I gritted my teeth and ignored her until Bill’s voice reached out like a hook stopping me dead.
“Has it occurred to you that as I am the keeper of the key to the Monument, that Edwin would have had to steal my key to get inside? Unless of course I gave it to him.”
I turned. “Did he? Did you?”
“I did not lend him my key. Nor was my key ever missing.”
I retraced my steps to where the two of them stood. Damn Daphne had a wily expression going, as if she’d known all of this all along and was working in partnership with Bill.
“Is there only one key, then?”
“No, there are actually two keys. I possess one and the other one is kept safely at the police station.”
“So, that doesn’t seem to be a problem. Edwin knew about the other key and somehow obtained it. Therefore, he didn’t need yours.”
“Not quite so fast. It gets a bit complicated, young lady. To get to that key he would have had to enter the Police Chief’s private office without arousing suspicion. But first, and this is very crucial, his first obstacle would have been getting by his Rottweiler secretary Alice Cannon. Without the Chief’s uncanny ability to recognize every unmarked key he’d have had to spend hours, days, coming and going to test them. You see, Chet Henderson enjoys a little game involving his knowing each and every key and where it unlocks and no one else does. Bit of a sticky wicket as you Brits are wont to say.”
The entire proposition was as full of holes as a good Alpine Swiss cheese.
“A bit of mystery I’d say, Miss Ogilvie-Smythe, wouldn’t you agree? Difficult to envision a man being overtaken by unhappiness to the point of choosing to take his own life who has the time…or the inclination to go to such pains in the process. And why? To climb the freezing Monument to jump off when he might have chosen a far easier method of doing the task? I think not.”
My tongue was tied. What was going on? At his house he was very coy, offering damned little in the way of solid information and full of sentimentality and yet there he was hinting that he might qualify as a suspect. Was the whole thing just a game to Bill? As it seemed sometimes to be to Daphne, that traitor.
“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Windship? You said you were not a murderer and now you toss in this key question. Why?”
Bill smiled enigmatically, turned and entered the door of his shop. Before I could take a step toward him I heard the door locking. I found myself staring at a poster attached to the door advertising WWII war bonds.
“Hey, think we ought to invest?” I ignored Daphne’s smart ass remark. My head was filled with the thick fog of confusion issued by the enigmatic man. I wanted to punch something but not being a violent person, I simply stamped my foot and walked away.
Chapter Fourteen
Two nights later, as we entered Sal’s Place for dinner, Daphne greeted the hostess. “Hi Antoinette, is Sal here tonight?” The reason for our visit was two-fold. I’d yet to dine there and Daphne had been raving about the great Italian food. In addition, she’d told me that Mario, Sal’s manager, had taken Edwin under his wing and occasionally gave him a free lunch. In return, Edwin told him stories of the old days. Mario too, was writing a book. Isn’t everyone?
“Mario’s in charge tonight, Daphne. Sal’s off exhibiting his paintings in New York.” Antoinette, the hostess, picked up two menus and led us to a table. As the restaurant was situated down a few steps from the sidewalk, having formerly been a cellar, we were looking out at a half wall of cement. However, someone had cleverly painted wine bottles, eggplants, tomatoes, and other colorful images on the wall and the effect was charming.
Suddenly, from out of the kitchen swept a tall, handsome, dark-haired, olive-skinned man of a “certain age” who swept Daphne off her feet in a bear hug.
Returning her to the floor, they kissed each other Mediterranean style and then Daphne introduced us. Kissing my hand in the out-dated continental style, he exuded what I like to call a slithering snake-like kind of sexuality. I much preferred James’ solid, trustworthy, hometown looks and manners.
Turning back to Daphne he drooled, “Ah, if it isn’t the woman of my dreams. Where have you been for so long? I have been lost without your ethereal magnificence shining on my humble life. I shall have to whisk you off to my villa in the hills and never let you go.”
Give me a break, I said to myself in my friend Daph’s smart ass way. I stood there hoping that my friend had not succumbed to Mario’s sleazy idea of romance. Some men just exude mistrust.
