Stitch In Snow

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Huh? Hey, Mom,’ and Tim’s voice turned anxious. Reflex snapped me out of my daze.

  ‘I’m sorry, honey. I’m sleepy.’

  ‘You’re in Tulsa, Mom, and you’re in trouble.’

  ‘What kind? Did I miss a lecture date?’

  ‘No, not that.’ Tim was disgusted at my obtuseness. ‘I mean that guy. Lowell.’

  ‘Lowell?’

  ‘Yeah, Lowell.’ Tim was getting angry again, partly relief and partly an inability to get me to function intelligently. ‘Daniel Jerome Lowell. He’s charged with murder and you’re his alibi. He says. Did you ever meet a Jerry Lowell?’

  ‘Lowell . . . Lowell . . .’ I couldn’t for the life of me then remember any Lowell but I also didn’t remember any murders, or murderers.

  ‘Mother, his lawyer has been trying to catch up with you. So he says. I gave him the name of your lecture bureau so they could give him your itinerary. I figured if you were involved, you’d better know and if you weren’t, you could sue for libel, or something. Only the lawyer has been phoning me saying he keeps leaving messages only you don’t answer them. Are you trying to evade him?’

  I was still fumbling for the name Lowell.

  ‘What’s the lawyer’s name?’ That might give me a clue.

  ‘Jefferson, Marshall & Taggert is the firm. Peter Taggert the particular man. Mom, are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m tired, very tired, Timmy. I’m so tired I don’t even remember if I’ve given my talks in Tulsa or I have them to do. What’s today’s date, please?’

  ‘It’s the 10th of April, Mom, and you were to speak in Tulsa on the 8th and 9th. Mom, are you sure you’re all right?’ Tim’s voice now had the ‘small boy in search of security’ tone.

  ‘Yes, Tim. I’m just talked out, travelled out and de-synch-ed. You woke me out of a sound sleep. You know how I am just waking up.’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ He sounded somewhat reassured.

  ‘So, this Peter Taggert believes I can help his client, a Daniel . . . Dan!’

  ‘You do know him?’ My admission startled Tim more than my bleary state of mind.

  ‘Denver Dan-the-man. Yes, I know Dan, and he isn’t a murderer. I don’t see how he could have murdered anyone . . . I mean. When? Who? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know many details, mother, except that it happened in Denver . . . Is he that swimming-hiking freak you wrote me about?’ Tim wasn’t certain that these were sufficient bona fides. ‘Haven’t you seen the papers?’

  ‘Papers! I’ve been on tour. I’m lucky I get to read menus.’

  ‘He’s supposed . . . alleged is the word they use . . . alleged to have killed his former wife on Thursday, March 20. She wasn’t found for two days because of the snow but he’s supposed to have killed her approximately 11 PM Thursday evening.’

  As Tim talked, I had been thumbing through my diary. Thursday was the last evening we had spent together . . . and at 11 PM we’d been watching Gunga Din . . . No, we hadn’t. We’d been making love. But that was irrelevant to the fact that Dan Lowell had been most decidedly in my company the entire evening.

  ‘He was with me all Thursday evening, Tim. What do I do now?’

  ‘I suggest that you call the legal man. He said he’d been trying to reach you. He’s phoned me three times because you’re the only proof his client didn’t murder the woman. Plenty of circumstantial evidence to prove that he could have.’

  ‘He couldn’t have and he wouldn’t have. He’s not that kind of guy.’

  ‘Call the man.’ There was relief in Tim’s voice for my positive statement. ‘When will I see you?’

  ‘I’d planned to fly back tomorrow but now . . .’

  ‘You’d better let justice triumph, Mom. I’ll see ya when I see ya!’

  It was ten-thirty Rocky Mountain time. As I dialed the number Tim had given me, I recalled receiving message slips at the last two hotels. They hadn’t made any sense to me at the time. I had stuffed them in my case and sure enough, they were all from a Peter Taggert, and they informed me, classically, that it was a matter of life and death.

  ‘My name is . . . Jenny Lovell,’ I told Taggert’s receptionist in Denver. ‘I believe Peter Taggert wants to get in touch with me.’

