Murder at the Snowed Inn

by Imogen Plimp

  I was surfing the web in my sun-lit nook one Thursday afternoon when a ping alerted me to my first official business email—a potential customer! One James Matthews would be in town from Boston for the weekend to “check in on his investment properties,” and would I have a single room available starting tomorrow? I squealed with delight, which startled Rupert out of a heavy slumber under the sunroom table. My heart started pounding. On paper, I was technically ready to be open several days ago, but was I really ready? No time like the present! I reminded myself. I shot back to James immediately. “Absolutely. Did you have a room in mind?” (Al had helped me pin up cute descriptions for each individual bedroom on my B&B website—each room, of course, named for Mary Oliver). Mr. Matthews decided to book the “Wild Geese” for 3 nights—my best room.

  I spent the rest of Thursday and all of Friday preparing for my first client. I checked and double checked his room and bathroom and got all my grocery shopping done. For my first official breakfast foray, I decided on maple scones (a recycled recipe I made for the coffee shoppe), soft-boiled eggs, homemade butter biscuits with maple butter and cranberry-jalapeno jam (just a hint of spice!), local farm-fresh breakfast sausage, hand-squeezed blood orange juice, and a carafe of coffee brewed from a bag of nice beans Al had sent me off with. “I packed you to good stuff!” she’d said. I also decided to try out my new Vitamix, just in case he was more of a drink-your-breakfast-on-the-go kind of guy, settling for blueberry avocado smoothies. They’re oddly satisfying in the winter.

  With the beds made wrinkle-free, the toilets scrubbed spotless, and breakfast prepped for the following morning, I ducked out to take Rupert for a quick walk—and to check my mailbox at the post office—before James Matthews’ scheduled 5 o’clock arrival.

  After a quick jaunt around the block, Rupert sat down reluctantly in front of the post office entrance, obediently watching me through the window as I opened up my P.O. box. Bills and property tax info, mostly—stress mail, my friend Emma calls it. And a slip for a package pickup at the counter.

  I rounded the corner and was greeted by a tiny, cute-as-a-button woman dressed in post office blues. She looked about my age or perhaps a bit younger, and she had long, wild, curly grey-and-blonde hair—and a radiant smile.

  “Hi! And welcome to Galway’s post office—officially!” she said, her hands gesturing to the mess of shelves and plastic bins surrounding her. “I’m Evelyn, but you can call me Ev.” Her heavily-eyeshadowed eyes lit up when she smiled. “You just moved to town? Claire, right?” Her musical voice was lilting, almost childlike. I adored her immediately.

  “Yes, just a couple weeks ago,” I smiled. “It’s very nice to meet you, Evelyn.” And it was. Truth be told, I was relieved to meet someone who was my age—and capable of at least pretending to have manners (unlike Ms. Delacroix).

  “Pleasure to meet you, too. Seems like all sorts of folks are moving here, these days,” she mused. “I man the post office—as you might have guessed,” she gestured around again. “Can’t get through an honest day’s work without having to assign someone a new P.O. box.”

  “Well, it is an enchanting place,” I offered. “How long have you been here?”

  “Born and raised here in Appalachia. I moved around and then came back home to be closer to the trails. I love walking in the summer and snowshoeing in the winter. It’s just the best. You been out to Goshen yet?”

  “Of course!” I replied. “I used to ski there when I was … well, much younger,” I laughed, and so did Evelyn. “I was just there this morning. You like working at the post office?”

  “ ’s ok. Pays alright and the benefits are good. To be honest with you, I’ve never really thought about it. I mean, I was asked to do the job to fill in for somebody I grew up with—Bobby Harman, he was a hoot!—and then I just never looked back, I guess. But I like that I get to talk to everybody. And, you work in the post office, you get to know everybody’s business, just by sorting mail and listening to conversations,” She leaned a bit closer over the counter and lower her voice playfully. “And I mean, everybody’s business.” She laughed—a lovely, soprano strand of pearls.

  “So when I want the 10-4 on town gossip, I should come to you?” I pressed.