“If the villa’s in the hills of Tuscany, sure. Not tonight, however. We’re here for the magnificent food, of course, but also for some information.”
Leaving with a promise to bring us a bottle of the newest Calabrian wine, Mario walked toward the bar and I took the opportunity to lean toward my friend to say, “Please tell me that you do not believe that slimy man has special feelings just for you. No slight on your beauty and charm but the man is a snake.”
Daph feigned hurt followed by a light laugh. “Give me some credit woman. He’s a full-blooded Casanova but isn’t it fun to play along and get some needed perks? Good men are thin on the ground here, you’ve got to admit. I might have to start subscribing to Match.com”
Mario returned with a towel-wrapped bottle in an ice bucket and proceeded to uncork it, turning his snake eyes on me. “I am most honored to have you here as the friend of this gorgeous woman who has for three years been fending off my romantic advances.”
“One day I will weaken and then I will come to live right here and eat up all your profits, Mario.” Daph put on her most adorable, simpering voice and the slick man ate it up like pasta fagioli. You Italian men like your women full and rounded, right? I can do that. But for now I need, we need some information on your friendship with Edwin Snow, the recently made dead.”
“Ah, the old man. Yes, I liked him. He had many stories to tell about the old days. He had known Provincetown since it was a little Portuguese fishing village and up through its days as an art colony. He knew Eugene O’Neill and John Reed and of course the artist Edward Granger. I offered to introduce him to Norman Mailer, a frequent diner here, but he refused. Told me the man was a ‘reprobate’ and he wrote ‘nasty and naughty books,’ if you can believe it.”
We all laughed and Mario poured the wine for Daphne to taste.
It occurred to me that Mario just might be a font of useful information. If Edwin had really trusted snake man, he might have dropped the name of his arch enemy. The man Edwin was sure would, one day, improve his aim and kill him.
“Mario, did he perchance tell you much about the book he was writing?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Mostly he talked about the old days but not about his friendship with Granger, no.”
“How recently before he was mur…died, had you spoken to him, Mario?” I asked.
“Actually, just two days before he jumped. He was here for lunch at my invitation. The man would never have paid our prices. I liked him and felt sorry for him so I gave him lunch every so often. When Sal was out of town, of course.”
“Did he give any indication that he was considering taking his own life?”
“Let me think. Of course, he was not a happy man. That goes without saying.” Daphne and I nodded like twin bobble heads.
“But wait, yes, there was one thing. Something odd. He hinted that he was being blackmailed but he did not show any fear or distress. In fact, I might venture to say that the man seemed rather amused.”
“Did he provide any clue as to who it was blackmailing him, Mario?”
“No, but he distinctly said that he refused to ‘pay a dead man’s debt.’”
Mario smiled his snake smile and turned his full attention back to my fashinonista friend who that evening was wearing a full-length, green, jungle-patterned, skin-tight, Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress. A perfect foil for the snake.
As the two played their little cat and mouse game, I pondered old Edwin’s enig
matic words. He refused to “pay a dead man’s debt.” It didn’t take long for me to figure out exactly who the dead man was and what that debt might have encompassed. Maybe, also who might have been doing the blackmailing.
The evening ended with Daphne refusing Mario’s invitation to fly off to Tuscany and me wondering how I could prove my latest hunch.
Daphne stopped by the inn on her way to the gallery the next morning. On the kitchen table were the latest architect’s plans and sketches and my “case” notebook open to the list of questions I’d asked Rosita Gonsalves on her Facebook page. Daphne gazed at both with half-hearted interest. But I knew she had noted how few answers I’d managed to get out of the lady.
“Not much luck with our local portrait model, as I can see. Looks like you’ll have to employ sharper tactics, Sherlock. The woman is an obstacle to a murder investigation. Time to put some real pressure on her. Let’s drive down to Asheville and put the squeeze on her, pal.”
