The sun slanting in through the tall, many-paned, not too clean window was warm and spring-like. In the past, I would have nipped off to the Caribbean or the Côte d’Azur to avoid the discontent that can come with the long, gray days of a London winter. I had surprised myself by my state of contentment, that winter. Maturity or simply novelty? Whatever. As Daph would have said.
At last, the stuffed shirt spoke. “This case contains the manuscript formerly belonging to Edwin Snow III. It now belongs to you, by order of his will.”
I simply offered a perplexed look and sat there hoping the cute sounding, Irish cop would suddenly appear. We could maybe pop off to kiss the Blarney Stone together.
The attorney removed an envelope from the folder in front of him. I sipped my tea. Sun motes danced in the slanted light. No Officer Finneran came to my rescue. Damsel disappointed.
He handed me the letter and I took it as if it was on fire. A pause followed that, despite its insubstantial nature, did however feel like a chill blanket that floated down from the ceiling and, as it reached us sitting there as still as statuary, altered the fiber of our corporeal reality. The room shifted and then shifted back but this latter only because one of us chose to speak into the yawning void.
“Oh my. Pardon me. How stupid of me not to notice this. Ah yes. Well now, that changes things quite dramatically, doesn’t it?” Attorney Wilder appeared either agitated or constipated and anxious to remedy that situation.
“Aha, at last, there is a mistake isn’t there? This is not my inheritance but belongs to someone else entirely. Therefore,” I rose abruptly, “I shall get on with my day. Good day, Sir.”
“No, please wait. There is no mistake about this.” He turned toward the box. “Yes, it is to be yours. Oh my. Not just yet. It seems that Mr. Snow added a codicil to his will just nine weeks before his death. It seems that he feared for his life. Told my father that, according to this file and so…interesting, very interesting.”
I had never been famous for having a high patience threshold and this ludicrous meeting had just gone on far too long for me. The expression, cat on a hot tin roof came to mind. I knew that I would have to leave or I just might pop this fellow in his snooty nose.
“Look, why don’t you just burn this or put it on e-Bay or let it blow on the wind because, quite frankly I have lost interest in this matter and I do have a busy day ahead of me. Gazing at my watch, I declared, “Well now, look at that; it’s almost tea time. Talley ho, got to go.”
“Ms. Smythe, please.” The man’s tone made it abundantly clear that he was totally disinterested in what I might want and, in addition, he’d gotten my name wrong. I began to bristle like a hedgehog.
“I think that you will want to hear this, as it explains everything quite succinctly.”
I groaned audibly and resumed my seat.
“Evidently, the man was a close friend to your aunt. A Mrs. Elizabeth Smythe Huntley, late of this community. As the man was evidently fearful for his life following certain ‘attacks’ to his person, he added this codicil to his will just nine weeks ago. My, my, this is strange. Yes, indeed.”
I snapped. “And did you wish to share this oddity with me or simply keep it to enjoy later at your leisure? So, the tragic old man knew my aunt, did he? She is gone and I was never even properly introduced to the man so this makes not one iota of sense. Why me?”
I considered faking a faint. Anything to bring the strange meeting to an end. But there was something more. Something so farcical that made this scene fit more appropriately into a British drawing room comedy than my life. These kinds of things don’t happen in real life. At least, not in my life. But I was wrong.
“In effect, it states here that you do not receive the manuscript until you find his murderer!”
“What?” I fell back into the chair like a popped balloon.
Chapter Eight
I’d walked home in a daze. The snow was gone but there were little reminder traces of the surprise snowstorm up against places that did not get the sun. Along the way, my spirits, if not my confusion, lifted as I noticed lots of pale green shoots in front gardens that practically grew taller as one watched.
“Find my murderer.” Why in the world had that unhappy old man chosen me for the task? Where did he get off demanding such a thing? From a virtual stranger? I could only suppose it was just one of his nasty plots to cause discontent. Because I’d patted and befriended his dog? Surely, that could not have been enough reason to foist such a ridiculous duty upon my head. Therefore, I would simply ignore the codicil. I’d classify it as the final trick of a sick and paranoid man and forget I’d ever heard it.
