Naughty on Ice

by Maia Chance

  Not that poor Patience, slumped there on the stool with embarrassing photos in hand and snow melting on her boots, seemed like a killer. But George could’ve done it, easy as pie.

  If that were the case, what in the bally bazookas had Patience been arguing about with Maynard Coburn yesterday morning? Could she still be caught between the two men, regardless (or because) of a pea? And, could I truly be thinking such shocking things about angel-faced Patience Yarker? Patience was the sort of girl who probably made you feel like Lancelot or something if you were a fellow. Never mind that damsels are never as naïve as they seem. Heck, even Guinevere was probably on the make.

  “Patience,” I said, “yesterday I happened to witness what appeared to be an argument between you and Mr. Coburn, outside his door—”

  “Spying?” Patience smirked as she unbuttoned her coat. “Well, I suppose detectives simply can’t help themselves, can they? He borrowed something from the kitchen—a coffee percolator—and Grandma needed it back because of all the extra guests.”

  I was almost sure she was lying—she hadn’t left Maynard’s door with a percolator in hand—but I said, “Oh, that makes perfect sense. Now, listen, Patience, please do be careful about Fenton. The thing is, those photographs must have been posted—posted today—for a reason.”

  Her eyes grew round. “What sort of reason?”

  “I suspect it’s some sort of warning. Or a threat.” I picked up sleepy Cedric from the cat cushion. “Please be careful, Patience. If Fenton comes into the lobby—”

  “I’ll run straight to the back office,” she said. “Dad keeps his gun there.”

  * * *

  I went upstairs to Berta’s room, my man-boots clunking on the carpeted treads. I found her with her stocking feet propped up on a footstool before the electric fire, novel in lap and flask in hand.

  I sat down, released Cedric (he went straight to the electric fire), and told her about Patience’s reaction to the photographs.

  “Oh, and listen to this,” I said. “She has quite an assortment of full-color brochures for swanky hotels hidden under the reservation book downstairs.”

  “For her honeymoon,” Berta said at once. “I knew she was a plotter.”

  “We know nothing for certain. She could simply enjoy looking at the brochures—fantasizing, I mean.”

  “She seems more practical than that.”

  “True.” On the other hand, getting into the pudding club without benefit of marriage was just about as impractical as it got. “Berta, I fear that Fenton could present a danger to Patience. She told me he thinks he’s in love with her, and if the nurserymaid story is true, Fenton’s idea of love is dangerous, especially when he grows jealous. He knows about George and Patience, and what’s more, she said he’s torn up about them being crowned king and queen of the carnival this evening. I figure Fenton posted the photographs today because of the coronation coming up. What if he’s planning something? Something violent?”

  “It all sounds very petty, does it not? Quite like a radio drama.”

  “People lose their perspective.”

  “Or, Mrs. Woodby, is it only that you have lost your perspective?”

  “I can’t helping thinking Fenton threw Cedric’s ball out onto the river yesterday—that he tried to kill me.”

  Berta sighed. “Oh, very well. We will keep our eyes upon Fenton this evening at the carnival. But in the meantime, we must rest. It is unwise to continuously expose oneself to the elements, as we have been doing. We will catch our deaths if we are not careful.”

  19

  “I don’t know, Berta,” I said with a shiver. “This is supposed to be festive and yuletide-ish, but doesn’t it all seem a little, well, sinister?”

  It was past six o’clock, the sun long set, and we were walking amid a stream of merrymakers onto the village green. Kerosene lanterns hung from bare tree branches. Everyone—man, woman, and child—was bundled up, so only watering eyes and red noses could be seen. In the center of the green, the ice castle glittered by torchlight. Laughing children crawled in and out of the igloo. Lovers holding hands oohed and ahhed over fanciful ice sculptures. Snowmen leered from the shadowy margins.

  “Sinister?” Berta said. “That is simply your imagination, Mrs. Woodby. Or perhaps you are suffering from a touch of indigestion due to the three slices of pie you enjoyed for dessert?”

  “We’ve got to keep our strength up in this cold. I read that Eskimos eat blubber straight. They say it tastes a bit like butter.” I craned my neck, searching for Fenton, except with everyone so bundled up, how would I spot him if he were here? “Oh,” I said, my belly lurching. “Now, that is decidedly sinister.”

