Murder at the Snowed Inn

by Imogen Plimp

  * * *

  It wasn’t until late Monday morning that Evelyn had time to take me up on my breakfast offer (she had off for MLK Day). It was the coldest morning I’d experienced since taking up in the mountains, so I had gotten up early to attempt to sufficiently warm the place—a strange little dance I’d developed of lighting a fire in the den and then surreptitiously moving space heaters from place to place. James had planned to sleep in, so I had my little buffet ready and warming at 10 o’clock: eggs on homemade sourdough loaf (which I baked from a starter I inherited from my grandmother), maple bacon, chive and parmesan grits, a side salad of cucumber and tomato with a light ginger vinaigrette, and fresh raspberries.

  “How do you make these eggs?” Evelyn asked mid-chew.

  I was at standing at the counter, whisking egg yolks: I wanted to make a hot spiced egg nog for later to counter the arctic chill. “What do you mean?”

  “I always overdo them.” She was sitting at my kitchen island while I cooked, peeling tiny bits of shell off her egg and then nibbling a bit at a time. “How do you make the yolk runny like that?”

  “I just set a timer—6 minutes ought to do it for soft-boiled.”

  “And where is this handsome guest of yours?” she looked around and towards the stairway.

  “I thought you two knew each other?”

  She shrugged. “A little. Not that much though. He’s always busy, runnin’ around, fixin’ up ol’ buildings… Plus, he’s not my type.”

  “He’s not my type either, but he’s very kind. And I like him.” I had started to warm the crème over the stovetop. “So does Rupert.” Rupert looked up from the kitchen floor—where he was stationed at Evelyn’s feet in hopes of scraps—and whined.

  Evelyn glanced down at him, nonplussed. “Upset he can’t have any bacon?”

  “I don’t know…” I was stirring the crème slowly. “He’s been like this all morning. It’s not like him. Sometimes his hips get cranky when the weather changes…”

  “Oh I hear that, honey.” She perked up. “Can I feed him some bacon?”

  “You trying to buy his love?” I grinned.

  “Yes.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Evelyn offered Rupert an entire side plate of bacon to himself—which he refused. Then he laid his head back on the floor and whined again, which made me begin to worry. I turned off the burner and padded on woolen socks to the sink to refill his water dish.

  “Really though, where is that man?” Evelyn looked searchingly again towards the stairway.

  “I’m not sure…” I delivered Rupert his water then stood over him, frowning with concern, hands on my hips. “He hasn’t slept in this long all weekend. I haven’t even heard the water running from his bathroom yet.”

  Evelyn returned wordlessly to her egg.

  I put a pot of water on the stove—for a fresh French press, in case James was running late—then stored the remaining bacon and eggs in the already-warm oven, hung my apron on its hook, and walked over to the stairway down the hall.

  “James?” I called up the stairs.

  No answer.

  “James? You up there? You’re a bit late for check-out, which is just fine! –If … If you’d like to stay longer, just let me know!” I was still new to this B&B thing, after all.

  Nothing.

  Rupert, who had followed me, nosed at my hand impatiently and then began to climb the stairs. I followed.

  “James!”

  Rupert shuffled up to James’s door and whined, urgently now, nosing the bottom of the doorway and scratching at the floorboards with his front paws. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  I reached into my pocket for my set of masters, inserted the appropriate key into the door, and turned the lock.

  James was lying spread eagle on the Persian rug, his head cocked to one side, his lifeless eyes gazing up at me.

  Chapter Five

  “Evelyn!” I screamed.

  She raced up the stairs like a wild banshee and stopped short next to me, just inside James’s doorway.

  “Oh my God!” she breathed, covering her mouth with both hands.

  I entered the room warily and knelt down next to James, searching his eyes for any sign of life. Rupert backed away from the doorway, barking at the body. I reached out to touch James’s cheek—cold as ice.

  “Don’t touch anything!” Evelyn shrieked. “This is a crime scene, Claire!”

  “A crime scene? How to you know?”

