A Deadly Snow Fall (2 page)

In Provincetown, where tourism is king and
summer fills the coffers of businesses catering to every tourist
need and whim, there is an annual downside. Winter. However, even
the downside had its upside. Winter was the time for seeing friends
one had no time for during the busy season. Time for catching up on
projects and getting ready for the next tourist season. A welcome
respite. In winter, Provincetown reverted back to its small, New
England, seaside village persona. Warts and all.

Standing with Daphne in the snow as the
ambulance pulled up and the EMT’s prepared to take the body away, I
heard one old timer remark on the death of the dead man: “One bad
apple can sour the entire batch of cider. Frankly, I say, good
riddance to our bad apple.”

An elderly lady standing in her bathrobe and
rubber boots spoke in a whisper to her neighbor, but I heard her:
“Don’t blame the old curmudgeon. Might do it myself if no one liked
me.” Her younger neighbor put an arm around her elderly friend
reassuring her that she’d never have that problem.

“Daph, won’t anyone mourn the poor man?” I
asked.

“Doubt it. I told you, nobody liked the old
coot. In fact, there were two attempts on his life not so long ago.
Just before you came to town. One came from the air and one was a
land assault. Edwin was walking by the Canterbury Leather Shop one
evening at just about dusk when a cement block just missed his
head. It took out the post box and cracked the sidewalk. Imagine
what it would have done to the old coot’s head. The second attempt
came in broad daylight on Commercial Street when a fist-sized rock
was lobbed across the street, missing his nose by a hair. But
here’s the fun part. It crashed through the front window of
Spiritus Pizza and landed smack in the middle of a pepperoni pizza
that Maggie and Eric Lund were just about to dive into. Rock
pizza.”

“My goodness, that sounds pretty scary. Was
the culprit ever apprehended?’ I asked wondering if in fact, my
peaceful and safe-seeming adopted home village was safe after
all.

“Nope.”

Looking across the snow at the man who’d
found the body, talking to a man I would come to know as the
kindly, grandfatherly Chief Henderson, I realized that I’d had an
uncomfortable encounter with the former just the week previous.
“Daph, who’s the man leaning on the shovel?”

“Oh, that’s Bill Windship. Owns the Army-Navy
store.”

“He stopped me in the library just last week
to correct me when I asked if they had any books on the local
Indian tribes. Gad, you’d think I’d touched the Queen!”

“Not surprised. He’s always correcting people
who are politically incorrect.”

“Don’t give me that raised eyebrow look. I’m
British. We still call them ‘Indians.’”

Ignoring me as if she’d been born in Dubuque,
Daphne continued, “But he’s just a harmless history fanatic. He
takes care of the Monument. Found the body this morning while
clearing the snow.”

I happened to be on the scene only because
Daphne had phoned and dragged me out of a lovely sleep-in so that I
wouldn’t miss the village’s latest excitement. “Get down here
pronto, Liz. It’s like a movie scene. When they do make it I want
to be portrayed by Catherine Zeta-Jones.”

I turned my gaze upward. Way, way up to the
top of the Pilgrim Monument. Just the thought of jumping from such
a height and flying through the air without the confidence of a
reliable parachute made me shiver. Looking back down at the hump of
bloodied and snowy tweed covering the old man’s twisted body, I
thought about my favorite childhood rag doll. Even if no one liked
the old man, that was a horrible way to go.

I took a couple of gulps of the fresh, if
frosty, air and attempted to release my mind from the scene before
us. “Don’t quote me but I can only say, Daphne, looks like it’s a
monumental death.”

“Too late, Shakespeare. Chief Henderson beat
you to that proclamation. Good, though. I’ll give you both that.
Great minds think alike. Do you know the Chief, by the way?”

“No. Is he single, handsome and sexy?” I
asked.

“Single, scruffy, but good looking for a guy
close onto seventy. He’s also a whiz bang at Scrabble and
appreciates good scotch. Nice guy if you need a father figure.”
Daph smiled her wily smile. “That’s him in the dark green parka,
over there.” She pointed at the chief who looked like Santa Claus
with less hair.