  We stopped before an ice sculpture of a bear rearing up on its hind legs. It was at least eight feet tall, and something about the snarling curl of the bear’s lip made my neck crawl. “I suppose that’s good old Slipperyback,” I said. “He certainly seems to have captured the local imagination. Golly, look at those claws. You could make shredded wheat with those.”

  Berta wasn’t listening to me. “Ah, there is Patience, over there beside the ice castle,” she said. “Goodness, she is in trousers.”

  I had vaguely assumed Patience, as the Winter Carnival Queen, would be attired in some sort of gown, but instead she wore snow boots, trousers, and a short fur jacket. She had the look of some sort of glamorous flapper adventurer.

  She was speaking—shyly, it seemed—with a cluster of fellows. One of them held a camera. Another was wrestling with a notebook and pencil with mittened hands. Newspapermen.

  “The fellow with the camera is Mr. Persons,” I said to Berta.

  “Angling for his scoop on Maynard Coburn, I suppose.”

  “By speaking with Patience?”

  “Well, she is surely familiar with every syllable of local gossip.”

  A clump of people walked past, obscuring our view of Patience and the newspapermen.

  “We’ve got to keep moving or we’ll freeze,” I said. “There is a hot cocoa stand—I could use a splash of that.”

  “We are here to spot Fenton and prevent him from committing nefarious deeds. Or have you given up on that outlandish theory?”

  “It’s not outlandish, and the hot cocoas will help us to blend in.”

  We threaded through the crowd, which was growing thicker and noisier by the minute.

  We passed a tent selling baked goods to benefit the Methodist church. Hester Albans, bundled head to toe in wool, was grimly doling out slices of what I guessed was fruitcake, although it very well could have been lead bricks. The Reverend Mr. Currier was assisting her in a hapless fashion, as though juggling newborn kittens, not passing plates of cake.

  We arrived at a second tent. A banner announced in red, holly-festooned lettering,

  HOT COCOA 5¢

  Support the

  Maple Hill Mothers’ Temperance League

  I gave Berta a nudge. “Say. Rosemary Goddard is helping out with the Mothers’ Temperance League. Perhaps that’s what her little meetings with the village women are all about.”

  We got into the line. Rosemary was ladling hot cocoa from a big, steaming tureen into china cups. A delicious, chocolatey-creamy aroma drifted on the biting air.

  When Berta and I arrived at the front of the line, Rosemary regarded us through her gleaming eyeglasses.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Rogerson,” I said cheerily, sliding my nickel into the donation jar. “The Mothers’ Temperance League! Is that what all the secrecy was about, slinking around from house to house around the village? Temperance is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Rosemary only sniffed in response. The portions of hot cocoa she ladled into our cups were skimpy. “Make certain to return the cups. Next!”

  Berta and I carried our cups off to the side, and Berta stealthily unscrewed her gin flask and medicinally spruced up our hot cocoas.

  “Do you suppose that’s all it was?” I asked Berta. “I mean about Rosemary skulking. The Mot
hers’ Temperance League?”

  “No. I am certain she is hiding something. What, I cannot begin to imagine.”

  “Mrs. Lundgren! How good to see you!” Mr. Pickard, the bowlegged, white mustached co-president of the Maple Hill Alpine Club, parked himself in front of us.

  Mr. Strom, the other co-president, popped into view over his shoulder. “Mrs. Lundgren, good evening!” he cried in his resonant baritone. “How well you look! What a charming hat! Did you knit it yourself?”

  “I did,” Berta said, giving her fleecy blue hat with the earflaps a pat.

  “Could I interest you in a turn around the ice-skating pond?” Strom asked her. “We could rent you a pair of skates.”

  “I was just about to ask Mrs. Lundgren the very same thing,” Pickard said through his teeth.

  “Were you?” Strom said, rocking on his heels. “Too bad you were so slow about it.” He looked to Berta. “What do you say? I’ll bet you’re an ace on the skates.”

  I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Lundgren and I were actually here to view the corona—”

  “Boring,” Strom said.

