by Maia Chance
“You’re babbling, Lola,” Ralph said, concentrating on the road. The snow was coming down more heavily now. “You’ve got the jitters.”
“Of course I’ve got the jitters! Someone fired a gun at us! He’s loony! What are we going to do? We can’t tell Sergeant Peletier, because he’ll want to know why we’re still in town to begin with, and—”
“Lola. Honey. Calm down. We’re all in one piece, right? You oughta be happy.”
“Happy?” I yelped.
“Well, sure.” Ralph was smiling. “’Cause now you know Titus is likely guarding something shady in his sugar shack back there, so all you’ve got to do is figure out what, and maybe—don’t hold me to it—just maybe you’ll have your killer.”
* * *
When Ralph and I walked into the lobby of the Old Mill Inn a little later, Patience Yarker sat behind the front desk, small, pale, and despondent in a black dress and a flowery woolen shawl. “Oh, hello,” she said, more to Ralph than to me. “It’s really starting to come down out there, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” Ralph said, dusting snowflakes off his coat sleeve.
“Just come back from the funeral reception?” Patience asked.
“We attended the reception, yes,” I said as Ralph and I approached the desk.
“I suppose Hester Albans put out a lot of that icky fruitcake of hers?”
Ralph smiled. “I ate about three slices.”
Patience cast her eyes down. Her eyelashes were childishly thick. “What about … the will?”
Ralph and I traded a glance. On the one hand, we had eavesdropped on the will reading, so we didn’t have the right to broadcast the news. On the other hand, it would be illuminating to see Patience’s reaction to George’s newfound fortune.
I glanced around. No one else was in the lobby or on the stairs. The doors to the sitting room opened off the lobby, but I didn’t see anyone in there except for a tabby cat curled on a sofa. “It isn’t public knowledge yet,” I said softly, “but it seems that George has come into the lot.”
Patience’s lips parted. “George? Only George?”
“Per Mrs. Goddard’s will, the estate was to be split between the two sons,” I said, “but since Fenton has passed over into the great beyond, three-quarters of the lot fell into George’s lap. The rest goes to Rosemary.”
“But that means…” Patience’s eyes were once again cast down, and I was reminded of the colorful hotel brochures that had been hidden beneath her reservation book. “The house,” she murmured, as though to herself. “The land.”
Was it my imagination, or did she look a little starry eyed? And—oho—there went her hand, sliding over her still-flat belly.
“I suppose Rosemary is steamed?” Patience said, looking up.
She’d caught me watching her hand on her belly. Her hand fell away, and she bit her underlip.
Patience knew I knew. About the Possible Pea, I mean, except now it seemed that the Pea’s existence had been confirmed. Oh dear. Unwed mothers always have a rotten row to hoe, and in a village like this … what would become of her? Of the two of them?
I said, “Oh yes, Rosemary is steamed. And Roy, too.”
“I wonder where he’ll live now,” Patience said.
“You suppose George won’t allow him to stay on in the cottage?”
“What?” Patience looked a little misty. “Oh. Perhaps he will. George has a heart of gold, you know.” She looked at Ralph. “Men with hearts of gold are awfully hard to find.”
That settled it for me: George Goddard had sired that Pea. I figured this was no time to mention Juliet Vanderlyn—a.k.a. Ickle Jules-Bean—to the poor girl.
* * *
Ralph and I went up to our airing cupboard to change, since his socks and trouser cuffs were soaking wet, and so were my velvet pumps and woolen stockings. I had after-jitters from Titus and his rifle, and I dropped my hairbrush when I tried to smooth down my bob. It clattered on the floorboards.
“Rats,” I muttered, picking it up.
Ralph, who was (unfortunately for my composure) in shirtsleeves and suspenders, came over and took my shoulders. “Say, you’re a little shaky, aren’t you?” he murmured.
“I’ll never get used to being shot at, I’m afraid.”
“No one gets used to it, unless they’re jingle-brained.” His warm hands slid down my back. “Lucky for you, I know a real good remedy for the shakes.”
“Oh?” In fact, he was making me shake even more.
“Yeah.”
* * *
When we went downstairs for a late lunch, the dining room was empty except for Berta at the table in front of the fire.
