A Deadly Snow Fall

by Cynthia Gallant-Simpson

  My death is the result of what I know and what my murderer does not want to reach the eyes and ears of the world. I knew your departed aunt, Libby. She was one of the few people in this cruel town who was kind to me. Libby was far too good for a town overrun with immoral artists and socialists. Eventually, we had a falling out, one that could not be mended and so we parted with bad feelings. What she foisted off on me was too, too unfair and unkind. For the rest of my life, those angry, displaced spirits plagued me. My death will end their hold on me. Or, perhaps not. I suppose I shall be one of their ilk. Despite the bitter ending of our friendship, I had intended to leave my manuscript to darling Libby. When she died before me, I despaired that all of my hard work would be lost. Thus, when her will named her niece I regained my hope.

  Now, you must solve the mystery that I leave behind me. Perhaps, the revenants will return to their original home and they shall be yours to placate. Keep this manuscript or toss it out but think on this; therein lie truths that will earn you (and posthumously, I) fame and glory.

  As you now know, via my Boston attorney, my life has been threatened numerous times. Now, obviously, the murderer has succeeded. Curiosity drives me to wonder how the man will finally take my life. That is for you to know---if you have the courage. Libby was a courageous woman. I suspect you are, as well.

  FIND MY MURDERER!

  Edwin M. Snow III

  Chapter Nine

  First thing the next morning, I picked up my cell phone from the bedside table. I needed to catch MI6 Forensic Agent Nigel Hoppington before he departed for his usual long lunch at his favorite pub the Whistle and Owl in the shadow of Tower Bridge, just steps from the famous Black Friars. I was well aware that I was opening a Pandora’s Box but it could not be helped. I needed Nigel’s expert advice. Nigel and I had grown up together. Both children of preoccupied parents who’d left our rearing to hired help. We had ridden to the hunt, side by side, competed in steeple chases, taken jousting lessons and dancing lessons and even gone to the same summer camps for rich children. I always knew that Nigel loved me. Well, I loved him too but not that way. He still expected me to get through my independent phase and come home to marry him. It was not going to happen.

  A wave of homesickness rolled over me while I waited for Nigel to pick up. I envisioned Big Ben’s mighty face looming over the Thames--boats of all sizes passing in the noonday sun or mist as the case may be in that flighty London climate. The ubiquitous tourists crowding the sidewalks and Ben’s magnificent peal ringing out over the city. For a fraction of a second I was achingly homesick.

  Then, reminding myself that the Cranberry Inn had become more homelike to me than any place I’d ever resided except for my wonderful years at Oxford, I quickly nipped that false emotion in the bud. Sure I missed the city. That city. But red, double decker buses and telephone booths, deep fog and dank rooms, the Haymarket Theatre and straight as a rod Buckingham Palace guards had been replaced by white sandy beaches, rusty fishing boats, crimson lobsters and sandpipers dancing along the shore. London, a great place to visit, but Provincetown was now home.

  “Agent Nigel Hoppington here.”

  “Hello, Nigel; its Elizabeth calling from America.”

  “Darling girl, how are you, Lady Elizabeth? Long time no word. So nice to come home to your melodious voice, cara mia.” Nigel spent all of his holidays in Italy and loved using his second, if generally butchered, language for emphasis.

  “Drop the ‘Lady,’ Nigel; I live in America now where such titles, like wearing fur, can get you splashed with red paint. However, I am in fine fettle, running my sainted aunt’s little bed and breakfast in a quaint seaside village, writing a cookery book and having a jolly good time of it. However, I have a question that only you, my darling friend, can answer.”

  “Oh, beloved woman, just the fact that you’ve come to me makes me weak in the knees. Anything. But please make it, “Will you marry me Nigel and come to live with me in my seaside village?”

  “Maybe sometime, ducks, but just now I may be about to---foolishly, I might add---plunge into a quagmire that will probably be my undoing in my seaside village. But after all, as my new gal pal Daphne Crowninshield would say, what is the point of having a life if one does not go for all the gusto? Nigel, something has occurred here that has pulled me into a little mystery. Perhaps a murder mystery. Before I go ahead, however, I need you to clear up something for me.”