“Right up your alley, I’d say Daph. Didn’t
you tell me your father is the template against which you measure
your men and none so far have measured up? And, think of the hours
you could spend playing Scrabble all winter to pass the time while
sipping on a twelve year old blend.”

This type of repartee had become an intrinsic
and most enjoyable aspect of my friendship with the charming, if
now and then caustic, Daphne Crowninshield. Although, I hoped her
habit of trying to sound American did not rub off on me. Her
version of the “lingo of the rebellious colonists” as she put it,
resulted in a hash of bad, nineteen forties movies and Hollywood
mafia impersonations. But, I loved her and depended on her to keep
me from being all too serious. We were a good mix.

My eyes were suddenly riveted to the dead
body lying in the snow. Something was not right. I am no forensic
expert but I was sure that what I saw did not fit. As the EMT’s
carefully picked the body up, it was obvious that it was frozen
like a Popsicle. There was a lot of blood on the snow under the
body but what particularly caught my eye and my imagination was the
man’s head. The skull had obviously been crushed. From the looks of
the damage, I surmised that the man had landed head first. Why that
somehow didn’t seem right I could not have said at that time.
However it niggled around in my brain for days afterwards,
demanding recognition.

The sight of Edwin Snow’s twisted limbs made
me shiver. I couldn’t help but wonder what it must it be like in
the seconds after you take flight to make such a fall? Do you
immediately regret your choice? I could imagine arms and legs
flailing in a kind of desperate attempt to fly in the hope of
cancelling the plunge you’d been so sure of just moments
before.

My feet were cold and the villagers were
beginning to disperse as the ambulance took away the body. Time to
go. “So, want to come along to the Stop & Shop, Daphne? Can’t
abide another shriveled turnip or limp decaying bunch of lettuce
and whoever invented the plastic tomatoes that are the specialty of
winter produce bins in America ought to be flogged.”

“Sure. Fun’s all over here. Let’s stop at the
Hot Chocolate Sparrow first for cappuccino. Love their gooey
pastries.”

“Daph, is there ever a time or a situation
that puts you off your feed?”

“Not yet. Let’s go, I’m famished.”

The ambulance pulled onto the road and Daphne
and I jumped into my new, lemon yellow Jeep headed for Orleans.
Since coming to the village, I had bought locally as much as
possible. However, sometimes I had no choice but to drive the
twenty odd miles up-Cape to the Stop and Shop Supermarket.

We left the gruesome scene behind us and
headed for foodies’ Nirvana. Or, at least the best source of fresh
produce, this side of Boston. That morning, as the villagers
dispersed to their homes for their much needed first cup of coffee
and a hearty breakfast on what was more like a winter than a spring
day, three vital questions hung in the frosty air.

Naturally, and probably the primary question,
was in regard to the weather. When would spring arrive in earnest?
An ages-old New Englanders’ query. Second: Why had the miserable
old man Edwin Snow III, who was so disliked and shunned, waited
until his ninth decade to “cash in his chips?” to quote my
irreverent friend, Daph.

Before more urgent concerns distracted the
villagers, there was the final question regarding the two close
calls for Edwin Snow. Again, there were two camps on the open
question. Had the “incidents” been nothing more than simple
harassment or had they been attempted murder? Poor aim or just a
warning? Leading to the ultimate question: Suicide or murder?

As a devoted fan of cozy mysteries, I could
not resist giving the death scene a title. Having been beaten to
the obvious, A Monumental Death, by Chief Henderson I went with the
weather- related tag. Being rather fond of double entendres I
titled it, A Deadly Snow Fall. The appellation would come back to
haunt me in the weeks to come.

Chapter Three

Before we move on to the real meat of the
mystery of Edwin Snow III’s enigmatic demise, allow me to introduce
myself. I, like unwary Alice, had been thrust through the looking
glass by Dame Fate to find my life transformed--from uncovering
ancient sites to making beds and cleaning bathrooms. My name, Lady
Elizabeth Ogilvie-Smythe, I clipped to just plain Liz
Ogilvie-Smythe when I moved to the quaint seaside village of
Provincetown on Cape Cod to become an innkeeper. A turn of events
that could not have taken me more by surprise if I too had found
myself shrinking small enough to slip through a rabbit hole.

