A Deadly Snow Fall (13 page)

“You are entirely too imaginative, young
lady. The steps are constructed of metal, not wood and thus, they
rusted and broke clear through in places. In fact, as they showed
signs of being dangerous at the end of the summer I was forced to
close the Monument to climbers earlier than usual. Dragging a body
up the stairs? Where do you get this stuff? Read too many Agatha
Christies, do you?”

Realizing that no amount of pleading would
get me up the tower until the repairs were completed, I gave up and
turned to walk away. Behind me I heard Daphne’s sotto voce comment
and wanted to pop her in her aristocratic nose. But as I had caused
enough commotion for the time being I kept walking.

“She’s been under a lot of stress lately. You
know, learning how to run the inn. One of those academics who finds
it difficult to learn new skills not of the brainiac kind.”

I gritted my teeth and ignored her until
Bill’s voice reached out like a hook stopping me dead.

“Has it occurred to you that as I am the
keeper of the key to the Monument, that Edwin would have had to
steal my key to get inside? Unless of course I gave it to him.”

I turned. “Did he? Did you?”

“I did not lend him my key. Nor was my key
ever missing.”

I retraced my steps to where the two of them
stood. Damn Daphne had a wily expression going, as if she’d known
all of this all along and was working in partnership with Bill.

“Is there only one key, then?”

“No, there are actually two keys. I possess
one and the other one is kept safely at the police station.”

“So, that doesn’t seem to be a problem. Edwin
knew about the other key and somehow obtained it. Therefore, he
didn’t need yours.”

“Not quite so fast. It gets a bit
complicated, young lady. To get to that key he would have had to
enter the Police Chief’s private office without arousing suspicion.
But first, and this is very crucial, his first obstacle would have
been getting by his Rottweiler secretary Alice Cannon. Without the
Chief’s uncanny ability to recognize every unmarked key he’d have
had to spend hours, days, coming and going to test them. You see,
Chet Henderson enjoys a little game involving his knowing each and
every key and where it unlocks and no one else does. Bit of a
sticky wicket as you Brits are wont to say.”

The entire proposition was as full of holes
as a good Alpine Swiss cheese.

“A bit of mystery I’d say, Miss
Ogilvie-Smythe, wouldn’t you agree? Difficult to envision a man
being overtaken by unhappiness to the point of choosing to take his
own life who has the time…or the inclination to go to such pains in
the process. And why? To climb the freezing Monument to jump off
when he might have chosen a far easier method of doing the task? I
think not.”

My tongue was tied. What was going on? At his
house he was very coy, offering damned little in the way of solid
information and full of sentimentality and yet there he was hinting
that he might qualify as a suspect. Was the whole thing just a game
to Bill? As it seemed sometimes to be to Daphne, that traitor.

“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Windship?
You said you were not a murderer and now you toss in this key
question. Why?”

Bill smiled enigmatically, turned and entered
the door of his shop. Before I could take a step toward him I heard
the door locking. I found myself staring at a poster attached to
the door advertising WWII war bonds.

“Hey, think we ought to invest?” I ignored
Daphne’s smart ass remark. My head was filled with the thick fog of
confusion issued by the enigmatic man. I wanted to punch something
but not being a violent person, I simply stamped my foot and walked
away.

Chapter Fourteen

Two nights later, as we entered Sal’s Place
for dinner, Daphne greeted the hostess. “Hi Antoinette, is Sal here
tonight?” The reason for our visit was two-fold. I’d yet to dine
there and Daphne had been raving about the great Italian food. In
addition, she’d told me that Mario, Sal’s manager, had taken Edwin
under his wing and occasionally gave him a free lunch. In return,
Edwin told him stories of the old days. Mario too, was writing a
book. Isn’t everyone?

“Mario’s in charge tonight, Daphne. Sal’s off
exhibiting his paintings in New York.” Antoinette, the hostess,
picked up two menus and led us to a table. As the restaurant was
situated down a few steps from the sidewalk, having formerly been a
cellar, we were looking out at a half wall of cement. However,
someone had cleverly painted wine bottles, eggplants, tomatoes, and
other colorful images on the wall and the effect was charming.

