Murder at the Snowed Inn

by Imogen Plimp

  “Nice to meet you too, Ry!” I called down the hallway. “They’re adorable, Al.”

  “Oh, Mom. Point for proper pronoun though!”

  Rupert laid his head back down atop my slippers with an emphatic “hrmph” as Al escorted her friend out the front door. Then she returned for tea and my famous sage and sea salt scones with homemade blackberry jam. We harvested the berries from the Appalachian mountains ourselves on a mother-daughter trip there last summer.

  “Here,” she plopped a stack of newspapers on the dinette and took a seat.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Real estate listings in Warren County, Maryland.” She answered, as if I’d been born yesterday. “I highlighted a couple properties I think you’d be into.” She generously buttered a warm scone, then added a dollop of honey and a splash of crème into her tea cup.

  “Al, I know you and I talked about this last week,” I shook my head, “but it’s just a silly dream. A stupid by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of thing. I don’t think it’s really all that feasible…”

  “Of course it is, Mom! Look, Dad left you a little dough, and you guys had been talking about buying something outside the city when he was alive.”

  “I know, honey, but things are … different now…” I trailed off.

  “Yes, they are,” she urged. “But that doesn’t mean things are over! Look, why don’t you go out there and check things out? Have a little trip all to yourself.” There was a long pause.

  “When was the last time you did something totally and completely for you?” she asked me in earnest.

  “Since before your father was sick.” It came out in a whisper.

  “Exactly. And that’s amazing! But it’s time to take care of you.” She took a hardy bite out of her scone.

  “Aunt Emma was just telling me the same thing.”

  “Aunt - Emma’s - right,” she said, trying not to talk and chew at the same time. It’s one of my pet peeves. She swallowed her mouthful and took an indelicate swig of tea, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You used to always talk about cross-country skiing out in West Virginia, at that little family-run place in the wilderness outside Warren County. What about going back there for a weekend? Then check out some of these listings.” She pointed at the stack of papers.

  “I always wanted to take your dad out there, but he didn’t want to ski this side of the Mississippi, he said…” I trailed off again, gazing out the kitchen window onto the slushy Brooklyn street below. It was so grey out there. The monochrome matched my insides.

  “I know, Mom,” Al sighed. She placed what was left of the scone down onto a saucer and brushed the crumbs off her fingers. “But look, I think it’d be good for you! A little cabin or bed and breakfast. A trip down memory lane, but at a place where you don’t have tons of memories with Dad. Not that that would be a bad thing, but maybe it’d be refreshing for you to just…” she sighed again, frustrated by having to be so uncharacteristically gentle for so long “…to just focus on something else for a little bit.” I could feel her watching me cautiously.

  I sat still, silently staring at the porcelain tea cup cooling between my hands. “I guess you’re right. Want to hold down the fort here?”

  She beamed brightly. “I thought you’d never ask. But will you bring Rupert with you? He could use an adventure.” Rupert lifted his giant head at the mention of his name. He looked up at Al expectantly (hopeful for a piece of scone, no doubt), then let out a “hrmph,” and laid his head back down again. As if the motion had taken all the effort in the world.

  I looked up from my cup, smiled, and reached for my daughter’s hand.

  “You gotta admit,” she said, “you’re impressed I tracked down actual old school print newspaper listings, aren’t you?” She smirked—an expression painfully similar to one her father used to wear.

  “I’m impressed you still own highlighters.” I squeezed her hand gently.

  “Nice burn, mama.”

  Chapter Two

  Galway, Maryland. A sleepy Appalachian town, year-round population 3500, with colorful homes and one-of-a-kind stores nestled side by side into the hills—snug and vibrant like the Irish city for which it’s named. A sizable river runs through it—well, around it, actually. The river cascades down Backbone Mountain and envelops the town like a sapphire moat. It’s just a stone’s throw from Goshen Ski Resort and home to a plethora of funky art galleries, hip thrift stores full of vintage dresses and vinyl records, cute cafes with good old-fashioned home cooking—and really any kind of odds and ends shop your little heart could desire. I hadn’t been since I was a girl—well, I was in my twenties. I half-wondered if I would run into a person or two I’d vaguely remembered from my sordid youth.

