“You know the cook, Mike Briggs?”
“Of course,” I said, beginning to pay attention. “He’s an excellent chef.”
“Is he?” Cummings asked without a great deal of enthusiasm, which I found interesting. “I was just wondering if you would be willing to play courier and take an order up to him. I guess he forgot that he left that bracelet for resizing.”
Bracelet. Probably not something he ordered for himself.
“Sure,” I said. “Is it something he needs for Christmas?”
My brain was racing. Who might he be buying jewelry for? It could be for his white-haired granny in Utah. Or his wife, though there had been no hint in Alex’s research about there being a Mrs. Briggs in the picture.
Cummings shrugged but didn’t offer information or even speculation.
“Well, I hope it’s for someone at the hotel because the post office is closed today,” I said with my best wide-eyed look. “So, do you think this angel pendant is right for a girl of about thirteen?”
“For Della?” Cummings smiled, making his large face lighten. “It would be just right for her. Her uncle brought her down last week and we had snow angels everywhere until the last snow. The angel is perfect.”
I chuckled.
“Okay, I’ll take it. Can you do gift wrap?”
“Certainly. I even have an angel gift tag.”
“Good. Though a dog would be fine as well, if you have one.” Cummings looked at me. “The gift is from my dog. I’m not sure Minnie wants to get into a whole gift exchange thing, but I don’t think she can object if the present is from Blue.”
At my mention of the word dog, a small head peeped around the counter. It belonged to a miniature schnauzer.
“Hello, lovely,” I said, kneeling down. The aging canine came out to sniff me and receive some pets.
“That’s Ferguson. He’s usually a bit shy. He must like you.” The voice was a degree less reserved.
“Well, of course. Dogs know who their friends are.” Ferguson flopped on his back, offering his tummy.
“I thought I was going to lose him to Della,” Cummings said, tying a gold bow around the white box. He was a lot warmer now. The way to a man’s heart isn’t his stomach—not if he’s a dog lover. “That child does love the dogs.”
“I hope Minnie will let her get one,” I said.
Cummings grunted. I was noticing a pattern. He would speak no evil, but he wouldn’t lie either, not even to be polite.
The jeweler was disinclined to chat after my package was wrapped, and I couldn’t blame him since his glances at the grandfather clock suggested that he wanted to close up and get on with celebrating Christmas Eve, so I took my small bag out into the cold and headed at double time for the coffee shop where Alex and Blue were waiting.
The cold that rushed out between the buildings made me gasp. At a certain point, a strong wind can actually raise the temperature by causing friction as it blows over the snow and ice. We weren’t at that point yet though and the wind felt like a thousand splinters striking my face. I pulled my muffler up high.
The coffee shop, like the candy store, looked quaint but was sophisticated enough to include descriptors on the menu items. If you charge four bucks for coffee you need to have some adjectives around it. I decided on a peppermint twist latte.
The barista looked jolly enough to be related to the Clauses, but the bored teen at the register was about as animated as the window dummy wearing a Santa hat as it sat uncomfortably stiff-legged at a battered child’s tea table with a mug glued to his hand.
“Merry Christmas,” I said and got a grunt. The red-haired boy who took my money seemed unimpaired by thought of any kind, but maybe I wronged him and really he had a rich internal life.
I kept my coat on while I waited for my order. The coffee shop was warm enough to steam the windows, but somehow it felt like the winter was leaking in through those old brick walls. Maybe it was just that a bit of that bitter wind had followed me inside and stayed close like a faithful dog.
And speaking of faithful dogs, Blue’s tail thumped happily when she saw me.
“Good girl,” I said softly.
As I waited for the milk to froth, I peeked in my bag at the package for Mike Briggs. The box was wrapped in gold paper but there was an envelope of creamy parchment that held a receipt for a diamond tennis bracelet that cost two thousand and change. I raised an eyebrow but refrained from whistling. There was no tag on the box so I couldn’t tell who it was for. I supposed the recipient didn’t matter as much as knowing that Mike had expensive tastes. I wondered how much Patrick was paying him.
