A Deadly Snow Fall

by Cynthia Gallant-Simpson

“Did the Souzas mind him doing that?”

  “I would, I’ll tell you that. It’s the principle of the thing. However, Manny just said, ‘Not worth dealing with the nutcase. Got better things to do,’ so the old bat never even got a slap on the wrist. Chief Henderson knows by heart the complaints Edwin has made over the years. He and Chief Garrett from Truro meet for lunch once a month at Beasley’s just to compare notes and more often than not it is something that old madman did or said that gets them riled.”

  “You see, the Snow mansion is not actually in Provincetown but in North Truro. However, it’s closer to us than the tiny center of Truro. Not much of a center as it consists of a small library and a poky little general store. So, whenever Edwin had a complaint, he took it to Chief Henderson.”

  “How annoying for our chief to have to deal with the man whose property taxes were paid to different town.”

  “Get this. Our charming Edwin had a long-standing dispute going with the neighbor to his east who’s a lobsterman. Edwin was forever complaining that he could smell the lobster traps and demanding the man get rid of them. Right, just go out of the business that had supported his grandfather and father before him! Imagine the nerve of the man. The nut even took his neighbor’s dog hostage, once. Claimed he wouldn’t return the poor pup until the traps were moved. Chief could find no laws regarding dog-napping so they settled the issue by covering the traps with tarpaulins and poor old Skippy the hound was returned.”

  “Sounds like a truly crazy man, alright. I sort of feel sorry for him though, don’t you, Daph?

  “Not really. Get this. Other neighbors were harassed, as well. Oh, you are going to just love this one, Liz. Edwin complained that another neighbor’s cat trespassed on his property with malicious intent! Chief Henderson hooted over that one, I can tell you.”

  We laughed heartily about Edwin Snow’s irritable character and seemingly driving need to cause conflict. Simultaneously, however, I was experiencing a growing need myself. To bring the old curmudgeon a measure of justice. Posthumously.

  My amateur sleuth meter was racing. I was intrigued by all that I’d heard about Edwin Snow III. But did I dare jump, possibly right up to my neck, into something I had no business getting involved in? In the village where I was a virtual newcomer? Food for thought.

  Chapter Six

  Paying no heed to my own misgivings, I found myself surreptitiously asking a few questions about the old man around the village. Simple curiosity in the wake of his death. At least, I hoped no one would suspect my real motives. “What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”

  From a lovely old woman, Gertrude Nickerson who ran the Needling Around Yarn Shop, I found out that Edwin Snow, a few years ahead of her in school, had been a “whiner and sniveler.”

  “Edwin got himself a fine education at Yale. He was a pre-med student and yet, after graduation he came home to his father’s house and never left.” Gertrude told me as she sat knitting without ever moving her eyes from my face to her wildly moving knitting needles.

  “He never went off to make a life for himself?” I asked.

  Gertrude put down her knitting, briefly. She smiled slyly and I waited, knowing she was about to share something either cute or shocking.

  “As Edwin did absolutely nothing to discourage the opinion by all that he was the spitting image of his nasty father, a similar apple fallen off of the tree, he inherited old Ned’s reputation and the accompanying venom of the townspeople. It was assumed that such a father could only have spawned a horned, cloven-hoofed, flesh-eating, devil-vermin.”

  I sat shocked to hear the tiny, white-haired grandmotherly woman speaking like the television narrator of a program on werewolves and Big Foot. We laughed together and then she went to make us some tea. I came away with the gift of a lovely silk ribbon knitted scarf in shades of turquoise from pale to deepest blue-green.

  Back at the inn, sitting in the sunny sitting room, coming up to a fortnight (two weeks, in American vernacular) after the mysterious death of Edwin Snow, I questioned my motives. Also, my good judgment.

  Chief Henderson had called it a suicide and closed the case. Oughtn’t I just leave it at that, I asked myself? However, the flinty voice that sounded to me like how M.C. Beaton’s feisty sleuth Agatha Raisin would sound if she were real, expressed a very different opinion. So, you plan to just rot away in that little American village? Toss away your skills for digging? Become a drudge and grow old never having diverted your fine education onto a new, useful avenue? Digging needn’t be limited to the earth. Here before you is the opportunity to dig into murder. No trowel required.