  “But—”

  “Won’t be starting for a good fifteen, twenty minutes,” Pickard said. “Plenty of time for skating.” He proffered a plaid wool arm to Berta.

  “Just a moment, Mr. Pickard, Mr. Strom,” I said.

  Berta dropped her arm to her side. She glared at me, but Strom appeared to be relieved. He’d have another shot at cutting Pickard off at the pass.

  “I’m simply wondering,” I said, “who chooses the carnival king and queen. Is there some sort of vote?”

  “Nope,” Pickard said. “We decide.”

  “You?”

  “The Alpine Club.”

  “That’s rather interesting,” I said.

  “Is it, Mrs. Woodby?” Berta said in an undertone. She clearly couldn’t wait to go ice-skating with her double helping of beaus.

  “Yes,” I said, “because, well, George Goddard isn’t even a year-round resident—or, I’ve got it—I suppose you chose him because, with his gossip-column sort of notoriety, he’ll bring extra publicity to the carnival?”

  Pickard and Strom exchanged sidelong looks.

  “What?” I said. “What is it?”

  The two men seemed to come to a silent understanding. Then Strom turned to me. “We chose George Goddard as the carnival king because he asked us to choose him.”

  “Why would he want that?” Of course I wouldn’t say it aloud, but it seemed a rather Podunk honor for a cosmopolitan playboy.

  “So that Maynard Coburn couldn’t be the king,” Strom said. “We had planned to ask Maynard Coburn, of course, since he’s the only celebrity Maple Hill’s got.”

  “But George Goddard has got this itch to outdo Maynard at every turn,” Pickard said.

  Berta said, “I beg your pardon, but why did you agree that George Goddard should be king? Did he—” She delicately cleared her throat. “—offer a financial incentive?”

  Once again, Pickard and Strom exchanged looks. Once again, they seemed to come to an unspoken agreement.

  “Nothing like that,” Strom said, fiddling with his glove.

  “Nope,” Pickard said. “Nothing too interesting.” He looked up into the starry sky. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

  They weren’t going to spill.

  “Why did Patience Yarker consent to be the carnival queen?” I asked.

  “Why, isn’t it obvious?” Pickard said. “She’s the prettiest gal in the village, by a long shot. Don’t let my great-niece Mary know I said that, or there’ll be hell to pay.” He chuckled.

  “Nah, that’s not it,” Strom said. “Oh sure, she’s pretty as a picture, but so are plenty of other girls—my great-niece Astrid, for one.” He said this with a competitive look at Pickard. “Patience is no spring chicken, either—why, she’s twenty-three if she’s a day. People are starting to wonder why she hasn’t wed, truth be told. She’ll wind up a spinster.”

  I thought of the Possible Pea and Samuel Yarker’s gun, and figured that the Alpine Club co-presidents might be in for a big surprise.

  Strom went on, “Patience has been Winter Carnival Queen for, well, I guess it’s nigh on five years now, ever since we started the carnival up again after the war.”

  “Why is she always the queen?” I asked. “I mean to say, she seems to be a serious, hardworking young woman, not in any way frivolous or attention seeking.”

  Strom said, “She does it for her father. She’ll do anything for that father of hers, bless his soul.”

  “Because he is … ill?” I asked, thinking of Samuel Yarker’s cough.

  “That’s right. Weak lungs. Can’t be cured. Been sick for years. And poor Patience, why, I’ve seen the look on her face, watching him hacking his lungs out. She looks as though her heart is right breaking in two. And that’s why she’s always carnival queen. It pleases her father. Makes him proud to see his little girl up there with a crown on her head.”

  “Nope, nope, you got it all wrong.” Pickard was shaking his head, eyes closed. He sighed, opened his eyes, and looked at me. “My co-president oftentimes gets the cart a little ahead of the horse—don’t mind him. Now, see, Mrs. Woodby, the truth of the matter—and this is something Mr. Strom here has plumb forgotten, but he can’t be blamed—did you know, Mrs. Lundgren, that he’s four years older than I?—he’s forgotten that George Goddard said he wouldn’t be the king unless Patience was his queen.”

  “But why?” I asked.

