A Deadly Snow Fall (5 page)

DeeDee went off to wait on another customer
and Daphne and I sat talking. Daphne had her own Edwin Snow stories
to impart.

“Everyone knows the man inherited a bundle of
money from his equally mean father. But, get this; the man was so
stingy he refused to pay for either rubbish pickup or a dump
sticker so he could take his own to the, as it is now called, the
disposal area. So he snuck around after dark to put it in Tish and
Manny’s dumpster.”

“Did the Souzas mind him doing that?”

“I would, I’ll tell you that. It’s the
principle of the thing. However, Manny just said, ‘Not worth
dealing with the nutcase. Got better things to do,’ so the old bat
never even got a slap on the wrist. Chief Henderson knows by heart
the complaints Edwin has made over the years. He and Chief Garrett
from Truro meet for lunch once a month at Beasley’s just to compare
notes and more often than not it is something that old madman did
or said that gets them riled.”

“You see, the Snow mansion is not actually in
Provincetown but in North Truro. However, it’s closer to us than
the tiny center of Truro. Not much of a center as it consists of a
small library and a poky little general store. So, whenever Edwin
had a complaint, he took it to Chief Henderson.”

“How annoying for our chief to have to deal
with the man whose property taxes were paid to different town.”

“Get this. Our charming Edwin had a
long-standing dispute going with the neighbor to his east who’s a
lobsterman. Edwin was forever complaining that he could smell the
lobster traps and demanding the man get rid of them. Right, just go
out of the business that had supported his grandfather and father
before him! Imagine the nerve of the man. The nut even took his
neighbor’s dog hostage, once. Claimed he wouldn’t return the poor
pup until the traps were moved. Chief could find no laws regarding
dog-napping so they settled the issue by covering the traps with
tarpaulins and poor old Skippy the hound was returned.”

“Sounds like a truly crazy man, alright. I
sort of feel sorry for him though, don’t you, Daph?

“Not really. Get this. Other neighbors were
harassed, as well. Oh, you are going to just love this one, Liz.
Edwin complained that another neighbor’s cat trespassed on his
property with malicious intent! Chief Henderson hooted over that
one, I can tell you.”

We laughed heartily about Edwin Snow’s
irritable character and seemingly driving need to cause conflict.
Simultaneously, however, I was experiencing a growing need myself.
To bring the old curmudgeon a measure of justice. Posthumously.

My amateur sleuth meter was racing. I was
intrigued by all that I’d heard about Edwin Snow III. But did I
dare jump, possibly right up to my neck, into something I had no
business getting involved in? In the village where I was a virtual
newcomer? Food for thought.

Chapter Six

Paying no heed to my own misgivings, I found
myself surreptitiously asking a few questions about the old man
around the village. Simple curiosity in the wake of his death. At
least, I hoped no one would suspect my real motives. “What a
tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”

From a lovely old woman, Gertrude Nickerson
who ran the Needling Around Yarn Shop, I found out that Edwin Snow,
a few years ahead of her in school, had been a “whiner and
sniveler.”

“Edwin got himself a fine education at Yale.
He was a pre-med student and yet, after graduation he came home to
his father’s house and never left.” Gertrude told me as she sat
knitting without ever moving her eyes from my face to her wildly
moving knitting needles.

“He never went off to make a life for
himself?” I asked.

Gertrude put down her knitting, briefly. She
smiled slyly and I waited, knowing she was about to share something
either cute or shocking.

“As Edwin did absolutely nothing to
discourage the opinion by all that he was the spitting image of his
nasty father, a similar apple fallen off of the tree, he inherited
old Ned’s reputation and the accompanying venom of the townspeople.
It was assumed that such a father could only have spawned a horned,
cloven-hoofed, flesh-eating, devil-vermin.”

I sat shocked to hear the tiny, white-haired
grandmotherly woman speaking like the television narrator of a
program on werewolves and Big Foot. We laughed together and then
she went to make us some tea. I came away with the gift of a lovely
silk ribbon knitted scarf in shades of turquoise from pale to
deepest blue-green.