“Here you go, dearie,” said the barista.
“Thanks. It smells great.”
I took my coffee to the corner table and joined Alex and Blue.
“Good sleuthing?” Alex asked, smiling at me. Since he didn’t really expect an affirmative answer, my news about Mike’s bracelet surprised him.
I gave Blue her cookie and pet her ears.
“What about you?” I asked, glancing at the clock. I was sure that since we were the only customers, the barista and the bored teen would appreciate it if we left.
Alex closed up his notebook and packed it away while he filled me in. According to his research, Mike Briggs was not married. Nor was anyone else on staff, which simplified things for Patrick. Mike, however, did have some colorful past history. He had been let go of his job in San Francisco after an accusation of theft was leveled at him. There was a girl involved—a high-maintenance one. No charges were filed against him, but he had been blackballed in the city, and it was only when Patrick intervened that he was able to revitalize his career as a chef.
The other men, including Hillary, were from out of town. They were guys, like Hillary, who had had businesses that folded. I guess times were hard everywhere and Denver didn’t need farriers any more.
We would need to ask Patrick some questions about this. Like how had he known about Mike’s or the other men’s troubles? Had he been a silent partner in the restaurant perhaps? And had he hired the chef and others willingly, or did someone have some leverage over either Patrick or Andrew that they were using to get a job?
And I was beginning to be curious about who inherited if Patrick died. Not that there had been any direct violence, but the trick with the fire extinguishers was on my mind. How convenient if the hotel and its owner went up in flames.
There was also a bit of history that on the surface seemed unrelated, but which had my inner senses twitching. There had been a lawsuit instigated by Minnie’s husband against Patrick’s father, where he alleged that his brother-in-law had swindled him by stealing funds from a joint business they owned in Ohio.
I asked Alex if he knew what railroads cost as we stepped out into the cold and fought the wind back to the car. Blue was in the lead but even she found it hard going.
“You mean could Andrew afford his toy after his inheritance?” Alex asked. The wind tore his words away but I managed to catch them as they raced by. “Yes, he could. Thanks to their father’s ruthless business ethics, the boys can afford anything that amuses them—even hotels and trains.”
All I could do was shake my head, unable to imagine having that much money.
Chapter 6
Mike brought out a giant silver bowl and set it on the cherrywood table atop an enormous silver salver. Steam rose in a fragrant cloud. There was an ornate ladle already in place along with a selection of delicate crystal cups whose facets sparkled like diamonds as Kevin arranged them.
“The wassail bowl instead of cocktails?” Alex guessed, unzipping his coat and hanging it on the tree just inside the main doors.
“Rum punch,” I said after a sniff. Hard liquor and I don’t get along all that well, so I would be doing a lot of pretend sipping until I got some food in my stomach.
“I’ve never had that.”
“Want to run our coats up to the room and feed Blue first?” I suggested, removing Mike’s box
from my pocket but leaving Della’s inside. I handed him the bag from the candy store too.
“Okay.” Alex’s eyes were questioning and I smiled reassurance.
“I don’t want Della to see her gift yet,” I whispered. “And Blue is probably hungry.”
“Oh.” Alex grinned. “Come on, Blue. Let’s get some grub.”
“Mike,” I said softly once Kevin and Alex had left the room. “The jeweler, Mr. Cummings, asked that I bring this up to you. He didn’t want you to be left high and dry if this was a Christmas gift.”
I held out the gold box. For a moment the chef looked blank. Then something else I couldn’t label. Mike was not exactly surprised by the package, and certainly not excited to get the bracelet. Maybe he really had forgotten that he ordered it.
Or perhaps he had had a falling out with the recipient and was feeling annoyed at the reminder.
“Thanks. Mrs. Lincoln. That was nice of you.” Even when unhappy, his voice was lovely.
“Chloe,” I corrected automatically, not explaining that I had kept my maiden name. “So, what’s in this punch? Or is that a secret?”
“Can’t you guess?” he asked, slipping the box into his apron pocket.
