The Body in the Snowdrift (9 page)

“Mom!” Ben protested.

“Just checking. Let's go.” She opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine. It was warm, and she was looking forward to being on top of the mountain without a biting wind. She might not need her French long johns after all.

Marian was walking up the path to the condo.

“Faith! Where have you been? Never mind. Just go on in,” she said, motioning next door. “I'll take the kids up to the ski school.”

“Didn't Tom and Betsey see my notes?” Faith asked, wondering what the rush was all about.

“Tom has been skiing with Robert all day, and Betsey has been with us, trying to get her kids and Dennis on the walkie-talkies, but they're still on the fritz.”

Betsey had complained at length about the walkie-talkies at dinner the night before and was preparing to write a stinging letter of complaint to the head of the
company that manufactured them. She had been unable to reach any of her family all day. At breakfast, she had replaced the batteries and was giving the CEO one more chance before she fired off her missive.

“I took all the kids into Stowe for lunch. We haven't been gone long.”

“It doesn't matter now. Just go. I'll be right back. Fred will explain everything.” And Marian was off.

Faith stood in the sunshine for a moment, now thoroughly bewildered. What had happened to the notes she had taped prominently at eye level on the inside of the front and back doors? The back door led directly to the slopes, and she'd figured she couldn't miss with that one; the other was just insurance. Neither note had been there when she'd arrived with the kids. Tom must have returned, assumed Betsey had seen them, and taken them down. And what was going on with Fred? She hoped it didn't involve Ophelia.

Kissing her ski afternoon good-bye, she walked next door to the Fairchilds' condo.

It was so comical to see everyone jump up the moment she opened the door and stepped inside—so many jack-in-the-boxes or puppets on a single string—that she was tempted to repeat the performance. What on earth were they all doing here? Harold, Mary, Fred, and Naomi Stafford, Simon Tanner, her father-in-law, and Betsey. For the first time, she felt anxious. But surely Marian would have said something.

Fred stepped forward. “Faith, great! We have…well, we have a situation on our hands.”

“Let her sit down, Freddy,” Harold said. “And sit down yourself. We look like a delegation from the
State House. Now, here's the problem.” Harold Stafford had taken command, comfortable back in the role he had played so well for so long. “Our chef has quit.”

“Skedaddled,” Dick said. “French, wasn't he?”

“No, from New York—the Bronx,” Faith said, realizing at once that if anything, this was worse. Dick Fairchild's skepticism regarding people from the Big Apple, inhabitants of a decidedly non–New England orchard, was etched deep. He regarded his son's marriage to Faith as the equivalent of the rescue at Entebbe.

“We'll understand completely if you don't want to do this,” Harold said. “It's your vacation, but if you could pitch in until we can get someone else, we would appreciate it very much.”

“You would receive the same remuneration the chef did, of course,” Simon Tanner interjected. Love was one thing; money was another.

Faith looked around at the faces before her, anxious faces—except for Dick Fairchild's. He was angry.

“Of course I'll help. I'd be happy to. But are you saying that John has left without a word to anyone?” she asked Simon.

“He wasn't around at breakfast—we do a brunch on Sundays—but that's not his job, although he usually comes by. We didn't start to get concerned until later. He always meets with his crew to go over the dinner menu at one o'clock. When he didn't show up, someone called his room. There was no answer, so they called me to see if I knew where he was. I went to his room and found it locked. We were afraid he might
have had some sort of accident—he carries a lot of weight for a man his height—so Pete came with a master key and we went in. Clean as a whistle.”

Fred took up the tale. “We know a number of resorts have been trying to hire him away from us for years, not just places here in Vermont but in other parts of New England and even out in Colorado. He used to joke about it and said he'd never leave, but somebody must have dangled a pretty penny in front of him.”

Mixed metaphors aside—and what would you do, drill a hole in the penny?—Faith was still having trouble reconciling the man she had spoken to yesterday with the traitor of today. Yet he
had
said something about a surprise. What were his words? “And maybe I'll have a surprise for you.” Except they'd been talking about Friday night, the last night the family would be at Pine Slopes, having a farewell dinner at his restaurant.