  That brought me up short. I’d ask Daphne’s opinion. She also loved cozies. Coincidentally, that evening was to be the first meeting of our newly-formed Cozy Mystery Book Club. A temporary name until we voted on a proper one. A book club with a twist that would probably backfire on us nevertheless, we planned to give it a try. Except for Daphne, the club’s founding “mothers” were all great cooks. As it turned out, we attracted the most delightful mixed bag of gender orientations from straight females to lesbians to transsexuals and one…no I’ll hold that surprise for later. The by-laws would say that the monthly hostess would be required to serve a three course meal before the meeting and book discussion. No simple brownies and cookies at our cozy book club meetings.

  Daphne got a buy. Since she could not, as she’d admitted, “make a Marmite sandwich without guidance” she would be allowed to hire her favorite village caterer for this task. Bama (short for Alabama) Hutton of Hutton’s Gluttons Catering Service lived and worked in the village and joined the club.

  Growing up in London, my family had a cook who could roast a beef or a bird and was adept at mashed potatoes but lived in fear of any but canned vegetables. For years, based on eating at friends’ houses, restaurants, country houses to which I was invited for weekends and even at university, I came to assume that I had inherited some recessive genes not found in my parents. I’d never heard them complain about Meaghan’s cooking although, of course, they were pretty self-absorbed so that might explain their lack of interest in the meals set before them.

  I am the child of parents who, I often imagined in my mind’s eye, woke up one morning to find a baby girl lying between them and having no idea of how she got there but being essentially good people, raised her anyway. That’s my story and I am sticking to it.

  I’d begun reading cookbooks in my teens when my friends were reading the popular trash. The summer I’d spent in Paris learning from the finest cooking teachers in the world had certainly come in handy when I suddenly, unexpectedly, but to my pure delight, became an innkeeper. Being a “chocoholic,” I chose a very special recipe for the evening’s dessert. Custard-filled, chocolate ganache-frosted cream puffs. To hell with the caloric impact; this was to be a special night.

  The main course would consist of my favorite quiches. For the vegetarians,’ a filling of pears, green onions, spinach and gruyere cheese. For the carnivores,’ bacon, tomato, grilled fennel, feta cheese and fresh basil from the tall plant in my sunny kitchen window. There would be a tossed salad, various spicy condiments and freshly baked baguettes brushed with garlic butter. The wines from the local vintner, Truro Vineyard, were bright, sunny and reminiscent of a visit I’d made to Tuscany.

  Everything was ready by five-thirty. I popped into the old claw-footed, porcelain tub for a leisurely bath. Forty minutes later, rising from deep, lilac-scented bubbles I was ready for a fun evening. Daphne had picked up a couple of new members who were unknown to me, so new friends would be made over good food and good books.

  I made a plait of my hair that needed a trim. Maybe some lighter streaks for summer. I had to ask Daphne who did her hair locally. As the evening was cool, that wily, quixotic fox still fooling around with the season, I donned a black cotton turtleneck sweater and rust-colored, butter-soft suede jeans. A half-dozen silver bangles and large silver hoop earrings and I was ready.

&n
bsp; I lit candles and did a final check on the food. The wine was chilling. It promised to be a fine evening. Daphne outdid herself by arriving on time. At seven sharp, she and three other women appeared. Right behind them came my next door neighbor Alice Kline and two women I’d seen around the village but had never met. After introductions, we enjoyed appetizers in the living room.

  Everyone enjoyed the dinner and finally, it was time for the dessert. I suggested we all retire to the sitting room for the final course and tea and coffee. I delivered the shiny, chocolate ganache-frosted cream puffs on a large, blue, Provencal platter to happy applause.

  “Oh Liz, they look so scrumptious. Promise me there’s not a calorie in them.” Mary Ellen pleaded.

  “Not a one, dive in.” I answered.

  Sated and nursing our hot drinks and/or after dinner cordials, it was time for getting down to business. Licking the chocolate ganache from her lips to get every last morsel Daphne opened the business meeting. “I suppose the group ought to have a name. Any suggestions?”

