Murder at the Snowed Inn

by Imogen Plimp

  I felt myself growing flustered. My cheeks hot, my hands shaky. I looked down at my hands, which were grasping my mug in a nervous death-grip. I wanted to look into his eyes, but I was afraid of what might happen if I did. I suspected I might drown in them.

  “Claire, look,” he placed his mug on the table and leaned in toward me, softening his voice—as if he were speaking to a lover. “I’m—I’m sorry if I’ve been stand-offish. When I last saw you—at the hotel. And back when we were younger. Back then, I was an idiot. But now, well—I should have known better.”

  I looked up at him. “Thanks for saying so. And I accept your apology.”

  He nodded, relieved. “Good.”

  I gazed out the window, unsure of what to say or how to feel. Deep grey clouds were beginning to gather in the distance, swirling delicately around the dimming sun, swallowing up the shadows of the evergreens across the winding river. It looked like our winter storm wasn’t too terribly far off, after all…

  “Do you mind if I ask—”

  “Claire,” Henry leaned further toward me, lightly placing his hand on top of mine. My heart rate was climbing through the roof! “You don’t need to ask me if you can ask me something…”

  “I know,” I shook my head, my cheeks growing hot. “I don’t know why I keep doing that.” I looked up at him again, emboldened by his constant gaze. “Is anything bothering you about these murders?”

  “No—” he leaned back in his chair with resolve, “not apart from the fact that they’ve happened. And not to be callous, but since I’m now trying to sell a property, murder isn’t good for my interests. It doesn’t exactly create a seller’s market.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I took a sip of my cooling chai. It tasted of winter. “But what I meant was: something seems to be missing from both these cases.”

  “What do you mean?” He changed the cross of his legs.

  “I mean—” I looked straight at him, searchingly. “You knew James, even if you’d drifted apart. You used to know him well. Do you know anyone who might have wanted him dead? Or any reason anyone would have wanted him dead?”

  Henry shook his head without hesitation. “I don’t.”

  “That’s what worries me. That’s what seems off. There’s no motive to speak of. So why were James and Leslie murdered?”

  He switched the cross of his legs again—and lowered his voice. “All I can think of is that—well, not to speak ill of the dead … but James was known to be a bit of a philanderer.”

  “Really?” I was surprised he’d say so.

  “It’s not my place to judge, of course.” He gestured into the air, as if he were an attorney making a case to a skeptical jury. “But he certainly was known to sleep around when we were younger. And I’m fairly certain he was no less … how shall I say—active—in recent years. The only thing I can think of that makes any sense whatsoever is this: when a man behaves that way, people’s feelings can get hurt.” His eyes brightened a bit. They seemed to take on an air of innocence, as if they were sympathizing with the deceased. “And when a person is heartbroken, there’s really no telling what they’ll do.”

  I nodded. “I’ve thought his murder had something to do with an old lover, too—or something just as personal. Do you think Nina could have had something to do with it?”

  Henry shrugged. “I doubt it. But then, I know they weren’t exactly getting along swimmingly. Not lately, anyway.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. “What do you mean?”

  Henry leaned in closer toward me, speaking this time in purposefully hushed tones. “James wanted to sell their B&B. Nina wanted to keep it.”

  My eyes widened. “They own that place together?” I asked, shocked.

  “Yes—a hanger-on from when they were married. You knew that, right?”

  I nodded. “I knew about the marriage, but not about the co-ownership of the building.”

  “Yes. They never quite worked out who owned that place—on the books, that is. But then, that had been going on for years and wasn’t a problem, until recently I suppose.” Henry leaned back in his seat again, taking another sip of coffee, looking at me with an almost bemused sort of curiosity.

  I watched him carefully. “What did you think of Leslie?”

  “She was a lovely girl. Not my type, though.” He smirked at me. “I prefer the company of women my own age.”

  My stomach filled with butterflies. Was I excited? Or was I about to lose my lunch? No reason not to be honest. “A little soon, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “I know,” Henry nodded and searched by eyes apologetically. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate—and that’s not how I meant it.”