  “To one-up Maynard Coburn, of course,” Pickard said. “With George, it’s all about Maynard. Men who try to one-up their fellows, well, they’re to be pitied, I suppose. Now, Mrs. Lundgren.” He proffered his arm again. “I think we still have time for a few turns around the skating pond before the coronation. What do you say?”

  “She said she’d go with me,” Strom said, flushing.

  “I will go with both of you,” Berta said, hooking her free arm through Strom’s.

  “What about our investigation?” I whispered through clenched teeth. Had she completely forgotten our aim to keep track of Fenton?

  “We will split up,” Berta said, looking rosy and glowy eyed. “That will be most efficient. I will find you when the coronation begins, Mrs. Woodby.”

  “Sure,” I said, but I didn’t think she’d heard, and the men whisked her away into the crowd.

  20

  After that, I had nothing to do but lurk and slink with Cedric in my arms, searching for Fenton in the commotion.

  I spied Roy Ives. He was bundled in head-to-toe cashmere, his face as red as beet stew. Ammut, the enormous, furry black dog, plodded beside him with his jowls festooned with drool.

  In my arms, Cedric curled his lip and let lose a growl.

  “Shush, peanut,” I whispered. “That dog sheds hairballs larger than you.” Louder, I called, “Good evening, Mr. Ives!”

  Roy stopped, and looked around. His eyes were filmy and pink-rimmed, his mouth slack.

  Drunk.

  “How nice to see you,” I said, stepping closer. “Are you enjoying the carnival?”

  “It’s not what I’d term ‘enjoyable,’ my dear Mrs.—was it Woodson?” Roy’s words were ever so faintly slurred.

  “Woodby.”

  “One must walk the dog, and so one may as well take in the bread and circus, as it were.” He cast a pitying glance around the throngs of merrymakers. “And, of course, one gathers inspiration for one’s work on such occasions.”

  “You mean for your Christmas cards,” I said.

  “Mm. Although really, once you’ve seen one ice-skating pond stuffed with rosy-cheeked brats, you’ve seen them all. Good evening, Mrs. Woodson.” Roy walked on.

  “Woodby,” I called after him.

  He didn’t appear to have heard.

  Next, I caught sight of Sergeant Peletier striding around on his short, bandy legs, elfin face scrunched against the cold, beady eyes peering hard at everyone, as though he we
re searching for someone.

  For, perhaps, Berta and me?

  I ducked out of sight behind an igloo and waited for him to pass—

  And bumped right into someone. I swung around. In my arms, Cedric snarled.

  Fenton Goddard, thin and stooped, stood with a camera in his gloved hands.

  “Goodness!” I cried, recoiling. “What are you doing back here? Taking more photographs?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Fenton said in a raspy voice. He wore a puffy, dark fur coat—mink?—and a fur hat. His face was pinched against the cold, his long, thin nose pink at the tip.

  He moved to sidle past me.

  “Might I have a word?” I asked brightly, stepping into his path. Cedric writhed and growled in my arms, as though he’d attack Fenton.

  “Step aside.”

  “I’d like to speak with you.”

  “After you set that bloodthirsty dog of yours after me? After it bit me?”

  I petted Cedric’s ears, trying to calm him. “I suppose you miss your mother awfully, Fenton.”

  “Not a bit. I’m free.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “But everyone has been telling me—”

  “Mother was always bossing me about. Mocking me. Belittling me. I wished to go to college, you know, but she made out as though she simply couldn’t do without me. So I put aside my plans, and then—and then she got engaged to that—that pompous pretty boy and she cast me aside! Told me she was going to honeymoon in Europe with him for six months, perhaps longer. She was going to leave me behind with Uncle Roy.” Fenton’s eyes were glassy, almost feverish.

  “Would being left behind with Uncle Roy truly be so bad?” I asked. “I mean, surely you would’ve had the run of Goddard Fa—”

  “He’s a drunk!” Fenton cried.

  Cedric yipped.

  “And that awful, revolting dog of his,” Fenton said, bestowing a look of contempt upon Cedric. “Oh, Uncle Roy lives in his cottage now, but he wants the big house. He’d creep in. He’d take over. Before I’d know what was happening, he’d be staggering about the house stinking of wine and wearing his robe in the afternoon.”