  ‘Miss Lovell? Just a mo . . . Mrs. Lovell?’ The girl reacted violently. ‘He is, but he isn’t here. Oh, he’s in court with Mr. Lowell. Oh, where are you, please? Babs,’ this was said to someone at her end, ‘she’s calling in. It’s her. Hold on, Mrs. Lovell, for Mr. Taggert’s secretary.’

  ‘Mrs. Lovell? Where are you calling from, please?’ The second girl was more in command of herself but I could hear the undercurrent of excitement and relief in her tone.

  ‘Right now I’m in Tulsa but I can be in Denver as soon as I can get a plane. Will that help?’

  ‘Yes, it will. Your presence here is urgently needed.’

  ‘Look, I’m terribly, terribly sorry I didn’t call earlier. My son just rang me. I haven’t read any newspapers in days. You’re sort of in a limbo when you’re touring. If I’d known . . . I mean, Dan Lowell wouldn’t kill anyone. I’ve never heard of anything so outrageous. My son said that he’s supposed to have killed his former wife at 11 on Thursday evening and you tell Mr. Taggert I know he didn’t. He was with me the entire evening. Things haven’t gone too far, have they?’

  ‘Just come to Denver, Mrs. Lovell. Your testimony is vitally needed.’

  ‘I’ll be on the next plane. And look, would you tell Mr. Lowell that . . . Gunga Din is bringing the water?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  I repeated my remark which then didn’t sound too witty but Dan would appreciate the reference and I couldn’t think of anything else that didn’t sound trite and insincere.

  ‘There must be a plane out of here for Denver sometime today, and I’ll be on it. Be sure of that. Okay?’

  She asked for and I gave her the present Tulsa number but as soon as I disconnected that call, I got the flight reservations desk. I had missed a morning flight from Tulsa but I could book on the 2 PM. I packed in a flap, remembering to cash one of the lecture checks where I was known. At that, I had to get a bit huffy with the manager because he wouldn’t believe that I didn’t have any credit cards apart from my Allied Irish Bank cheque-cashing ident. I had to ask him, in my most acid tones, didn’t he think the University’s checks were any good so he demurred and grudgingly handed over the money. I noticed he used dirty bills and small ones so I had an unwieldy wad. Then I overtipped the bellboy and doorman as I got in the cab for the airport.

  There was no trouble in altering my ticket to include a stopover in Denver but I had two hours to wait until I could board the plane: plenty of time to stew. I found a Denver paper at the newstand but there was no follow-up yarn about the murder: no mention of it at all.

  Had Tim had the facts straight? Thursday? I riffled through the diary. Most of Dan’s time those three days had been spent in my company, except for a few brief hours, especially that Thursday evening. He’d been with Hearty-har-har when he hadn’t been with me. Had Tim said 11 PM? Dan was covered as far as the AM was concerned, too, because . . . yes . . . we were swimming at 10 AM Thursday. Of course, he could have nipped out after I’d gone to sleep Thursday evening late, or was it by then Friday morning . . . but how far away had his ex-wife lived?

  Dan had been worried about something. Worried? Anxious? Annoyed? Betrayed? Yes, that had been the elusive quality about his mood that evening: he’d been angry and felt betrayed. By his former wife?

  I shook my head. This line of thought was unproductive. And disturbing. I had too few facts beyond the major one: Dan had been in my company most of those snow-bound days, his time accounted for when he wasn’t. Besides which, he wasn’t a murderer.

  I recognized that anyone can be pushed to the point of murder. But Dan had not acted like a driven or trapped man, unless he was far more a dissembler than I could give him credit for. And, he’d had two tickets in the a
irport that afternoon. Furthermore, at lunch he had definitely acted relieved, as if he’d solved his problem. Solved his problem by escaping the scene of the crime? No, no. He’d been with me at the reported time of the murder!

  I killed (whooops . . .) passed some time eating a good lunch in the airport restaurant, complete with a half bottle of wine for its soothing quality. Anger is a good therapy and I was angry on many counts: angry at Tim’s being involved at all in this; angry at myself for not having appreciated the genuine urgency in the messages from Taggert; angry at the unknown murderer who had involved Dan, me, and Tim in such a ghastly affair. Angry because my very lovely brief encounter was now besmirched.