  “Did you say Daphne Crowninshield? The Daphne Crowninshield, multi, multi-millionairess of the Crowninshield South African mining fortune?”

  “Damn. I knew that name sounded familiar. NO. No, she couldn’t be. Could she?”

  “Unless there is another, but I can tell you that when the old man died two years ago she took off and only her family knows where she is and the fortune just keeps on growing. Is she tall, slim as a reed with an angular but striking face and a gritty kind of voice? Sexy, I’m sure, to some, but for me only your angelic voice trills in my heart.”

  “Nigel, that describes her exactly. She has been very circumspect about her roots and her past, but I never….well, well. She is very dear to me, so I will respect her need for anonymity…for now. May have to use it to blackmail her sometime though.”

  Nigel laughed with delight. I knew all too well that I had to tread carefully since this sweet man was so dear to me. However, not dear in the way he would have liked. Since childhood, both children of busy parents who’d left the job to nurses, governesses and school masters, we’d been thrown together often. My parents and his had been best friends; thus, we were more like siblings than just friends. I, however, still considered him brother-like while his feelings were quite different toward me.

  “I say, cara mia, why don’t I just pop over for a holiday? Weather here is frightful. You could show me your village.”

  That would not do. “Nigel, at the mur…death scene of a man who the police assumed took his own life by jumping off of our very tall Pilgrim Monument, I saw something that has been niggling around in my fertile brain for days. Something that seemed, at least to me, to be incongruous. Only you can clear this up for me before I jump in and get involved in a possibly dangerous situation.”

  Silence. Then, “Oh, darling girl, please do not put your magnificent self in danger. I can fly right over and be with you to protect you.” Nigel’s voice, so concerned and sincere melted my heart as always and I wished that I could return his love but chemistry being what it was I simply could not.

  “Thanks, ducks. Tell you what, if it gets too sticky you will be the first one I’ll call in. But for now, I need information. I need to know how a person who jumped off of a two hundred and fifty-two foot tower would land.”

  I heard his snicker but waited for the humor to pass and for him to regain his professional stance. “Well, darling girl, I can tell you right off the bat that the sound would be splat. But I suppose you mean how would the body meet the hard ground, correct?”

  “Yes Nigel, my swain, that's what I am asking. Is there a formula or something that determines how a person hits depending on the height from which he falls or is it an individual thing or what?”

  “The structure of the human body combined with the automatic physical response to such a fall pretty much pre-determines the outcome. Let me explain. No matter how determined a person is to jump and end it all, the mind clicks in once the flight begins and there is a most definite physical response. Even deep despondency rarely overrides and obliterates our natural human survival response. No one makes such a fall with their arms pasted to their sides as they wait to hit solid ground. Arms and legs flail like a fledgling bird taking its first flight. I can tell you with certainty, my darling girl, that a person would have to be trussed like a Christmas turkey not to flail in flight.”

  “But more specifically, would he have fallen face-first or on his back?’

  “That would depend on his movements as he approached his landing site. There would be some effect upon the land
ing depending on the body’s movement and whether the jumper was still conscious. However, it would be a toss-up. Like tossing a coin. Well, I mean I could get into the mathematics of it but not necessary.”

  “Thanks, Nigel. That is precisely what I’m looking for. So, unlikely he’d come down like a bomb with his head like a heat-seeking missile that would hit and crack open upon impact?”

  “Mercy, no. Whatever gave you such a Hollywood idea?”

  Not bothering to address his question, I moved right on to the next one. “Well, before I leave your charming company, Nigel, please tell me this: What would cause someone to land squarely on the top of his head if he jumped or was pushed from a two hundred foot tall tower?”

  “Angel girl, stretching my imagination, I suppose I could propose a hypothetical situation. However, I’d rather not describe it to you; could cause nightmares.”

  “Nigel darling, I do really need to know. I can take it. Tell you what, let’s suppose that the victim was already dead or at least unconscious and set it up for me, please.”

