Murder at the Snowed Inn

by Imogen Plimp

  Rupert and I spent most of the early afternoon in the kitchen, where I was making what Al likes to call “Mayan chili”: a bison stew with sweet potatoes and lots of yellow onion, a little cocoa and cinnamon, and a metric ton of homemade chili powder—I crushed the dried chilis with my own mortar and pestle. It’s tasty, but not for the faint of tongue. I also decided to make a buttermilk dark chocolate cake (since I already had the cocoa powder out and all).

  A robust knock at the front door rang through the house exactly at 3 o’clock—just as I was finishing up my cake batter—and sent Rupert into a howling frenzy. I real quick rinsed off my hands and hurried to the front hallway in my apron, Rupert hot on my heels.

  An impossibly handsome man was on the other side of my front door, which I wasn’t expecting. Evelyn had called him “the best.” She had also said “there’s nobody better!”, but nothing about anybody being “devastatingly handsome.” Had she, I would have remembered for sure.

  “Hello ma’am, Ray Hamilton,” he said by way of introduction. Immediately, I was in trouble. He spoke in a velvety Appalachian drawl almost as pronounced as Ben’s, but much easier to understand—and even deeper in tone and timbre. His voice was music to my ears. “Miss Evelyn told me to come have a look at your wall. You must be Claire.”

  He took my hand in both of his and smiled warmly. His toolkit was sitting on the porch at his feet—which Rupert immediately took to snuffling around. I noticed Ray Hamilton’s hands first—well, second, behind his voice. His hands were very large, and tanned and calloused from work. But they weren’t especially rough—just well-loved. Ray himself was tall and lanky—all legs and arms—with a head full of thick silver-grey hair, an impressive Sam Elliott-like moustache, and one of the kindest pairs of eyes I’d ever seen. They were a deep coffee color—but with specs of sunburst in them. They reminded be of honeycombs.

  He looked down at me, bemused, waiting for me to say something. Back to earth, Claire. I shook my head, embarrassed, and dropped my eyes awkwardly to my feet. “Oh, sorry! Hi,” I grinned at my slippers—lot of good that did them. “It’s very nice to meet you. And thanks so much for coming over on such short notice—I know you must be busy…” I was attempting to look up into his eyes again—as if, perhaps the first time, I had been mistaken by their spell-iness. He smiled down at me and reached up to take my left cheek in his hand, his thumb gently caressing the ridge of bone beneath my eye. My words trailed off—I was floating again.

  He removed his hand from my face to show me his thumb—

  “Oh, chocolate.” I put my hand to my cheek where his hand had just been. “I was … umm…” I shrugged in the general direction of the kitchen. “I was just baking.”

  Ray sucked the chocolate off his thumb nonchalantly. “Dark chocolate, too. My favorite.” He rubbed his hand off on the side of his jeans. “And it’s no trouble at all. Any friend of Evelyn’s is a friend a’ mine.” There was that smile again. Always with the eyes.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I settled on: “That’s Rupert.” I pointed at the dog—who was trying desperately to fit Ray’s entire toolbox into his mouth.

  “Ah!” Ray crossed his arms against his chest and looked down in amusement. “An assistant!”

  “I’m sorry about him…”

  Ray shook his head laughingly. “No need to apologize. I’ve got one at home, ma’self. An ole’ healer. Mighty Ocho. Been with me since I was down in West Texas.” He reached down to pet Rupert’s wrinkly head and held his other hand out for his toolkit. Rupert released it immediately into Ray’s grasp.

  I led the three of us slowly into the house, painfully aware that I was grinning like an idiot, and racking my brains desperately for a way to turn this around. “What were you doing in West Texas?” I asked, trying hard to sound normal (a tactic that always works—insert exasperated eye roll here).

  Ray was talking about Texas as we walked past the French paneled mirror in my hallway, where I took a quick inventory of any remaining food items pasted to my face. Clear. But, to my chagrin, there were chili stains all over my apron; my hair was disheveled from sleep—I still hadn’t showered; I wasn’t wearing any makeup; and I was dressed in jeans that were two sizes too big and an old light-grey sweater that was holier than a nun.