  “Oh, I know, I know. How about Les Girls? It’s got such a nice ring to it.” That was the newest member, Geraldine.

  “Yes, but what if we get some male members?” I asked and was immediately challenged.

  “Oh pleeeeze, no. Men are beasts!” Geraldine.

  Daphne smiled at the handsome, big-boned but very attractive woman dressed in a smart pant suit and the two high fived in female solidarity. I’d liked Geraldine right from our introduction when she’d admired the wall and furniture colors and complimented me on my good taste.

  “Now, we all know men are beasts but necessary beasts. Anyway, we might uncover some intelligent, well-mannered, interesting bibliophiles, even here at the end of the world.” My attempt to broaden the perspective. I might have been proposing the admittance to our lofty club of warlocks and vampires if Geraldine’s look was any indication of the extent of my crime against the nature of good sense.

  Daphne’s sly grin I knew only too well. What was she up to, I wondered?

  “Listen up, girls. Geraldine ought to know about men. After all, she used to be one.” Daphne waited for the reaction.

  “You were, Geraldine? That’s great. It’s like having a double agent in the group. Oh, there is so much you can teach us.” You could have knocked me over with a feather. The lovely woman who reminded me of the sixties Swedish actress Anita Ekberg from movies my mother used to watch, had formerly been a man? Amazing. Naïve me asked, “Was it very painful to make the change?”

  “Just a few chemicals and a snip here and a tuck there and voila! Most fun was buying lacy bras and underpants.” We all dissolved into laughter; the conversation drifted off in many directions and we never came up with a name for the club.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, as I was taking a batch of chocolate coconut biscotti from the oven, the old-fashioned wall phone in the kitchen jangled. The Pointillists, the local needlepoint club named for the nineteenth century French art movement characterized by applying points of paint that resulted in works of art, had hired the dining room for their meeting that afternoon. I’d offered to donate the pastries and coffee and tea. Good for business but also because everyone in the village had made me feel so welcome. It was the least I could do.

  “Good morning Ms. um, is it Ogilvie or Smythe I should be calling you, ma’am?”

  “First, let’s establish to whom I am speaking and then we will get to my name, Sir.”

  “So sorry. I am Officer James Finneran at the police station, ma’am.”

  “Well, Officer James Finneran, nice to meet one of the village guardians. By the way, no need for the ‘ma’am’ and it is a hyphenated name; therefore, the hyphen joining the otherwise two separate names makes it one name. Ogilvie-Smythe.”

  “Ah, and as I can tell by the lovely accent, you are from my general neighborhood. Allow me to properly introduce myself to you, ma’am, er, Ms. Ogilvie Smythe…James Finneran, late of Dublin, Ireland. Not too fond of your Queen, but I hope that doesn’t get in the way of our being friends.”

  James had a habit of adopting a deeper brogue when talking to women. Although it seemed to turn men off, women seemed to “gobble it up like treacle,” he once commented to Chief Henderson who laughed so hard he spilled his coffee all down the front of his uniform.

  I could not help but smile; he sounded like the quintessential leprechaun. “Don’t quote me, please, but, quite frankly, some days I’m not so fond of her either. And the behavior of her offspring. Oh my, a pack of spoiled Brits!”

  “Isn’t that just grand. I see that you’ve got yourself a fine sense of humor. Well, now, is it Ms. or Mrs.?” Right to the point.

  “I suppose that depends on the reason for this call. If I have a parking ticket I do not know about or you saw me pinching the fruit at Souzas’ market, then it is ‘Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe.’ If you want a donation for the policeman’s ball or want to book a room for your mother visiting from the old country, then it is definitely ‘Elizabeth.’ Should we ever become good friends, I have no problem with simply ‘Liz.’”

  “It will be my extreme pleasure to look forward to ‘Liz.’ For now, I must let you know that there is a lawyer here from Boston who would like to talk to you. When it’s convenient, of course. However, he would like it to be today.”

  “A lawyer. So, you do prosecute for fruit pinching.”

  “Oh, Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe, you are a card.”

