Roy shifted, and the shaft of sunlight picked out a golden glimmer of hair.

  “Patience Yarker,” I said. My voice sounded muffled and small in the cavernous wooden space.

  “You sound surprised,” Patience said. “I suppose you were expecting Rosemary? No answer? I’ll take that as a yes. You played into my hands, Mrs. Woodby. You gobbled up every last clue I left out for you. It’s all right to admit you didn’t know it was me. No one expects a dithering lady gumshoe who wears mascara in the snow to be especially bright.”

  “All right, Patience, I am surprised it’s you.” I worked to keep my voice steady. “But I figured out everything else. All of it.” My brain was shouting and dashing madly about, like a ship full of sailors rerouting an ocean liner. Patience Yarker. This makes sense … give us a moment!

  “Oh, really,” Patience said, deadpan. “You figured out everything.”

  “Yes. You’re a bootleg smuggler. Someone brings crates of whiskey down from Canada along that ridge—someone who works for you—and delivers it to the cave. Or is there more than one cave? They deliver it in the warmer months, when it’s safe to traverse the ridge. The caves are a sort of storage locker for all your whiskey. You pay Titus Staples to bring it down, one crate at a time, to his sugar shack, where you pick it up and take it here, to the maple syrup factory, where you decant it into maple syrup bottles, ready to be shipped far and wide to, I suppose, your contacts in the cities. Say, what do you do with the empty whiskey bottles?”