  I resolutely took out my knitting as I settled myself to wait to board the plane. That reminded me of how I had got into Dan’s company in the first place. But the knitting worked its usual charm. I reviewed and re-reviewed what I did know about Dan, and Denver, and my conclusion reaffirmed my judgment of him. He was innocent of that capital charge.

  I was overwhelmingly grateful to be asked to board at Gate 9. I was glad to be involved with the routine of flying, responding to the hostess’s polite queries. And wondering what would happen if I told her, instead of inanities, that I was flying to Denver as the material witness in a murder case. Trial? No, it hadn’t, it couldn’t have come to trial so soon. Could it? But my flight was really a matter of someone’s life which was being threatened by someone else’s death.

  8

  WHEN I WALKED up the ramp in Denver, I had graduated from Visiting Celebrity to Murder Witness. This makes for flash photos and newspaper reporters and an entirely different sort of reception I’d rather not endure again.

  Fortunately Peter Taggert was there. After my first confusion of shouting ‘no comment’ my arm was grabbed by a stocky man in an elegant pinstripe suit with one of those expensive patterned tie and shirt combinations. He elbowed two reporters out of the way and placed his broad back between me and the other important members of the press.

  ‘I’m Pete Taggert, Mrs. Lovell, if you’ll just come with me.’ He ran interference. ‘No comment, boys. You can see Mrs. Lovell later. Right now, I got her. This way, Mrs. Lovell.’ He seemed to pow/barn/crash on my name. But he could pow/barn/crash through the reporters.

  ‘Give me your baggage checks, Mrs. Lovell,’ he said to me in an undertone as we raced down the slick corridor.

  He gave them in turn to someone running beside us and then veered suddenly to our right, through a door marked ‘private’, down some steps leading to a corridor, through a door to the back VIP parking. He guided me to a big, dark green Buick convertible. We were away, zooming out of the airport, neat as you please.

  There were still snowdrifts lining the roads.

  ‘First, Mrs. Lovell, thanks for calling today. You’re saving Jerry’s life. Second, let me apologize for dragging your son into this but that was the only clue we had to your whereabouts without a police search. I don’t think guest lecturers would appreciate that kind of attention. Jerry’d seen your son’s address on a letter. He wanted me to get that straight with you first. Third, having got you here I’d better tell you that this is going to be a nasty case.’

  He kept his eyes on the road as he talked so that I had only his rather rough profile to look at and no indication of his attitude or feelings. He drove fast but well and spoke in a low, well placed voice which was conversational rather than obviously controlled.

  ‘There’ve been some snide cracks about your existence, Mrs. Lovell . . .’

  ‘Why did you emphasize my name so heavily at the airport?’

  ‘Jerry said you were quick . . .’ He grinned.

  ‘I also know him as Dan rather than Jerry . . .’

  ‘So he said. About your name, his is Lowell.’

  ‘Close but no cigar . . .’

  ‘Not when you see the handwriting on your room bill. It looks like Lovell. Clerk error, okay, but the prosecution is making out that you knew each other before; that your presence in the hotel was pre-arranged . . .’

  ‘And the murder?’

  ‘The alibi was pre-arranged . . . so the murder could be committed with impunity.’

  I felt cold and a bit sick.

  ‘I suppose we arranged the snowstorm, too?’

  ‘They’d like it if you had.’ Peter Taggert’s mouth curved down in a sour smile.

  ‘I’d never met Dan . . . Jerry . . . Lowell before in my life. After all, I can prove I’ve been living in Ireland . . .’

  He shot me a surprised look. ‘You don’t know what he does for a living?’

  ‘He said something about being an engineer and travelling a lot.’

  ‘And you don’t read Irish newspapers? About off-shore oil?’

  ‘Oh, God, and he has been in Ireland?’

  He nodded slowly, his eyes on the road.

  ‘So Dan and I were supposed to have met in Dublin, hatched up a murder, seeded clouds for a convenient blizzard for what reason? If they were already divorced?’

  ‘Noreen Sue . . .’

  ‘Good God, I didn’t think people were really named that.’

  ‘Noreen Sue divorced Jerry two years ago, and bluntly, took him for all she could. Part of the settlement was her right to use the marital home . . . which has been in Dan’s family since Pike discovered the Peak — as long as she remained in Denver with their son. Jerry wanted DJ to have a settled life.’ Peter Taggert snorted. ‘Noreen’s nothing but a tramp and the boy’s been miserable. He’s only just old enough to appeal to court to change the custody. The case is . . . was due . . . to come up in two weeks . . .’