I put down the blueberry muffin that I’d been torturing and which lay on the plate looking like blue-stained bird food. “Really Daphne could you please stop talking that way. It creeps me out. See, even that sounded like you. Your fractured American-English is infectious and I for one do not want to be infected.”
“So, was she surprised that her erstwhile, almost husband, is now dead?”
“Not much reaction. However, she absolutely refused to discuss leaving Edwin Snow at the altar. I went out on a limb and told her that Bill Windship said she left Edwin for him. She neither denied nor admitted to it. However, get this; she hinted that Bill should be so lucky.”
“What about her daughter? Can we contact her?” Daphne asked, grabbing a muffin and cup of tea for herself.
“I was able to find out that her daughter’s name is Edna but nothing more. She is not on Facebook and I couldn’t even find an address for her anywhere. Of course, I don’t know what last name she uses or where in New Hampshire she lives. A big, fat dead end.”
“So, she had the kid after she left here and then what? How did she support herself and the brat?”
“As you can see, she lives in Asheville, is widowed and her husband was a farmer who raised pigs and grew corn. She sure made it a long way from the sleepy, little village of P’town of her youth, didn’t she? From quahogs and cod to corn and pigs.” I poured more tea into my empty cup and gave up on the muffin.
“A long way geographically but not exactly upwardly mobile, I’d venture to say.” Daphne spread a liberal amount of butter on her third blueberry muffin. I groaned. I’d just have to reign in the sour grapes. Daphne never gained an ounce although she ate like a truck driver on a long haul. One day, however, one day when menopause hit us both! Then we’d see who’d been smart about their diet.
“What if Rosita was in the village the night Edwin took his plunge, Daph?” Daphne looked up from her concentration on plastering the muffin like a bricklayer.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Think about this possibility, Liz. Rosita was living for a time right here in town, right under our noses. She could have passed herself off as a transsexual. She could have called herself Ross. She came back to see her two former lovers before they all kicked. Let’s face it, as you have wisely pointed out, old folks like to sometimes tie up loose ends. Maybe she wanted to see both Bill and Edwin, one last time. For old time’s sake. Granger is gone, so she settled for two other former lovers.”
“Not bad, Liz baby, not half bad. But why disguise herself as a transsexual?”
“Damned if I know. I just like the ring of the story. Let’s say she wanted to remain incognito except to the two of them, so that way she just blended in.
“That puts her right on the suspect list then, doesn’t it?” Daphne munched away and I tried to work on my new theory. But, soon Daph was off and running with a theory of her own.
“What if she was here and she and Bill got going hot again and Edwin found out and the men fought over her? The three of them up in the Monument when the fight broke out. Over goes old Edwin and the two lovers are protecting one another. Bill could have brought a nice, long rope with him. Maybe he planned to tie up Edwin and leave him there to freeze. But he had another idea and tied the old guy’s ankles and tossed him over. Bill and Rosita would have stood there singing, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.”
“Gob-smacking brilliant, Daph.”
“Do you think so, gal pal?” Daphne grinned between bites and sips.
“Don’t kid yourself, Daph; it’s absolutely ridiculous. But, moving on. Bill Windship called this morning.”
“Confessed to the murder, finally?”
“No. Called to say we could climb the Monument this afternoon, at last. Warned us to wear rubber-soled shoes and plenty of warm clothing. He also mentioned gloves because the metal stair railing will be extremely chilly. So, let’s dress for an Arctic exploration and get a look at where Edwin Snow III spent his last minutes alive.”
“We? I’ve climbed it and promised myself to never do it again. When they install an elevator, I might go back for the nice view. It’s a long, boring, tiresome climb and when you are coming down you get dizzy and your legs begin to get wiggly and you feel lightheaded.” Daph grabbed her head and mimed an imminent faint.
“Look Daph. If this is going to be truly painful for you, I can do it on my own.”
“I think that’s what I’ve been saying, pal of mine.”
I headed to the front hall closet hoping she’d relent. I didn’t want to climb alone. I pulled out scarves and hats and gloves and began dressing. Hopefully, she’d be inspired and not betray me.