  “The murderer might have tied the victim’s ankles together with a rope. Thus, when tossed over the side of the tower the trajectory would be guaranteed to end in a head-first landing.”

  “I see.”

  “Is that helpful, darling? Did your victim land head-first?”

  “Thanks so much, Nigel. Let’s get together next time I’m in London. Cheerio.”

  “Wait, Liz, what….”

  I felt terrible about hanging up abruptly, but I was suddenly on pins and needles. Agatha Raisin was screeching inside my head and Miss Marple was sitting on my shoulder, carpet bag in hand, advising me as to my next move. This sleuthing business could be hard on the nerves.

  Next stop the Provincetown Police Station. I jumped out of bed and quickly dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. I added a rust colored linen blazer to add a bit of professionalism to the casual outfit. Maybe not right for the city but perfect for the village. Having pulled my hair into a ponytail, I began to think about the Irish cop with the great, sexy voice and pulled off the elastic. I fluffed my newly trimmed and gently streaked, “sun-kissed” Daphne’s hairdresser had said, shoulder length hair and checked my eye makeup and lipstick. Subtle, soft, feminine but with a definite edge that said, I am a serious minded woman in search of answers. Hoping to, as the saying goes, kill two birds with one stone, I set out for the Town Hall. I would ask some questions pertaining to the Snow case and at the same time check out Officer James Finneran. Oh, how I hoped he was not married, covered in warts, had long, protruding canine teeth and was only five foot three inches tall. Well, I had considered that he was a leprechaun. Be careful what you wish for.

  The weather was the loveliest it had been in weeks. The gentle, salt breeze off the harbor reminded me, as it always did, of why I loved living there. Then, my mind slipped to a day on the Thames when my history tutor and I boarded a river boat to take the ride all the way to Greenwich. We were studying British naval history and so we were off to view the Meridian and check out the naval museum. A great plan that soon went awry.

  Boarding the boat in the shadow of Big Ben with tourists from everywhere, I bought a little book telling the story of how Greenwich Mean Time had been established. I remember how it seemed odd to me that anyone could mess around with time. Time just was, or so I thought until I read the edifying little book.

  But the real high point was yet to come. Once out on the water, the loquacious tour guide related funny and historical stories about places we passed. I, however, had my eyes on the water watching the things that floated by. The Thames is a catch basin for everyday and also unspeakable things. This thing of which I speak fell directly into the “unspeakable” category.

  After counting five wood planks, a broken kitchen chair, a blonde wig and what appeared to be a child’s stuffed Kermit the Frog toy minus its stuffing, a lumpy, plastic bag awkwardly floated by. Sticking out of a hole in the bag and gently “waving” at me as the passing boat wakes tossed it around, was a hand. A human hand.

  The police boat was summoned and we all went on our not so merry way. The day was ruined for all but one little red-haired, freckle-faced American boy who kept asking his mother if they could see the “friendly bag” again.

  The Provincetown Town Hall was quiet as I stepped inside. Turning to my left, through the dust motes highlighted by the tall window, I spotted the handsome Irish cop. I took a deep breath. His dark rust-colored hair was a bit longer than police regulations warranted but after all, it was an unconventional village. I stood quietly watching him working at a computer. Intent on his work, it took him a bit of time to realize I was there. Turning toward me and rising, gentlemanly, I was immediately aware that there was neither a wart nor a protruding canine on view. Then, Officer James Finneran smiled. I thought only silly women swooned!

  Now, I thought, if only he’s single and available. My day was looking better and better. This sleuth stuff was beginning to pay off. If I hadn’t become involved I’d probably have had to get arrested to meet the gorgeous Irishman.

  “Excuse me, may I speak with you? Officer Finneran, is it?”

  Turning toward me and grinning from ear to ear, the handsome Irishman responded in a deep, lilting brogue, “Ah, as I live and breath, Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe, I presume. Unless me granny’s talent for the knowin’ skipped me by.”

  I put out my hand hoping it would not betray me by shaking. “I think we can proceed to Liz, Officer Finneran.”