Suddenly, from out of the kitchen swept a
tall, handsome, dark-haired, olive-skinned man of a “certain age”
who swept Daphne off her feet in a bear hug.

Returning her to the floor, they kissed each
other Mediterranean style and then Daphne introduced us. Kissing my
hand in the out-dated continental style, he exuded what I like to
call a slithering snake-like kind of sexuality. I much preferred
James’ solid, trustworthy, hometown looks and manners.

Turning back to Daphne he drooled, “Ah, if it
isn’t the woman of my dreams. Where have you been for so long? I
have been lost without your ethereal magnificence shining on my
humble life. I shall have to whisk you off to my villa in the hills
and never let you go.”

Give me a break, I said to myself in my
friend Daph’s smart ass way. I stood there hoping that my friend
had not succumbed to Mario’s sleazy idea of romance. Some men just
exude mistrust.

“If the villa’s in the hills of Tuscany,
sure. Not tonight, however. We’re here for the magnificent food, of
course, but also for some information.”

Leaving with a promise to bring us a bottle
of the newest Calabrian wine, Mario walked toward the bar and I
took the opportunity to lean toward my friend to say, “Please tell
me that you do not believe that slimy man has special feelings just
for you. No slight on your beauty and charm but the man is a
snake.”

Daph feigned hurt followed by a light laugh.
“Give me some credit woman. He’s a full-blooded Casanova but isn’t
it fun to play along and get some needed perks? Good men are thin
on the ground here, you’ve got to admit. I might have to start
subscribing to Match.com”

Mario returned with a towel-wrapped bottle in
an ice bucket and proceeded to uncork it, turning his snake eyes on
me. “I am most honored to have you here as the friend of this
gorgeous woman who has for three years been fending off my romantic
advances.”

“One day I will weaken and then I will come
to live right here and eat up all your profits, Mario.” Daph put on
her most adorable, simpering voice and the slick man ate it up like
pasta fagioli. You Italian men like your women full and rounded,
right? I can do that. But for now I need, we need some information
on your friendship with Edwin Snow, the recently made dead.”

“Ah, the old man. Yes, I liked him. He had
many stories to tell about the old days. He had known Provincetown
since it was a little Portuguese fishing village and up through its
days as an art colony. He knew Eugene O’Neill and John Reed and of
course the artist Edward Granger. I offered to introduce him to
Norman Mailer, a frequent diner here, but he refused. Told me the
man was a ‘reprobate’ and he wrote ‘nasty and naughty books,’ if
you can believe it.”

We all laughed and Mario poured the wine for
Daphne to taste.

It occurred to me that Mario just might be a
font of useful information. If Edwin had really trusted snake man,
he might have dropped the name of his arch enemy. The man Edwin was
sure would, one day, improve his aim and kill him.

“Mario, did he perchance tell you much about
the book he was writing?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Mostly he talked about
the old days but not about his friendship with Granger, no.”

“How recently before he was mur…died, had you
spoken to him, Mario?” I asked.

“Actually, just two days before he jumped. He
was here for lunch at my invitation. The man would never have paid
our prices. I liked him and felt sorry for him so I gave him lunch
every so often. When Sal was out of town, of course.”

“Did he give any indication that he was
considering taking his own life?”

“Let me think. Of course, he was not a happy
man. That goes without saying.” Daphne and I nodded like twin
bobble heads.

“But wait, yes, there was one thing.
Something odd. He hinted that he was being blackmailed but he did
not show any fear or distress. In fact, I might venture to say that
the man seemed rather amused.”

“Did he provide any clue as to who it was
blackmailing him, Mario?”

“No, but he distinctly said that he refused
to ‘pay a dead man’s debt.’”

Mario smiled his snake smile and turned his
full attention back to my fashinonista friend who that evening was
wearing a full-length, green, jungle-patterned, skin-tight, Diane
Von Furstenberg wrap dress. A perfect foil for the snake.

As the two played their little cat and mouse
game, I pondered old Edwin’s enigmatic words. He refused to “pay a
dead man’s debt.” It didn’t take long for me to figure out exactly
who the dead man was and what that debt might have encompassed.
Maybe, also who might have been doing the blackmailing.

