“Have you been to Daisy Buchanan’s Land’s End Nursery? Have you seen what is growing in her greenhouse? It is like the secret garden come to life.”
“Oh, I mean to call Daisy to come and create a lovely garden here at the inn. My thumbs are not as green as most Brits. I am going to need some help.”
“If its help you need, lass, just call old James any time, day or night. I am at your service. And, I’m not a half bad gardener, either.” The man obviously shared my fondness for double entendres.
“I like you James.”
The Red Inn was delightful. The food wonderful. The ambiance, looking out over the harbor at the sprinkling of early to their moorings boats, sandpipers dancing along the shore in search of snacks and a couple of fishermen casting lines in the afterglow of the sunset was breathtaking. One of those times that ought to be cast in amber to last forever.
“Between the two of us,” James said after his first sip of Irish whiskey with soda, “I’ve been doing some private research. In fact, I spent most of last night digging into dusty files that no one has touched in decades. I was looking for anything about Edwin that might help us.”
That “us” felt like a kiss. James continued after a second sip. “Of course, if you could get your hands on the manuscript we might have everything we need. The old guy probably named names right there. In fact, that is what confuses me about his codicil. If the manuscript is actually in-depth and honest it would reveal his enemies and so, it would be….”
“Hold up a tick, James. How do you know about the manuscript? I never told you I inherited it. The only person who knows besides the lawyer and me is Daphne and she is as discreet as a tree. Although she is a whacko and sounds like a bad western, I trust her and love her.”
“Ah yes, sorry. I came upon the information professionally. That stuffed shirt lawyer felt he had to tell the Chief in case the bequest put you in danger. The man had a good point, I’ll give him that; possessing it could make you a target. Especially if you got it into your lovely head to take on the old fool’s challenge.”
“But I don’t possess it. It’s in a safe in Boston and I will probably never even get a glimpse of what the old man wrote.”
“Forget not, lovely woman, this village has eyes and ears everywhere. Also, the villagers have a tendency to embellish. Facts get altered to make them more interesting. I expect, by now, everyone believes that you have read every word and are privy to every secret the old man wrote. That is why I ask you, dear, lovely lady, don’t go getting ideas about being a private investigator. Despite the old man’s command. Not worth it. And, it could be dangerous.”
“So, I suppose you want me to go voluntarily into the witness protection program.” I laughed but the handsome cop’s eyes did that color-changing thing. The glints flashed like heat lightening.
“Oh really, James. I am a big girl and I have a fairly good brain. I can also protect myself, just fine.” What on earth was I saying? I wasn’t living in a cozy mystery. We weren’t characters in a book. It was real life. I could be putting myself directly into harm’s way. Like standing on a railroad track facing the speeding train.
I changed the subject and got James talking about his childhood. The rest of the evening, we managed to avoid talk of either the murder or my possible involvement.
The evening ended back at the Cranberry Inn where I made us espressos. “Are you alright with a big shot of caffeine this late?”
“What can caffeine do that hasn’t already happened to me? I could dance on water at the moment.” With that, my leprechaun did a little Irish jig right there in my kitchen.
That first date night extended through the next day. We were having too much fun together to part. Sitting on the soft leather couch in the sunroom after returning from dinner and despite the espresso, we had slipped off to sleep in one another’s arms. Awakened by a large slice of bright sunshine coming in through the windows, James took a deep breath of my hair exclaiming that it smelled like a lemon tree. “Is this heaven? Ah, and begorra it must be since I am awakened beside an angel.”
“Oh James, where did you come from?”
“Dublin.” That amazing smile. Were those dimples? I couldn’t be sure with my head snuggled into his chest.
“Are all the boys in Dublin as sweet as you or were you hatched from a sugar egg?”
“Oh, you do flatter a fellow now don’t you, pretty lady?”
Kissing my neck, my ears, and my lemon tree hair, he repeated like a mantra, “Delightful. Delightful. Delightful.”
“You’ll never guess what time it is, James? It’s eleven-twenty.”