  “Delighted. And it’ll be James if you please, just James. At last we meet. Sorry I didn’t know you were coming or I’d have baked a nice Irish soda bread like me Granny always did for drop-in folks.”

  My knees felt like jelly but I clamped them together for better support. Get a grip Liz, I told myself; this is not a cotillion and you’re not thirteen.

  “Sorry the place is a mess. But there’s coffee and it’s not half bad.”

  “James, I wonder if you might be free to have that coffee at the Green Genie? I’d like to speak to you in a more private setting.” Looking around, I could see that there was not a single other soul but the two of us and yet, something about the walls of a police station felt like an environment of perpetual eavesdropping.

  James nodded to me, walked over to a partially open door and spoke to a woman he called, Mrs. Cannon. “Mrs. Cannon, the Chief, I assume, will be along in a tick. So, if you are not needing me, I’ll be stepping out for a bit.” Mrs. Cannon’s response revealed that she’d been privy to our every word. Perpetual eavesdropping. “Please bring me a nice cup of that lovely Puerto Rican coffee Mamie is offering these days. Just black, dear. Have a nice time.”

  We sat at a window table overlooking MacMillan Wharf. It was a busy morning as fishing boats prepared to go out on the in-coming tide. Unless the Green Genie was bugged by the FBI, we could talk freely. James and I were the only ones sitting to enjoy our drinks. Everyone else was a takeaway customer--in and out again.

  Might as well get right to it. I looked James right in the eyes and presented my question.

  “Despite the suicide verdict in the death of Edwin Snow, is there any suspicion at all that he might have been murdered?”

  James’ eyes did something that I later learned to read. At rest, they were an amazing shade of azure with a hint of the Irish green. When he was particularly intrigued, they flashed with a king’s ransom worth of golden glints.

  “Liz, what I am about to reveal must stay between us. At least, for the time being.”

  “You too have your doubts, don’t you, James?”

  “Off the record, way off, I do believe that the Chief chose to believe the man took his own life principally to extinguish the volatility of the situation for townspeople.”

  “Do you mean that the Chief of Police might be covering up what really happened to quell the town’s likely reaction of turning on one another with accusations of murderer?” My voice was edgy.

  James clicked back
into professional cop mode. He chose his words ever so carefully. I could almost hear his mind whirring. In that stretch of weighty silence, rather than any words he might have uttered, his concentration served to forge a special bond between us. In those significant moments, our partnership gelled like a nice, tangy, tomato aspic. I was not only terribly attracted to the charming and handsome cop but I respected him, as well. A perfect package.

  “The Chief is a saint of a man. He loves this town like it was his child. Whatever reasons he had, and still has, for his position in the Edwin Snow case, they are not for me to question.”

  “Sorry, if I sounded accusatory and disrespectful of the Chief, James. It’s just that, if Edwin Snow was murdered, couldn’t that mean that we have a murderer running free in the village?”

  “Liz, let’s look at this in another light. This is a close-knit village. Everyone knows everyone else and everyone’s dog. I suspect the Chief feels that this death, even if it was murder, is unlikely to turn into a killing spree. For now, best to let the dust settle and see what comes along.”

  “Does that mean that he has considered that the old man, Edwin Snow, might have been murdered but it was an act of passion rather than pre-meditated; therefore, the killer is not a danger to anyone else?”

  “You are good. Might you be in the wrong career, lovely lady?”

  “Perhaps I need to explain myself a bit, James. I was trained in archaeology. I love the work but I contracted malaria on my very first dig out of university and innkeeping kind of found me. I didn’t choose it. I was told not to return to the field or I might not live to see my second dig. When my aunt died and left me her business, the Cranberry Inn, I was in flux. However, as sometimes happens in life, serendipity makes our decision for us. On another note, I was reading British murder mysteries practically in the cradle. Agatha Christie was my surrogate mother. I moved on from her wonderful stories to cozies and, I do believe, I have the equal of a police academy education in crime solving.” I smiled, sure he would laugh at such an outrageous claim but he did not. In fact, his face lit up with what I could only interpret as delight and approval.