  Evelyn ignored me, having already pulled her cellphone out of her pocket, and was dialing 9-1-1. “Hi Joan, it’s Ev. I’m at the Old Wilson Bed and Breakfast, we’ve got a body here—we need Sheriff Sellers right away … Yes … It’s Jimmy Matthews … OK.”

  My pot of just now boiling water began to whistle—its mourning, high-pitched howl drifting up the stairs.

  Evelyn stuffed her phone back in her pocket. “I’ll get it,” she said numbly. She turned to walk back down the stairs.

  I sat down where I had been kneeling uncomfortably, settling cross-legged on the blood-red rug next to James—which is where I stayed put until the police arrived. I knew it didn’t matter to him, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

  I don’t remember the police entering the house. I was helped up and into the next door guest room, then made to sit down and drink a glass of water, though I don’t remember how I got there, exactly.

  I do remember meeting Sheriff Sellers, though. He wasn’t at all how I’d pictured him—not at all imposing. Instead he was short and stocky, even-tempered, with a pleasant face on a round head well on its way to being bald. Evelyn introduced us. She had been doing the lion’s share of the answering questions—good thing, too, because I don’t think I would have been very helpful.

  “Claire Andersen,” she said, slow and clear, “this is Sheriff Sellers.”

  The sheriff pulled an antique chair up to mine. “Claire—Mrs. Andersen—a pleasure to meet you. Can someone get you another glass of water?”

  “No… no, it’s ok.” I croaked—no amount of water would keep my mouth from being dry.

  “I know you’re spooked, but could I ask you a couple questions while I’ve got you?”

  I gazed up into his face, certain my eyes were glazed over. “Sure, ok.” I nodded.

  “Did you know Mr. Matthews before he booked a room at your inn?” the sheriff asked, a legal pad positioned on his lap, a pen hovering above it, ready for its first swan dive.

  “No…” I shook my head. “No, I met him when he arrived on Friday.”

  He began to jot down some notes. “And did he bring any guests back here with him?”

  “No, none.”

  He paused his writing to look me straight in the eye. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said emphatically, returning his gaze. “This is an old house—I can hear everything. If it’s just me and Rupert, even if he’s upstairs while I’m downstairs, I can practically hear him breathing.”

  “And who is Rupert?”

  Rupert, who had been sitting on my feet, lifted his head in response.

  Sheriff Sellers put two and two together. “I see,” he nodded. “Did Mr. Matthews say anything about meeting anyone? Or anything about having any trouble with someone else?”

  “He did say he had to go deal with some problems at one of his properties, but he didn’t seem to be all that worried about it—troublesome tenants, I think he said. Something like that.”

  The sheriff’s eyes widened. And the pace of his scribbling quickened. “And when was this?”

  “Saturday morning—he said it was one of the properties up the hill,” I nodded, relieved to be at least a little bit helpful.

  “And did you see him after that meeting?”

  “Yes. I saw him Saturday night late briefly, and then again Sunday morning for breakfast—and both times, he was perfectly alive.”

  Sheriff Sellers nodded. “And is Sunday morning the last time you saw Mr. Matt
hews?”

  I swallowed. “Yes.”

  He paused, thinking.

  “Anything else you can remember that seemed … odd?”

  “No. But…” Finally, I seemed to snap out of it. “Why do you think it had something to do with foul play? Didn’t he just have a heart attack, or ... or a stroke or something?”

  The sheriff shook his balding head. “The coroner will let us know for sure, but based on the color and consistency of some spittle around the victim’s mouth, he was probably poisoned.”

  I gasped. “Poisoned?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He returned to scribbling something on his pad.

  “But, if no one else was in the house,” I wondered aloud, “how could he get poisoned?”

  “Well,” He paused his scribbling again and began to chew on the tip of his ballpoint pen cap. “It’s possible someone did sneak into the house without your hearing them—while you were sleeping, or while you were out during the weekend. It’s also possible he was poisoned just before he retired for the evening, at a second location.”

  I slumped further into my chair.

  “Do you know what time he came back to his room last night?”