  Time sped up and halted to a standstill all at once. Ray was still talking about Texas, but I was too disoriented to listen property—which made me feel guilty, on top of my existing list of “embarrassed” and “idiotic.”

  “…and that’s how I found myself here.”

  I turned to look at Ray blankly. “I’m sorry, I’m just …” I covered my eyes with my hands and smiled weakly, shaking my head. “I’m just having a strange day.”

  “Understandable,” he said kindly. “Problems in these old houses—they can take their toll.”

  Thankfully, we had arrived at our damaged destination.

  “Well, I take it this wall is where the leak is? I can see some of the water damage up here,” he pointed.

  “Oh, wow,” I followed his penetrating gaze to his finger and up toward my ceiling. “I hadn’t even noticed that… I think it’s actually worse up on the second floor.”

  “Sure, of course.” Ray reached up to touch the warping plaster above our heads, stroking cautiously as if my crumbling wall were a priceless work of art—furrowing his brow as he assessed the situation. He glanced back down into my face. “This may take awhile…”

  “Oh, okay! Right!” I backed into my kitchen slowly—with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. Thankfully, I managed to knock over only one stool en route. “Umm… can I get you anything?” I called out awkwardly. “Coffee or tea or … water?”

  Ray had knelt down on one knee and opened up his toolbox, with Rupert sitting obediently at his side. “No ma’am, I’ll be just fine, thanks.” He smiled up at me.

  “Rupert, let’s go.” I commanded. Rupert looked up and cocked his head to one side as if I were nuts—then stood with a “hmrph” and followed me reluctantly into the kitchen.

  Ray ended up having to open up the wall on the second floor, but he said the damage was minimal and he should be able to replace the busted piping within a day or two—pending the available materials. By 5 o’clock, we were sitting at my kitchen island, finishing up paperwork and working out a game plan for the next day.

  “…And if you don’t mind, I might also patch up a couple of those old second floor windows. There’s talk of a blizzard comin’ this weekend—and when a storm hits, last thing you need is drafty windows in an ole’ house like this one.”

  “Sure. That would be great.” I cleared my throat. “I was thinking I might go away for a couple of days, starting tomorrow, and—well… since Evelyn knows and trusts you, would it be okay if I just left you a spare key, and you could let yourself in?” I gazed down at my hands, which were folded nervously on the island, as I powered through my monologue. “That way, both Rupert and I would be out of your hair while you work.”

  Ray waited patiently for me to finish. “Of course, no problem at all.”

  Silence.

  “It’s just … I wanted to go visit my daughter in New York.”

  “You have a daughter up in the big city, huh?”

  “Yes,” I smiled. Finally, something easy—familiar—to talk about. “Al. She’s running the coffee shoppe I opened with my husband, her father, before … before he died.” Now you’ve done it.

  I didn’t know what was wrong with me! There was something about Ray—I couldn’t lie to him. I also couldn’t omit anything, apparently. It seemed I felt the need to divulge every little bit of personal information imaginable without any particular rhyme or reason. “Sorry, that’s really…”

  “No, no, of course.” He nodded and reached out to pat my forearm reassuringly. My gaze moved from my hands to his. “With these murders happening around here, and one of them in your own house, it’s only natural you’d want to go check in on Al.”

  “Yea
h,” I looked up from his hands and into his eyes, whose warmth made me feel a little more human. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’ve also been missing her for a few days, and … to be honest, the burst pipe may have been the last straw for me.”

  He nodded—and took a beat before he spoke, making sure I was finished, first. “I have a daughter, too. Arianna.” He smiled the kind of smile good fathers reserve only for their daughters. It melted my heart just a bit more. “She lives in Austin.”

  “Oh really? What’s she doing there?” I was relieved to be talking about someone else for a change—Ray, especially.

  “Better question would be what isn’t she doing. Oh, let’s see, she’s … doing some acting, waitressing at a restaurant, teaching yoga or Pilates—something like that… painting… You know, the gambit. She’s twenty-three.”

  I smiled widely. “Same age as my Al.”