  Still nervous, I pressed on, lowering my voice to a whisper. “What I meant was, do you think it’s possible Leslie was seeing James, you know, romantically?”

  Henry shrugged. “Could be. Who knows? Though I haven’t heard anything about such an arrangement between the two of them.”

  “My friend Evelyn—you know her?”

  He smiled warmly—chuckled a little, too. “Yes, of course.”

  “She and I have been trying to figure this whole thing out… Anyway, she had heard there was something going on between the two of them.”

  Henry raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Well, I don’t know anything about that. But I do know that Evelyn loves her gossip.”

  I laughed. “That she does.” And I sighed. “So I suppose it is Ben, then, isn’t it?” I leaned back in my chair, a heroine defeated.

  Henry nodded and took another sip of his coffee, still watching me over the rim of his cup. “It does look it. Very unfortunately.”

  “I know Dale—from back when you and I used to ski here together.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I think this will just break his heart.”

  Henry frowned. “I think so too.”

  “He was so excited that Ben had just gotten sober—”

  “Sober?” Henry seemed genuinely surprised. “I saw him here on the night of Leslie’s murder, doing shots of bourbon like no tomorrow.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “But listen, don’t you—or Evelyn—worry about any of this. Sheriff Sellers is a good man, and he’s good at his job. I’m sure he’ll cover all the bases.”

  I nodded.

  “You don’t need to go digging into this. You might get yourself hurt.”

  “Seems to be everyone’s advice these days.”

  “Then everyone is right.”

  I looked once more into those devastatingly blue eyes. “Well … I should get back. Rupert—my dog—I promised him a walk, and I’ll bet he’s afraid I’m never coming back.”

  Henry grinned. “I understand.” He stood up and helped me into my coat. “Say, I hope it’s not too forward…”

  “No, what is it?” I spun around—very nearly too fast, getting tangled in my jacket—and looked up into his eyes hopefully.

  He looked down at me and took a deep breath. “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

  I smiled empathetically. Now he was the one with the butterflies. “I’d like that.”

  “Well, I guess I know where to find you.”

  “You do. Take care—enjoy this storm we’re apparently going to have!”

  “See you soon, Claire.” He stayed standing, hands tucked boyishly into his pockets, as I opened up the front door and waltzed out—trying not to trip over anything. Moments later, I saw him watching me from the window, a grin still plastered onto his lips, waving as I walked past. I waved back sheepishly, bit my bottom lip, and smiled. As I passed beyond the window’s view, I lifted my chai latte to my lips—and chewed at the plastic top.

  I grinned like an idiot the whole way home.

  I was right about Rupert—he was waiting obediently at the front door, leash in his mouth. We headed right out.

  We winded down the main drag and onto the gravel bike path that cuts along the river. I wa
ited until we had rounded the bend and were snug in the trees, out of eyeshot from town. Then I did a little jumping jig. Rupert watched me, concerned, as if I were having some sort of seizure. After awhile he started dancing around with me, barking along, excited to have someone to be excited with.

  No matter what happens with that man, I thought, even just a tiny bit of this feeling is worth it. I didn’t know what this was I was feeling, exactly—except alive.

  And I didn’t feel guilty about it, either.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rupert and I must have walked about ten miles, slow and steady, though endless trees and shrubs. Following the river a little bit down the mountain, and then back up again. The trees seemed to know something—like there was some kind of impending doom. They were huddling together, hunched and still, as if steeling themselves for the coming blizzard. I wondered if they felt the shift in weather in the air. I, on the other hand, was on cloud nine.

  Rupert seemed to feel the storm, too. After we got home, he started to get whiney as the afternoon progressed into evening. And he was even whinier the next morning. At first I thought we had overdone it on our walk—poor guy. But come Sunday morning, I became paranoid his whining meant I had another dead body on my hands. But both Dan and Ada were up early once again—and both of them fully-intact—just in time for homemade biscuits and gravy with a sizable side of raspberry, blackberry, and melon salad.