  “No,” I shook my head. “I went to sleep before he came in. Around 10 o’clock. But I did wake up for a minute when he shut the front door. Rupert too, but he also went right back to sleep—so I thought it was just James.”

  “Well, ma’am,” The sheriff stood up laboredly, the way a person does when they’re very, very tired—in a world-weary kind of manner. “Thank you for your time. If you don’t mind, we’re going to poke around here just a little bit longer. We might borrow some things too, anything resembling the necessary evidence. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Thank you.” I kept my gaze on my hands, which were resting in my lap.

  He turned to Evelyn, who was still standing quietly in the doorway. “Now Ev, do you think you could stay with her a little bit? She’s gotten quite a shock.”

  Evelyn smiled faintly. “Sure thing, Arnie.”

  One of the deputies collected James’s towels and the pair of water glasses left on his nightstand, while another dusted the doors and windowpanes—for fingerprints, I assumed. When the scene was clear, and poor James’s body was on its way to the coroner’s office, I was left to my quiet, old house—with Rupert and Evelyn for reassuring company.

  I sat silently at the kitchen island while Evelyn made me a cup of tea and cleaned up the remnants of our ill-fated breakfast.

  Finally, I broke my silence. “But who would want to kill him?”

  Evelyn shook her head sadly while sponging up some crumbs off the countertop. “I don’t know.”

  “He seemed like such a nice man.”

  “They all do, sweets.” She finished up her tidying and took a seat across from me at the island.

  I sat lost in thought. I just couldn’t believe it! “You really think he had an enemy who would kill him?”

  “It’s a shock, but…” Evelyn shrugged. “I didn’t really know him that well. And that’s what makes me wonder…” She shifted in her seat and folded her hands up on the island, leaning closer towards me. “A town this small, and even I don’t know him that well? Seems kind of—fishy…” She raised her eyebrows.

  I looked at her, the gears in my brain beginning to turn. “He said something about trouble with tenants up the hill… Do you know what he would have been talking about?”

  “I’m pretty sure he owned the two little houses at the top of Pine Grove. The two little red houses—you know the ones? The side of one of them is covered in these huge vines, really pretty in the spring and summer…”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “I know the ones.” Rupert and I had taken walks up and down that drive a few times by now. “Do you know who lives there?”

  “On one side—the overgrown one—that’s Ella. Old lady, been there forever—since before Jimmy even owned it. The other one, that’s Ben and Leslie. Couple of young’uns.”

  “Ben?” I inquired, perking up at the prospect of something familiar—however small. “From Goshen Ski Resort, Ben?”

  “That’s the one!”

  “What about Leslie? Do you know her?” I asked, growing excited.

  “She’s alright,” Ev scrunched up her nose. “Known to get herself into some trouble when she’s had too much to drink, but she’s usually a nice girl. Works at the brew pub just down the road.”

  “Do you think that we…” I trailed off. “Never mind.” I hopped up off my barstool and carried my teacup to the sink.

  “What?” asked Evelyn.

  “Nothing,” I shook my head.

  “What?” she asked again, insistently.

  I rinsed out the cup and then turned back to her. “I was going to say… What if we went up the hill? See if we can try to piece some of this together?”

  Evelyn smiled big—the kind of smile I hadn’t seen all day. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Six

  Pine Grove is a charming, aptly-named avenue that cuts through the center of town, then climbs the hills to the north, becoming increasingly thick with evergreen forest the higher you go. It’s beautiful, with little cabins and miniature cottages hidden in the brush—and the smell of the trees is to die for. Evelyn and I hiked up the first hill in silence—and made it to James’s twin houses in no time.

  We decided to try Ben and Leslie first.

  I rang the bell. Nothing. Evelyn pounded on the door and yelled for them both in as high-pitched a shout as she could seem to muster. Nothing still. She snooped around the side yard, trying (in vain) to hoist herself up to peer into the windows—and tried the side door, which was locked—while I waited patiently on the porch. Eventually, we concluded that nobody was home and decided to put a pin in it.