“Beyond lemon and rum? No. Not without tasting.”
“Try a sip. If you can’t tell from tasting then I’ll give you the recipe.”
“Okay.”
Della and Minnie came into the room and Mike poured out another cup of punch and some sparkling cider for Della. Minnie was wearing a sweater and pants in some kind of stretch velvet and decorated with rhinestones. Her nail polish had been changed into something coppery. Della was in jeans and a bright red sweater and made me feel less underdressed in my snow clothes.
“What dishes are you regaling us with tonight?” I asked.
“Roast suckling pig.”
“Oh gross,” Della muttered.
“The whole thing?” I asked, more tactfully, but agreeing with Della.
Mike smiled a bit maliciously and I wasn’t sure if it was aimed at me or at Della. Either way, I didn’t like it.
“No, we’re having baked ham. With scalloped potatoes and roasted crabapples.”
I was relieved. I don’t know why a whole pig should bother me more than a ham, but it does. Maybe because I wasn’t used to seeing my food with its head still attached.
Dinner was delicious, but it wasn’t a meal that tiptoed into the tummy. Later, when we gathered for carols at the piano, where Patrick played, I had a hard time stifling belches during “O Holy Night.”
Not wanting to intrude on family Christmas in the morning, I slipped upstairs to get Della’s gifts. I used nail scissors to cut slits in the candy store bag, and after adding the snow angel pendant, I took the satin ribbon off my bathrobe and tied it around Blue’s neck so she could deliver the gifts herself.
Blue was happy enough to play beast of burden if she got to join us downstairs, though I think she was happy when Della took them off of her.
Della sparkled with happiness, probably a shade less delighted with her presents than the fact that Blue delivered them.
Chapter 7
No one wanted to make it a late night, so we were wishing each other sweet dreams by ten thirty. I told myself that lots of people would have reason to be abroad that night, sneaking around, playing Santa. I told myself to just go to sleep, but rest eluded me.
Grumbling to myself, I got up and dressed. No way was I going to confront anyone in pajamas and robe if I should happen to run into any elves.
The hall was not dark. It never is because there are dim sconces placed every twenty feet or so. But the evenly spaced spaces of light that marked the windows were uneven.
Not sure what compelled me, I walked to the one dark window, a lone rectangle of darkness in the long hall. The outside lights overlapped everywhere on the backside of the hotel. But not here. The light over the kitchen door had gone out. Or been turned out.
Alarm bypassed the usual decision-making steps and shrilled in my brain. I started running. I paused at the room only long enough to demand Alex wake up and dress. Blue rushed beside me as I headed for the stairs, wanting to howl but knowing she wasn’t supposed to use her outdoor voice at night no matter how upset I was.
I think the great room was empty. It was lit only by the lights of the tree, but it was a large tree and I saw no one there. Nor did Blue pause, so I trusted her nose and rushed on to the pantry door.
The kitchen was haunted by the odors of our last meal and also fresh snow. I don’t believe in ghosts but this bothered me. Last supper … snow….
I hit the bank of switches by the pantry door, flooding the storage room and kitchen with bright task lighting, but the outside security light did not turn on. I pulled on the nearest parka, a thing twice my size and very heavy, and stepped outside, almost falling over a stepstool and then something else.
At first I thought I was looking at another of Della’s snow angels—a messy one. But I thought that for only a second. Gold hair, plaid jacket sticking out of the snow.
“Damn.” I knelt by the body and brushed the thickest snowdrift away from the coat and then turned it onto its back. It took me a moment to realize that I wasn’t looking at Patrick Farris. The hair and the coat had deceived me. I was staring into the face of the very dead Mike Briggs.
I am only passingly acquainted with the hyoid, but a giant dent in Brigg’s Adam’s apple and the red line around the throat provided a pretty clear clue about the cause of death. And it wasn’t an accident. There wasn’t any nearby clothesline he could have strangled himself on, no convenient throat-high branch he might have jogged into, nothing he could have fallen on, not even the stool which wasn’t tall enough to reach the porch light, the only thing Mike might have been reaching for.