Born and raised in London, I grew up among
the crème de la crème of British society. My mother sat on the
board of the Tate Gallery and my father, who worked for the Queen,
had a job so top secret even Mother did not know what he did.
However, his job brought us into the fold of the royal realm. Our
life was a whirl of fancy dress affairs like the ballet, the opera,
the theatre, cocktail parties in magnificent homes in the city and
hunt weekends in the country. Not to mention the annual dinner with
the Queen. By the age of ten, I was the possessor of as many ball
gowns as Princess Di and enough jewelry to sink a battleship.

After graduation from Oxford with a degree in
literature, I spent a few years living on my own in Hasting,
running a small, private library. A sweet village but hardly where
I wanted to remain into old age. Finally, spurred by reading about
digs like Chichen Itza and the supposed ruins of Troy, I entered
grad school at my alma mata. Two years later, armed with a degree
in archaeology and a determination to put many miles (continents)
between me and my snooty family, I headed to South America to work
on a dig of ancient ruins with my esteemed professor.
Unfortunately, my dream career came tumbling down only twelve weeks
later. Rather than rooting around in the earth, I found myself in a
bed at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston being a pin cushion
for the world’s foremost expert on malaria.

Finally, I was released with a satchel of
drugs to be taken for the coming six weeks and then, if I did not
feel like my old self, I was told to report back for more tests. I
checked into a suite of room at the elegant Ritz Hotel in Boston’s
lovely Back Bay section. There I read cozy mysteries, walked in the
Boston Commons and Public Gardens, watched cooking shows on the
telly and waited for an epiphany regarding what to do with the rest
of my life.

My doctor had expressed in no uncertain terms
that to return to field work out in jungles and all the other
favorite habitats of malaria-carrying mosquitoes would probably
result in my death. The little, nasty insects had become my arch
enemies. As it turned out, I even went on to dubious fame in the
New England Journal of Medicine. It turned out that my immune
system’s reaction to the disease was most unique. And, not in a
good way.

My dreams smashed and scattered, I could not
imagine what to do with the rest of my life. I was a trained and
dedicated archaeologist who was not allowed to dig unless it was in
a safe environment like Hampstead Heath! It was a truly difficult
time for me. I had anticipated a long and rewarding career as a
field archaeologist but it was not to be because of a member of the
insect family, Culcidae of South America.

But, the answer to my dilemma was on its way.
That answer could not have been more of a surprise than if the
Queen herself had requested that I come dig up the garden at
Buckingham Palace in search of Viking ruins.

Checking at the front desk of the Ritz before
heading out to explore the historic city of Boston on a pleasant
mid-summer day, I found a letter waiting for me. It was a summons
from a Boston attorney to meet with him at his office in Pemberton
Square. The letter was well-travelled. It had gone to London, on to
South America and then to the hotel, thanks to my dig leader who
had my new, if temporary, address.

Two days later, I was sitting in a lawyer’s
office in a handsome old building totally mystified about why I was
there. The letter had been most ambiguous but it had mentioned my,
dropped-from-the-august-Smythe-family-tree-aunt Elizabeth Smythe
Huntley. Aha, she hadn’t added a hyphen when she’d settled in
America.

So, there I was sitting looking out of a
floor to ceiling window onto a small green space and thinking about
doing some shopping on trendy Newbury Street, as soon as I could
escape. Finally, the smartly dressed attorney addressed me.

“Aha, yes, well, how nice for you, Ms. Smythe
er, or is it Ogilvie-Smythe, then? My, my, yes, interesting.”

I smiled rather sardonically having grown
used to the American reluctance to accept the validity of
hyphenated names. The lawyer, sounding like every member of the
renowned American royal family, the Kennedys, proceeded to read the
terms of a will.
To my open-mouthed surprise, “Libby” (the Elizabeth for whom I’d
been named) Smythe Huntley had left me an inn on Cape Cod.

All I knew about my estranged aunt was that
she’d been disgraced and therefore, expunged from the Smythe family
tree. The dear lady had fallen in love with and then (gasp!)
actually married and American car salesman. I’d never met her and
her name had been virtually mud in the Ogilvie-Smythe aristocratic,
snobbish family. The will named me as her sole heir!