Back at the inn, the architect and the builder who were in charge of renovating my Aunt Libby’s nineteen fifties kitchen were just arriving as I pulled up in the Jeep. They left after we made a few changes to the plan, and I headed, with a cup of tea, to the sunny sitting room. Just what I needed right then. If this were a tennis match, I thought, the point would have gone to Snow. He had managed to set my nerves on edge. Nothing like the comfort of tea. The chamomile tea’s soporific effect took me from contemplation of my strange meeting with the attorney who’d, in effect, arranged a posthumous encounter between me and the old grump, Edwin Snow III, into a lucid daydream.
Find my murderer!
Wearing a handsome, black London Fog trench coat and a muted paisley Liberty scarf I moved stealthily through the village in search of clues. Calling upon my newly formed friendships, I surreptitiously inquired about the dead man while carefully disguising the reasons for my interest. Best not to arouse their suspicions that I was on a mission to find a murderer.
One by one the clues accumulated until I had the case solved and only then did I go to the police with my findings. They applauded my efforts as the case had stymied them for so long. I was thereby appointed a special ex-officio detective. A sort of crime consultant.
The chiming of the old grandfather clock on the landing brought me abruptly back to reality. The sun had lost its gloss and the thick, dark clouds that had rolled in looked most unfriendly. More rain? What is this, London? I asked aloud although there was no one to answer me and, just as well. The silly, little daydream had stirred up the memory of what I’d seen that day when Edwin Snow lay broken in the fresh fall of snow. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the incongruity of his crushed skull just could not be so easily set aside as the Police Chief had obviously done. But, who was I to question the highest law in the village? Chief Henderson had closed the case after calling the death a suicide. I needed professional information. Fortunately, that excellent advice and possibly some helpful guidance was only an international call away.
Being an inveterate list maker, I took pen in hand and sat with a pad of yellow lined paper to get my thoughts and impressions organized.
Suicide or Murder: Edwin Snow III
How did the old man gain access to the Pilgrim Monument? Daphne said that Bill Windship practically owns the tower and he has the key. Sleeps with the key, she surmised.
How did Edwin Snow manage to climb all of those steps at his age? It would seem that suicide would be a moot point since he should have had a heart attack and died as a result of the climb.
Why choose that method of suicide, anyway?
Who would gain from his death?
What part does his manuscript play in the plot?
Will reading the manuscript help to solve the case and if so, how can I get my hands on it without first solving the case???? Catch 22.
Next question; what on earth am I doing? I asked myself. This is just plain crazy. What does it matter to me how the old coot died? Then, Agatha Raisin with her “little bear eyes” and “great legs” came vibrantly into my mind. As if she was sitting across from me, her steely voice echoed inside my head. How can you even think of not getting involved? Are you not a decent, compassionate, civilized human being? Even miserable, nasty old curmudgeons who are hated by everyone ought to have an advocate if
and when they are murdered. That’s why you must, I reiterate MUST, get involved, bloody fool!
Then, almost as if Agatha herself had taken pen to paper, I wrote: I must investigate this case because I seem to be the only person in the entire village, including the law, who saw something irregular at the crime scene and that irregularity could be the difference between the verdict of suicide and MURDER.
I picked up the cell phone and punched in Daphne’s number.
“Hi. How about sharing my humble dinner. Daphne?”
“Hi. Sure. Got to eat somewhere so might as well be your place. See you about six, got to drive to Barnstable with a painting for a show at the Cape Cod Art Association gallery. Toodleoo.”
In the kitchen, I took four jumbo shrimp out of the refrigerator and set about making a potent garlic stuffing for them. This mindless work gave me more time think about the challenging conundrum. Did I have what it takes to be an amateur sleuth? Could I weather the repercussions if I found the murderer and it was someone well-loved and respected who just lost it and in a moment of passion tossed the old man over the side of Pilgrim Monument?
