Naughty on Ice

by Maia Chance

  * * *

  After my boots and stockings were more or less dry, Currier and Berta left me alone in the parlor to pull them back on. Through the open curtains I saw deep shadows and fading streaks of light in the sky.

  A sick horror washed over me when I realized that whoever had thrown Cedric’s ball out onto the ice could be watching me still.

  I yanked the curtains shut.

  “Thank you for the tea,” I said to Currier on his front porch. “And for rescuing me. I hope there is some way I can repay you.”

  “There is no need for that,” he said. “My only hope is that you do not suffer any ill health as a consequence of exposure to that dreadful cold water.”

  Berta and I set off toward the inn. Snowy River Street looked blue in the twilight. The buildings along the way glowed with yellow light, and a few straggling merrymakers crisscrossed here and there, voices sharp in the cold air. We passed a lopsided snowman with a top hat and a carrot nose.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone could be watching us, following us.…

  Berta said, “It is a shame you did not sample a slice of Miss Albans’s fruitcake.”

  “Ugh. No, thanks.”

  “It was most peculiarly soaked in alcohol.”

  “Really!”

  “Whiskey, I think.”

  “Do you suppose Mr. Currier knows it?”

  “I do not see how it could be avoided, Mrs. Woodby. Why, I feel rather zotzed after two slices.”

  That was the absurd thing about Prohibition. Giggle juice might have been illegal, but everyone and their granny was still drinking. Heck, we were all drinking more than before the amendment passed, because things are always more fun when they’re naughty.

  At the Old Mill Inn, a young man was sitting behind the front desk reading the funny papers. He fetched Berta’s key. The airing cupboard in which I was to sleep, of course, did not have a key.

  Which, come to think of it, wasn’t a pleasant thought in the light of my possibly-being-watched-and-followed feeling.

  “Where is Mr. Yarker?” I asked.

  “I’m Mr. Yarker,” Funny Papers said. He was plump and yellow-haired, with a stippling of pimples across his forehead.

  “Samuel, I mean.”

  “Oh. Uncle Samuel. Abed.”

  “Is it his cough?”

  “Gee whiz, you’re nosy,” Funny Papers replied. “You’re the detectives, I guess.”

  “Is Mr. Yarker’s illness serious?” I asked.

  “It comes and goes. Dr. Best says it’s chronic, whatever that is.”

  Next, Berta and I went to the coin-operated telephone in the remote hallway. We meant to ask Berta’s friend Myrtle about potassium ferricyanide, and I meant to try to get hold of Ralph again.

  Berta got on the telephone first, rattling off the number of the shared telephone in Myrtle’s apartment building.

  “Ah, Myrtle, dear, how are you?” Berta said when Myrtle at length picked up. “Goodness, what a crackly connection—please do speak up, dear—yes, far away. Vermont. I am so very glad to have caught you at home.” They exchanged pleasantries about a great-nephew’s birthday party, a crocheted cardigan, and an upcoming New Year’s Eve party at the apartment of someone named, inexplicably, Zephyr the Magnificent, and then Berta got to the good stuff. “Myrtle, I wonder if you could check a fact for me. Potassium ferricyanide—yes, dear, do get a pencil—you do not require a pencil? You are well acquainted with—? Yes. Potassium ferricyanide—what was that? Oh yes, I had very nearly forgotten that your sister Olive is a photography hobbyist.… Yes, we do have our own camera, Myrtle, dear, the Eastman Kodak Brownie, but we always take our film to the camera shop to be developed so we do not … Yes. Thank you, Myrtle, and I do hope to be back in the city by Christmas. Yes. Goodbye, dear.” Berta hung up the telephone and said to me, “Potassium ferricyanide is a fixative for gelatin prints, and it is every bit as toxic as other sorts of cyanide.”

  “Holy cow.”

  Berta and I agreed to meet for dinner in the dining room in an hour and a half. After she had toddled off, I pulled the alcove curtain shut, slid another nickel into the slot, and asked the operator to put me through to Ralph’s number in the city.

