Murder at the Snowed Inn

by Imogen Plimp

  We both sat in silence—listening to the din of the officers stomping up and down the stairs, wrapping items in baggies, their radio static and official police chatter echoing up and down my cavernous hallways.

  “What I don’t understand,” Evelyn started back up again, “is how whoever is setting you up is gonna pin this on you.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That part I’ve thought about,” I said dully. “They’ll say I fell in love with James when he stayed here. I got jealous of Leslie when James spent some time with her, and then I killed Nina, who’s conveniently James’s ex-wife, because she was my bed and breakfast competition. All plenty of solid motives.”

  “But … that’s crazy!” Evelyn blurted out.

  “You’d have to be crazy to kill three people.”

  She paused to think—and lowered her voice to indiscreet hushed tones. “Who do you think it is?”

  I shrugged. “I maintain my original theory—now slightly amended. It must be an ex-lover of James’s, someone jealous of both Leslie and Nina—and now that we know Nina and James never officially got divorced... It fits.”

  A sergeant tip-toed into the den, being careful not to dirty up the rug with his boots, his radio crackling in chorus with the remnants of the fire.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Andersen?”

  “Yes?” I looked up at him, dazed and agitated.

  “We have everything we need. We’ll rope off the basement and seal it off for your safety—it looks like the perpetrator came in through the cellar door downstairs. Please don’t go in there until further notice. The sheriff will be along shortly.”

  I nodded. “Can I ask—do you know how Nina died?”

  The sergeant sighed—tired or irritated, I couldn’t tell—although I guess having to pull a body out of a freezer would put anybody in a sour mood. “We won’t know that ‘til the toxicology report comes back. But based on the spittle on the victim’s mouth—which matched the color and texture of that of the previous victim’s found on the premises—she was likely poisoned.”

  I nodded again, gazing back into the embers. I tried to steady my voice. “Am I a suspect?”

  I could see the silhouette of the sergeant towering in my doorway through my peripheral vision. He was still—and silent for a moment. “I don’t know, ma’am,” he finally said. “The sheriff will get into that later tonight.”

  I nodded, despondent. “Thanks,” I said.

  The officers began to gather their belongings and pack out the front door. Evelyn placed another couple logs into the fireplace, blowing on them feebly until they caught fire.

  As the fire grew again, my house became as quiet as it had been earlier in the evening. Evelyn went into the kitchen and busied herself for a while as I watched the flames—and returned with two cups of tea. I nodded in silent gratitude as she handed me one.

  “Could it be Whitney?” I asked, placing the cup to my lips. “One of the new girls? Someone else who’s friends with that whole crew?”

  Evelyn took her seat back on the couch. She shook her head in uncertainty—and didn’t say a word.

  “I just don’t know who we’ve got left, Evelyn! I mean … we’re running out of suspects!”

  Evelyn watched the fire, her eyes aglow.

  “Should we go back and talk to Dale? What if we’re wrong about motive? What if it’s a local from way back, someone who doesn’t like all these new people moving in—or people like James and Nina who help them get settled in town… And… And…”

  My rambling monologue was interrupted by a curt knock at the front door. Al says all police knocks sound the same. Given my experiences brought about by this case, I’d have to say I agree.

  “The sheriff,” Evelyn said plainly, as if bored by the idea.

  Neither of us moved.

  Sheriff Sellers stormed in through the front door, Rupert raising his head in alert and tightening his belly—which was still lying on top of my feet. The sound of a stampede echoed through the hallway and into the den—because the sheriff had brought three other officers with him.

  “Ms. Andersen, good evening,” he said, tipping his hat.

  I nodded, my eyes glued back to the fireplace.

  The he turned to my guest. “Evelyn Harahan,” he said in a cordial, yet firm voice, “you’re under arrest for the murders of James Matthews, Leslie Phillips, and Nina Delacroix.”

  My mouth dropped open. My hearing grew fuzzy. I turned to look at the sheriff in disbelief, then bent down to put my tea cup and saucer on the coffee table, and stood up—Rupert too. “What?” I breathed. It came out in a puny little whisper.