Wait a minute! Smashing six elephant garlic cloves, it occurred to me that this might not have anything to do with his real or imagined manuscript full of real or imagined scandals and secrets. Of course. It made no sense whatsoever that the frail, old man chose to jump to his death from the Pilgrim Monument. He might have been annoying and difficult but he wasn’t stupid. If he’d wanted to end his life there were easier ways. I could come up with no reason for his choosing to climb hundreds of stairs in an icy tower on a snowy night to make the fatal jump.
Thus, I engaged a helpful theory learned in university physics class. William of Occam’s, Occam’s Razor, in modern vernacular, KISS, Keep It Simple Stupid, states that once you discard everything unlikely what you ought to be left with is the truth of the matter.
Applying this to the case of Edwin Snow’s death, it seemed to me that the truth was that someone either forced or carried the old man up those stairs. Either way, didn’t that point to someone younger and stronger? Insert that fact and what you get is that it was unlikely that the killer was concerned about the possible revelation of old secrets and scandals.
Daphne’s arrival put paid to my sleuth-related contemplations. “Tea or coffee?” I asked her.
“Gin.” Said my glamorous friend. Then, “What’s for dinner?”
“I’ve prepared a shrimp scampi, risotto with a mild pesto sauce, spinach, mandarin orange and purple onion salad, Aunt Libby’s wonderful squash dinner rolls and her favorite pie, cranberry pecan. Will that do, my food compacter friend?”
“Sure. Why not? Hey, everyone loved my painting and I think I might even have already sold it to the gallery director who grew up in this village. She simply drooled over it.”
“Messy, I’d say.”
“Very funny. Getting out this afternoon was impossible. I had to clip Kilty Goldfarb’s nails, just couldn’t put it off another day. She’s shredded the house. Thankfully, she was in a particularly good mood since I promised her a few sardines if she cooperated.”
“I keep meaning to ask you, Daphne; why that weird name for your poor innocent cat?”
“Read it in a novel just before she wandered in with her lovely gray coat all full of knots and an infected sore on her paw. Just seemed like an omen. Kilty was a difficult person with psychological knots therefore….”
Just before Daphne’s arrival, I’d attempted to reach Nigel Hoppington in London. The longer I put it off, the more it would niggle around in my head driving me to distraction. Reaching only his voicemail, I left a brief message telling my old friend that I would call again the next day.
Sipping her gin and tonic, Daphne was full of stories picked up at the gallery. I tried to concentrate on her words but my mind kept drifting off. Pulling myself back to the present and my loquacious friend, I asked, “Did you do the cat grooming in that getup, Daph?”
“Can’t you tell by all the gray hairs on this skirt?” She stood, did a quick perfunctory shaking of the skirt, sat down again and picked up her glass exclaiming, “Alright, sock it to me. What happened at the meeting with the Boston attorney? Did the old guy leave you his Gothic mansion because he liked the cut of your jib, matey?”
Rather than answer her, I simply held out the letter. The letter from the old curmudgeon who’d had the audacity to demand that I find his murderer.
I sat quietly while Daphne read it. I watched the expressions on her face change like badly timed traffic lights.
“You have got to be kidding. Wowzer. Why?”
“My question exactly. Why me? I just don’t need this. I have a nice life here and I don’t need some old coot interfering. Probably a big joke. Black humor.”
“But, come on, Liz. Aren’t you salivating to read that enigmatic manuscript?”
“Daphne, I doubt that anything in that man’s writing is worth reading. In fact, I suspect it is more like a list of complaints. Probably an inventory of every slight, every insult, ever rebuff the man ever encountered from the villagers. Not worth the paper it’s written on.”
“But, Edward Granger. What if the old guy had hung around with him? Maybe even partook in a few spicy scandals with the Granger gang from New York who came to stay. You cannot discount that the writing might be worth reading. Granger was a paragon in his time. The man inspired an entire movement in art that still shows up in local galleries. His subjects were so…angular.”
