A Deadly Snow Fall

by Cynthia Gallant-Simpson

  My eyes were suddenly riveted to the dead body lying in the snow. Something was not right. I am no forensic expert but I was sure that what I saw did not fit. As the EMT’s carefully picked the body up, it was obvious that it was frozen like a Popsicle. There was a lot of blood on the snow under the body but what particularly caught my eye and my imagination was the man’s head. The skull had obviously been crushed. From the looks of the damage, I surmised that the man had landed head first. Why that somehow didn’t seem right I could not have said at that time. However it niggled around in my brain for days afterwards, demanding recognition.

  The sight of Edwin Snow’s twisted limbs made me shiver. I couldn’t help but wonder what it must it be like in the seconds after you take flight to make such a fall? Do you immediately regret your choice? I could imagine arms and legs flailing in a kind of desperate attempt to fly in the hope of cancelling the plunge you’d been so sure of just moments before.

  My feet were cold and the villagers were beginning to disperse as the ambulance took away the body. Time to go. “So, want to come along to the Stop & Shop, Daphne? Can’t abide another shriveled turnip or limp decaying bunch of lettuce and whoever invented the plastic tomatoes that are the specialty of winter produce bins in America ought to be flogged.”

  “Sure. Fun’s all over here. Let’s stop at the Hot Chocolate Sparrow first for cappuccino. Love their gooey pastries.”

  “Daph, is there ever a time or a situation that puts you off your feed?”

  “Not yet. Let’s go, I’m famished.”

  The ambulance pulled onto the road and Daphne and I jumped into my new, lemon yellow Jeep headed for Orleans. Since coming to the village, I had bought locally as much as possible. However, sometimes I had no choice but to drive the twenty odd miles up-Cape to the Stop and Shop Supermarket.

  We left the gruesome scene behind us and headed for foodies’ Nirvana. Or, at least the best source of fresh produce, this side of Boston. That morning, as the villagers dispersed to their homes for their much needed first cup of coffee and a hearty breakfast on what was more like a winter than a spring day, three vital questions hung in the frosty air.

  Naturally, and probably the primary question, was in regard to the weather. When would spring arrive in earnest? An ages-old New Englanders’ query. Second: Why had the miserable old man Edwin Snow III, who was so disliked and shunned, waited until his ninth decade to “cash in his chips?” to quote my irreverent friend, Daph.

  Before more urgent concerns distracted the villagers, there was the final question regarding the two close calls for Edwin Snow. Again, there were two camps on the open question. Had the “incidents” been nothing more than simple harassment or had they been attempted murder? Poor aim or just a warning? Leading to the ultimate question: Suicide or murder?

  As a devoted fan of cozy mysteries, I could not resist giving the death scene a title. Having been beaten to the obvious, A Monumental Death, by Chief Henderson I went with the weather- related tag. Being rather fond of double entendres I titled it, A Deadly Snow Fall. The appellation would come back to haunt me in the weeks to come.

  Chapter Three

  Before we move on to the real meat of the mystery of Edwin Snow III’s enigmatic demise, allow me to introduce myself. I, like unwary Alice, had been thrust through the looking glass by Dame Fate to find my life transformed--from uncovering ancient sites to making beds and cleaning bathrooms. My name, Lady Elizabeth Ogilvie-Smythe, I clipped to just plain Liz Ogilvie-Smythe when I moved to the quaint seaside village of Provincetown on Cape Cod to become an innkeeper. A turn of events that could not have taken me more by surprise if I too had found myself shrinking small enough to slip through a rabbit hole.

  Born and raised in London, I grew up among the crème de la crème of British society. My mother sat on the board of the Tate Gallery and my father, who worked for the Queen, had a job so top secret even Mother did not know what he did. However, his job brought us into the fold of the royal realm. Our life was a whirl of fancy dress affairs like the ballet, the opera, the theatre, cocktail parties in magnificent homes in the city and hunt weekends in the country. Not to mention the annual dinner with the Queen. By the age of ten, I was the possessor of as many ball gowns as Princess Di and enough jewelry to sink a battleship.