She looked up from a novel as Ralph and I approached. A teapot in a cozy stood on the table.
“You look like you’re feeling better,” I said, pulling out a chair. Cedric was curled up on the seat, sleepy and warm. I picked him up, sat, and arranged him on my lap. Ahh. Warm puppy. Better than a hot-water bottle.
“I feel much better, thank you,” Berta said, closing her book. Bedlam in Berlin by George B. Jones, Jr. “Did you have any luck speaking with Titus Staples?”
Ralph’s and my eyes met.
“Not precisely, no,” I said.
Ralph and I sketched out our adventure at Titus’s sugar shack. Outside, snow fell in big, slow flakes. Triangles of white piled in the corners of the windowpanes.
“That is dreadful,” Berta said when we had finished. “A gun!”
“Dreadful, yes,” I said, “but as Ralph pointed out, if Titus is guarding something in that sugar shack, and if we think it may be somehow connected to the murders, well, now we have a clear path going forward.”
“Ah. Discover what is in the sugar shack,” Berta said with a knowing nod. “In a stealthy fashion, preferably under cover of darkness.”
“That’s it,” I said. “It’ll be a cinch.”
Ralph, I could tell, was suppressing a chuckle.
I scowled at him.
“What?” he said. “I admire your gumption.”
Berta glanced to the windows. “I am afraid we will not be able to do much more in the way of sleuthing today, though. The snow has become terribly heavy. It would not be safe to drive.”
“You look relieved,” I said.
“So do you.”
All right. That was fair.
“If we can’t get to the sugar shack tonight,” I said, “perhaps the next best thing would be to stake out the general store tomorrow morning, before that person has a chance to write on the milk bottle. If we see who is doing that, we may not need to go back to that sugar shack at all.”
Patience Yarker was gliding toward us, carrying an envelope. She set it beside Berta’s teacup. “Telephone message for you, Mrs. Lundgren. Now—” She looked at Ralph. “—may I take your lunch orders? Grandma says there’s still ham-and-pea soup and bread rolls, and plenty of apple pie.”
While Ralph and I ordered, Berta opened the envelope and read the message. Her face took on the distinctive rosy smugness it always did when she was reminded of one of her conquests.
Patience went to the kitchen.
“Is it from one of the Alpine Club co-presidents?” I asked Berta.
“Both co-presidents, actually. They request our presence at the club’s lodge this evening.”
“For what purpose?” I asked.
“Roast venison and a game of checkers.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Ralph said with a grin.
“Mr. Oliver!” Berta said.
“What time?” I glanced out at the ever-thickening curtains of falling snow.
“They write that they will come to the inn at five o’clock to collect us.”
“Are you certain Ralph and I are invited?” I asked. “I’m not sure either Pickard or Strom has completely focused his eyes on me yet.”
“The note is addressed to ‘Mr. Woodby and the ladies of the Discreet Retrieval Agency,’” Berta said.
“I get it,” I said to Ralph. “We’re the chaperones.”
“They are only attempting to be hospitable,” Berta said.
“You sure about that?” Ralph said.
“As sure as eggs are eggs,” Berta said stiffly.
“Huh,” Ralph said, “’cause I remember pretty vividly how they overheard Lola telling you how she heard what was in Judith Goddard’s will.”
“What are you suggesting?” Berta asked.
“They looked pretty interested in the will is all,” Ralph said. “Which isn’t to say, Mrs. Lundgren, that they weren’t also pretty keen on feeding you cookies.”
Berta appeared to be placated. “Do you intend to accompany me this evening, or not?”
Ralph and I looked out the windows. Then we looked at each other.
“Could be a hoot,” Ralph said.
“All right,” I said, “but I’m not sure about roast venison.” I turned to Berta. “We’ll go—if for no other reason than to keep you out of mischief.”
27
At five o’clock sharp, a geriatric Model T depot hack emerged from the pelting snowflakes and rolled to a stop in front of the inn. Ralph, Berta, and I had been waiting and watching from the sitting room windows, and we went outside.
“Just look at that motorcar,” I said, walking arm in arm with Ralph. “No sides—only a windshield. We’ll freeze!”