  I’d booked a single room in a bed and breakfast in the middle of town. I remembered the building from the last time I visited—though it was abandoned then. Although the brick exterior appeared essentially untouched, the interior had apparently undergone a surprisingly lavish renovation. The entrance was mostly monotone in slate, the only welcoming touch being the ratty brown “welcome” mat.

  “Hello?” I called from just inside the landing. “Anyone here?”

  I closed the front door and pulled off my nearly-immaculate galoshes (just in case the owner was a neat freak like me), piled my winter coat and scarf on top of my roller board, stuffed them against the wall next to a single black wooden chair, and started searchingly down the slate hallway.

  It led to one of the biggest and most beautiful kitchens I’d ever seen—flooded with light from the skylight above—resplendent in counter-to-ceiling cabinets and walls all painted an oddly warm eggshell. Every newest model of every high-end appliance you could imagine decorated the pristinely dusted shelves. Sleek white Italian marble covered every surface. In fact, everything was white—with the exception of a single red rose, prominently perched in a crystal vase in the center of the marble kitchen island.

  “Hello?” came a voice from what must have been a little kitchen-side nook around the corner.

  “Hi! I’m Claire!” I called out toward the voice. “I booked a room a few days ago… I’m here to check in!”

  In walked a slender woman with perfectly dyed auburn hair, with the exception of a single sprout of white that shot out from her perfectly centered part. “Nina Delacroix. Charmed.” As she reached out with a delicately thin, perfectly manicured hand to accept my handshake, the faint crinkles next to her eyes quivered a little and her corners of her plush and pouty red lips tilted slightly upward into what Al would have called a “Grinch smile.” The rest of her face remained frozen—due in large part, I assumed, to the cosmetic work she most likely “hadn’t had done.” She had swooped a black cashmere sash around her boney shoulders and affixed it snug below her long, slender neck with a golden broach.

  “Very nice to meet you,” I said. “And my goodness, may I just say, your kitchen is exquisite!”

  “Thank you,” croaked Nina.

  “Really, I mean it! It’s, well, it’s my dream kitchen!” I kept gazing around in wonder, an unabashed kid in a candy shop. “No surprise you were back here, must be hard to leave—I’ll bet you cook in here constantly!”

  “I don’t really care for cooking,” Nina said, with a haughty emphasis on the “care,” as if she were trying (and failing) at an English accent. Her eyes bored into mine dully. “Here is your key,” she held it out like you would a cockroach. “It’s the first room at the top of the stairs. Breakfast is from 7:00 to 9:00—we serve coffee, pastries, and assorted fruit. Check out is at 10:00. I assume you’re still planning to leave on Friday?”

  “Yes,” I replied, slightly flustered. I reached out to take her key gingerly, afraid she might snap at my fingers. In an instant she snatched her arm back inside the comfort of its cashmere cave and swiftly twirled on her heels to return to her kitchen-side lair. “Enjoy your stay,” she called coolly as she retreated, her perfectly polished black pumps clic
k-clacking against her perfectly polished white marble floor.

  Still holding out the key, quite possibly in shock, I said “thanks,” quietly—as if to myself.

  Nina Delacroix was the kind of woman George would have called “a real piece of work.” Al would have called her a word I prefer she not use.

  * * *

  The next day greeted me early, the bright winter sunlight pouring through the sheer white curtains at my bedside as they billowed in the heat of the radiator. It was a gorgeous December morning, unseasonably warm, the sun peaking out from behind wispy clouds and snow-capped blue-green mountains. The breakfast part of Nina’s bed and breakfast, perhaps unsurprisingly, left much to be desired. I took my black instant coffee in a to-go cup and ate the blueberry bran muffin I brought from home. (I always keep a snack at the bottom of my purse, just in case). Afraid the snow would melt before day’s end, I wanted to get right out to the slopes.