  “Is that right?” he said with genuine interest. “So you know how hard it can be…”

  “Hey, we were that age, once! I just have to keep reminding myself what it was like when I was in my early twenties.”

  Ray chuckled—a lovely, lilting sound that rivaled his speaking voice. “You couldn’t pay me a million bucks to go back there.”

  I grinned—and fidgeted with my hands again. “What were you doing when you were twenty-three? Were you in West Texas by then?”

  “Yes ma’am. Raising cattle…” he gazed off into my bay windows, remembering. “…I think I’d birthed by first calf when I was about that age, come to think of it. But you don’t wanna hear that story…”

  “Why?” I sat up. “Was it gruesome?”

  “For me, yes. The mother and baby did just fine.”

  I laughed. “You do look like you could be a rancher.”

  “Yeah?” That smile again. “It does seem to be the kind of thing you never quite grow out of…”

  “Do you miss Texas?” I watched him intently—I liked the way his eyes changed when he thought about something he clearly loved. And the way he smoothed out his moustache with his thumb and forefinger while he was thinking.

  “You know? I do,” Ray nodded. “I miss the landscape—and being on horseback all day long. The wind in my face, watching the light change. Simple things. There’s something to it—being out there in the elements, just you and the animals.”

  “I’ll bet,” I looked out my bay windows, too—the sun was setting, turning the sky peach and magenta. “I missed out on most of that—I’ve spent most of my time in New York.”

  “Has its perks, too.”

  “It sure does. She’s a beautiful creature, New York City,” I began dusting imaginary crumbs from my island countertop into one of my hands. “Extraordinary and terrible all at once.”

  “Same as nature.” Ray winked.

  I looked over at him, then gasped quietly. “I’m so sorry! I never asked… Would you like a cup of tea? Or…”

  “Oh no, thanks so much,” he folded up our paperwork and stuffed it into his breast pocket, “but I actually should have taken off a little bit ago—I’ll be running late by now.” He stood up and swung his coat around his shoulders in one sure, swift movement. “But—how’s about I take a rain check?”

  I smiled up at him—noting how nice it felt to see such a wonderful man, standing here in my kitchen. “I’d like that.”

  He looked down at me—again, bemused... “Could I, uh, get that spare key—in case you take off tomorrow?”

  I shook my head, coming in for a landing once more. “Oh, yes, of course!” I hopped up off my bar stool and plucked my ring of spare keys off the hook behind the back door—then delivered them into Ray’s open palm.

  He slid the keys into his breast pocket, snug against my paperwork. “I’ll run to the hardware store and then be back here by about 10:00 tomorrow.” He smiled down at me. “If I don’t see you in the morning, then have a safe drive to New York—and a good time with Al.” He turned to walk toward my front door, through which the sun was setting at exactly the perfect angle to produce dust bunnies dancing in golden rays along my hallway. Just an ole’ cowboy, headed into the sunset…

  Stop it, Claire. I followed him to the door and looked up once more into those kind, brown eyes. “I hope to see you when I get back.”

  He smiled warmly. “Me too. Take care now.”

  I shut the door quietly behind him and paced back and forth in my front hallway, then over to the French paneled mirror, where I looked myself square in the face. The woman I saw there was blushing like a schoolgirl.

  “What was that?” I said aloud.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ray was right—there’s nothing like being involved in a couple of murders to make you put your priorities in order. Maybe it was the murders themselves. Maybe it was watching Whitney fall apart, which made me miss my baby girl. Or maybe it was something more grandeur—the notion of the impermanence of life or something.

  I packed an overnight bag early in the morning, scarfed down a couple pieces of toast with maple butter and washed it down with some English breakfast tea—and then Rupert and I were off. The moment I sat in the driver’s seat and buckled up, I breathed a massive sigh of relief. I felt like all was right with the world.

  Going home to Brooklyn was just the medicine I needed.

  I had called Al the night before to tell her I was coming—and she had called Aunt Emma, who planned to meet me at our brownstone in the early evening. Emma wasn’t actually Al’s Aunt—though she was her godmother.

