by Imogen Plimp
“I used to ski here a lot oh, twenty, twenty-five years ago…”
He chuckled. “My goodness! Hello!” He enveloped me in a big bear hug. “So good to see you, beautiful!”
But Evelyn was through with the niceties. “Yeah she’s a knock-out … so is Ben around today?”
“No, he’s out sick,” Dale said, after finally releasing me, though continuing to smile at me brightly. “But maybe I can help you with something?”
Evelyn and I exchanged a knowing look.
“Actually, Dale,” Evelyn pressed, “we were just up at his place, lookin’ for him … and … he wasn’t there.”
Dale shrugged. “Probably went out to the grocery store—got a bad flu, poor kid. And he never has any food in that old house of his. Certainly not the fixins for some chicken soup. I’ll bet my bottom dollar he’s back by now if you want to try him again.” He craned his neck around us, looking at the new crew that had just infiltrated the cabin. “Hey, I got to help these guys… Can you give me just a minute?”
“Sure, of course.” I waved him off. He turned and jogged, bright and bushy-tailed, toward his new customers.
Evelyn wasn’t so amenable. “Out sick my ass,” she hissed under her breath.
“Evelyn!” I scolded.
She turned on her heels. “Let’s go out to the brew pub—Leslie might be there early.”
I started to protest, but she’d already made up her mind.
“Hey Dale, we’re gonna take off! See you later!”
“Alright,” he smiled. “You ladies be safe out there…” As if the phrase weren’t loaded at all.
“You think he knows? You know, about the murder?” I quietly asked Evelyn on our way out the door.
“Naw. Probably been swamped up here. But someone’ll tell him eventually…”
* * *
We were in luck: It was 4 o’clock, and Leslie was prepping behind the bar. She’d left the back door ajar and had already let in a friend—a short, young woman with a black bob and button nose who was leaning across the bar, cooing in hushed tones, her hand reassuringly perched on Leslie’s shoulder.
“Hey there, sugarplums,” Evelyn announced our entrance.
Both girls looked up with a start. Leslie returned to angrily slicing limes, her curly brown hair disheveled, her eyes red and puffy.
“You been cryin, toots?” Ev asked as she took a seat next to the button-nosed girl, never one to mince words.
“Naw,” Leslie sniffed, “just allergies.”
“What you allergic to?”
“Beer.” She smirked unconvincingly as she plopped a pile of lime wedges into their plastic case.
“Brew pub’s a funny place to work at then, ain’t it?”
Leslie rolled her eyes. “That’s the point, Evelyn. It’s a joke.” Tough crowd, I thought. She set her knife down irritably and glared up at both of us—as I settled in at the bar on the other side of Ev. “What can I do for you ladies? We aren’t open yet. But I could make an exception, just like I did for Whitney here—if the price is right.”
Leslie eyed Whitney, who smiled fakely at both of us as she raised her tumbler full of bourbon. “Bottoms up!” she said.
“Well, Claire here,” Evelyn grasped me by the forearm, “owns the old Wilson house—you know, the one where Jimmy Matthews were murdered last night?”
Leslie started—and I thought I saw a flash of fear across her eyes … but it was short-lived. Whitney puckered up her lips and looked idly down at her hands, which were folded on top of the bar, cupping her drink.
“I heard,” Leslie said, dully. “Pretty scary stuff.” The dirty job of murderously slicing limes done, she moved on to the dishwashing station, where a pile of scuzzy pint glasses was waiting.
Evelyn nudged me with her boney elbow.
I returned my gaze to Leslie’s reddened eyes. “James had told me on Saturday that he was headed up to your house to talk to you and Ben—about some tenant stuff. Was there any … well … trouble after he arrived?”
Leslie shook her head and upturned a glass in the wash basin. “Not that I remember. Ben was just late on his rent, so I covered it for him. He’ll get me back this week, I’m sure,” she shrugged with a faint smirk. “He’s always good for it.”
I kept on. “Did anything else happen? Any anger or fighting or … or … anything out of the ordinary?”