So, it had become murder after all. Mike was dead either because he was guilty and got cold feet and decided to back out on his partner. Or because he was innocent and saw something suspicious and went exploring at the wrong time. That seemed a stretch since there wasn’t anything to sabotage out in the snow, except the ski lift and the snow was undisturbed in that direction. Unlike near the body where it had been roughed up deliberately, probably to hide footprints.
Or there was a third possibility. Mike had seen something and decided to try a spot of blackmail on the saboteur. That meant that the saboteur had money or power, or something of use to the late chef. Probably money, if he was in the habit of giving out diamond bracelets.
Alex appeared in the door.
“Wake Patrick and find out who the local law is. Mike Briggs has been murdered,” I said.
Alex looked at the fallen stool and then at the body. He isn’t stupid and drew the correct conclusion. The frame-up was sloppy and would only deceive someone who was willfully ignorant of basic forensics.
“Okay,” he said. “But you know what Patrick told us before we came. The sheriff is a jerk and he’s going to call this an accident if we can’t show him proof.”
“An autopsy should take care of that. At a guess, I’d say he was strangled with a cord off the window blind.”
“How can you—oh,” he said catching sight of the white cord in the churned snow. “I’ll get Patrick. You keep your eyes open. Anyone gets too close and you start screaming. I mean it!”
“I hear you.” Blue would do it for me.
I hated to mess with the crime scene, but they weren’t going to get any clear prints from the snowy jumble, and I could always claim that I was checking Mike for a pulse to explain my own footprints. I didn’t actually bother feeling his damaged neck and avoided looking into his grimacing, blue face. Instead I checked his pockets, looking for weapons or a note or anything that would suggest that he had been worried about being attacked, or that someone had lured him into the night. It could make a difference if this was a crime of opportunity instead of something premeditated.
I found no guns or knives, but his coat pocket held the gold-wrapped box I had b
rought up from town. It had a tag on it—To Minnie.
So, that was the answer to the first question of who the bracelet was for. Had he been out here, perhaps waiting to meet her so they could tryst in the barn? That didn’t sound much like Minnie, but perhaps she was being cautious of her daughter’s feelings. Some kids can’t handle their parents getting into a new relationship.
What I still didn’t know was if the killer had arranged this meeting, or if the saboteur had followed Mike out and struck while no one was around. Was it premeditation or convenient happenstance?
And had they strangled Mike because he was Mike? Or, like me, had they been fooled by the fact that Mike was wearing Patrick’s coat? Might Patrick have been the intended victim all along? Of course, the killer would have discovered that they had made a mistake as soon as they started, but I don’t suppose that at that point they could stop and say my bad.
I thought I knew but couldn’t answer that question in a way that would stand up legally. All kinds of scenarios could explain things. Proof or a confession was needed.
Snow began to fall. I needed to hurry. Mike’s shirt was bunched under the jacket and I risked having a quick look. Something metallic, a bit of something coppery, smaller than a dime, fell into the snow and disappeared. I dug through the snow but couldn’t find it again.
“Damn.”
Blue whined, not understanding my frustration but wishing to help.
Mike’s sides and stomach were red and abraded. They probably would have bruised but death intervened. That meant the injuries happened near or at the time of death. Had the killer gone so far as to jump on his back and force him to the ground while strangling him? It seemed unlikely that these were shoe marks, but something had gouged the skin. Something that left marks an awful lot like a costume I had worn at Halloween when I was six and fascinated with Glenda, the good witch, from the Wizard of Oz.
I’m limited by my experiences. We all are. But I have a better than average imagination and am very good at spotting both patterns and anomalies in human behavior. That isn’t evidence, as the Chief so often tells me, but my hunches are hardly ever wrong—theory A matches the edge of conclusion B which fits against supposition C. So I listened to the inner voice and knew where to go to look for the truth. The answer didn’t make me happy. Sadly, not every insight begins with or ends in a state of grace. In fact revelations related to crimes are almost never pleasant, comfortable, or blessed.
Snow Angel Page 5