Back at the inn, sitting in the sunny sitting
room, coming up to a fortnight (two weeks, in American vernacular)
after the mysterious death of Edwin Snow, I questioned my motives.
Also, my good judgment.

Chief Henderson had called it a suicide and
closed the case. Oughtn’t I just leave it at that, I asked myself?
However, the flinty voice that sounded to me like how M.C. Beaton’s
feisty sleuth Agatha Raisin would sound if she were real, expressed
a very different opinion. So, you plan to just rot away in that
little American village? Toss away your skills for digging? Become
a drudge and grow old never having diverted your fine education
onto a new, useful avenue? Digging needn’t be limited to the earth.
Here before you is the opportunity to dig into murder. No trowel
required.

That brought me up short. I’d ask Daphne’s
opinion. She also loved cozies. Coincidentally, that evening was to
be the first meeting of our newly-formed Cozy Mystery Book Club. A
temporary name until we voted on a proper one. A book club with a
twist that would probably backfire on us nevertheless, we planned
to give it a try. Except for Daphne, the club’s founding “mothers”
were all great cooks. As it turned out, we attracted the most
delightful mixed bag of gender orientations from straight females
to lesbians to transsexuals and one…no I’ll hold that surprise for
later. The by-laws would say that the monthly hostess would be
required to serve a three course meal before the meeting and book
discussion. No simple brownies and cookies at our cozy book club
meetings.

Daphne got a buy. Since she could not, as
she’d admitted, “make a Marmite sandwich without guidance” she
would be allowed to hire her favorite village caterer for this
task. Bama (short for Alabama) Hutton of Hutton’s Gluttons Catering
Service lived and worked in the village and joined the club.

Growing up in London, my family had a cook
who could roast a beef or a bird and was adept at mashed potatoes
but lived in fear of any but canned vegetables. For years, based on
eating at friends’ houses, restaurants, country houses to which I
was invited for weekends and even at university, I came to assume
that I had inherited some recessive genes not found in my parents.
I’d never heard them complain about Meaghan’s cooking although, of
course, they were pretty self-absorbed so that might explain their
lack of interest in the meals set before them.

I am the child of parents who, I often
imagined in my mind’s eye, woke up one morning to find a baby girl
lying between them and having no idea of how she got there but
being essentially good people, raised her anyway. That’s my story
and I am sticking to it.

I’d begun reading cookbooks in my teens when
my friends were reading the popular trash. The summer I’d spent in
Paris learning from the finest cooking teachers in the world had
certainly come in handy when I suddenly, unexpectedly, but to my
pure delight, became an innkeeper. Being a “chocoholic,” I chose a
very special recipe for the evening’s dessert. Custard-filled,
chocolate ganache-frosted cream puffs. To hell with the caloric
impact; this was to be a special night.

The main course would consist of my favorite
quiches. For the vegetarians,’ a filling of pears, green onions,
spinach and gruyere cheese. For the carnivores,’ bacon, tomato,
grilled fennel, feta cheese and fresh basil from the tall plant in
my sunny kitchen window. There would be a tossed salad, various
spicy condiments and freshly baked baguettes brushed with garlic
butter. The wines from the local vintner, Truro Vineyard, were
bright, sunny and reminiscent of a visit I’d made to Tuscany.

Everything was ready by five-thirty. I popped
into the old claw-footed, porcelain tub for a leisurely bath. Forty
minutes later, rising from deep, lilac-scented bubbles I was ready
for a fun evening. Daphne had picked up a couple of new members who
were unknown to me, so new friends would be made over good food and
good books.

I made a plait of my hair that needed a trim.
Maybe some lighter streaks for summer. I had to ask Daphne who did
her hair locally. As the evening was cool, that wily, quixotic fox
still fooling around with the season, I donned a black cotton
turtleneck sweater and rust-colored, butter-soft suede jeans. A
half-dozen silver bangles and large silver hoop earrings and I was
ready.

I lit candles and did a final check on the
food. The wine was chilling. It promised to be a fine evening.
Daphne outdid herself by arriving on time. At seven sharp, she and
three other women appeared. Right behind them came my next door
neighbor Alice Kline and two women I’d seen around the village but
had never met. After introductions, we enjoyed appetizers in the
living room.