  And they greeted me like old friends.

  I took the peaceful drive from Galway into the valley leisurely, following my memory (and the road signs for Goshen). Eventually I maneuvered my sedan carefully into the least icy parking spot I could find. Then I slowly shuffled my way up the path to Goshen Ski Resort’s Welcome Center, a rustic log cabin nestled in the base of my beloved snow-coated hills.

  I entered the lean-to, knocked some snow and ice off my boots, and marched on up to the counter, pausing by the wood-burning stove to warm my hands briefly.

  A very muscular young man, late 20’s-early 30s, with a mop of sandy hair and a slightly crooked nose, rounded the corner and greeted me politely. “Welcome to Goshen, ma’am,” he purred in a deep voice with a charming Appalachian drawl. “Are you rentin’ skis today?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Have you skied with us before?” he inquired.

  “Yes, but … well it’s been a couple decades,” I chortled.

  He chuckled softly in kind. “Well, I’m sure you’ll do jus’ fine—the snow is soft out there this mornin’, hasn’t frozen over yet this season. Plus,” he winked, “it’s jus’ like ridin’ a bike.”

  I smiled warmly. “I sure hope so. Size 25 please.”

  I watched him as he turned and reached for a pair of cross-country skis and their corresponding boots. He was almost imposing in size—with thick, muscular arms and an oddly chiseled back—visible even through his thick grey sweater.

  Something about him reminded me of someone I knew from the last time I visited… In fact—it came back to me—he looked exactly like a friend of a friend who used to ski these hills, too. “Let’s try these out first. If they don’t work for ya now, you be sure an’ come back to me to trade them out for another pair. Need help getting buckled in?”

  “I think I can manage,” I said shyly.

  He grinned and nodded at me—then stared at me blankly. As if waiting for me to go ahead and get to it.

  “Don’t I owe you some money?” I asked.

  “Oh, right,” he chuckled again. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember about money this early in the morning.”

  I paid my fee and then tilted my head to one side curiously. “You remind me so much of a man my friends and I used to ski with here, back in the day—his name is…”

  “Dale Duke. Yup. He’s my uncle,” he laughed heartily.

  “Oh that’s amazing!” I exclaimed. “You look just like him, really!”

  “Spittin’ image, they tell me,” he replied.

  “Is he still around?”

  He nodded. “He is—he’s the owner of this place, actually. Good dude, Uncle Dale. I’ll tell him you said hello—what’s your name?”

  “I’m Claire Andersen,” I shot out my hand excitedly. “What’s yours?”

  He took my hand in a firm but gentle grasp. “Ben. Pleased to meet ya, ma’am.” Ben No-last-name, the gentle giant. “Well, have a good time out there, an’ do let me know if ya’ need anything.” He flashed a winning smile, revealing a partially chipped front tooth. Even with the dental flaw and broken nose, I mused, he must have no trouble attracting the young ladies.

  Ben was right—skiing came right back to me. The snow wept from the frozen sycamore trees, and the sun trickled through the weeping branches in delicate sunbeams. The clear mountain air kissed my cheeks with every turn. I glided over the cross-country slopes slowly.

  With no one else around this early, I was free to take my time—and I wanted to soak up every little thing. I swooped from switchback to switchback, carving the first day’s tracks into the virgin white snow, chasing the sunbeams this way and that. The birds sang to me from the tops of the trees—a private little recital, urging me on. I was in heaven. Goshen is an extraordinary place. It was obvious someone had walked each of the ski trails and meticulously removed each errant branch with care—with love, even. It was even more serenely beautiful than I had remembered.

  I felt alive again for the first time in years—until I finished “forming the full thought” as my therapist might say, and then I remembered that “alive” is much more than I can say for George … and then the anxiety and sorrow came flooding back into my chest, dropping my stomach into my ski boots.

  “Well, Claire,” I said to myself in a motherly kind of way, “let’s go get a proper breakfast.” When in doubt, feed yourself! is what my grandmother always used to say.