The evening ended with Daphne refusing
Mario’s invitation to fly off to Tuscany and me wondering how I
could prove my latest hunch.

Daphne stopped by the inn on her way to the
gallery the next morning. On the kitchen table were the latest
architect’s plans and sketches and my “case” notebook open to the
list of questions I’d asked Rosita Gonsalves on her Facebook page.
Daphne gazed at both with half-hearted interest. But I knew she had
noted how few answers I’d managed to get out of the lady.

“Not much luck with our local portrait model,
as I can see. Looks like you’ll have to employ sharper tactics,
Sherlock. The woman is an obstacle to a murder investigation. Time
to put some real pressure on her. Let’s drive down to Asheville and
put the squeeze on her, pal.”

I put down the blueberry muffin that I’d been
torturing and which lay on the plate looking like blue-stained bird
food. “Really Daphne could you please stop talking that way. It
creeps me out. See, even that sounded like you. Your fractured
American-English is infectious and I for one do not want to be
infected.”

“So, was she surprised that her erstwhile,
almost husband, is now dead?”

“Not much reaction. However, she absolutely
refused to discuss leaving Edwin Snow at the altar. I went out on a
limb and told her that Bill Windship said she left Edwin for him.
She neither denied nor admitted to it. However, get this; she
hinted that Bill should be so lucky.”

“What about her daughter? Can we contact
her?” Daphne asked, grabbing a muffin and cup of tea for
herself.

“I was able to find out that her daughter’s
name is Edna but nothing more. She is not on Facebook and I
couldn’t even find an address for her anywhere. Of course, I don’t
know what last name she uses or where in New Hampshire she lives. A
big, fat dead end.”

“So, she had the kid after she left here and
then what? How did she support herself and the brat?”

“As you can see, she lives in Asheville, is
widowed and her husband was a farmer who raised pigs and grew corn.
She sure made it a long way from the sleepy, little village of
P’town of her youth, didn’t she? From quahogs and cod to corn and
pigs.” I poured more tea into my empty cup and gave up on the
muffin.

“A long way geographically but not exactly
upwardly mobile, I’d venture to say.” Daphne spread a liberal
amount of butter on her third blueberry muffin. I groaned. I’d just
have to reign in the sour grapes. Daphne never gained an ounce
although she ate like a truck driver on a long haul. One day,
however, one day when menopause hit us both! Then we’d see who’d
been smart about their diet.

“What if Rosita was in the village the night
Edwin took his plunge, Daph?” Daphne looked up from her
concentration on plastering the muffin like a bricklayer.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Think about this possibility, Liz. Rosita
was living for a time right here in town, right under our noses.
She could have passed herself off as a transsexual. She could have
called herself Ross. She came back to see her two former lovers
before they all kicked. Let’s face it, as you have wisely pointed
out, old folks like to sometimes tie up loose ends. Maybe she
wanted to see both Bill and Edwin, one last time. For old time’s
sake. Granger is gone, so she settled for two other former
lovers.”

“Not bad, Liz baby, not half bad. But why
disguise herself as a transsexual?”

“Damned if I know. I just like the ring of
the story. Let’s say she wanted to remain incognito except to the
two of them, so that way she just blended in.

“That puts her right on the suspect list
then, doesn’t it?” Daphne munched away and I tried to work on my
new theory. But, soon Daph was off and running with a theory of her
own.

“What if she was here and she and Bill got
going hot again and Edwin found out and the men fought over her?
The three of them up in the Monument when the fight broke out. Over
goes old Edwin and the two lovers are protecting one another. Bill
could have brought a nice, long rope with him. Maybe he planned to
tie up Edwin and leave him there to freeze. But he had another idea
and tied the old guy’s ankles and tossed him over. Bill and Rosita
would have stood there singing, Humpty Dumpty had a great
fall.”

“Gob-smacking brilliant, Daph.”

“Do you think so, gal pal?” Daphne grinned
between bites and sips.

“Don’t kid yourself, Daph; it’s absolutely
ridiculous. But, moving on. Bill Windship called this morning.”