  “Well, that was anti-climactic,” Evelyn snorted.

  Defeated (for now), we marched over to Ella’s. She had hung unfortunate panels of thick yellow plastic over all her windows to keep out the cold. The paint on the siding was chipped—where it wasn’t rotting—and the windows were cloudy from decades of cigarette smoke. The whole place had a bleary feel to it. Like nothing exciting had ever happened here—not even murder.

  It took a significant amount of pounding on the front door to get Ella’s attention. That, or, she took her sweet time answering it—and was markedly disappointed that we were the ones on the other side. She didn’t invite us in and did little but scowl at our amateur questioning. She “didn’t know nothin’,” she assured us, and in between her mostly one-word answers, she would crane her neck around the doorway, to where the television was blaring an episode of Jeopardy (and an old re-run at that).

  “Didn’t hear nothing,’ didn’t see nothin.’ Same thing I told the sheriff,” she eeked out in a thin smoker’s tenor. “But I will tell you that those two kids at the other house—they fight plenty.” She shook her head. “See ‘em all the time.”

  My spidey sense went up. “Did you see or hear them fighting yesterday?”

  “What?” she rasped.

  “I said did you see or hear fighting yesterday?”

  “Dunno.” She shrugged and craned her neck back toward the television.

  “But…” I started.

  “Well, thanks Mrs. B!” Evelyn took me abruptly by the arm and spun me ‘round toward the porch steps as Ella slammed the door shut behind us. Thanks, indeed.

  “But she might have known something!” I protested to Evelyn in an unnecessary whisper.

  “She doesn’t know anything, Claire. That woman can barely hear or see as it is.”

  “What if it was something small? Some clue that could crack the case, something that … that doesn’t need seeing or hearing?” I knew it sounded ridiculous, but I was trying my best to leave no stone unturned.

  “If something like that exists, she sure didn’t notice it! Trust me. She doesn’t care about anything. Never has.” Evelyn continued to guide me by the arm down the p
orch steps and through the overgrown walkway.

  “Lovely woman,” I muttered.

  Evelyn guffawed. “She’s alright. Just cranky.”

  And that’s when I saw it—lining the walkway, creeping its way up the porch banister and around Ella’s house—and slowly taking over Ben and Leslie’s front yard.

  “Ev!” I stopped short.

  “What?” she retorted, annoyed.

  I pointed at the weed. “That’s Nightshade!”

  “What about it?” she whined.

  “It’s poisonous!”

  * * *

  Having quite possibly discovered the murder weapon—but knowing full well we had bupkis on potential witnesses and suspects—Evelyn suggested we try our luck at Ben and Leslie’s respective places of business. The bar where Leslie worked wouldn’t be open until 5:00, so we opted to try our hand at Goshen first. Evelyn drove us in her gigantic old pick-up—with Rupert contentedly penned up in the truck bed.

  Evelyn navigated her rusty monstrosity into a parking spot in the crowded lot. We hopped out to meet the hustle and bustle of happy families in the midst of their holiday weekend ski vacations—little ones tumbling down the bunny hill, teenagers and adults gliding down the resort’s single—by now icy—downhill slope. Rupert dutifully stayed put as we headed for the entrance.

  The welcome cabin was busy, but not nearly as crowded as it had likely been a couple hours ago during lunch. Lo and behold, Dale Duke himself was helping a crowd of 20-somethings to their first-ever pairs of skis. Tall and tan as Ben, but less beefy—and with a head full of wispy silver hair—the two did indeed look exactly alike. With the exceptions of the age difference and Dale’s hundred-watt smile, which never seemed to diminish. He saw us come in and waved merrily to Evelyn, indicating he’d be just a moment.

  When he’d finished fitting the newbies—and as if at long last—Dale and Evelyn hugged warmly.

  “Dale,” she said, “this is Claire.”

  “Hi, Claire—you look very familiar…” He said as he searched my eyes for recognition. He had less of a drawl than his nephew, but the same beautifully lilting phrasing.