“It is only a few miles,” Berta said, walking eagerly to the curb.
Pickard was behind the hack’s wheel, and Strom stepped out. “Evening!” he said. “Glad you could come! All the club boys’ll be glad! We tire of each other’s company sometimes.” He helped Berta into the second row of seats and got in beside her.
Pickard glared over his shoulder, only his slitted eyes visible between his hat and scarf. Now he was all alone up front.
Ralph and I climbed into the third row, dusted snow off the seats, and sat. Cedric was inside my coat with only his head protruding. I had no desire to learn if dogs are able to contract pneumonia.
We rumbled forward into the falling dusk. Snowflakes swirled dizzily and stinging wind gusted through the unprotected hack. The village had a hunkered-down look to it.
“Where is the Alpine Club Lodge?” Berta asked Strom loudly, to be heard over the wind and the engine.
Strom took the opportunity to scoot closer to her. “Oh, only a mile out of town, halfway up Moose Mountain—that’s the mountain the ski hill’s on. We’ve got ourselves some nice trails up there for snowshoeing and mountaineering. Last summer we cleared trees from a strip—it’s not far from the ski jump—so we can even do a little alpine skiing.”
Pickard, hunched over the steering wheel, called over his shoulder, “Some of us cleared trees, anyway. Other fellows stood around and yapped.”
“Oh, I am so glad alpine skiing is growing more popular here in America,” Berta said. “Such an exciting sport!”
“Yup,” Strom said. “Say, would you like to have a go? In the daylight, I mean. All this fresh snow’ll be a treat to ski on tomorrow. Smooth as custard.”
“Perhaps,” Berta said.
After a mile of slow, uphill driving, Pickard parked the truck in a flat spot and switched off the engine. We all got out. Several empty vehicles—trucks and hacks mostly—stood gathering snow around us. It was only a little after five o’clock, but it was almost completely dark. What light remained in the atmosphere created a faint, directionless gray glow. Now that the sound of the engine was gone, the whistling of the wind seemed louder still.
“We walk the rest of the way,” Pickard said. Snow was collecting on his mustache. “Too slick for driving.” He led the way up a steep forest path. The wind smelled fresh and wild and piney.
I looked hard into the darkness beyond the falling snow, searching for Titus Staples and, perhaps just a teensy bit, for bearlike black fur. I was glad to be walking close to Ralph.
We emerged in a clearing to find ourselves facing a building with glowing yellow windows. Snow pillowed up on the roof and icicles saw-toothed the deep eaves. A white-and-green sign above the door read MAPLE HILL ALPINE CLUB LODGE. The shadowy mountain jutted behind it.
Inside, it was warm and smoky, and it smelled of sap, spilled liquor, and roasting onions and meat. A fire danced in a massive granite fireplace, logs stacked high beside it. Several men in sweaters and wool pants were drinking, smoking pipes, and playing cards and checkers. Most of them appeared to be over fifty years old. When they saw us enter, they roared in greeting, many of them lifting glasses as though in toast. “The lady detectives are here!” “There’s a husband, too, Ignatius.” “Well, let him in if he’s good at checkers!” “Women! Finally a few women.” “Could you think of something besides women for a change, Morton?” “Someone fetch ’em drinks! Why, they look frozen stiff.”
Ralph, smiling with his eyes, said softly to me, “Looks like I’m the chaperone for both you and Mrs. Lundgren.”
We removed our coats, hats, scarves, gloves, and mittens, and hung them on rough-hewn pegs just inside the door. Ralph followed Pickard and Strom toward the fire.
“Psst,” I whispered to Berta. “Look.”
She looked.
Several rifles were leaning, muzzle up, in the corner by the door.
“Aren’t you worried?” I whispered.
“Mrs. Woodby, where do you suppose they got the roast venison? From a can?” Berta swanned away into the crowd of appreciative men.
I eyed the guns. They were hunting rifles, not, say, tommy guns. Still, bean-shooters give me the willies. I always expect them to start banging of their own accord.
I joined Ralph near the fire, glasses of whiskey were pushed into our hands, and someone started playing the accordion. Cedric took up a spot next to the fire and laid his chin in his paws.