Leslie glanced up at me, annoyed. “No. Business as usual. Ben’s late on his rent a lot, but I cut him a break when I can.” She started in on another glass and pushed a curl out of her eyes. “And when I can’t, Jimmy does. He collected and left in the span of about five minutes.” She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then dunked the glass back into the soapy basin again.
“Come on, Leslie,” Evelyn whined. “Something must’ve happened… That man died for Chrissakes! And the cops say it was murder!”
“Give her a break, will ya?” Whitney piped up. “The sheriff already tore into her this morning.” Her gaze returned to her crying friend, about whom she was clearly worried.
“Look,” Leslie wiped her eyes clumsily, her face now covered in suds. “I don’t know anything about it. Just like I told Sheriff Sellers. Now if you don’t mind, I got a lot of work to do…”
Reluctantly, I pressed on. “What were you doing last night?” I raised one eyebrow.
Leslie snorted. “What are you, my mother?”
“Just answer the question,” Evelyn retorted without missing a beat. “This woman woke up to a dead body in her house.”
Leslie placed the last glass on the drying rack with an indelicate clank and wiped her hands on her jeans. “I was here. Working 4:00 ‘til close. Probably got out at about 3 in the morning.”
“Did you see James after he left your house?” I asked.
She lowered her eyes to the wash basin. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Her eyes didn’t budge.
Evelyn looked at me, then back at Leslie. “Anybody leave here with you?” she asked.
“No.” Leslie responded. Just like Al when she’s in a mood—one word answers only, no betrayal of emotion.
“Alright,” I sighed. “Thanks for your help.”
Evelyn and I got up to leave, our barstools scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. As we passed through the propped-open doorway, the girls huddled together across the bar and began to whisper.
We found Rupert right where we left him—happy to see us both (as we were his ticket to one more ride). “She’s not telling us something,” I mused as I knit my brow, concerned—the way all mothers are concerned for upset girls. “All that crying…”
“Yeah,” Evelyn agreed as she hopped up into the driver’s seat of her pick-up. “An’ I got a feelin’ it ain’t cuz she’s broken up he’s dead.”
Chapter Seven
I spent most of the next few days rearranging my guest rooms and scrubbing my floors (and hands) raw. I wanted to get as much of the stain, smell, and feel of murder out of my bed and breakfast as possible. Change my feng shui, as Al might say (ironically). Although, oddly, James’s death—however horrific—was surprisingly good for business. Two couples called to say they were interested in staying that weekend because of the murder. One of them even wanted to stay in James’s very room. I told them to call Nina Delacroix.
After a two hour-long scrubbing session on hands and knees, I bundled up and shuffled my poor, achy body down the street to the café for a quick coffee break. I ordered a latte with a hint of cardamom—which was superb—and cozied up in a booth to read the county paper and watch the snow through the window, which had just begun to fall.
My ears perked up at a familiar, pretentious lilt.
“I’ll have a cappuccino please. Very dry.”
It was Nina Delacroix, her cashmere scarf tucked severely into the neck of her thick black and white coat—which in my mind’s eye was fashioned out of Dalmatian fur. I could almost see her sucking Gaulois
es through a slender cigarette holder, her long, boney fingers stroking her chin as she plotted something sinister.
She glanced around, bored, as she waited for her order—and caught my eye. I moaned quietly and raised up my newspaper as sneakily as possible, slumping behind it and further into my booth.
After a few minutes of silence, I thought I’d dodged a bullet. I hadn’t.
“Claire, isn’t it?” she asked snottily as I pretended to be thoroughly engaged in an article detailing recent changes to the Warren County hunting season calendar.
“Oh, hi Nina! I was just thinking about you,” I said pleasantly as I folded my paper onto the table.
She ignored me. “I heard you just bought the old Wilson place?” she asked as she stood stiffly at the stirring station, pouring a significant amount of sugar-in-the-raw into her coffee cup. Apropos for a personality so naturally sour, I mused.
