Snow Angel

by Melanie Jackson

  The others appeared. I was glad that neither Della or the maids were there. Perhaps they had gone for the holiday. That would be good. This was not going to be nice, and the fewer suspects in the hotel, the better, since the sheriff sounded lazy.

  I heard a crash in the kitchen. Someone had knocked over a canister or bottle. I hoped it wasn’t flour. I knew from experience that flour is almost impossible to clean up once it gets into tracks and grooves.

  “Damn it. What do we do with the body?” Patrick asked practically as it began snowing in earnest. I don’t know whose coat he was wearing, but it wasn’t his usual jacket. Obviously, since it was in use by a dead man. “The sheriff won’t be up until morning. And not early either. If he can get up at all. The old coot is blind as a bat.”

  “If he can make it to the lot, I can bring him by train,” Andrew reminded his brother. His hair looked crisp, frozen, even before the snow began to gather on it. It was probably a trick of light and not that he had been outside longer than the others.

  I hated to disturb the crime scene by moving the body, but the snow was going to blot out any clues in short order and we were all shivering, even Blue.

  “The kitchen freezer. It’s a walk-in,” Kevin suggested. He looked very pale, but then we all did in the cold white light reflecting off the snow. Hillary was just as pale, a feat for a darker-skinned man.

  “Against health regulations,” Patrick objected, wiping snowflakes from his face. He looked unbelievably harassed. But not sad. No one looked sad.

  “The horses’ stalls are heated, but what about the end of the barn where the plane is? There’s a door too. Can we lock it?” I asked.

  “That would work,” Hillary managed to say.

  “And we can lock it,” Patrick agreed with relief. “Let’s put him there.”

  “I’ll get the key,” Hillary said.

  “We need a sheet or tarp to wrap the body,” Alex said, beginning to take pictures with his phone. The flash was bright and cruel and I noticed for the first time that Mike had freckles on his knuckles. It transformed him from a body that could offer clues back into a man who had been murdered. I began to feel a little ill and a lot angry and barely heard Alex say, “Hopefully that will be enough to protect any forensic evidence.”

  “What are we going to do about breakfast? It’s gone three and I’m cold clean through,” Andrew observed, sounding more upset about a missed meal than the chef’s demise. And no one objected to this observation about food. If I hadn’t already suspected it from Mike’s low-profile behavior, this would be proof that he hadn’t been especially well liked. At least not by the men at the hotel.

  “I can cook. I prefer it,” I heard myself say, thinking about the killer and wondering about poison in the pancakes. Stranger things had happened when killers panicked. I thought it would be safe to let Kevin cook, but why risk it? There was a slim chance that Mike hadn’t been the accomplice. And then it hit me. Again. It was after midnight. This was Christmas day. That we were having the usually much-desired white Christmas was very inconvenient.

  “Have you told Minnie about this?” I asked Patrick as Kevin started toward the stable to collect a tarp.

  “No. I didn’t want to risk waking Della. Why?”

  Everyone was staring at me. Andrew’s face was blank and Alex’s was alarmed as he began to see where I was going.

  “He had a present for her. Mr. Cummings at the jewelry store asked me to bring the gift to Mike. I figured they were close.” That was true as far as it went.

  Patrick blinked and I saw a series of emotions cross his face. He was good at math and adding things up.

  “Patrick, who inherits when you die?” I knew that this was blunt, but the time for pussyfooting was past.

  “Well, there are many charitable organizations and—”

  “Who in your family inherits?” I interrupted. “Your brother?”

  “Um … no. It goes to Della. I felt that we owed…. Della.”

  I nodded and Alex looked grim.

  Kevin came back with a green tarp. No one talked about the murder even while moving the body. Did they not understand that this wasn’t an accidental death? Surely they had heard Alex talking about preserving forensic evidence? But maybe they hadn’t understood. Except Patrick. And probably Andrew. Should we tell the rest of the staff what was happening before we confronted the killer?

  No, this was Alex’s call. And I didn’t think we would need any help getting the killer to come out into the open. The situation was now desperate. At least I was pretty sure we could lure the killer. With most people you can guess what they’ll do when faced with a certain set of circumstances. We aren’t as individualistic as we like to think. You can pretty much write out a list from the most likely to the least likely responses. With Minnie, I just didn’t know where to begin. Would she play the affronted lady? Would she hide behind her motherhood? Or would she react like the killer she was? It all depended on her sanity and I couldn’t get a feel for her present version of reality.

  “Alex, be sure and photograph the marks on the waist before you leave the body. It should be secure enough until the sheriff gets here—unless someone burns down the stable.”

  “Marks?”

  “Yes. I think we’ll be able to get a DNA match with the killer’s clothing. There will be skin cells in the rhinestones of her pants.”

  “So it’s…?” He looked back at the hotel. It looked so beautiful in all its lights.

  “Yes.”

  “Damn it.”

  There was no need for me to go to the stable, and I was cold enough to begin thinking about making something hot to drink. Blue went with Alex since technically she wasn’t supposed to be in the kitchen.