  After graduation from Oxford with a degree in literature, I spent a few years living on my own in Hasting, running a small, private library. A sweet village but hardly where I wanted to remain into old age. Finally, spurred by reading about digs like Chichen Itza and the supposed ruins of Troy, I entered grad school at my alma mata. Two years later, armed with a degree in archaeology and a determination to put many miles (continents) between me and my snooty family, I headed to South America to work on a dig of ancient ruins with my esteemed professor. Unfortunately, my dream career came tumbling down only twelve weeks later. Rather than rooting around in the earth, I found myself in a bed at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston being a pin cushion for the world’s foremost expert on malaria.

  Finally, I was released with a satchel of drugs to be taken for the coming six weeks and then, if I did not feel like my old self, I was told to report back for more tests. I checked into a suite of room at the elegant Ritz Hotel in Boston’s lovely Back Bay section. There I read cozy mysteries, walked in the Boston Commons and Public Gardens, watched cooking shows on the telly and waited for an epiphany regarding what to do with the rest of my life.

  My doctor had expressed in no uncertain terms that to return to field work out in jungles and all the other favorite habitats of malaria-carrying mosquitoes would probably result in my death. The little, nasty insects had become my arch enemies. As it turned out, I even went on to dubious fame in the New England Journal of Medicine. It turned out that my immune system’s reaction to the disease was most unique. And, not in a good way.

  My dreams smashed and scattered, I could not imagine what to do with the rest of my life. I was a trained and dedicated archaeologist who was not allowed to dig unless it was in a safe environment like Hampstead Heath! It was a truly difficult time for me. I had anticipated a long and rewarding career as a field archaeologist but it was not to be because of a member of the insect family, Culcidae of South America.

  But, the answer to my dilemma was on its way. That answer could not have been more of a surprise than if the Queen herself had requested that I come dig up the garden at Buckingham Palace in search of Viking ruins.

  Checking at the front desk of the Ritz before heading out to explore the historic city of Boston on a pleasant mid-summer day, I found a letter waiting for me. It was a summons from a Boston attorney to meet with him at his office in Pemberton Square. The letter was well-travelled. It had gone to London, on to South America and then to the hotel, thanks to my dig leader who had my new, if temporary, address.

  Two days later, I was sitting in a lawyer’s office in a handsome old building totally mystified about why I was there. The letter had been most ambiguous but it had mentioned my, dropped-from-the-august-Smythe-family-tree-aunt Elizabeth Smythe Huntley. Aha, she hadn’t added a hyphen when she’d settled in America.

  So, there I was sitting looking out of a floor to ceiling window onto a small green space and thinking about doing some shopping on trendy Newbury Street, as soon as I could escape. Finally, the smartly dressed attorney addressed me.

  “Aha, yes, well, how nice for you, Ms. Smythe er, or is it Ogilvie-Smythe, then? My, my, yes, interesting.”

  I smiled rather sardonically having grown used to the American reluctance to accept the validity of hyphenated names. The lawyer, sounding like every member of the renowned American royal family, the Kennedys, proceeded to read the terms of a will.

  To my open-mouthed surprise, “Libby” (the Elizabeth for whom I’d been named) Smythe Huntley had left me an inn on Cape Cod.

  All I knew about my estranged aunt was that she’d been disgraced and therefore, expunged from the Smythe family tree. The dear lady had f
allen in love with and then (gasp!) actually married and American car salesman. I’d never met her and her name had been virtually mud in the Ogilvie-Smythe aristocratic, snobbish family. The will named me as her sole heir!

  Through the haze of my utter amazement, the nasal tones of the attorney’s voice pulled me back to reality. An inn. Cape Cod. Perhaps, a summons from the Queen and a sterling silver shovel might not have been quite so shocking, after all.

  “Of course, a young, well-educated woman such as you are will not want to bother with running an inn. The town is dead as a dormouse all winter and in summer is flooded with quacks and tourists …many of them interchangeable.” He paused as if to say something else. Appeared to dismiss the thought as irrelevant and then, blurted it out. “Full of queers. The Greenwich Village and Fire Island crowds flock there these days. A disgrace.”