  Back in Galway, after a delicious late-morning meal of poached eggs over homemade biscuits and sautéed winter squash—washed down with a truly delightful cuppa joe, I walked up the main street like a zombie, pausing to pretend to take in the impressive window display at the hippy spice shop, gazing at the used video tapes and torn paperbacks in the thrift store I remembered from when I was young. I wandered into the antique trading post in a daze, looking at the rickety rocking chairs and chipped china sets and old-fashioned Coca-Cola bottles without really seeing them. I didn’t even smell the chestnuts they had roasting over a cast iron stove right by the front door—“for sale by the ounce” in a little paper cone.

  At the end of the main drag, I paused to rest—and to gaze up at an old oak tree in the middle of the lot, all its leaves fallen and buried in the snow except for one red one, shivering up at the top. Clear as day, I suddenly recalled a line from a Mary Oliver poem and recited it aloud:

  “I go down to the shore in the morning

  and depending on the hour the waves

  are rolling in or moving out,

  and I say, oh, I am miserable,

  what shall—

  what should I do?”

  Just then, I noticed it: a for-sale sign, hanging off the Victorian wrap-around porch. A gigantic, gorgeous old bed and breakfast property right on Main Street, pale yellow with midnight trim, in decent shape with the exception of a single shudder hanging crooked from its hinges.

  Some buildings look like they’re winking at you. Others look like they’re smiling. Some are dark and overgrown and have been for generations—you wouldn’t dare step foot in them, unless you were some kind of daredevil kid. This one felt like … well … destiny.

  It was surrounded by an acre of land backing up against the north fork of the Cheat River, the one that winded around all of Galway—and it was nestled under the shade of the old oak tree. I looked back up at the single leaf and smiled. “Own your own B&B,” went my leaf. “Six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a beautiful sun-lit kitchen.”

  “Excuse me,” went Mary Oliver’s ocean. “I have work to do.”

  Chapter Three

  The next few weeks were a whirlwind. Back home in Brooklyn, Al helped me track down a contractor using her trusty newspaper sleuthing skills, although the house was in pretty good shape. Turned out it only needed a couple new windows, some updates to the old copper plumbing, and a new furnace—“for now” (hint hint). I took solace in the fact that the contractor didn’t try to sell me on anything more, even if only “for now”.

  I planned to move in just after the New Year, though I lamented the fact
I’d miss the holiday tourist season. Al helped pack up my car and rental trailer with everything I needed, namely all the kitchen necessities—she’s always said she’d be perfectly happy eating Thai and Korean takeout for the rest of her life, “no offense to your cooking, Ma.” And that was that. I was off to settle into my new house in Maryland—the first I’d bought myself—and to start my own business. I felt invigorated. And terrified.

  I was a little disappointed in myself for filling most of my supplying needs online—but they just make it so easy these days! And between scrubbing the whole house from floor to ceiling on my hands and knees (which have all seen better days), assembling all the bed and breakfast amenities myself, and running around the county trying to get my house up to code and business above grade, I was usually too exhausted by the end of the day for shopping. In fact, sitting in my toasty new sunroom under a blanket with a hot cup of Mexican cacao (with cayenne and cinnamon) and combing through e-bay on my laptop for bed and breakfast finds became a bit of a wind-down ritual. I’ll let you in on a little secret: after 5:00, the Mexican cacao is particularly delicious with a splash of dark rum.

  I did manage to make it out to an absolutely darling flea market in Pittsburgh one Sunday, where I scored some excellent antique gems: a vintage oak armoire, a lovely forest green chaise lounge, and a four poster bed with dust ruffles for the guest rooms; plus some beautiful chinaware, including some champagne cocktail glasses (for George). Though admittedly, the trip was more for Rupert than me. That dog’s in his natural habitat sitting upright in the passenger’s seat of a moving car, his head out the window, his jowls flapping in the wind. Sometimes, at a certain angle, it almost looks like he’s smiling.