I smiled widely, proud of myself—then shook my head, snapping out of my reverie. “Sorry, spaced out for a second. Yes! I did buy the place.”
“I trust it’s going well?” she urged pointedly.
“It is—with the exception of a little—”
“Yes … murder … we had in town this past weekend.” She shook her head. “I heard.” She plunked the sugar jar back down onto the counter and frowned—though in her case it was more of a vague downturn of the lip corners, only.
“Did you know James?” I asked, fingering my empty mug.
“You could say that,” she replied as she took a puckered sip of her extra-dry cappuccino. “We used to be married.”
My jaw dropped.
I shook my head in disbelief. “You … what?”
Nina smiled coolly from behind her takeout cup. “I’m as surprised as anyone.”
“But…” I was at a loss for words, torn between wanting to question a new person of interest and wondering dumbstruck at how the universe could bring two such different people together—in any capacity. Finally, I settled on: “but you must be … shocked!”
“I am, yes,” she said—though not looking it. “But it had been a very long time since we were close. I hadn’t spoken to him in years. You used to be married, right? You know how it is.”
My heart dropped onto the floor with a seemingly audible plat. I stared down at my mug. “My husband died.”
“Oh.” Nina pursed her lips together. “I’m so terribly sorry.”
“Thanks,” I replied blankly. I wanted nothing more than to change the subject. I cleared my throat, but my voice still came out small and muffled. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted James dead?”
Nina shrugged her boney shoulders. “I have my suspicions. He wasn’t the most discreet man in the world. But James also kept a lot to himself.” She said his name sharply, with almost a hiss on the end of it—Jaaymesssss. “He was ever so fond of his little mysteries.” I watched her eyes carefully. I thought I detected a hint of resentment buried somewhere deep beneath piles of Mary Kay product and eons of plastic surgery.
“Do you have any theories about who could have been involved?” I wondered aloud.
Nina placed her paper cup gently on my tabletop and lowered her voice. “I do. Chief among them, Leslie Stevens.”
My stomach lurched. “The bartender? The girl who lives up at one of James’s houses?”
“The one and only,” Nina nodded. Her mouth twitched, then settled into a thin, straight line. “Let’s just say she’s a bit of a … wheeler and dealer. Likes to toy with people.” She tried to raise one eyebrow pointedly. It quivered. “Make them see eye to eye with her. Hold information over them.”
“I saw her the day after James died,” I began. Careful now… “She was pretty upset. Looked like she’d been crying all day.”
“Ha!” Nina guffawed—a cackle that could have passed for a laugh had it not been so terrifyingly crow-like. “Crocodile tears—don’t believe them for a minute.”
I stared at her silently.
She hiked her elegant fur gloves up her forearms and retrieved her extra-dry cappuccino from the table. “Well, good luck with the house. You’ll need it.”
Then she turned on her designer pumps and, with a deafening clickity-clack, disappeared though the café door and into the virgin snow.
* * *
I headed back to the house in a wintry daze. James, married to Nina Delacroix. I traced back through my recent memories—he said he had been married, and that they were both unfaithful—both of them with married people. Was it possible the cheating had something to do with his murder?
I didn’t sleep very well that night. At first, the tossing and turning was Nina Delacroix-fueled, but eventually my thoughts turned to poor Leslie … and then George. My husband. Dead. George would have liked James. He would have been upset he was dead, too.
I must have dozed off—because my terrible nightmare of the skeletons of George and James playing cards was interrupted by some sort of screech—whether in my dreams or waking life, I couldn’t tell. I had been startled awake at what my bedside clock told me was 3:20 am. I could see the silhouette of Rupert’s giant, wrinkled visage sitting at attention at the foot of my bed, his ears perked upright, backlit against the hall light I’d left on. He had been startled awake, too, and he wasn’t happy about whatever had awoken him. He was growling quietly—a subterranean rumble a person can feel more than hear.