  Emma was my very best friend growing up. We met in the third grade. I had a nemesis, also named Claire, who I’d imagine grew up to live a life not dissimilar from that of Cathy Ames in East of Eden. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that). She was … well, evil. She made my life a living hell—that is, until a particularly awful day of her prodigious taunting landed me in a puddle of tears on the floor of the class coatroom, huddled on top of what turned out to be Emma’s book bag and rain boots. Emma found me when she came into the coatroom to retrieve a colored pencil case. She sat with me—silently patting me on the shoulder—until my fits of despair dissipated.

  Growing up, all our teachers thought Emma was an angel, and she was—unless you crossed her. Tell you the truth, I admired her for that, even when we were tiny. It takes a lot of guts to know how to stand up for yourself when you’re just a pint-sized girl. To this day, Emma looks strikingly similar to how she looked back then: long, frizzy blonde hair, delicate spectacles, powder blue eyes full of wonder and a sort of secretive mischief, and a quiet, sneaky smile. Some people just never seem to age.

  I crossed the Verrazzano at 4 pm—just in time for rush hour—and, what seemed like lifetimes later, I parked my sedan in its regular spot right outside our house. It’s always easy to find a spot in our part of Brooklyn, so long as you can maneuver your parallel parking routine through the steamy piles of city garbage.

  I fairly bounded up the four flights of stairs to our front door, as did Rupert. He was just about as ecstatic to be home as I was.

  Al was waiting for us in our dinette nook, sitting with Emma. They both jumped up as Rupert and I entered.

  “Darling!” Emma crooned as I passed through the kitchen doorway, half-joking in a posh accent. “I can’t believe it’s been so long!” She pulled me into a long, tender hug, and then held my arms out to my sides and looked me over, as if checking for ticks. City people. Her gaze rested on my face—and then she squinted at me suspiciously. “You’ve met a man, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, stop it,” I played it cool but felt my cheeks growing hot. I immediately changed tack. “There’s my baby girl,” I headed straight for Al—who was bemusedly waiting her turn in the wings, leaning back against the stove.

  “Hi Mama,” she said as she hugged me. “You two are nuts.” She grinned at me as I released her.

  “We know,” sang Emma as she took her seat at the table again.

  “Want some tea, Ma?”

  “Yes
please,” I said, snuggling into the nook across from Emma, who reached out to take my hand in hers warmly. Meanwhile, Rupert squeezed himself in under the table and took his traditional seat on top of my feet with a perfunctory “hrmph.”

  “Tell me everything,” Emma said, smiling.

  “Oh, what, about the murders?” I asked innocently.

  “Well, sure, those I guess. But you should also feel free to tell me all the good stuff—all the town gossip, you know. Anything juicy.”

  I shook my head, stifling a grin. “You don’t even know any of those people.”

  “No, but I have an active imagination, and I don’t mind exercising it from time to time.”

  Though she moved out to California for a stretch right after 9/11—for a rather mean man who’s no longer in the picture—Emma had retained her New York accent all her life. It was more distinctive than the traditional New York accent, though. It was a delicate crossbreed: a Queens inflection fused with a sort of old-fashioned 50’s radio broadcaster lilt. She was a New Yorker through and through. And like all New Yorkers, this meant she was—above all else—unique.

  Al brought me a cup of ginger lemon tea—my favorite to sip at home in the evenings. I warmed my hands with the cup in between and inhaled the familiar spicy aroma as Al sidled into the booth right next to me. She gestured at the plate of goodies she had delivered, too—“and some cinnamon biscotti. I used your recipe.” She tilted her head toward me and smiled angelically, sarcastically batting her eyelashes.

  “So!” Emma motioned to recommence our session. Sometimes she could be all business. “Who have you met out there? Who are the players—the potential suspects?”

  “Jumping right in are we?” I looked side-eye over at my daughter.

  Al raised an eyebrow and returned my gaze over her eyeglasses. “She’s in rare form today. She’s been asking me for all the dirt, but I keep saying I don’t know anything...” She shrugged.

  Emma beamed and reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “I’ve just missed you!”