  “You’ve got it!” she slapped the counter for emphasis. “You know, speaking of gossip…” she leaned in again, gazing around suspiciously—as if in case she’d missed someone hiding behind the greeting card display. “People are talking about you.” She raised her eyebrows and grinned.

  “Really?” I felt a flush creep up my neck. “W-What are they saying?”

  “You know, the usual,” she shrugged. “Theories about why you came here, where you came from, why you left New York—maybe you’re on the lam! One of my regulars, Archie, he’s just a kid but he comes in for his parents’ mail—he says he thinks you’re a witch.” Her eyed twinkled wickedly.

  We both paused a beat, then burst into synchronized laughter.

  Evelyn turned around and picked up my package. She laid it carefully on the counter and threw my slip in the waste paper basket, then rested her chin in her hands with her elbows propped up on the countertop. I noticed her hands looked a lot like mine—aged, but with care. Hands that were used to working. They made me feel less guilty about so obviously not keeping up with Nina Delacriox’s manicure schedule.

  “They must have said the same of you at some point,” I smiled, turning the package around to read the return address—it was from Al. More coffee beans, no doubt.

  “Oh sure! But me, I’ve been around so long, they know better than to try to spread rumors about me. Afraid I’ll mis-sort their mail, I assume. Make sure a very important letter gets lost—or a very important package for somebody’s mistress gets accidentally sent to that somebody’s very important wife.” Her eyes crinkled. “That sort of thing.”

  I gasped. “What power!”

  “Oh, you know old Evelyn, I would never do that! Actually I guess you don’t. Know old Evelyn that is.”

  “Not yet,” I agreed, “But I’m getting closer!”

  “That’s true! How’s business doing over there? You open yet?”

  “My first customer arrives tonight. I’m excited!”

  “Oooo! Grand opening! Congrats, toots!” She seemed genuinely happy for me.

  “Thank you! And, well… I’ll be cooking breakfast all weekend, through Monday, and I always make too much—you know how it is… So please stop by if you’re hungry.”

  “Will do! And hey, you know where I am—let me know if you need anything. I know what it’s like to be the new girl in town. Plus, witches like you and me, we gotta stick together!” She winked.

  “Absolutely.” I picked up my package from the counter and started for the door—where an inpatient and no doubt hungry Rupert was still sitting obediently. “Well thanks! And great to finally meet you, Ev!”

  “See you soon, Claire! Good luck tonight!”

  Hopeful at the prospect of having made my first local friend, I walked back to the house, Rupert ever-faithfully at my heels.

  Chapter Four

  James Matthews arrived almost two hours late, due, he said via text, to terrible weekend traffic. Since Rupert and I were cozied up in the den—me in a leather-upholstered rocker reading one of the novels Al sent in her care package, and Rupert dozing in front of the fire, his favorite pastime of late—I didn’t mind at all.

  Rupert announced Mr. Matthews’ arrival in advance, lifting his head and howling an alarm. The front door clicked open, a billowing “Hello?” floated down the front hall—and Rupert was off. “I’m coming!” I called, following after the dog.

  Rupert beat me to the punch, an inspector on high-alert, suspiciously sniffing the tall, slender, and distinctively handsome middle-aged man standing in an expertly tailored suit in my entryway by the time I made it there. But our new guest seemed to take the examination in stride, allowing Rupert to stick his nose all the way inside his grey Stetson hat and remove it w
ith a snort. “Rupert, back off,” I scolded gently as the man chuckled. He had short chestnut hair—with a tuft that fell boyishly into his face when he looked down—warm brown eyes, and a smile that could light up New Haven. “Sorry about that… And hi! I’m Claire.” I stuck out my hand assertively.

  “Hello Claire. James.” He shook it firmly as he held his Stetson over his heart with the other hand—like leading men do in old movies. “I apologize for being so late. I didn’t think the traffic would be this bad, since we’re just after the holiday break.” He shifted his coat from one arm to the other. “I guess I was wrong.”

  “No problem at all,” I smiled and reached out to take his coat.

  “And who is this magnificent creature?” He beamed at my inspector, who still wasn’t quite ready to give up the hunt.