“Actually I do not know what century it is. And, I don’t give a damn. Come up here woman and let me kiss you properly before it is eleven twenty-one.” I moved up so that our noses touched. Then our lips. Like sipping from a honeycomb.
James’s stomach let out a great, leonine growl that said it all. So we headed for the kitchen. “How about pancakes, James? I’ve got a great recipe for cornmeal and cranberry pancakes and a few days ago I made a batch of hazelnut maple syrup.”
“I’ve not only slept on a cloud with an angel but she cooks, as well. I must have been very, very good this year.” He kissed the tip of my nose and went scouting through the cupboards looking for mugs. “I also cook. Have I told you that, fair maiden? I have secret recipes to share. However, you will need to keep me around to learn them all.”
Oh yes, I said to myself. You, James Finneran are definitely a keeper.
Digging our way through a pile of pancakes and two pots of coffee, sated and happy, we sat in my sunny kitchen. I told James about my plans for up-dating the old-fashioned space and how I was toying with the idea of perhaps giving some cooking classes come winter. He heartily approved.
Finally, I knew that I had to be honest with the lovely man. Keeping secrets from him would only endanger our chances of a future together.
“James I have a confession to make. Perhaps you’d like a stenographer present for this.” I smiled and he cringed.
“I knew it, my Mam warned me about vixens like you. So, you’ve got yourself a husband back in jolly old England. Perhaps a brood of little blighters, as well. Here it comes, get ready, James. I finally found the perfect woman and she’s a fraud. Mam was right, I must return immediately to Ireland and find me a nice local girl with eight ways to cook potatoes.”
“James, I can cook potatoes fifteen ways. Not to worry. And, there is no husband and not a single blighter. Just a suggestion. Since we….mesh so well. I thought we might consider working as a team on this case. We both believe Edwin Snow III was murdered but how and why, that’s what remains to be discovered.
James’ face flashed through an assortment of reactions; relieved, deeply thoughtful, briefly doubtful and then, what I’d been hoping for--agreeable. Also, something more but at that moment I chose not to explore that last fleeting emotion because if we were going to work together better not to muddle things with that particular feeling, just yet. Quickly, James returned to the business at hand.
“The old man, Ned Snow, Edwin’s father, put families out in the cold but he always had the law on his side. He knew just how far he could go and still be within the bounds of the law. A slick bugger. The son did not follow in his father’s “professional” footsteps, and I use the term disparagingly in this context, but instead Edwin was headed on a course toward medical school. Learned that from the dusty folders. When he showed up back in Provincetown and just never left, everyone was shocked and confused. Probably even disappointed. The boy had always been trouble. He was rich, privileged and never had any supervision. Old Ned left him to grow up like a wily weed after his mother died. Well, she died at his birth. Stands to reason the boy grew up mean and nasty. No one to love him and rear him and steer him onto the path of proper behavior.”
“Do you think someone he knew when he was young killed him?”
“It has crossed my mind that maybe the offspring of someone c
heated out of house and land might have exploded with the need for revenge. Stranger things have happened. Family grudges have a life of their own, sometimes.”
“That’s good, James. Yes, maybe. Tish told me about Rosita Gonzales who left him at the altar. Should we try to find her, do you think? If she’s alive.
“That’s right. Tish and Manny bought the Gonsalves’ store. Their daughter Rosita cleaned for Edward Granger and his wife in Truro for a couple of summers. Might be worth trying to find her, sure. I’ll look into that when I get to the station tomorrow. I’ll ask around.”
“Absolutely splendid, James. Why, you ought to go into police work!”
Chapter Twelve
The bedside clock said three-sixteen when I suddenly burst into wakefulness from a deep sleep. Rosita! Of course, Rosita, how could I be so dumb? She had cleaned the Granger’s house? So that’s how he came to paint her. The rare portrait Granger painted of a beautiful girl with creamy café au lait skin, raven hair and eyes like blueberries, if blueberries were black. He’d called the lovely painting Rosita in the Morning Light.