“Perhaps he went back to his wife's family inn? Have you been in touch with her?”

Simon and Harold exchanged an uneasy look.

“The inn has been closed for some time,” Simon said tersely. “And the same for the marriage.”

He clearly wanted an answer and wanted it now. Faith had no idea how long all of them had been waiting, but it couldn't have been pleasant. Every room and condominium in the resort was booked for the week. She wouldn't have been surprised to hear that the restaurant was, as well. Aside from the loss of income, closing the restaurant, even temporarily, would be a disaster for Pine Slopes. People would talk, and what was an ordinary occurrence in the restaurant
world, a change of chefs, would instead become a cause célèbre. The resort's reputation would be at stake, everyone asking why the restaurant had to close. It would be the equivalent of food poisoning for a caterer—and they all knew what that meant. You might as well toss in your whisk, because the closest you'd get to food-related work would be cleaning rest rooms at Burger King.

Faith looked at her watch. “I'll need to start right away. When was the last food delivery? When's the next? How many people on the kitchen staff?”

“Whoa, lady.” Simon's accent suddenly thickened, and it was charming. Faith's assistant, Niki, had spent some months Down Under, extending the trip to the point where Faith had been sure this was one little Sheba, or Sheila, who wasn't coming back.

“How about you change and then I'll take you over?” Simon suggested. “You have ample staff, and Sysco came yesterday. If anything, there's probably too much food.”

Sysco was a big, high-quality supplier. This was good news.

“And don't worry about the kids,” Dick said.

“As soon as Tom comes back, he can take over,” Faith said. She didn't want Dick and Marian's vacation taken up with their grandchildren, much as they adored them. It was still Dick's birthday time. “They're all set until dinner anyway,” she added. “Oh, dinner. There's spanakopita—you know, the Greek spinach pie—plus grilled chicken. The kids won't be hungry until later. We went to Gracie's for lunch….”

“Faith, we'll manage, believe me. Between your
mother-in-law and myself, we raised four kids, so I think we can deal with two!” Dick gave her a kiss and pushed her toward the door.

“We can't thank you enough,” Harold said. His words were echoed in various refrains by the rest of the Staffords. “We have some good leads, and I'm sure we'll have a new chef in place by tomorrow, Tuesday at the latest.”

Betsey had been quiet throughout, and now she got up and followed Faith.

“Phew,” said Faith, as they stepped outside. The sun was lower in the sky, but it was still a beautiful day, and the air felt wonderful. “When I saw all of you sitting together, it looked like a wake.” As soon as she spoke, she wished she could take back her words. Betsey had known Boyd Harrison well, and it was an ill-considered remark. Marian had told Faith that Boyd had left instructions for a memorial service to be held at the foot of his beloved mountain on the first sunny day in June. There would be no wake for him. Or for Pine Slopes, either. They had found a chef, albeit a temporary one.

They walked into the condo. Faith looked at her sister-in-law. She was trembling.

“Betsey, what is it? Are you all right?”

Elizabeth Fairchild Parker folded her arms in front of her chest and stood squarely in front of Faith. “No, I am
not
all right. How dare you take my children away without parental permission! And to Stowe, just to eat some lunch! They are here to ski, and if there is a change in plans, I, or their father, will make it! I know that food is next to God or something for you, but that
is not the main thing. The main thing is that you are
never
to do this again!”

Now Faith was trembling. She didn't think she had ever been this angry in her life. She walked away from Tom's sister, but stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned around.

“First of all, they are not children. They are thirteen and fifteen-year-old adolescents. Next, I am their aunt, a responsible adult, who would never put them in any kind of danger. I thought only of providing a fun outing for the four cousins. I left notes for you and Tom taped to the inside of the front and back doors. I have no idea what happened to them. And now, finally, don't you
ever
speak to me this way again.”