“Angular?”
“I mean, rooflines and shingles and the general architectural lines of nineteenth century New England buildings were so damned serious. So unrelentingly angular. After growing up around charming stone house with crenellations and towers and curved windows and arches covered in strangling vines, one is impressed by the difference in New England. I prefer our softer, more aesthetically pleasing architecture but you have to like the man’s style.”
“Daphne, it occurs to me that you know just about everything about me, my icy parents, my lonely childhood, my school experiences, even my lovers and yet you have revealed very little. Time to dish the dirt. Crenellations, towers, etc. Are you a princess?”
“Hardly. Just a happy-go-lucky refugee from an extremely wealthy family. No big deal.”
“Interesting. We shall return to that subject. For now though, time to eat.”
After dinner, we returned to the subject of the Edwin Snow letter. “So you must see, Daph, after reading the crazy old man’s letter, in his usual fashion he intended to stir up trouble even after death. I am hardly going out looking for a murderer that might not exist.”
“Whatever. But, consider this, pal of mine. This is your chance to be one of your favorite cozy sleuths. Charge!!!” Daph stood wielding the antique walking stick with a carved eagle head for a handle that she pulled from among my growing collection standing in a tall crock next to the side table.
“Damn. Oh Daph, maybe you’re correct. I suppose I would be out of my squash if I didn’t go for it, to use one of your favorite expressions.”
“It’s out of your gourd, but anyway, close enough. Tell me honestly. In your gut what do you believe? Suicide or murder?”
“I have toyed with the following scenario; some old timer in the village decided to have it out with Edwin and finally tell him all the things that have annoyed him over the years. He intended it to be strictly verbal but it got out of hand. Before he knew it, their encounter turned really sour and without knowing what he was doing he just lost it and tossed him off the top of the Monument. Not pre-meditated but a crime of passion. He’s probably a wreck about what he did. Of course, that leaves a really big question unanswered. Why on earth would two old men climb hundreds of stairs just to have a chin wag?”
“Exactly.” Daphne grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Although, old people get some pretty strange ideas. Maybe the two old men, just for something different to do, climbed the hundreds of stairs in the frosty tower to
have a smoke. Hey, I’ve got it. Yes, this is much better. When they were young they shared their very first smoke up there at the top of the Monument. Back then it would have been a lark; the steps would have meant nothing to the boys. But this time, it would have been too much for them. They would have been tired and grumpier than usual when they arrived at the top, so when Edwin said something nasty, the other guy, we’ll call him Georgie, lost it and tossed him. Then he climbed down and went home to feed his dog.”
Laughing like fools felt really good. I chose not to tell Daph about the international phone call I still had to complete before I could even consider taking on an Agatha Raisin or Miss Marple persona. Best to wait until I had all my chickens in a line or was it ducks? I guessed I’d never really sound American.
After Daphne headed home, taking with her the leftovers from dinner that she planned to enjoy the next night rather than a T.V. dinner, I sat to re-read nasty, presumptuous Edwin’s letter, again. A combination of annoyance and thrill of the hunt overtook me.
Dear Elizabeth,
May I address you by your given name? Well, if you are reading this then I am already dead so this is a moot question. We have not been properly introduced although Patton showed his approval of you and that carries weight with me. This bequest will surely take you by surprise because you do not know the history behind it. Thus, let me begin at the beginning.
When I was a young man with endless promise, I met and befriended the artist Edward Granger and his lovely wife Ellyn. We met at the Atlantic House bar one stormy summer night and after a few drinks we became the best of friends. In those days, the drinks were cheap and the regulations about public imbibing were few. Thus, the partying never ended and no one was censured for their behavior. Ed was a heavy drinker. We had a lot of good times, many laughs and much alcohol in that long-lost summer of my youth. Eventually, they and their heavy partying New York theatre friends returned to the city. I took the train into New York one weekend that following winter only to discover that ours had been only a summer idyll.
A Deadly Snow Fall Page 5