Leaping out of bed as if it had been in flames, I headed to the computer. Pushing aside piles of notes for my cookery book, I waited impatiently for the boot up. Facts collided in my semi-groggy head. Rosita could surely have introduced her boyfriend, or perhaps he was already her fiancé, to the Grangers. Logical. So, what does that prove? Thoughts tumbled like bits of shattered glass from a broken kaleidoscope. I was grasping at straws but somehow I knew that I was on the right trail.
Then, there on the screen was the painting of a lovely young woman just as I’d seen it at the show in Boston. Rosita in the Morning Light. So that was Rosita Gonsalves. Cleaning lady turned portrait subject. Granger, it said, had only painted two portraits during his long career and the other one had been lost in a gallery fire on Newbury Street in Boston in the seventies. Crawling back into bed, a plan began to gestate and I spent the rest of the night sleeping fitfully between dreams in which I raced through the tangled back streets of London pursuing a killer in a lilac wig and swam in the Thames holding hands with a plastic bag.
Time to beard a certain lion in his den. Or hers, as it were. I had walked by the Fairies in the Garden shop many times and never been tempted to enter the front door. Daphne had mentioned that Emily Sunshine knew everything worth and probably not worth knowing in the village. As the official village fortune teller, Emily, as Daphne had kidded, “Knows where all the bodies are buried.” Therefore, I hoped that she might know more about what might have motivated someone to kill old Edwin Snow. Not that I had ever believed in what the woman did for a living but sometimes one must suspend one’s own reality in the cause of justice. I noticed that my thoughts were beginning to sound like Dashiell Hammett.
Daphne had said, “Emily Sunshine is a bit of a weirdo but really sweet. I have to admit that she sure surprised me more than once with things she knows. Once, she stopped me in the street to tell me that I really ought to get a doctor to look at the mole on the sole of my foot. I didn’t even know I had a mole on the sole of my foot. The next time I went to Doc Emory for a checkup I pointed it out to him and he sent me right off to Hyannis to have it checked. Well, I no longer have a mole on the sole of my foot because it was removed due to it being very suspicious. You’ve got to admit the woman is not to be discounted as a total nut. I myself am very grateful to her. Gave her a painting to thank her. She’s your oracle.”
Stepping into the thick smog of the shop where the miasma created by the combat of dozens or more flowery and spicy scents vying for dominance created a sinus-blasting blend of Biblical proportions, I gasped in search of a clean breath. Finding none, my decision to get out quickly was reinforced tenfold.
Emily Sunshine was busy waiting on a customer so I wandered through the crowded shop where angels, fairies, worry beads, incense, scented candles, scented cards, and even dangling earrings that were guaranteed to waft their scent as one walked, filled every shelf and crevice. The air in the place could have brought an army to its knees. How did the woman spend her days in the thick haze? I wondered. Every breath was painful. I wanted to flee like a lemming. I reminded myself that every case has its drawbacks and a good sleuth must suck it up and proceed despite the difficulties. This is for Edwin Snow III. Justice must be served. Charge!
Moving away from a heap of little net pillows labeled “Lavender Love,” “Mint Magic” and “Patchouli Passion” among other gag-producing names, I backed smack into a life-sized fabric angel doll with pink gossamer wings. The doll fell forward and her movable arms enfolded me.
“Isn’t Mirabelle lovely? She’s our mascot, blesses the shop and spreads ever so needed joy on this miserable skeptical world. Was there something special you were looking for, dear?”
“Oh, hello. My name is Liz Ogilvie-Smythe, how do you do?”
“I know who you are, dear. This is a very small community. So nice to meet you, at last. I’d like you to meet my familiar, Jasmine. Not just witches have cats as their animal spirit advisors, you know.”
Looking down I saw a pretty charcoal gray face looking up at me. One double paw reached out to stroke the leg of my jeans as wide yellow eyes took my measure.
“She’s lovely. I am particularly fond of cats but my life to date has been too peripatetic to have one.”
