Murder at the Snowed Inn

by Imogen Plimp

  I sighed. I hadn’t even seen her in the café…

  Evelyn seemed to read my mind. “She’s strangely stealthy. So you gonna go out with him?” She propped herself up on her elbows excitedly.

  “I don’t know…” I really didn’t know. “Yes, I think so. It’s just that … he makes me feel all…”

  “Nervous?” Evelyn smirked.

  “Yes, but then … so does everybody.”

  Her smirk melted into a warm smile—and then she reached out to grab my hand. “I know, honey. Well, what did he say about the murders?”

  “He said James had a reputation for sleeping around.”

  “Hmmm… I knew he used to, but I haven’t heard about any womanizing recently…”

  “And I learned from Dale Duke that Ben is a recovering alcoholic—for the last three years. But Henry told me he saw Ben tying one on at the café on the night of Leslie’s murder.”

  Evelyn nodded. “I knew Ben was tryin’ to go sober, but dunno about the relapse. I guess ole’ Evelyn has failed you on the newsworthy front.” She frowned.

  I grinned at her. “You think it’s possible Ben was at the café drinking last Saturday night?”

  “Maybe. But then, Arnie says Ben doesn’t have an alibi for Saturday night—and is being real skittish about telling anyone anything about where he was and what he was doing that night. Same as when he was picked up for beating the crap outta Ralph and wouldn’t say nothin’ about his ladyfriend.”

  I nodded along. “And Dale wouldn’t say anything to me about Saturday night, either. You think maybe Dale’s covering something up for Ben?”

  She shrugged. “Could be. Whatever it is though, it’s probably not that bad—that Dale has a heart a’ gold.”

  “Yes but, he’s also very close to his family. He’d probably do anything to protect them.”

  “That is true…”

  “Which brings me to a question I have for you—”

  “Shoot, toots.”

  I took a deep breath. This was important. “Is there any bad blood between Henry Castle and the Dukes?” I asked.

  Evelyn scratched her chin in thought. “… I don’t know ... I don’t think so … There’s really nothing I can think of that would point to that… None of them have ever been chummy. Come to think of it, I don’t even think I’ve seen any of the Dukes talk to Henry. Ever. It’s like—it’s like they may as well not exist to each other.”

  Interesting. “Are the Dukes from Boston?”

  She shook her head adamantly. “No. Dale’s from here. Anne was from somewhere out west. New Mexico or Colorado, I’m pretty sure.”

  Dead end.

  “And…” I took an even deeper breath. This question was important on multiple fronts. “Have you ever heard anything about Leslie and Henry spending time together—you know, romantically?”

  Evelyn grinned knowingly. “Is this a personal question? Or an investigative question?” Again with the reading my mind…

  “It’s … both.” I tried not to get too excited in anticipation of her answer.

  Evelyn tilted her head to one side. “I’ve only ever seen Henry with ladies his own age—if anybody at all,” she said. “He’s not much for coupling up around here. And if he does, he sure keeps it quiet. Stays out of town gossip in general. But then, these days, he seems to only have eyes for you…” She wagged her eyebrows.

  I rolled my eyes. But inside, my stomach did a mini backflip.

  “You’re blushing.”

  “Yes I know, Ev.”

  “Why you bein’ so jumpy about this?” she blurted out, incensed. “It’s me! You can talk about this with me!”

  I sighed. “I know, it’s just … well, it’s complicated.”

  She nodded. “Cuz of Ray?”

  I was aghast. “What? How did you…”

  She gestured to calm me down, patting at the air gently. “Don’t get mad—that was a teensy bit of a set-up, havin’ him come over to fix your leak. Plus, Mary Kay Ridgehorn happened to be walking by your house when…”

  I waved her off. “When Ray and I were saying goodbye. Yes. Ok.” Of course she did. I sighed. And then I hid my face in my hands, leaning on Evelyn’s counter. “What’s happening to me? I’m slightly possibly maybe interested in two different men! At the same time! It’s not like me!”

  “I know, I know.” Evelyn rubbed my back sympathetically. “Well they’re both—they’re both somethin’ else, I’ll tell you what.”