  I stomped the snow from my shoes and went into the kitchen through the door which had been left ajar when the men came out. Under other circumstances I thought that I would have enjoyed cooking a meal there. Circumstances where the killer wasn’t standing by the stove in her bathrobe with a knife in her hand.

  Everything about her was frightening, from her cold face to her manicured hands which were sporting only nine coppery fingernails. In the harsh light, without her makeup, I could see that she had been carefully and systematically lifted, injected, and rebuilt until she had all the animation of a marble statue. I supposed that she was physically beautiful but her personality was repellant.

  Or maybe I was just put off by the large knife she was carrying.

  I was not so put off that I didn’t notice the broken bottle of olive oil on the floor. Minnie didn’t see it though, she looked only at me and I was pretty sure that she had heard me questioning Patrick and hated me for figuring out what she had done. This was a case where the messenger was going to get blamed—and I was sick of it.

  She had to know that it was hopeless, that attacking me would not fix her problem, but she was enraged. And hell hath no fury like that of a woman cheated out of the family fortune. I was not confident that reason would prevail, even if I had time to try logic. After all, one murder would send her to prison for life—why not make it two and have the satisfaction of killing the one who had ruined your scheme? One that might have worked if the matter had been left to the myopic sheriff.

  “He shouldn’t have asked questions,” she said flatly. “You shouldn’t have asked questions either.”

  She jumped forward, knife raised, and landed in the oil. Everything after that was chain reaction. Her feet slipped out from under her and she fell on the broken bottle. She didn’t let go of the knife though so I felt justified in snatching up the cast-iron skillet from the back of the stove and smacking it out of her fist.

  Minnie began to scream and the kitchen was suddenly full of people. She wasn’t hurt by the glass because of her thick robe, but her hand was broken and her ankle was sprained from her fall in the oil. Pain and rage got her to start talking—well, shouting—and she kept talking until the Vicodin that Patrick fetched for her began to take effect.
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br />   We moved to the great room and put Minnie on a couch near the fire pit. This act of kindness did not stop her anger.

  Why the sabotage? In a nutshell, Minnie didn’t want the money pit of a hotel soaking up Della’s inheritance. Money that she believed rightfully belonged to her anyway. Maybe it did—morally—but that legal ship had sailed and she knew it. She would have to do something else. She was so matter-of-fact about this, so certain of her moral right to kill Mike and to attempt to kill me, that I knew she wasn’t entirely sane.

  Mike had apparently begun to suspect that his lady love was up to no good when she kept asking him how things worked and then having them fail, but instead of going to Patrick, the man who had helped him out when he was in need, he confronted Minnie with his suspicions. Frightened and angry that she had been discovered, she had lured him to a rendezvous at the stable where she promised to explain everything—and probably to have make-up sex. And once his back was turned, she had jumped him and strangled him with the cord. The tipped-over stool had been a clumsy attempt at making her murder look like an accident.

  Alex went upstairs after this admission and bagged her rhinestone pants as evidence. When she began repeating herself, I went to wake Della and was very relieved to find Patrick already in her room. What an awful thing to wake up to on Christmas. I was glad the task of telling her wouldn’t fall to me. Instead I went down the hall and let Blue out of our room where Alex had put her. To hell with regulations. I wanted my dog.

  We all make mistakes. To err is human, but some mistakes will hound you to a premature grave. Mike was a man with a history of making blunders with women, but he didn’t deserve this.

  The sheriff made it up the hill around eight o’clock, disgruntled, squinting, but relieved that everything could be explained so tidily and that there was physical evidence as well as several witnesses to her confession.

  I went to the kitchen while the sheriff was taking statements and started making pancakes and frying bacon. Everyone, except Minnie who had fallen asleep, was starving by then and jittery with caffeine. It was fitting that the last meal the condemned would get at her nephew’s hotel was biting on a metaphorical bullet as she was hauled out to the sheriff’s jeep. I didn’t feel at all sorry for her broken hand or her sprained ankle. She didn’t deserve pity. She had killed the chef who was also her lover and her inadvertent partner in crime.

  I felt sick at heart for Della though. Patrick would look after her—probably with more love and care than her mother had given her. But having a parent who was a murderer would be tough. Patrick’s money could shelter her from a lot of things and cushion many outside blows. But not all of them. The scandal would die down with time, but she would have to decide what to tell friends, boyfriends—someday a potential husband, and children.

  “You’re going to come visit Blue during spring break, right?” I asked her, as I set a plate in front of her. She had come sliding into the kitchen, pale as a ghost, and perched on one of the tall chairs pulled up to the counter where the sous chef worked. Had worked. Kevin was chief cook now. I hoped he was up for the challenge.

  Della blinked at me and then offered a wan smile. I noticed she had on her pendant.

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good.”

  “I expect I’ll feel sad soon. I mean, really sad. Not just kind of surprised.”

  “Maybe. Probably.” I’m terrible with kids. Even when I have the Officer Bill costume I’m bad with them. I don’t know how to tell the right kind of lies to make them feel better.