  Evelyn took an uninterested sip of tea, placed her cup daintily on the coffee table, and looked up at the sheriff blankly—angelically, even.

  “How do ya figure, Arnie?” She said it almost tauntingly.

  “We got a tip,” he replied.

  “What kind of tip?” This time I yelled.

  Sheriff Sellers turned to me, obviously not in the mood to argue the point. “The anonymous kind,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “But, she didn’t do it!” I screamed. “You can’t do this!” Rupert barked in agreement. I had become irate, bordering on hysterical. I was surprised the other officers just stood dumbly in my hallway—then again, a 50-year-old woman isn’t much of a threat.

  “Sorry ma’am,” the sheriff said to me, as if it was all somebody else’s problem. “My hands are tied. Let’s go, Ev.”

  Evelyn put her hands up—theatrically—and stood. Then she turned around, her arms behind her back, willing to be cuffed.

  “How can you possibly think it’s Evelyn?” I couldn’t drop it. It was too absurd.

  The sheriff signed again huffily. “She’s got connections to all the victims. She’s got easy access to your house—where two of the bodies were found. And she has priors—shot her ex-husband several years ago.”

  I gasped in surprise.

  That particular fact, Evelyn couldn’t abide. “That rascal deserved it,” she nearly spat at the sheriff. “And besides, it was only a BB gun!”

  Rupert and I tailed Evelyn and the sheriff into the hallway, then out the front door. I was aghast. Rupert was excited by all the commotion.

  And then—as I was standing in my door frame, huddling inside a plaid cashmere throw against the icy wind and bitter snow, my dog howling into the darkness as I watched my dear friend being guided into the back of a squad car—something clicked.

  Who killed you?

  H-A-R—Harahan.

  Do you know why you died?

  M-A-I-L. Mail—the post office where Evelyn worked.

  My arms filled with goose pimples. My vision got blurry. My head suddenly pounded from a migraine. And then my heart tumbled down onto my muddy, scuffed-up hardwood floor—and broke into a million little pieces.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I couldn’t sleep that night. I tossed and turned for about two hours—every restless rotation causing Rupert to “hrmph” in frustration at the foot of the bed. Finally, I sat up, pulled on my fuzzy slippers, bundled my tired old frame in my terrycloth robe, and padded downstairs to make a cup of ginger lemon tea. Rupert didn’t join me.

  I sat at my kitchen island with a single lamp on overhead, holding my tea cup between my hands, watching the steam rise eerily toward the swinging lamp up above. I didn’t feel anything. I was numb. I didn’t even really want to drink my tea. I just wanted to watch the steam.

  At about 3:30 am, I started baking. First, I knit a new batch of sourdough from my starter and set it aside to rise. Then, I made dark chocolate muffins. And then an apple pie—I had needed to get rid of some mealy apples, anyway. And then I got started on a carrot cake with maple cream cheese frosting. I didn’t have any guests coming for a few days, and I didn’t have any plans for friends to stop by, either. It didn’t matter. I just wanted to keep my hands busy.

  At 9:00 on the dot, I called Ray. I figured he may as well come take a look at the hot water h
eater as soon as possible—a hot shower kind of seemed like a necessary bed and breakfast amenity.

  Ray showed up at about 9:30, which is what finally roused Rupert. Ray took one look at me, held my gaze with his own, and said: “I heard. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I was busy beating cream cheese and butter and egg yolks into soft peaks.

  Understanding I wasn’t in the mood to talk, he headed straight down into the basement—with Rupert trotting after him, an ever-faithful companion.

  When the dynamic duo returned from the trenches two hours later, I had iced my carrot cake and was getting started on a bourbon bread pudding. Ray took a seat at the island, where I was mixing my dry ingredients, and watched me silently. “Can I get you a cup of tea?” I asked without looking at him.

  “Yes, please. I can help myself if you’re…”

  “No, don’t be silly,” I brushed my hands off on my apron. “Have a seat.”

  He sat back down again. I put the water on.

  A long silence followed. It wasn’t uncomfortable—although I didn’t exactly look up at Ray to suss out the situation—but it was full. And heavy.

  After Ray had had a few sips of black tea, he asked me, “Have you told Al yet?”