  “Mr. Finneran, or should I address you as ‘Officer’? I can be available at one this afternoon if that works with the lawyer. However, might I know what this is all about? I’ve never been fond of surprises.”

  “As you may know, we recently had a tragedy in town. Old man Edwin Snow…. jumped from the Pilgrim Monument. According to the lawyer, it seems he named you in his will.”

  I was glad he could not see my face at that moment since he sounded good looking and I was anxious to take his measure. But if a look of surprise could be measured on a scale of one to ten then mine was easily a fifteen.

  I hung up the wall phone and simply stood there utterly dumbfounded. Then, I grabbed it back and punched in Daphne’s number.

  “Hi. Something really, really odd is going on.”

  “Yes, and your point exactly? This is P-town where odd is de rigueur.”

  “No, seriously Daphne. I just got a call from the police station about a lawyer who wants to meet with me to tell me about…It just has to be a mistake, that’s it.”

  “Blimey, Liz, will you please get to the point.”

  “It seems that odd little man who jumped from the Pilgrim Monument left me something in his will.”

  Silence.

  “Aha, so you and the old guy had something going, did you? After his money were you?”

  “Get serious Daphne, I’ve got enough money to buy this entire town so what would I be doing with a weird little man whom everyone disliked?”

  “Damned if I know. Perversity? A long, celibate winter?”

  I hung up and smiled. Yes, a long, celibate winter, indeed.

  I walked to the police station hoping the Irish policeman would be there. He sounded so delightful on the phone. It had been a long time between men. Daphne had been right on. A long, celibate winter and longer still since I’d met anyone worth even washing my hair for!

  I walked into the Town Hall, looked to my left and saw the reception area for the police department. To my right a door was open and a well-dressed, gray-haired man sat at a reproduction Governor Winthrop desk leaning over a pile of official looking papers. Definitely the attorney. No sign of the leprechaun.

  Introducing myself, I had my most skeptical face on. The whole idea that a virtual stranger, the town curmudgeon, had left me something was way beyond ludicrous. Surely, there’d been a big mistake.

  “How do you do? I am Elizabeth Ogilvie-Smythe and, of course, there has been a mistake. I did not know the man who died and he did not know me. Therefore, he had no reaso
n to leave me anything in his will.”

  “How do you do Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe? Allow me to introduce myself. Anthony Wilder from Wilder, Fitzpatrick and Cohen, Boston.”

  The tall, well-dressed attorney exuded an air of frostiness that I could feel right through my forest green cashmere jacket. I was sure that this was a mistake that could quickly be remedied.

  Ignoring my objections, the lawyer motioned me to a chair. “Kindly take a seat here,” he pointed to a chair placed at an angle to the one next to it, in between a small handsome piecrust edged table on which was sitting a dainty porcelain teapot and two delicate cups. Pretty nice stuff for a police station interview room, I thought. Looking around at the fine wood paneling on the walls and the tin ceiling I had to wonder what purpose this room had served in the old town hall.

  “Tea?”

  Being offered tea by a po-faced city attorney who obviously had me mixed up with someone else, thus keeping me from more important things really grated. However, the familiar fragrance of one of my favorite teas, Oolong, won me over.

  “I do realize that this perhaps comes as a surprise, Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe, but I assure you this is legitimate. Mr. Edwin”….he looked down at the papers on his lap, “So sorry, I had to step in just this morning on the fly as my father was stricken ill. Ah yes. Mr. Edwin Snow was my father’s client for many, many years.”

  “So sorry. Is your father going to be alright?”

  “Pardon me? Oh yes. Just a bit of gout. Nothing serious. Except, of course, to poor father.” He tittered. I grimaced but he either missed it or chose to ignore my human emotion as it was probably alien to his nature.

  “Now, let us move on here. Mr. Edwin Snow III has specifically named you as heir to his manuscript. His home and the bulk of his monetary estate he left to the American Pit Bull Advocate Society but this box belongs to you.”

  Reaching for a leather box about the size of a small valise, he pulled it toward him, hesitating for a moment as if trying to judge my worthiness. Looking directly into the man’s pellucid eyes I wondered how this crazy error might have occurred. My natural cat-like curiosity however kept me glued to the chair.