“To your health, kid,” Ralph said, clinking his glass against mine.
“And to yours.” I sipped. “This is really good.”
“Yeah, it is,” Ralph said. “Doesn’t taste like it was made in someone’s woodshed. I wonder where they get it.”
“You’re thinking of that crashed touring car.”
“Sure am.”
“Let’s ask someone.”
“All right, but be subtle—”
“I’m always subtle!”
“Be roundabout—you’re always a little impatient, and so you ask these point-blank questions.”
“No, I don’t,” I said, pouting.
“We don’t want anyone thinking we’re undercover Customs agents. That’ll make them clam up in a second.”
A weathered man came over to Ralph and me and introduced himself as Ezekiel Morton. “Glad you could make it up on this rotten night. It’s always nice to see new faces. Pickard and Strom are both over the moon that your friend Mrs. Lundgren agreed to come. Just between me and you, they’re goners.”
We looked over at Berta, enthroned on a rocking chair and laughing. Pickard was pouring whiskey into her upheld glass. Strom appeared to be telling a witty story.
“This is simply scrummy whiskey, Mr. Morton,” I said, taking a sip. “Where do you get it?”
Whoops. I supposed that was a point-blank question. I avoided Ralph’s eye.
“Where do we get it?” Morton grinned. “That’s an Alpine Club secret, my dear.”
“It tastes like Canadian whiskey,” I said, trying to sound conversational.
“Well, we’re within spitting distance of Canada, aren’t we?”
Morton wasn’t going to crack. I’d try another angle.
I said, “Is Maynard Coburn a member of this club?”
“Coburn? Sure. But he never comes up here to the lodge.”
I thought of Maynard walking home at three thirty in the morning, either blotto or stunned from a motorcar crash. “Never?”
“Nope.”
Berta’s ladylike laughter cut through the hubbub, and we glanced over at her. Now Pickard was telling a funny story and Strom, positioned so Berta cou
ldn’t see his face, was giving Pickard the stink-eye.
“I sure hope Strom and Pickard have good intentions,” Ralph said to Morton. “I’m fond of Mrs. Lundgren.”
“Well, course they do. They’re both wanting a wife badly. Pickard’s never been wed—not for want of trying—and Strom’s been a widower for five years. Not that they don’t want to outdo each other almost as badly as they want a wife.” Morton chuckled. “Folks’ reasons for marriage are usually a lot more problematical than just a couple I-love-yous. But I’m sure you two know that, being wed yourselves. Although, come to think of it, you look like newlyweds, sitting so close.”
“That’s right,” Ralph said easily. “Married last June.”
“Big wedding?”
“Oh yes,” I said.
Ralph simultaneously said, “Nope. City Hall.”
“Yes, well,” I said quickly, “it seemed big since there are always so many people rushing around City Hall. In New York, you see.”
Morton was inspecting my man-boots. “Usually newlywed gals like to spruce themselves up for their new husbands.”
“Oh, she is spruced up.” Ralph squeezed my hand. “Prettiest girl in the world.”
“It’s just that I have rather large feet,” I said. “I can’t help it.”
“She got ’em from her dad,” Ralph said.
“You aren’t wearing wedding rings,” Morton said.
I looked at Ralph. “You tell him why, darling.”
“We left ’em at home,” Ralph said. “For safekeeping.”
“Now, listen, it doesn’t matter to me if you’re not really married,” Morton said, waggling a bushy eyebrow. “I’m no prude. You young folks have got modern ideas, and that’s all right with me.”
“Since we’re being so very open,” I said in a cheery tone, “would you tell me why Pickard and Strom are so interested in the contents of Judith Goddard’s will?”
“What do you mean?” Morton scratched his beard and cast his eyes away.
“That’s why we were invited here this evening, isn’t it?” I said. “They overheard me telling Mrs. Lundgren I’d learned how the estate was divvied up, and they invited us to learn more.”
I fully expected Morton to deny any knowledge of this. But instead, he sighed and said, “All right, all right. It’s not only the co-presidents who are interested in that will. It’s all of us in the club. We’re itching to know who got what.”