  I thought about voicing my concerns with Dan before the two of them took off for Brooklyn, but the whole thing seemed so silly. Why tell a detective you were afraid he and his wife were dead when, clearly, they aren’t? Probably just a bit of PTSD, I decided. Lo and behold, Rupert calmed down a bit after Dan and Ada left. Tired himself out, I assumed.

  All of Sunday, I couldn’t get my conversation with Henry out of my head. I was giddy—and anxious. I relayed to myself entire sentences and looks, trying to imprint each detail into my memory. Why was that? Someone must have a crush, Emma would have said haughtily, wagging her eyebrows over her thin spectacles.

  But I was also excited about the tidbits I had learned regarding the case. It seemed to be unraveling in bits and pieces, painfully slowly—and yet, if it went any faster, I’d be afraid I was missing something significant. It was getting hard to keep together—even though it didn’t seem to be a particularly complicated rub.

  I paced in my kitchen in between scrubbing serving dishes and pots and pans. Did I trust Henry, yet? Was it possible he was lying about anything he had told me? It was possible he was—and yet, as Sheriff Sellers would have said, He has no motive, Mrs. Andersen! Henry gained nothing from the murders themselves. Nothing in real estate—and nothing personally.

  Was it possible he was lying about knowing something regarding James and Leslie seeing each other? Maybe, but why would he lie about that? Was he trying to cover up some kind of scandalous secret for his now-dead business schoolmate? One of the things George had taught me about trading is that businessmen in high-stress environments end up developing an “in the trenches” kind of closeness. Maybe Henry and James were closer than Henry was letting on—like old war buddies. I paused my pacing to make myself a cup of black tea—with extra crème and honey—then resumed my descent into madness.

  Now my running down of the case was intermingled with a play-by-play review of the personal nature of my conversation with Henry. Henry had said Leslie was too young for his taste—he liked the company of women his age. Did that make me uncomfortable because it was a suggestive comment at the expense of a murdered woman? Or was it simply because it implied he was interested in me—which made me nervous? Probably even Emma couldn’t get to the bottom of that particular chestnut.

  And then there was the poor Duke family. Anne, dead by accident, and now this mess with Ben. I believed Dale—Anne hadn’t been dead at the scene, and he was working at Goshen at the time of the fall, thus he had an alibi that had presumably been corroborated by employees and skiers alike.

  Henry had told me he saw Ben drinking alcohol in the café the night of Leslie’s murder. But Dale said Ben had been sober since the bloody incident with Ralph—nearly three years earlier. So either Dale didn’t know Ben had starting drinking again, or Dale knew and was covering up for his nephew—either to protect him from the embarrassment of a public relapse, or to protect him from a murder accusation. Dale had seemed a bit uncomfortable when asked about Ben’s whereabouts on that particular night…

  And what about Ben? Maybe Ben fell off the wagon and didn’t remember what happened the night of Leslie’s murder. Or, maybe Ben fell off the wagon and attacked Leslie later that night in a drunken stupor. Or perhaps, Ben fell off the wagon and had nothing to do with Leslie’s fall—but was too ashamed of his relapse to give an alibi.

  Then there was the dreaded possibility: Henry was lying to me about seeing Ben. But why would he do that? And that made the prospect of our flirtation so much less fun.

  Rupert, who up until now had been sitting in the middle of kitchen as I paced around him—an island of fuzz in a sea of tile and emotional lunacy, periodically gazing up at me through his sad, bloodshot eyes—finally became annoyed by my pacing. Evidently. He rose with an exacerbated “hrmph” and retired to the den on his own.

  Maybe I was going a bit stir crazy. What I needed was Evelyn. I hadn’t seen her since I took off for New York. And to be perfectly honest, I missed her—which made my heart sing. A new friend, Claire! Life marches onward! The next day was Monday—she would be at work by 9. I could wait until then. I was a grown woman.