  “What do you think of Ray?” I looked up from my hands suddenly.

  Evelyn beamed. “He’s a wonderful man. Kind, sweet, handsome, interesting. Lost his wife about ten years ago—and he hasn’t been with anyone since.”

  That made my heart hurt for him. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yep,” Evelyn nodded. “She was one of my favorite people around here. A little bit crazy—but my kind of crazy! She was so much fun, and so lovely to everyone. She was always willing to get into just about anything that involved adventure—kind of reminds me of you, as a matter of fact, which is how I got the idea…”

  We were interrupted by a warning yelp from just outside the door—Rupert, who was still waiting for me obediently, watching us with longing through the windows. Tiny bells rang out as the door blew open—a flurry of wind-swept snow ballooning at the entrance and cascading into the post office—and a tiny old man shuffled through the blitz. He was bundled up in a thick black overcoat, holding his collar up tight against the wind. He wore a newsboy cap—and a red bow tie, partially hidden under his overcoat.

  “Hi Harold! How you doin’ today?” Evelyn very nearly yelled.

  “Cold!” Harold smiled mischievously. Then he continued shuffling down the hallway—presumably toward his PO box.

  “Anyway,” Evelyn continued. “Ray. You should strongly consider him! But then, Henry is an impressive candidate, too…”

  I nodded, looking down at my hands again, which were nervously kneading one another on the counter.

  Evelyn watched me quizzically. “Are you feeling flustered by the prospect of courting two different men? Paralyzed by choice?”

  “Shhh…” I hissed at her.

  “Sorry. Well what do you think?” She leaned forward and tried to whisper, but stealth isn’t exactly Evelyn’s strong suit, so much so that she only made it easier for an outsider to hear her. “Do you feel strongly about one—more so than the other?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s like … I feel one way with Ray, and another way with Henry, and…”

  Evelyn gasped. “It’s just like The Notebook—don’t force it Evelyn, just let it happen…”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Notebook! The movie. The novel. The legend,” Evelyn had become very theatrical. “Claire, have you never read The Notebook?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ok, I’ll bring it over tonight.”

  “What are we doing tonight?”

  She had instantaneously developed an entire plan—which she relayed to me with her signature enthusiasm. “Well, I’m gonna come over and bring a bottle of wine—or whiskey if you want hot toddies, pick your poison—and then we’re gonna sit down during the blizzard and make a list of the pros and cons of each of your potential suitors. And then we can decide which one you should date!”

  “Shhh….” I craned my neck in the direction of the PO boxes, wondering how much of our very personal conversation Harold had already picked up on. Truth be told, I was teetering on the edge of mortified.

  Evelyn slapped my arm friskily. “Oh come on, Claire, he can’t hear anything—and even if he could, he wouldn’t care.”

  “I guess you’re right.” I grinned shyly. “When do you get off work?”

  “Technically 5:00, but I’ll bet I leave a bit early…”

  I shot her a skeptical glance. “What happened to ‘come sleet or snow’?”

  “That’s a crock of B.S.” She reached underneath her counter to pull up
a plastic bin of mail in need of sorting.

  I looked outside—where Rupert was wiling away the time trying to catch snowflakes. “It’s really starting to come down out there…”

  “Oh, this is nothin’,” Evelyn said as she pulled a stack of mail out of the bin. “Wait ‘til later.”

  “Ok. See you around 5:00—or earlier?” I asked.

  “You got it! And thanks for the cake!” She opened up the Tupperware I’d delivered to get a good, indelicate sniff. “Lemon! One of my favorites.” She smiled at me broadly.

  I bundled myself up against the coming wind as Harold lumbered laboredly over to the counter, offering Evelyn a pile of mail that she’d mistakenly sorted into his mailbox. “Oh, thanks Harold—sorry about that, I … Claire!”

  I stopped short, shutting the door suddenly—and with it, halting the gathering storm that had made its way back inside the post office in a snowy plume. “What is it?”

  “It’s a letter for Jimmy Matthews—from Corwyn, the county seat.”

  I looked at her blankly. “So?”