  I didn’t feel that it was my responsibility to correct the ignorant, homophobic man on his choice of the term, “queers.” My complete intolerance for homophobia, on a par with the social inequities subscribed to by family, however, bubbled over at his words. I longed to leave the presence of the prejudiced and officious man. But, there was more to come. I bit my tongue and persevered.

  He pointed to a map on the wall behind his desk. “We summer in Chatham. A lovely, quaint town with excellent architecture, fine beaches, the best restaurants and shops, but Provincetown is, well…let me put it this way...an offensive dumping ground for…”

  My taser-like eye contact with the annoying, tiny-minded man put an end to that speech.

  Regaining his balance, however, he shot me a few more bullets.

  “That degenerate Eugene O’Neill and his cohorts turned Provincetown into a sordid gathering place for socialists. That radical writer John Reed and his tramp mistress Louise Bryant hung out there.” Blah, blah, blah.

  Conversely to his intentions, everything he was saying that was meant to discourage me was rather, intriguing me. I conjured up an American version of Penzance in Cornwall, England. A favorite seaside place in my childhood.

  The man babbled on in his efforts to convince me that I ought to sell the inn immediately, take advantage of the favorable real estate market, wipe my hands of the whole affair and pocket a goodly portion of money, etc., etc. I began a little fantasy in my head. Wouldn’t it be fun to contact my parents with the news that I’d fallen in love with a Boston chimney sweep--complete with broom, bucket and sooty face--and I would be bringing him home to London to meet the family? It would serve them right. My poor, dear aunt. Ostracized for falling in love outside the realm. I figured if she had chosen the little seaside village way down the peninsula of Cape Cod then it was probably a far more real place than where she came from. One more reason to like the woman I’d never met but wished I had.

  According to the lawyer, my aunt’s American husband died soon after they settled in the village and with his life insurance she had bought the antique, distressed house and, doing much of the work herself, restored it to its eighteenth century beauty. She supported herself by taking in summer guests and then in winter by teaching piano to the locals. She had been a pillar of the community, served on the library board and more recently, until her untimely death, had been chairperson of the Provincetown Historical Society. As my admiration for my dead aunt increased, the man’s words floated by me, unheard. Blah, blah, blah.

  Spotting some photos poking out of the file in front of the lawyer I asked, “Are those photos of the property?” Was that a “harrumph”?

  Pulling them toward me I saw a solid, four-square white house with deep front veranda. Four stalwart chimneys, gleaming windows framed by deep cranberry painted shutters and a front yard overflowing with wildflowers filled me with enchantment. The white wicker furniture set out on the front porch for the guests to enjoy the evening salt breezes called to me. I found myself slipping into a love affair with a house. When my eye fell on a huge, ancient tree overhanging the yard and a sturdy limb just perfect for an old fashioned rope swing I knew I had to live there.

  All through my childhood I’d wanted a rope swing like the ones I saw in storybooks. Of course my request for one was anathema to my parents’ ideas of propriety. “But darling, you don’t want to look like the bumpkin child of the help.” I never fully understood who it was who was going to see me and pass judgment on one small girl enjoying a swing.

  Looking at the photo, I wanted to walk right in, brew a pot of tea and sit on a wicker chair to read Beatrix Potter. Well, the old girl showed them, didn’t she? She made a good life for herself despite her family’s odious treatment. My affinity for this courageous woman blossomed as I leafed through the photos. Then, sending a shiver down my spine, I was face to face with myself. Yes, the hairdo was dated and the flowered summer dress would be a big hit in a vintage clothing shop, but otherwise there stood I. My father’s sister and I were so alike I wondered how my parents felt when they looked at me. Did they have second thoughts about ostracizing her? Probably not.

  “Please read me the details of the property, how many rooms, etc.”

  Was that a groan of annoyance I’d heard? Okay, two can play at this game I said to myself. If this man was going to be annoyed by my interest in a property legally belonging to me, one that he was ready to simply hand off to the highest bidder, I would make him earn his fee. The man was getting on my nerves, big time.

  “I’d like to hear every tiny detail. I assume my aunt lived there; therefore, there must be an owner’s flat. How many rentable rooms are there and what is the going rate in season? I’d even like the population of the village? I am sure your secretary can quickly Google that.”