Daphne’s cell rang to the tune of “New York, New York” and as she listened to the caller, she smiled wryly at me standing there muffled up like an Eskimo.
“So sorry, Liz. No Arctic expedition for this girl today. Got to run. Got a possible buyer foaming at the mouth about needing to meet the artist before she’ll put down a nickel for a painting. Actually, lots and lots of nickels. Ta da. Have fun.” She was out the door.
Waddling along Bradford Street, I was unaware of the police cruiser coming toward me until James called out. “Hey, pretty lady, if you hop in my car, I promise to turn the heat up high.”
“James, don’t laugh; just don’t laugh. I have a good reason for all this.”
“I would hope so. You are just too bright to be doing something that looks so very weird without a real good reason. Wanna hop in and tell me about it?”
He made a u-turn and pulled up beside me. “Hi, Ranger Rick.” Gad, I am beginning to sound just like Daphne, I thought as I sidled into the cruiser with difficulty.
“Hey, delicious woman. What’s up with the Eskimo getup?”
“I’m meeting Bill Windship at the Monument to climb to the top in search of clues. He said it will be very cold and damp inside so I should dress for it. Want to join me? Daphne managed to wiggle out of it. I could use your expertise. They must have trained you in police school to search for clues.” I gave him my most mocking smile and leaned in to meet his on-coming lips. My neck scarf got in the way and poor James got a mouthful of cashmere.
“Funny lady. Love to join you, but take my advice, you will be sweating like a hog by the time you are halfway up to the top. The climb will kill you in all that muffling. Prepare to peel. Hm, that sounded juicer than I intended.” We laughed like silly school kids and I was reminded, once again, of why I liked him so much.
Bill was waiting outside the Monument, planting flats of pansies. He rose from his knees with difficulty and came to meet us. I “peeled” everything but the gloves. It would be a long way up holding onto an icy railing, I reasoned.
“I can’t imagine what you expect to find up there, but I am pleased to see that you arranged for James here to accompany you. Wise choice.”
His look clearly said that a mere female could hardly expect to handle this assignment without male supervision, if not total control over the situation. “Well, two he
ads are better than one.” It was not for me to teach old Bill a thing or two about modern females so best to let it go with an inane comment.
Bill’s condescending look surely said, Right, as long as one of the heads is male.
As we climbed the stairs, I said to James, “Will it anger the Chief that you are spending time doing what may be a wild goose chase? Oughtn’t you be off doing a drug bust? Perhaps, a dead manatee to see to?”
“Only do drug busts on Tuesdays and we don’t have manatees this far north so just another boring crime-free Provincetown day. Might as well tag along with Miss Marple.”
“I wish I had her knack for crime solving but thanks for the comparison. When were you last inside here, James?”
“Last year. On my day off I decided to try it. Can’t live in town and not have climbed to the top, after all.”
We were nearly at the top and my legs were beginning to feel like jelly despite all the beneficial walking I did, just as Daphne had warned.
But far worse than leg weakening was the putrid smell emanating from the viewing platform. I quickly pinched my nostrils between my fingers and grimaced. “Gad, what is that? It’s just ghastly.”
“Sure is. Probably a dead squirrel that got trapped inside and died.”
“Maybe a whole family of squirrels, I’d say. Whew, that is really bad.”
James reached the top and stepped onto the viewing platform before I did. “Yup, got to be decaying critters. Let’s take a quick look around and get out of here.”
This was my first time up at the top of the two hundred and twenty-five foot granite Pilgrim Monument. From my reading of the town’s history, I’d learned our imposing tower had the distinction of being the only all-granite structure in New England. On a less odorous day it would have been quite lovely. Hanging onto my nose, I stepped over to take in the view. Breathtaking. Both the stench and the amazing panorama before me.
“I can’t get beyond the incongruity of the man’s crushed cranium.” Standing a few feet from me, James said this seemingly to himself, not to me. He was puzzling what I already had the answer to. It was time to share.
A Deadly Snow Fall Page 10