Then I heard it—a high-pitched crying. It was coming from somewhere downstairs, somewhere near the kitchen. I slowly swung my legs over the bed, quietly and carefully stuffed my feet into my furry slippers, and then reached for the baseball bat I found in the basement when I moved in—and now stored under my bed PM (post-murder).
But Rupert either wasn’t aware of my intended stealth mode—or he didn’t care—because he suddenly bounded out of bed, and in a flash of brown was out the door and down the stairs, braying as loudly as possible.
I met him in the kitchen, gripping the bat in one hand and clutching my cell phone to my chest with the other, flipping on lights one by one and checking around corners like someone might leap out at me at any moment. Rupert was standing at the kitchen back door, pawing at the door knob. Then I heard it again—an unmistakable, pitiful cry.
“Oh my gosh,” I breathed, realization flooding my brain and shutting off my fight-or-flight setting.
I flicked on the back porch light and opened up the backdoor. There stood the little black cat, the carcass of a baby mouse at her front paws, meowing proudly. Apparently she’d been receiving my daily gifts of crème and decided to return the favor.
I stepped outside gingerly and closed the back door behind me, leaving Rupert whining and scratching maddeningly at the door. Then I stood the bat up against the doorjamb and squatted down on the porch—reaching out slowly toward the cat.
She eventually made her way to my hand—in her own time, when I was good and shivering—nuzzling my fingers with her nose and rubbing her face up against the side of my robe.
And that’s how Nightmare and I became friends.
Chapter Eight
The sheriff’s office wasn’t holding anybody for James’s murder—and they didn’t seem to have any leads, if the lack of information they were willing to give me over the phone was any indication. And yet, we all seemed to get through the week murder-free. The world keeps turning, I suppose.
Truth be told, nothing exciting happened all week, except for the increasingly frequent visits by Nightmare the cat, who liked to poke her head inside the kitchen—and very occasionally hop up to do a catwalk along the red-and-white tiled countertops until they turn to oak. Although Rupert would bark at her insistently, she was high enough to be out of harm’s way—and low enough to be able to swat him in the face. She seemed to prefer the freedom of the great outdoors, though. I didn’t blame her.
Weekend number two was shaping up to be a doozy. My first full house. I had thoroughly cleaned and then cordoned off James’s room—for now. I guess I just couldn’t s
tand the thought of someone poking their noses around, or being careless with the very last space he had occupied. Not that the place seemed sacred or something… It’s just that I wasn’t ready to pretend it hadn’t happened. Not yet.
In-house, arriving on Friday afternoon, I had a cute young couple from Baltimore—in town for a long weekend of skiing. They brought their ten-week-old pit bull puppy along (with express permission from me, of course). Rupert was so sweet with him. They started to play in the kitchen, Rupert so obviously being sure to be very gentle at first. But eventually he got the zoomies and showed the puppy by dervish example how to run circles all around the house. The two of them went at if for quite some time, upending all my fancy rugs and somehow managing to break only a single glass. I didn’t mind at all. Us three humans watched from the kitchen table over coffee and tea, laughing hysterically.
I also had an older couple from Ohio who were in town to visit their youngest daughter, a girl about Al’s age, whose bluegrass band was on tour and stopping to play a show down the street at the Barking Tarantula on Saturday. They were so proud of her—it was so sweet.
And there was a lean—almost to the point of being scrawny—young man named Star, an artist from West Seattle, whose show of exquisitely odd line drawings was opening at one of the galleries around the corner. I noted with curiosity that, while I never noticed him slipping out to smoke a cigarette, he was almost always rolling one between his fingers. Right off the bat, I asked him whether his name was a nickname or a name he had given to himself in an official capacity. He pulled out his Washington State I.D. There he was—officially “Star Dreams,” it informed me. My jaw dropped. “That’s amazing!” I commented.
He took his I.D. back from me, gazed at it forlornly, and then stuck it back inside his wallet. “My parents are hippies. Excuse me, back-to-the-landers—living in Eastern Washington. They thought it was a good idea.” He shook his head with a smile.