  Lots of rings, but no answer.

  13

  Carrying Cedric, I started wearily up to the inn’s third floor with the intention of having a hot bath and a lie-down before dinner. I heard happy chatter from the dining room, and in the inn’s sitting room, someone was playing “Deck the Halls” on a badly tuned piano.

  All around me, other people were wallowing in Christmas joy. And here I was with nothing but wet stockings, a naughty little dog, a missing beau, and one pair of shockingly expensive, ruined boots.

  It was time to face facts: Christmastime doesn’t matter much when you don’t have a family to share it with. And I no longer had a family.

  Actually, my late husband Alfie’s idea of a rollicking good time at Christmas had been hoofing it after hours with an assortment of gum-cracking chorus girls and gin-drenched profligates. Leaving me at home, of course, alone with the baked goods and the Victrola. So perhaps I was no worse off than before.

  And Ralph, well, Ralph never had been bound by domestic rituals. Homeless, we had found each other, but since we had failed to make a home together, we were doomed to drift in and out of each other’s paths.

  I couldn’t blame Ralph or myself, really. It was simply a symptom of our mad, whirling, modern world.

  * * *

  Berta and I didn’t talk much at dinner, but tucked into our pot roast and biscuits in a businesslike way. Grandma Yarker served us, saying that Patience was under the weather—and no, that did not go unnoticed. Although I would have supposed Patience’s particular (theoretical) affliction would have made her feel under the weather in the morning.

  Berta and I were both ravenous, and loopy with exhaustion, and my feet throbbed. I would have to do something about getting new boots in the morning. For the time being, I was wearing the frivolous black velvet T-straps that I’d worn at the ill-fated party at Goddard Farm last night. My feet had swollen so much, putting them on felt like stuffing baked potatoes back into their peels.

  “Let’s meet at eight o’clock for breakfast,” I said as we were polishing off slices of pecan pie. “That will allow us plenty of sleep, and we know for certain that we wish to catch George Goddard at the ski jump at ten o—”

  “Shhh.” Berta placed a warning finger to her lips and tipped her head.

  A man I hadn’t fully noticed was hunkered over a nearby table, shoveling up bites of pie. He wasn’t looking at us, but he wore the too-blank expression of an eavesdropper. He was squat and florid, with a threadbare three-piece suit and a disreputable air.

  Walking upstairs, I asked Berta who the man was.

  “I do not know, but he was most certainly eager to hear our conversation.”

  “Could he be another detective?”

  “It is quite possible.”

  On the second floor, we bade each other good night, and I continued up to the third.

  When I stepped into the airing cupboard, the bare dangling lightbulb glowed.

  I’m in the habit of turning the lights off whenever I leave a room. I was certain I had yanked off the light before I went down to dinner.

  And—what was that?

  My nerves dithered as I stepped closer to my suitcase, which lay open on the floor as I’d left it.

  Nestled inside the open blue satin pouch that held my cosmetics was a red rubber ball.

  Cedric lost his ball somewhere out by the river. Someone brought it back.

  This could be interpreted in only one way: it was a threat.

  In the lavatory, I brushed my teeth and cold-creamed my face quickly. Back in the airing cupboard, I piled my suitcase, my handbag, my snow boots, and my coat against the unlockable door. That wouldn’t prevent anyone from getting in, of course, but hopefully it would slow an intruder down.

/>   I snuggled with Cedric on the army cot. It took me a good long while to fall asleep.

  * * *

  I bolted awake with a gasp. I did not know the time or where I was, but Cedric was somewhere—not in the cot—growling.

  “Cedric?” I whispered. My mouth was dry.

  More growling.

  I peered into the darkness. I saw Cedric’s fluffy silhouette against that peculiar floor-level window.

  I stumbled over, sweeping hanging sheets from my path. I knelt beside Cedric and peered out.

  The window faced the side of the inn, with a view up River Street to the east. While other windows in the inn had fans of frost at their corners, this one was clear, presumably because the airing cupboard was as warm as a Siberian sweat lodge.