  With a deep sigh the man looked to the file folder and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

  “Well, the building was built in 1748 by a sea captain named Joshua Eldredge and lived in by the same family until your aunt purchased the property and converted the private home into an inn. It has ten rentable rooms all with private baths, a sitting room, gathering room, formal dining room and a kitchen…considerably outdated according to the surveyor. Your aunt called the place the Cranberry Inn Bed & Breakfast and, yes, it has a spacious owner’s apartment and the furnishings are in excellent condition if terribly out-dated. It says here that it is a “turnkey operation.” Therefore, I am sure you can unload it fairly quickly.

  My look, icy though I tried to make it, appeared to have no effect. The man only rolled on to issue more dire warnings.

  “If you were to take on this business you would need to hire a breakfast cook, cleaning people and a bookkeeper and you must be made acutely aware of the upkeep expenses demanded of such an old structure. In addition, this is a seasonal business with no income for probably nine months of the year, thus, blah, blah, blah.”

  Thank goodness, I thought, I took that great course at the Cordon Bleu in Paris the summer of my junior year. What fun to try out all those great recipes I’ve been collecting for years. If my cooking skills haven’t grown rusty in the intervening years.

  As the bombastic man prattled on with the litany of reasons why I should want to wash my hands of this whole affair as expediently as possible, I asked my self one simple question. Why not go for it?

  The man nearly tumbled off his chair when I announced, “As far as the cooking goes I can whip up the flakiest croissants and pain au chocolate your mouth will ever wrap around. My soufflés are like clouds and I am sure I can hire help to do what I cannot manage. By the way, as far as expenses and seasonal income are concerned, I am sure that you are well aware that my finances will allow me to hang on, do the improvements and, if necessary, lose money—If I so choose.”

  I didn’t bother to feed into his chauvinistic attitude toward me by mentioning that I had not one iota of an idea of how to run an inn beyond the possible fun of exercising my cooking skills.

  If looks could kill I’d have been slumped in that handsome Windsor chair with my tongue lolling out. But I was a match for the condescending man, although I
did expect a harsh parental issuance of a punishment to fit my crime. Young lady you are grounded for two weeks due to your complete failure to comprehend the magnitude of my sage advice.

  “Sounds just perfect. When can I take possession?”

  Chapter Four

  Truth can be stranger than fiction, now and again. The mystery that took hold of the little seaside village of Provincetown fell like a shroud and hung around, stirring up trouble for some time. That it would come to involve me was another earth-shaking happenstance. I was new to the village, not unlike the weary, ship-worn passengers on the notable, tiny and inadequate ship the Mayflower had been. I too had arrived in an unknown land not sure the natives would welcome me. A compressed course in American history (a tourist pamphlet for the Pilgrim Monument) for this transplanted Brit, told me that Provincetown was the first landing place in 1620 of the ship-weary Pilgrims. Not pleased with the sandy soil, they moved across the bay to Plymouth. It was there that the rag-tag band stepped back on land, or at least, onto the iconic Plymouth Rock now enshrined in that colony.

  One can imagine the native people waving farewell from a high sand dune, grateful not to have to deal with a pack of miserable dissenters from a faraway land. But that is, of course, only a fanciful hypothesis for which I alone take credit.

  Driving back from Orleans on the morning of the death of Edwin Snow, with Daph busy reading People Magazine to stay on top of the latest secrets and scandals out of Tinsel Town, I had time to contemplate the “case.” As the dead man’s body had been lifted onto a stretcher, my second thought after wondering if the snow was ruining my expensive Italian leather boots was about the day I “met” the village curmudgeon.

  Passing the Provincetown Town Hall, a stately Greek Revival building in the center of the village, I’d stopped to pat a handsome, white and black pit bull. I checked his collar and found out that his name was Patton. We were having a fine time making friends when suddenly an old man stepped up and yanked the dog’s leash that had been trailing on the sidewalk. I’d looked up and smiled. After all, I was brought up to be polite. However, the wizened old geezer only stared back at me as if I’d been beating his dog. Then, he pulled the dog away and off they went. So much for everyone in the village being friendly.