  I was touched he’d remembered my daughter’s name. I had almost forgotten it myself after the evening I’d had.

  I smiled up at him as I beat eggs into my mixture. “No, not yet. Wednesdays are her busiest day. I was going to wait until this evening when she got off work.”

  Ray nodded. “I think she’d want to know.”

  “I think you’re right.” I brushed hair out of my eyes, leaving a dusting of flour on my cheek and nose in the process. But I didn’t care.

  Ray watched me beat my batter silently.

  Suddenly, I threw my whisk down into the metal bowl with an exasperated clank. “They have to get her off, don’t they? I mean … there’s no way it was Evelyn!”

  Ray looked at me compassionately with his dark brown eyes—the kind of sad look that Rupert might give a person in immense pain. He spoke slowly—carefully. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait an’ see.”

  I looked at him pleadingly. “Do you think in a million years she could have done it?”

  He paused—far too long for my comfort. “In a million years, no. I don’t believe she did. But then, in a million years I never would have imagined I would have known three people that got murdered.”

  “A good point,” I said, returning to beating my ingredients.

  Another long pause.

  “I don’t even know why I’m so upset about this—” I blurted. “I only knew Evelyn a few weeks. It’s not like she was my sister.”

  “No,” Ray said gently. “But she was a good friend. Even a friend you haven’t known a long while is still a friend. Plus, well…”

  “Well what?” I asked, almost irritated.

  “I don’t think this is only about Evelyn.”

  I stopped beating and looked up at him. Then I gazed out toward the dark den, which I hadn’t entered since Evelyn was pulled out of it in handcuffs merely hours earlier. “I’m not good with death,” I murmured.

  Ray chuckled softly. “You know anybody who is?”

  I looked up into his eyes. “I’m not over my husband’s death.”

  He nodded. “I don’t think that’s the kind of thing you get over.”

  I smiled back down at my hands, which were posed frozen over my mixing bowl and covered in sugar and flour. “You sound like my friend Emma.”

  Another long silence.

  Ray leaned in closer. “An’ between you n’ me, I’m not over my wife’s death.”

  My gaze rose and I watched him closely—the way his shoulders slumped a bit as he said it. The way his eyes tried not to betray his hurt.

  “What was she like?” I asked quietly, sitting down across from him, pushing my mixing bowl over to the side.

  He smiled and looked out my back windows. “She was somethin’ else, I’ll tell ya.” He shook his head. “Kind, loving, wild. She was a little bit of a trouble-maker.” His eyes crinkled as he continued. “She was a painter, you know. A while back I built her her own hut out back of our house so she could paint in there without being bothered by anyone else. Me, specifically. I don’t know why I resisted doing that for so long—‘fraid I’d never see her again, I guess.”

  I laughed.

  “She used to go out there before dawn. ‘Watch the light come,’ as she said. But she’d always be back for dinner,” he grinned fondly. “We were together twenty years. Had dinner together every night single during that time. Anyway, she knocked me out. She passed ten years ago. And I miss her very much.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Delilah.” He said her name it was the most extraordinary phenomenon imaginable. Like an explorer might say the name of one of the seven wonders of the world.

  “That’s a beautiful name—poetic,” I said.

  “It is,” he nodded. “Beautiful name for a beautiful lady. Funny though,” he chuckled. “She didn’t like her name much. Said it made her sound too fragile.”

  I looked down at my cup, which I had retrieved after discarding my bowl. “I don’t know, I think the person makes the name, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  We both sat quietly.

  “You know,” he said, “This will get better. Easier. A little less painful. It never goes away—it doesn’t disappear—but it does change. That’s the nature of the thing.”

  I smiled up at him. “Thanks. That helps.”

  “Anytime,” he smiled back.

  I felt the sudden urge to say a thing I hadn’t planned. A thing I didn’t feel at all certain about. “Ray, I’d like to say something, and … and I hope it doesn’t come across as too forward…”

  “Go right ahead,” he gestured toward me.

  “I really like you—and—well, I’d like to be friends.” The moment I said it, there was a faint sinking feeling in my belly—like I was closing the door to something I had no idea I desperately wanted. But it felt right, too.