  ‘Then you were one of his business phone calls?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ he was about to say more but changed his mind.

  ‘And she was fighting the matter?’

  ‘Yes, with all she had. She’d lose the house and the support money. I don’t think she cared about losing the boy . . .’

  ‘I’d say that she had reason to murder him . . . not the other way around. You haven’t told me how she was killed?’

  ‘She was hit on the head and died of exposure.

  ‘That’s not murder . . .’

  ‘No, manslaughter. But if they can prove Jerry did it, it’ll put him into jail for a long time and deprive him of his son.’

  ‘The poor boy! And where was he at the time?’ I am not fond of calling kids by initials; it sounds affected.

  ‘DJ was in Denver with a school friend. His mother was supposed to pick him up Tuesday after school when the blizzard warnings were hoisted but she never collected him.’

  ‘Where was the marital home . . . in relation to the airport hotel?’

  ‘On the way into Denver, Mrs. Lovell. About three miles from the hotel . . . as the snow bird flies.’

  I began to see the problem. ‘In short, Dan — had he been the killer — could have hiked from the hotel to the house, done the dirty and come back in spite of the weather conditions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Too bad that won’t wash. Dan was never out of my sight, particularly on the night involved, long enough to have hiked three miles in those conditions.’

  ‘Prosecution has a witness who saw him at the hotel at 6 PM dressed for outdoors, found him very distracted and anxious to get away . . .’

  ‘Old Hearty-har-har . . .’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘That’s what I called . . . oh, what was his name . . . I have it written down in my diary . . .’

  ‘Fred B. Winkleman?’

  ‘Fred, yes, that was what Dan called him. I was at the elevator when Dan was trying to shake him loose.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Yes, I was. And I was in Dan’s company . . .’ I took a deep breath, ‘. . . the entire night. We watched both screenings of Gunga Din: that was the feature film of the week.’

  ‘Gunga Din?’ His foot slipped on the accelerator.

  ‘Yes, and I’d swear to that under oath, on a stack of
Bibles, anything you wish.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Lovell.’

  My willingness did not seem to reassure him. He sounded tired, morally tired.

  ‘So it’s on Hearty-har-har’s say-so that Dan is pegged for the role of murderer? That seems rather flimsy evidence.’

  ‘I said it was all circumstantial. There’s a night watchman that spoke with him at 4:30 AM Friday, who said he was fully dressed.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘There are statements that Noreen Sue was aware that Dan was in Denver, at that hotel, and she had telephoned several people, asking them to come stay with her because she was afraid of what Dan might do to her.’

  ‘Hysterical type. And?’

  ‘The storm prevented anyone from getting to her house.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She also phoned the police, saying that she was in physical danger from her ex-husband. He had called her . . . the calls are part of the hotel records . . .’

  ‘Yes, they would be . . .’

  ‘Dan says he phoned to speak to DJ, and she wouldn’t let him.’

  ‘You said DJ wasn’t even in the house.’

  ‘That’s right but Dan said Noreen Sue didn’t tell him that.’

  ‘Mr. Taggert, he had two tickets in his hand when we got to the airport on Friday . . .’

  The lawyer’s lips set briefly in a thin, angry line. ‘Jerry was taking DJ to San Francisco with him. He’d found out . . . from me . . . that DJ had been with the McPhersons during the blizzard. He felt, and I concurred with him, that Noreen Sue was not a fit guardian for the boy and he would resume custody of him until the hearing.’

  ‘And?’ Because it was apparent somehow this was wrong.

  ‘This has been construed to mean that Jerry knew that Noreen Sue was no longer alive to take care of the boy.’

  ‘Oh!’ Yes, I could see how that could be assumed. ‘Well, then, who did bang Noreen Sue on the bean and leave her to die? Because it bloody hell wasn’t Dan!’

  He gave me a warm smile for my outburst.

  ‘Don’t you believe me? Him?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Well, aren’t there other suspects? Surely there were vandals and thieves out in the blizzard, getting what they could? Or an irate boyfriend of hers? Or maybe she was just . . . blown down, and hit her head? Slipped on the ice?’