“No better companion or confidante than a cat, dear. Now, what is it that you are seeking? The tarot?”
Tread carefully, Liz, I told myself. Don’t give too much away until you know what this pretty, tiny, pink and white lady knows. Although, to tell the truth, I had the very real sense that Emily Sunshine was already reading my innermost thoughts.
“Emily, I am writing a book about the artist Edward Granger. Not a memoir like Mr. Snow’s, but a scholarly book about the effect of Granger’s art on the art movements of his time.”
“Oh dear, why waste your efforts? You must have other more important things to do with your time.”
Thrust and parry. The joust had begun.
I chose to ignore Emily’s belittling of my fictional excuse for being there. “It would be very helpful to my research to better understand Edwin Snow since he seems to have known the artist well.” Sneeze, sneeze, sneeze. Emily handed me a tissue. I continued. “Sometimes writers like to get readers’ opinions so they ask friends to read the material in progress. I was just wondering if Edwin Snow might have asked you to read it to get your take on it.” Naturally, I was basing that on nothing. But, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“Oh no, my dear. The nasty man was not a sharing person.”
“I see. Well, perhaps you could provide a little insight into him since you’ve lived in town for so long.”
Jasmine yowled and marched away as if either disgusted or called away to investigate a sudden vermin invasion. The cloying air choked me.
“Do sit down, dear. Over here at the table. We’ll ask.”
We’ll ask? Who will we ask? I wondered. Then, I saw it. Something I’d only ever seen in movies. Bad movies. Hokey movies. A crystal ball. Not exactly modern technology but who was I to question one’s method of information gathering. Next to the orb sat a pack of tarot cards with their weird pictures in harsh colors. Five sneezes in succession. Emily handed me a box of tissues.
“Have you lived here all your life, Emily?”
“No, I have only been back in town for a few years. But I almost got born here. My mother left when she was young. However, before leaving, she conceived me. Therefore, I believe I have the right to call myself from here. ”
“Yes, I agree.” Three more sneezes. I ached for fresh air. “I wonder if Edwin ever shared stories of his youth…things that would add interest to my book? Do you know if he deserved the bad feelings of the villagers? Or did he simply inherit his father’s blackened name and reputation by association?”
“I’ll let you decide, dear. One time, he let something interesting drop. When he was just a boy attending the one room s
choolhouse, the other kids made fun of him and called him Eggy. Because of the shape of his head.”
“The shape of his head?”
“Yes, it was oddly shaped, just like an egg. Narrow at the top and broader at the chin so that he looked like he had an egg sitting on his neck. In fact, as the story goes, one Halloween a bunch of his schoolmates walked up Pilgrim Lake Hill Road and tossed eggs at Edwin’s house. They called out, Humpty Dumpty come out and meet your relatives. Well, you know how mean kids can be. They meant that the eggs were his relatives.”
Emily gave me a look she might have directed at someone not too bright who, without clarification, might miss the obvious joke.
“Yes, I got it, Emily. Mean kids. Yes, poor Edwin. So, he must have been disliked, even back then?”
“He could have tried a bit. But, never did. His father was hated and it seems, Edwin just added to the family reputation for nastiness and stinginess.”
“Do you happen to know why and approximately when Mr. Snow began his book? It was way back in the forties when the Grangers were around. Do you have any idea of what possessed him to wait so long to write it?
Six shotgun sneezes. Emily appeared to be annoyed by my sneezing. Evidently, she had developed a helpful immunity to the terrible miasma of competing scents. Otherwise, she could not remain in that business.
“So sorry, allergies. I was just wondering if you might have an idea of what inspired the old man to write about the artist, Edward Granger, six decades after meeting him?”
“In fact, I know just when he began to write it and why. I was the conduit for the fateful message.”
“The fateful message?”
“Yes, Edward Granger spoke through me to Edwin. Well actually, through Eloise who is a conduit for those passed on to the alternate universes. I deliver what she tunes into.”
A Deadly Snow Fall Page 8