  Ray beamed. “I’d like that.”

  I sighed. “Well, good then.” I looked over at him warmly. Like the ice had just broken. “Oh, hey! What do I owe you for the hot water heater?”

  He waved at me as he stood and slipped into his jacket. “I’ll add it to your bill. Wasn’t anythin’ big. But you should know—you’ll need to buy another one. The way I’ve got it rigged up now, should last you another year or so. But not much longer n’ that.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks so much.”

  “No problem. I’ll be on my way,” he turned to head down my hallway “—and thanks for the tea.”

  I walked him to the door. “Of course. And please feel free to stop by sometime when—when my house isn’t falling apart…”

  He laughed. “Will do.” He reached down to give Rupert an affectionate goodbye pat. Rupert sat in front of him at the ready. “Thanks for your help down there, ole’ fella.” Ray looked back up at me. “Not much of a tail-wagger, is he?”

  I shook my head. “Not since George passed.”

  “Ah. That’ll happen.” He nodded. “An’, well, I know it’s none of my business, but…”

  “What is it?” I gazed up into his eyes. I realized then I really liked how tall he was. Gazing up into a towering man’s eyes has a way of making a person feel very feminine.

  “Al probably has a break for lunch right about now, eh? She might like to hear from her mama.” His eyes sparkled when he smiled down at me.

  He reached out and squeezed my hand affectionately—and then he was off, down the stairs and out into the growing morning sunlight.

  I watched him walk down the sidewalk through the frozen snow drifts, my heart a little tender.

  I reached right into my pocket for my cell phone and dialed Al, who picked up almost immediately.

  “Hi Ma! What’s up?” she said matter-of-factly. The
shoppe in the background sounded absolutely slammed.

  “Hi, honey,” I launched right in, not wanting to bother her through what sounded to be such a rush. “Well, Evelyn got picked up by the police yesterday—there was another murder.”

  “What? Mom…”

  “Yeah. They found the body in my basement.”

  “Mom!”

  “They think Evelyn did it.” I sighed. “And, well, I’m taking it kind of hard…”

  She immediately softened her voice. “I can drive on over there tomorrow night if you’d like?”

  “Oh, no, honey don’t inconvenience yourself… It’s not that bad…”

  “Mom…”

  “I hardly knew her to be honest, and I know you’re busy…”

  “Mom!” She stopped my blabbering insistently. “How many cakes have you baked today?”

  “Cakes? It’s not like I…”

  “Mom! How many?”

  “Two cakes. Why? Oh, and a pie…”

  “Did you also make chocolate muffins?”

  I paused. “Yes. And a loaf of bread.”

  She sighed tenderly. “Ok, so it’s chocolate-muffins bad. I’ll be there tomorrow by the early afternoon. I love you, Mama.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Al arrived just after lunchtime the following day. By then I had added a pecan pie and an almond cake with lemon tart filling into the mix. Actually, I had mistakenly dumped too much lemon into the almond filling and so it became an extraordinarily tart tart lemon sauce, which proved to be a happy accident!

  Al brought along Ry, who wanted to come see the town and engage in the plentiful gossip. At first, I was a little disappointed not to have alone time with my daughter, but that notion was almost immediately squashed by Ry’s presence. They were an instant source of entertainment—a distraction to be reckoned with. And that in and of itself was a huge relief.

  It was supposed to snow again by evening, so we spent the afternoon digging out a pathway to the tool shed and stacking the wood stored inside it out onto the back deck for the fire. I also baked a four-cheese macaroni casserole (one of Al’s favorite recipes since she was little).

  In the early evening, we ate cheese and crackers and olives and Bordeaux—Al had brought it from her favorite Brooklyn wine shop—as Ry regaled us with tales of the NYC drag community, which I had known nothing about. “You’d think those queens would be the cattiest b’s imaginable, but naaaaw. They’re the sweetest things you’re ever like to meet.” I hadn’t known Ry was a one-time drag queen—but then, I wasn’t especially surprised. We were huddled all together at the little table in the kitchen nook. Rupert, true to form, sat on top of my feet and “hrmph” ’d with discomfort on occasion.