  “It’s made out to Nina Delacroix’s address!”

  Chapter Twenty

  Evelyn was standing at my front door and coated in snow at 5:00 on the dot. And Rupert was there waiting for her. “Get yer coat—we’re goin’ out!” She announced the moment I opened the door, patting Rupert obligatorily on the head.

  “What?” I responded, incredulous. “In this gale?”

  “Aw come on… It’s not that bad!” she yelled through the howling wind. “We’re just goin’ down the street, anyway!”

  “What happened to ‘let’s stay in, watch a chick flick, and talk about feelings’?”

  “Get yer coat!”

  I pulled on my galoshes—and five or so layers of snow gear—and we were off. We trounced through the snow—which by now was probably about a foot or so high—until we landed, exhausted, on the steps of the café. Evelyn pulled open the door against the whistling winds, which required a significant amount of force given our age and her diminutive frame.

  Once inside, she sighed in relief. “Here we are! I thought we’d hang out here. Have a nice, refined, civilized cocktail. My treat. Whaddya say?”

  “Well, okay. But only one.”

  “I’m not in the mood to share a cocktail, Claire…”

  “I meant one for you, and one for me.” I chuckled.

  She smiled at me wryly. “Now you’re talkin’!”

  We took a seat at the bar in back—and slowly peeled off layers of gloves, scarves, hats, outer coats, inner jackets, extra sweaters…

  There were a surprising number of people out, given the weather. It was mostly the younger crowd: artists and musicians and gallery owners—probably taking a night off after a busy weekend packed with tourists—drinking cocktails and laughing and talking and playing cards—their discarded winter gear heaped in colorful piles all around them. Watching them, I was reminded of lower Manhattan in the mid-90s. A lovely trip down memory lane.

  A pretty young woman I had never seen before—who bore a striking resemblance to Betty Boop (I assumed on purpose)—came right on over. “What’ll it be, ladies?” she asked sweetly, tucking a wet bar rag into her black vinyl belt.

  “A manhattan, please,” I said. “Up. Evelyn?”

  “I’ll have a … what’s this say here, come-buck-ah?”

  “Kombucha, yes,” she nodded. “It’s fermented tea. We mix it with vodka. I gave you a taste last week. I don’t think you liked it, though. You said it tasted like…”

  “Piss water,” Evelyn finished for her. “Right, I remember. Well what’s this—Fernet?”

  “Oooh! Fernet!” I squealed. “I love Fernet! When I did my year abroad in France, the old men used to sip it out on their patios, but they’d mix it down with water—as an aperitif, to drink after a big lunch in the afternoons.”

  Betty Boop smiled down at me over her glasses, one hand on her shapely hip. “I can make you a Manhattan with a splash of Fernet if you’d like. It’s really good. It’s one of my favorites here.” She winked.

  “Yes please, I would love that!” I consented. “Something new and different,” I told Evelyn.

  “What’s ab-scythe?” Evelyn asked the bartender—who was already making my drink. I was sure she was used to Evelyn, who sometimes required the patience of a saint.

  “You mean absinthe?” she called from the other end of the bar.

  “Oh!” Evelyn turned to me. “That’s that ferry drink people used to roll to back in our day, eh?”

  I nodded, already enveloped in my own little world of nostalgia atop my barstool, enjoying our surrounding ambiance.

  “Can you just make me somethin’ fancy?” Evelyn yelled.

  “You got it,” the bartender yelled back.

  “I know what you mean—about ‘back in our day’, ” I mused. “The music is so loud in here. How are we supposed to even hear each other talk?”

  Evelyn shook her head. “I have no idea. Look at them all—so young. I think these days they’re born with super hearing…”

  We sat in silence for a few moments. Evelyn drumming her fingernails on the bar top and whistling a tune—I think it was one of the theme songs from Nick at Nite—me silently admiring the bar’s creative interior decorating.

  “How about we go someplace else?” Evelyn asked, suddenly antsy. “I know just the place.”

  “Ok, sure. Long as you think the bartender won’t mind. It looks like she’s already started—”

  “Kate!” Evelyn hollered. “We’re outta here! You give our drinks to a couple of your friends. The well-behaved ones, I don’t wanna be responsible for any animals! I’m gonna get you back next time I see ya—you know I’m good for it!”