Everyone enjoyed the dinner and finally, it
was time for the dessert. I suggested we all retire to the sitting
room for the final course and tea and coffee. I delivered the
shiny, chocolate ganache-frosted cream puffs on a large, blue,
Provencal platter to happy applause.

“Oh Liz, they look so scrumptious. Promise me
there’s not a calorie in them.” Mary Ellen pleaded.

“Not a one, dive in.” I answered.

Sated and nursing our hot drinks and/or after
dinner cordials, it was time for getting down to business. Licking
the chocolate ganache from her lips to get every last morsel Daphne
opened the business meeting. “I suppose the group ought to have a
name. Any suggestions?”

“Oh, I know, I know. How about Les Girls?
It’s got such a nice ring to it.” That was the newest member,
Geraldine.

“Yes, but what if we get some male members?”
I asked and was immediately challenged.

“Oh pleeeeze, no. Men are beasts!”
Geraldine.

Daphne smiled at the handsome, big-boned but
very attractive woman dressed in a smart pant suit and the two high
fived in female solidarity. I’d liked Geraldine right from our
introduction when she’d admired the wall and furniture colors and
complimented me on my good taste.

“Now, we all know men are beasts but
necessary beasts. Anyway, we might uncover some intelligent,
well-mannered, interesting bibliophiles, even here at the end of
the world.” My attempt to broaden the perspective. I might have
been proposing the admittance to our lofty club of warlocks and
vampires if Geraldine’s look was any indication of the extent of my
crime against the nature of good sense.

Daphne’s sly grin I knew only too well. What
was she up to, I wondered?

“Listen up, girls. Geraldine ought to know
about men. After all, she used to be one.” Daphne waited for the
reaction.

“You were, Geraldine? That’s great. It’s like
having a double agent in the group. Oh, there is so much you can
teach us.” You could have knocked me over with a feather. The
lovely woman who reminded me of the sixties Swedish actress Anita
Ekberg from movies my mother used to watch, had formerly been a
man? Amazing. Naïve me asked, “Was it very painful to make the
change?”

“Just a few chemicals and a snip here and a
tuck there and voila! Most fun was buying lacy bras and
underpants.” We all dissolved into laughter; the conversation
drifted off in many directions and we never came up with a name for
the club.

Chapter Seven

The next morning, as I was taking a batch of
chocolate coconut biscotti from the oven, the old-fashioned wall
phone in the kitchen jangled. The Pointillists, the local
needlepoint club named for the nineteenth century French art
movement characterized by applying points of paint that resulted in
works of art, had hired the dining room for their meeting that
afternoon. I’d offered to donate the pastries and coffee and tea.
Good for business but also because everyone in the village had made
me feel so welcome. It was the least I could do.

“Good morning Ms. um, is it Ogilvie or Smythe
I should be calling you, ma’am?”

“First, let’s establish to whom I am speaking
and then we will get to my name, Sir.”

“So sorry. I am Officer James Finneran at the
police station, ma’am.”

“Well, Officer James Finneran, nice to meet
one of the village guardians. By the way, no need for the ‘ma’am’
and it is a hyphenated name; therefore, the hyphen joining the
otherwise two separate names makes it one name.
Ogilvie-Smythe.”

“Ah, and as I can tell by the lovely accent,
you are from my general neighborhood. Allow me to properly
introduce myself to you, ma’am, er, Ms. Ogilvie Smythe…James
Finneran, late of Dublin, Ireland. Not too fond of your Queen, but
I hope that doesn’t get in the way of our being friends.”

James had a habit of adopting a deeper brogue
when talking to women. Although it seemed to turn men off, women
seemed to “gobble it up like treacle,” he once commented to Chief
Henderson who laughed so hard he spilled his coffee all down the
front of his uniform.

I could not help but smile; he sounded like
the quintessential leprechaun. “Don’t quote me, please, but, quite
frankly, some days I’m not so fond of her either. And the behavior
of her offspring. Oh my, a pack of spoiled Brits!”

“Isn’t that just grand. I see that you’ve got
yourself a fine sense of humor. Well, now, is it Ms. or Mrs.?”
Right to the point.