  “But at least I’ll get to stay with Uncle Patrick now. Maybe he’ll let me get a dog like Blue. Or a small dog. I wouldn’t mind if my dog was small.”

  I made a mental note to talk to Patrick about a dog. I knew his plate was full with opening the hotel and probably fighting the scandal in the press since this was the sensational kind of story the papers love, but this was something that would help Della. Alex and I could make the arrangements if need be.

  She picked up her fork and started eating.

  I decided that I would call my parents right after breakfast. I needed to hear a loving voice.

  High Society

  by

  Melanie Jackson

  Version 1.1 – November, 2011

  Published by Brian Jackson at Smashwords

  Copyright © 2011 by Melanie Jackson

  Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  It was chilly out so I pulled my faux fur shawl closer around my neck and shoulders in the hope of keeping out the bitter cold. One of the only reasons I’d agreed to go with Alex to this high society New Year’s Eve bash was that he’d promised to buy me a new dress. Now, amid the swirling, biting winds outside, I was regretting my selection of a bare-shouldered evening dress. At least the parking lot had recently been plowed of snow. I would have hated to ruin my brand new Oscar de la Renta high heels before even arriving at the party. I minced as fast as I could in my heels, attempting to spot and avoid potholes in the dark as I tried to keep up with Alex, who was racing for the front doors of the Grand Marque Hotel, one of Seattle’s finest.

  “Remind me again why we’re staying at the Holiday Inn rather than simply getting a room here at the party venue,” I queried, pulling on Alex’s arm in an attempt to slow him down.

  “What, and pay three hundred dollars a night for a few hours’ rest?”

  “And let me guess, not using valet parking was also a cost-saving measure.”

  “I’ve got to pay for your wardrobe somehow,” he joked as we finally arrived at the entrance.

  “And you couldn’t drop me off at the entrance because?”

  “Sorry, honey,” he said, finally pausing long enough to address me directly. “I guess I got nervous and didn’t think of that.”

  In response, I flashed him a smile and squeezed his hand to let him know that I understood and forgave him. He smiled back and looked like he was about to embrace me, but I was wrong.

  “Now, let’s get moving, we’re late,” he said, whisking me away again.

  Stepping from the uneven asphalt of the parking lot to the smooth concrete in front of the hotel, all we had to worry about was dodging the limos and taxis pulling up front to drop off passengers. As the doorman opened the door to the hotel I was enveloped in the comforting embrace of heated air escaping from the lobby. I had to stop in the doorway to catch my breath. The lobby was a spectacular three-story affair done in rich wood, faux antique furniture, and real crystal chandeliers. It was packed wall-to-wall with the most elegant partygoers I’d ever seen. I felt horribly underdressed in my simple black Calvin Klein evening gown.

  We stepped fully into the lobby where hors d’oeuvres and champagne were being served. This caught my attention since I hadn’t eaten since bolting a piece of toast and washing it down with coffee that morning. The smells and sounds of food, wine, and merriment were everywhere, something that had been in short supply at Christmas. I almost succeeded in snagging a morsel off a silver platter as it whisked past but was too slow.

  Alex spent no time at all mingling with those who had already arrived for the party, instead nudging his way through the crowd and heading directly to the bank of elevators at the center of the lobby. I held onto the hand that he trailed behind to ensure I didn’t become lost amid the throng of revelers. Meanwhile, my head whipped left and right, taking in all the gorgeous designer gowns and expensive-looking jewelry. Before we made it to the elevators we were challenged by one of several intimidat
ing-looking security guards standing at a gap in a red velvet rope barrier. He wore a badge which simply said “Sterling,” which I took to be his name rather than a statement regarding his qualities as a human being.

  “May I see your room key, sir?” Sterling asked.

  “I’m not staying at the hotel,” Alex explained. “I’m going to meet Mr. Frye in his room.”

  “Mr. Lincoln?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I see some identification, please?”

  I could tell that Alex was working hard to suppress his annoyance, but he reached into his inside coat pocket all the same and produced his driver’s license. The guard accepted his ID and made an elaborate show of checking Alex’s face against the picture on the plastic card. Seemingly satisfied, he handed Alex his license and beamed a broad friendly smile.

  “Please follow me, Mr. Lincoln. You’re expected.”

  Sterling led us through the rope barrier to an elevator at the end of a short corridor.

  “This is the private elevator to the executive suites,” the guard explained, pressing the call button which caused the elevator doors to open immediately. “Please, step inside and allow me to show you the way.”

  I imagined that the way to Mr. Frye’s room wasn’t very complicated once supplied with the room number, but apparently security was tight for the affluent. I certainly wasn’t going to argue with the security guard who was tall and solidly built. I was pleased when Alex led me into the elevator while keeping his own mouth shut.

  The elevator was quite elegant; appointed with a marble tiled floor, matching marble and hardwood walls, and polished brass handrails. There was a large mirror attached to the ceiling. I imagined the elevator alone cost almost as much as my half of our duplex. The security guard inserted a card key into a slot and pressed a button that sent us on a smooth ascent to the upper strata of the hotel.