  “Ok!” Betty beamed as she saddled up her cocktail shaker. “Thanks, Evelyn! You ladies be safe out there.”

  With all the liveliness—and sheer warmth—of inside the café, I had already forgotten just how frigid it had become outside. The wind was intense! I tried to shield myself against it, tucking my nose beneath not one but two woolen scarves, but I wasn’t especially successful.

  Evelyn didn’t seem bothered at all. “Good kids, them. Just not my scene!” she yelled over the howling storm. “I forgot it was Monday—that’s basically their Friday! Here,” she guided me in the opposite direction from the one we were going. “Let’s take my truck!”

  “Oh I don’t know, Evelyn…”

  “Come on, Claire! Live a little!” she nudged me. I could feel her boney elbow even through her giant North Face coat, which was thick enough to make her look like a big red marshmallow. “I’ve got all-wheel drive, and the bed is full, so we should have no problem on the roads if it doesn’t let up. Plus, they’ve been salting and graveling all day an’ night.”

  “Is it far?” I asked, uncertain.

  “Naw,” she said. “Just a few miles up the road.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Where else?” Evelyn looked at me like I’d grown another head. “Corwyn!”

  * * *

  Corwyn, Maryland was the next town over—and the proud seat of Warren County. But it wasn’t “just a few miles” as Evelyn had let on. Either that or the road conditions were terrifying enough to expand entirely my sense of space and time.

  I tried to keep myself distracted by asking Evelyn questions—behavior about which I was conflicted, because I didn’t want Evelyn to be distracted. But, true to form, she seemed entirely unphased.

  I pivoted to focusing on the case.

  “What happens to your mail when you die, anyway?” I asked.

  “Your next of kin or legal executor of your estate is supposed to notify the post office of the death and present a death certificate to stop mail delivery. But until then the mail just keeps on comin’…”

  I nodded. “Right,” I said, vaguely remembering the fuzzy details from when George died.

  “Besides,” Evelyn lowered her voice, even though we were the
only people in the truck. “I opened it.”

  “That’s a felony, Evelyn!” I yelled.

  “Eh,” she shrugged. “I’ll take my chances with the feds. They already have me on file.”

  I rolled my eyes and looked out the window at the pale white and blue tundra. “Why am I not surprised…”

  “And anyway, the man’s dead! And he has no next of kin. What do the feds care?”

  I looked over at her. “What did the letter say?” I asked, unable to stifle my curiosity.

  “It was boring,” she sighed. “Just a property tax reminder.”

  I shut my mouth—thinking. “But why would they send a property tax for James to Nina’s address?”

  Evelyn smirked. “Exactly why we’re drivin’ to Corwyn right now, toots! I got a guy.”

  “You’ve got a guy?”

  “Yeah… You know. A guy on the inside.”

  “What does that…”

  “Just wait ‘til you meet him. You’ll see.”

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, Evelyn had no trouble whatsoever on the treacherous roads and parked us with ease into what I thought was an impossibly small parallel parking spot right in downtown Corwyn. Though it was “only a few miles,” it took us thirty minutes to get there, down Backbone Mountain the whole way. And I was shocked to find there was significantly less snow upon our arrival. Barely a couple of inches—and not much more falling, either.

  Evelyn led us into a dingy dive bar on the corner of the two main thoroughfares. It had a single Coors neon sign lighting up its window, a large mahogany bar that took up most of its interior, and peanut shells and dust scattered about the floors. It was called Woody’s Place, if the filthy and wrinkled plastic banner hanging over the smoky mirror was any indication.

  “Woody!” Evelyn called to the bartender.

  Of course that’s his name, I thought.

  “Ev! How the hell are ya?” Woody was an imposing man—broad-chested and wide-bellied, dressed simply in all black and sporting a thin, grey goatee. His sole customer was a scrawny man wearing hunting orange and a camouflage cap. Said customer never said a word and never looked up from his Budweiser—from which he would intermittently take a long pull.