  “This is Rupert,” I said.

  Rupert barked.

  “A bloodhound mix, eh?”

  “Yep!” I conscientiously hung the coat in the front hall closet.

  “I’ll bet he’s endless entertainment. My family had a bloodhound when I was growing up. Old Pete. I loved that dog more than anything.”

  I shut the closet door and turned back to my guest, only to find him and Rupert engaged in a friendly game of tug. I shook my head and smiled at them, bemused. “I hope he doesn’t slobber all over that hat…”

  “No worries if he does,” James waved me off. The errant tuft of hair fell back into his eyes. “There’s an endless supply of fancy hats. But only one Rupert.”

  “Well, do you need help with any bags? You must be exhausted. Or can I get you a drink?”

  “No help with the bags—I’ve only got this duffel—but a drink would be wonderful. A scotch if you have it.”

  “I sure do.” I led my first customer—and the dog attached to his hat—into my new kitchen.

  * * *

  James and I stayed up talking quite late (late for me anyway), while Rupert returned to his fireside slumber. James grew up in Galway, left town for college, then started coming back part time about a decade ago. He owned a number of properties in the county, all of them rentals, but he still liked to come out for a weekend every now and again to ski and check in on things.

  “Have you met any of our local color yet?” he asked me after he’d had a chance to settle in upstairs, change out of his suit, and return to the kitchen to start in on scotch number two.

  “Yes! Let’s see… I met Ben at Goshen Ski Resort, and Evelyn at the post office…”

  “She’s a riot.”

  “She sure is.” I took a sip of my wine.

  “But you be careful with her—she’s trouble.”

  I laughed. “And let’s see, I met Nina Delacroix—briefly—when I first came here, before I bought the house.” I involuntarily scrunched up my nose, as if the wine had turned foul.

  This time James laughed. “She’s not really that bad once you get to know her. But…” he rolled his eyes. “…she’s certainly not the most friendly crayon in the box.” James swirled the scotch around in its tumbler.

  “I can vouch for that.”

  I told him all about George—and about how, oddly enough, Rupert stopped wagging his tail when George passed. He had never been much of a tail-wagger to begin with, but George had been his first love.

  James told me about his divorce—the typical tale. They were both unfaithful, both of them with people who were also married. He’d been mostly single for the past fifteen years—and happy to be alone. By the time I’d finished my second glass of merlot, I was ready to go to sleep. And James looked so cross-eyed from driving all evening (and his two helpings of scotch) that I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d passed out on his kitchen island barstool.

  I made sure he was settled in with towels and water—and that he knew where the bathroom and hallway lights were—and then Rupert and I bade him goodnight.

  The next morning, we were all three of us up early. James was very sweet about my breakfast. He called it “gourmet” among other things. He did eat several helpings of everything—but I worried it was more because he felt guilty about his being my only customer than because he liked the food. As he polished off his second plate of biscuits and sausage and helped himself to a third cup of coffee, I ducked out back to take out the compost; and as luck would have it, it was then and there I met my second-ever customer.

  A black cat, tiny in frame although clearly an adult, was huddled in a patch of sunlight on the back of my wrap-around porch, pawing at what I assumed was a field mouse. The moment she got wind of me, she took off for the hills with a start. I dumped the compost into the bin, then ducked inside and returned with a saucer of crème —just in case the mouse didn’t pan out, no thanks to my interruption.

  Back inside, while reaching for a second serving of blueberry smoothie, James very kindly offered to help me out with any unforeseen maintenance issues with the house.

  “I know how these old buildings can be,” he said, returning to take his seat at the big old mahogany kitchen table. “They can cause some unique problems. Plus, around here, it’s good to have a man around to fend off any wheeler and dealer types.”

  I helped myself to some more coffee at the island. “That’s kind of you, but all things considered, it’s in pretty decent shape.” I shrugged, stirred a dollop of crème into my cup, and pulled up a stool.