  I instantly saw what was causing Cedric to growl: a man was coming down the snowy, deserted street. He appeared to be intoxicated—he was weaving ever so slightly, and he wasn’t wearing a hat. When he passed under one of the few streetlamps, I saw that it was Maynard Coburn.

  Cedric and I watched until Maynard passed from view behind a store. He’d be circling around to his apartment above the inn’s garage, probably.

  “Come on, peanut. Showtime’s over.” I switched on the overhead lightbulb and checked my wristwatch, which I’d laid upon the Christmas Romance magazine next to my cot. It was 3:25 in the morning.

  Where had Maynard been? Carousing at the Alpine Club Lodge, perhaps? Yes, that must have been it.

  I went back to sleep.

  * * *

  I found Berta in the inn’s dining room the next morning at eight o’clock.

  “I’m afraid my poor boots are done for,” I said, sitting down and placing Cedric at my feet. “Did you happen to notice a shoe store in town?”

  “Certainly not. This is Maple Hill, not Madison Avenue. I did notice that the general store had a stock of sturdy-looking boots, however.”

  “Fine,” I said, picturing the medium-heeled lace-up kind that the farmer’s daughters always wear in theatrical productions. Those are actually rather cute, if not particularly warm. I’d wear two pairs of stockings. “Oh—I saw something odd last night—or, rather, in the wee hours of the morning—but allow me to drink some coffee first. I slept badly.”

  Berta poured me some coffee and nudged the cream pitcher across the tablecloth. She said, “Grandma Yarker and the cheeky young man from the front desk last night—”

  “Oh, you mean Funny Papers?” I asked, pouring cream.

  “If you insist. The two of them appear to be run off their feet this morning with the breakfast service. I do believe they are both cooking and serving.”

  “No sign of Patience, then?”

  “No.”

  I drank some coffee. Then I told Berta about the red rubber ball I had found in my suitcase.

  “Ah,” she said knowingly. “A threat.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “It was a reminder of how Cedric and I had very nearly fallen through the ice—likely to our deaths.”

  “Then the murderer must have placed the ball there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps to scare you off the investigation.” Berta’s voice spiraled upward with indignation. “Or perhaps as a sort of taunt. We cannot cave to threats or taunts, Mrs. Woodby.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” I said, sounding much braver than I felt. “And I have more to tell you.” Between sips of coffee, I told Berta about seeing Maynard Coburn staggering home, apparently drunk, at three thirty in the morning.

  “Say! Now, that’s real inneresting,” someone said. A newspaper, two tables away, lowered to reveal the florid face of the fellow we’d noticed eavesdropping last night. “Real inneresting,” he repeated, rustling his newspaper for emphasis.

  “I beg your pardon?” Berta said. “Have you been listening to our conversation?”

  “Come on, gals, no need for the vinegary faces. I know your game—”

  Berta went rigid with fury.

  “—you’re detectives. Everyone in town knows it. Why, when I checked in yesterday, the young pup at the front desk talked like you two were one of the local attractions. Aside from the murder, that is.” The man’s piggish little eyes sparkled. “Pretty juicy stuff, huh? Pri-tee joo-seee.”

  I loathed him already.

  “Now it’s all coming clear,” I said, pouring myself more coffee. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “How’d you know?”

  “Threadbare three-piece, ink-stained fingertips, well-worn shoes—you walk a fair amount, don’t you, sniffing down leads?”

  “You’re kinda swellheaded, aren’t ya?” the man said.

  “Not especially, no.” Swollen-footed, yes.

  “The name’s Persons. Clive Persons. I’m a sportswriter for the Cleveland Daily News. Up here to cover the big ski jumping contest the day after tomorrow.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  Berta said, “Precisely why, Mr. Persons, did you remark that an early-morning sighting of Maynard Coburn was interesting?”

  “Whaddaya mean? Coburn’s the big draw. ’Cause now he’s not just America’s golden-boy skier—not that he’s a world champ or anything, but folks are sure gaga about his hair.” Person snickered, revealing a discolored snaggletooth. “What was I saying? Oh yeah. Now, his rich fiancée’s gone and gotten murdered.” He was rubbing his hands together, as though sitting down to a feast. “And that was just the first stroke of luck for me.”