  I filed thoughts of the case—and of the impossibly charming Henry Castle and our tentative date—securely into the back of my mind. Then I pulled a mixing bowl out from under my countertop. I wanted desperately to make a lemon cake—something a little sour sounded good. And I was sure Evelyn wouldn’t mind a few pieces in the morning, in exchange for playing the role of my sounding board.

  An hour or so later, fueled on black tea, I put the cake out on the island to cool overnight. Then I fed Nightmare crème and tuna and retired upstairs with Rupert and my book. I didn’t sleep much, but I gave it the ole’ college try.

  When I awoke on Monday morning, Rupert had already padded downstairs to the warmth of the den—presumably where he knew he’d be safe from my pacing antics.

  “Rupert!” I called from the front hallway. He came trotting instantly.

  “Let’s go to the post office.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The snow started relatively early on Monday morning—but, according to my satellite weather radio (Al bought it for me, concerned about me staying alone in the mountains), the blizzard wouldn’t really get going until the following morning.

  There was about an inch of snow on the ground when Rupert and I lumbered over to the post office—which Rupert took to with reticent indifference. I, on the other hand, was in heaven. There are few things I love as much as an imminent snowstorm. That’s not exactly true—I love good food and drink, good music, the magic of good friends and family gathered for an evening… but a good snowstorm has to be in my top ten list. Especially if its scheduled arrival coincides with my having nowhere crucial to be and nothing important to do.

  Evelyn was downright slammed when I arrived. It seemed everyone in town wanted to take care of official mail-oriented business and then stay in for the next couple of days—but nobody looked nearly as excited as I was. I checked my PO box a few times to kill time—and then posted up next to a display of greeting cards. Some of them were quite cute!

  Finally, Evelyn came up for air.

  “Claire!” she hoisted herself up on the counter and leaned over it to give me a quick peck. “Where in the name of the ole’ Almighty have you been? I was afraid you were dead!” She smirked.

  “I’m gonna let that one slide—because I do have a lot to tell you…” I plopped her Tupperware of lemon cake down on the counter.

  “Oh!” she covered her mouth with her hand and widened her eyes, emba
rrassed. “Sorry! Wasn’t thinkin’… Is this for me?” she asked, excited.

  “Yes,” I responded.

  “Thank you! Anyway… What’s doin’, ladybird?”

  “Oh you know,” I rested my elbow on her countertop and leaned toward her casually, “just taking a walk in a blizzard, trying to solve a murder. The usual.”

  She nodded. “That’s what I’ve been hearing. Ellen Winowski—you know her?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “She was just in here this morning—said she saw you and Henry Castle having coffee this weekend. And, she said that if there had been any more sparks, she would’ve had to call the fire department on account of a five-alarm fire!”

  I blushed. “That’s cute, but it’s not exactly true…”

  “It is according to the color of your cheeks.” Evelyn pointed at me shamelessly.

  I touched my face with my mitten. “I was just asking him some questions about James and Leslie. Trying to decide whether to rule him out …”

  “As a suspect? Or as a lover?” I grimaced; Evelyn giggled. “Well, you can’t spend all your time solving murders! A girl’s gotta have a little fun!” She poked me with her boney little elbow. My gaze dropped to the countertop. “And did he have anything enlightening to say?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “Yes, actually, he did.” I returned my gaze to eye-level. “Hey Evelyn, do you know Henry well?”

  She shook her head. “Naw, not well at all. I tend to stay away from severely handsome men. They’re usually too good to be true…”

  “That makes sense.” I nodded sensibly. “Would you consider him trustworthy?”

  She shrugged. “I guess I never gave it any thought. He’s never done anything to make me not trust him, but then we don’t spend much time together—certainly not one-on-one. Why? He ask you out?”

  My cheeks were red hot. I squinted up at Evelyn suspiciously. “Who told you?”

  She was smirking wickedly. “Mary Kay Ridgehorn. She did a little bit of ease-dropping, but don’t worry! She didn’t get anything other than that one important fact—that Henry asked you out, that is.”