  “It looks it!” he swallowed a final bite of maple scone. “I’m not pushing you on anything, I’m just letting you know—if anything comes up in the future, I’d be happy to look at it whenever I’m in town.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  He gathered up the last of the scone crumbs onto his index finger, polished them off, and stood up from the table to carry his dishes to the white cast iron sink. “To be honest, I’ve always loved this old house.” He carefully placed his dishes down, then turned and gazed around the kitchen, gesturing up at the copper tiled ceiling and its original crown moulding. “It’s beautiful. It was one of my mother’s favorites. I’m absolutely tickled that someone decent took it upon themselves to fix it up—and to get some bodies in here! Nothing more important for an old house than people living in it.” He turned back around to get a start on his dishes.

  “Oh you don’t have to do that…” I started to get up.

  “Too late, I’m already done!”

  I relented. “Well I just may take you up on that offer, then.”

  “Good. Well,” he dried his hands on one of my tea towels and folded it back onto its rightful place on the shelf below the big bay window. “I should be off. I’ve got some trouble with a house of mine just up the hill—a couple of pain-in-the-butt tenants. Shouldn’t take too long to suss out, but who knows?”

  “Alright,” I began to clear the island of our breakfast feast and pile up the serving trays on my oaken countertops. “Thanks for your offer—and thanks for cleaning your dishes.” I grinned up at my guest.

  “Thank you for a marvelous breakfast.”

  * * *

  Rupert and I wiled away our Saturday getting acquainted with our new neighborhood, walking up and down the main drag and looking in on our neighboring shops. As always, he was a big hit with the little kids. Who doesn’t love a giant dog when they’re little? Due in part to the lovely weather—chilly but not too bad in the warmth of the sun—the town was surprisingly bustling with tourists. They were everywhere, peeping out the art galleries and treating themselves to warm pastries and a hot cuppa—taking a little break from the Goshen slopes, I deduced from their outerwear.

  Back at the house, I arranged a couple of new bookings for the following weekend via phone and email. And with the surprise convenience of only having to tidy up one room and cook for one guest all weekend, I felt I was really getting the hang of it by the time Sunday came around.

  I decided to celebrate a successful opening with lunch at the fabled Galway Inn—the oldest restaurant and hotel in town—treating myself to an exquisite king crab sal
ad sandwich on homemade French bread, with a to-die-for flourless chocolate cake on top of a raspberry reduction for dessert.

  As I was sipping the dregs of my English breakfast tea and perusing a copy of the Washington Post (a boon out here), a familiar face caught my eye—and made my stomach churn with butterflies, an as-of-late unfamiliar sensation. It was Henry Castle. A Robert Redford look-alike with whom I engaged in a mild flirtation when we were both in our mid-20s. It never really went anywhere—he was living in Boston, I was in New York. We were both starting to get serious about our jobs. Nevertheless, he was a bonafide dreamboat. And he was headed my way.

  He stopped short at my table as I folded up my newspaper, gazing down at me with his trademark boyish smile. He’s aged very well, I thought. He still sported a chiseled chin line, thick sandy hair, and a pair of relentlessly blue eyes that used to make me weak in the knees. I stood up as gracefully as I could muster.

  “Claire,” he said in a smooth baritone, taking both my hands in his.

  “Hello, Henry,” he kissed me politely on each cheek—both of which flushed, I was sure.

  “Strange seeing you here,” his smile widened, growing wistful. “It’s been such a long time.”

  “Yes, it has. I just bought the old bed and breakfast down the hill!” I replied, a little too excited. Easy, Claire.

  “The old Wilson house? That’s wonderful. Well, good to see you. I hope to see you around the county.”

  And, like the drop of a hat, that was that. I watched in mid-reply as he turned and casually glided out of the bustling restaurant, waving handsomely to the maître-de, leaving me standing with my mouth slightly ajar.

  In an instant, I was reminded of exactly why nothing ever happened with Henry—a memory of vague aloofness flooded my brain. And then I remembered how different it felt to meet George a few years later, with whom I immediately felt welcomed. I smiled faintly, proud of the wisdom in the choices I had made in my youth—no matter how much pain the love I won made me endure, later. It was enough to bring tears to my eyes.