  What a creep. I said, “Why’s that? Because now your story is about ski jumping and murder?”

  “Egg-zactly.”

  “I’m not sure I wish to know about your second stroke of luck,” I said.

  “Well, that gets me back around to how come it was real inneresting hearing about Coburn coming home in the wee hours. Because I guess you haven’t heard.…” Persons paused for dramatic effect, simultaneously licking his underlip and smiling.

  Berta sighed heavily. “Please proceed, Mr. Persons.”

  “Whelp, it just so happens that there was a motorcar crash early this morning, only a few miles outsida Maple Hill.”

  My breath caught. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “That’s the funny thing about it, actually. The motorcar crashed into a stone wall alongside the road, see—next to some kinda farm—and the folks in the farmhouse heard the collision, woke ’em up, see, but when they ran outside—no one was there. Just the smashed, steaming motorcar. And the real funny thing is that the police said that car belonged to a pair of old folks down the valley. Turns out the motorcar was stolen recently and they never noticed, on account of them not having left the house for a week.” Persons sat back in his chair. “Say, for a couple of detectives, you sure aren’t catching on too quick, are ya?”

  “Are you suggesting—” I did a quick scan of the dining room to make sure no one else was listening. “—are you saying you suppose Maynard Coburn was driving the motorcar? And that I saw him walking home afterwards?”

  “Thatta girl.”

  Maynard’s slight staggering could have been not drunkenness, but the woozy aftermath of a motorcar accident.

  “Who told you all of this?” Berta asked Persons.

  “Feller behind the counter at the general store. Went in to buy the papers before breakfast. I’ve got one word for you, ladies.” Persons leaned in. “Bootleggers.”

  “Bootleggers?” I said.

  “Ya know. Daredevils who get paid to pick up a cargo of hooch at one of those line houses on the Canadian border and drive it down to a drop location in the United States? Quick and easy cash, but not exactly for the faint of heart.”

  Oh, I knew about bootleggers. The only catch was, the federal government was onto the game, and agents from the Bureau of Prohibition and the Customs Service were lurking behind every knoll in the border counties, on the lookout. I had read somewhere that a dead giveaway was the bootleggers’ bad driving. They were usually nervy young men, and what’s more,
they would often drink to boost their courage before a run.

  Persons was brushing crumbs off his waistcoated paunch. “I’ll tell ya one thing, if I prove Maynard Coburn’s a bootlegger, there’ll be no more sportswriting for me. They’ll hafta promote me to the big stories.”

  In silence, Berta and I watched Mr. Persons leave the dining room.

  “We must speak with Maynard, pronto,” I whispered.

  “We cannot be distracted like kittens by every shiny thing that is dangled in our paths, Mrs. Woodby. Besides, I simply cannot believe Maynard Coburn would undertake such a foolish enterprise. He is famous.”

  “Sure, he’s famous—somewhat famous—but he isn’t wealthy. And what with his ski jumping and mountaineering and whatnot, why, he’s probably got nerves of steel. Bootlegging would be a cinch.”

  “Would a person with nerves of steel crash a motorcar into a stone wall, Mrs. Woodby?”

  “Maybe the Feds were on his tail. Maybe the motorcar slipped on the ice. Or maybe he simply lost his nerve because, oh, I don’t know, his fiancée is dead?”

  Berta sniffed. “Sheer speculation.”

  Funny Papers, the Yarker cousin with the pimply forehead, arrived beside our table in a ruffled chintz apron. “May I take your orders, ma’ams?” He was flushed with the exertion of waiting on several tables.

  We ordered more coffee and cream, johnnycakes with maple syrup, sausages, and a bowl of water for Cedric.

  “Where is your cousin Patience?” I asked him.

  “Still abed. Won’t get up. She told Grandma she’s queasy and to leave her alone.”

  Geewhillikins.