She went upstairs to change into whatever she could find that would pass for kitchen garb. Granted, she was low in the Hawaiian shirt, gold chain, and surfer shorts department, but she had jeans and a white turtleneck. They would have to do.

Betsey was gone when Faith came back down.

 

The kitchen staff was as colorful and multicultural as the chef, that Hawaiian-Franco-Bronxian. Faith had heard how difficult it had been for the Staffords to get help, especially in recent years. There was the problem of where to house people if they didn't live locally, and Pine Slopes was small. It couldn't compete in salary, benefits, and perks with the larger places. This explained why the housekeeping and kitchen staff was primarily from South America this year.

“They're almost all university students,” Simon explained. “It's summer for them, remember, and this is
an ideal way for them to practice their English, have an adventure.”

Faith seriously wondered how much of an adventure it was coming to a land of ice and snow to make beds, chop onions, and vacuum floors far away from not only a metropolis but a town. Yet the Peruvians and lone Bolivian in the kitchen seemed a cheerful bunch. She tried out her Spanish on them, which may have accounted for the broad smiles and giggles that greeted her. She'd stick to English.

They got straight to work. Despite his casual attire, John had been extremely well organized. Besides the standard nightly menu, which featured what the average diner would look for—a recognizable form of chicken, a recognizable form of seafood, surf 'n' turf, and pasta primavera—he'd listed the specials for several weeks ahead. Was it always this way? she wondered. Or did he know he was leaving?

The crew had started the prep work for dinner. Again, John had trained them well, and Simon walked her through the drill. It wasn't hard, especially since Le Sapin only served dinner.

“We're booked tonight, but we can take some walk-ins. Sunday is a turnaround day, so people often decide at the last minute not to cook in their condos, but to come here instead. They're generally later than other diners, so we can turn over some of the tables three times.

“And Faith, I know the chef stays until the bitter end, but you're to get out of here once the last dessert is served—or even before. I leave it to you. These guys know how to clean up and close down. I'll be in and out. Harold, too.”

“Thanks, but it will be fine.” Faith wanted to tell him that this was child's play for her—a small restaurant in the hinterlands of Vermont. She'd done larger cocktail parties even in the Aleford area—forget New York. But she didn't want to brag. Plus, there wasn't time.

Tom appeared at five o'clock with Ben and Amy.

“I know, I know, you're very busy. We're leaving. Came to do this.” He gave her a big hug and a kiss, the kids between them like the filling in a sandwich. “You can't imagine how grateful the Staffords are. You saved their lives, or livelihood, I should say. It could have gotten pretty ugly tonight when people showed up and found out the cupboard was bare.”

Her husband looked wonderful after these two days of skiing with his brothers. Relaxed, slightly tanned. She had been planning to tell him about Betsey, but he looked too happy. Besides, there was very little Faith could tell him that he didn't already know.

After they left, Faith walked out into the main dining room to check on everything. She'd read that Queen Elizabeth did this before every banquet at Windsor or Buckingham Palace, making her stately way down past the gilded chairs, eyeing the line of gold plates, perhaps pointing out a slightly out-of-kilter vermeil fork to one of the white-gloved servants following in her wake, who would align it correctly for “Ma'am.” Faith twitched a tablecloth that had caught on the arm of a chair and then stood back. Everything was ready.

She could hear laughter from the Pine Needle Pub across the hall. Like the Sports Bar, it served some soups, chili, burgers, and a few sandwiches and
desserts. But mostly it was a place to have a drink and look out the picture windows at the slopes. It was beautiful now, the lights on for night skiing—fascinating to watch the skiers come down, all of them made graceful by the glancing light and deep shadows.

Faith walked to the door leading out into the hall and looked over at the pub. In the deep shadows, well away from the windows, sat her sister-in-law Glenda, a Viking prince across from her. They were practicing the Scandinavian skoal, eyes locked, but both their glasses were empty at the moment. A waitress went by and the prince called out, “Two of the same.”