Murder at the Snowed Inn

by Imogen Plimp

  After the sun had disappeared behind the top of the hill and all the world turned magenta and plum, I migrated to the den to start a fire. I had almost forgotten Evelyn got pulled out of it a murderess less than twenty-four hours before. Al must have seen the thought dawn on me, because while she helped me start the fire, she suddenly blurted out, “You know what? Let’s go out to that little café you were telling me about. I’m full from mac n’ cheese. I could use an aperitif.” She smiled at me sheepishly and reached out to reassuringly pet my upper arm. She was right—a change of venue was just what the doctor ordered.

  I loaned both Ry and Al pairs of galoshes for the journey, and we managed to make it to the café without freezing over entirely. It was surprisingly crowded. It wasn’t the Monday night crowd. Rather, it was more of a mix—older couples who had just finished skiing, little kids playing with toys and eating blueberry muffins while their parents sat knocking back pints and talking sports, a small group of non-profit types from the opera house gathered for an after-work glass of merlot.

  We sat down at a table tucked into the front window, hoping to be free to watch the snow, which was supposed to start any minute now. Al and Ray, meanwhile, were flabbergasted by the drink menu.

  “Wow! Mom, they have really nice wines by the glass…” remarked Al.

  “They do,” Ry nodded. “I think I want to try one of these local beers, though.”

  “You don’t drink beer,” Al sneered.

  “You wrong, Mista’ Man. I drink beer when I’m feelin’ it—I’m a grown woman.”

  Al rolled her eyes.

  “Oh my Gozzzz!” Ry exclaimed, “They have absinthe. How do they even get it here?”

  Al fielded that one for me. “They have cars, Ry. This isn’t Siberia.”

  “… I thought they had cars in Siberia?”

  Our episode of Masterpiece Theater was mercifully interrupted by a soothing baritone as it walked itself in the front door. “Hi there, Claire.” I looked up to see Henry Castle’s chiseled visage. He leaned down to kiss me on the cheek—a gentle, but lingering peck that made my toes curl. I’m certain my cheeks instantly turned the color of beets, because I felt flush—also because Al kicked me playfully underneath the table.

  “Hi, Henry. Good to see you,” I smiled warmly up at him—a gesture he returned in kind, his eyes locking into mine. “This is my daughter, Al, and her friend, Ry.”

  Henry reached out to shake Al’s hand—“Pleased to meet you, Al.”

  “You too, Henry,” Al replied.

  “And you, Ry.”

  Ry—who had been beaming like a surprise prize-winner on Oprah—winked at him. I was torn between feeling mortified and tickled pink.

  “Are you both in for the week?” Henry asked.

  “Just a few days—here to check in on my mama.” Al nodded and smiled in my direction.

  “That’s very sweet of you both. She’s been through a lot these last few days.” Henry grasped onto my shoulder and gave it a compassionate little squeeze. “Do you ski?” He asked the duo.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Ry responded suggestively, which got him an especially violent kick from Al.

  Henry laughed, his eyes crinkling. “Well, enjoy your stay. Claire, I hope to see you soon. I still owe you a dinner.”

  He gave my shoulder another gentle squeeze and then turned toward the bar and the two men in ski gear that had waved at him nonchalantly.

  “Yummeeeeee,” Ry leaned back and wagged his eyebrows as he watched Henry walk away.

  “You’re leering!” Al hissed. Then she leaned in toward me. “Mom, I think he really likes you! And he seems sweet. And even more gorgeous than in his photo…”

  I grinned, too flustered to try to stop the blushing.

  “Gorgeous he is,” Ry interjected. “But he doesn’t like Ms. Claire.”

  Al rolled her eyes yet again. “You’re such a killjoy—stop trying to ruin everything.”

  Ry gasped dramatically. “I am not. Girl, that man is gay.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Al, sitting straight up with a start.

  “One hundred percent,” Ry confirmed emphatically. “Honey he’s as gay as I am.”

  Suddenly there was a ringing in my ears. My vision focused to one point—to the spot on the wall just behind Ry.

  Al sighed. “Oh well. Sorry Mom. Ry’s gaydar is spot on.”

  Their voices sounded hallow and dripping with reverb. Like the both of them were in the next room.

  Ry nodded. “One hundred percent of the time it’s right one hundred percent of the time.”

  My stomach was roiling. And then the room was spinning. The puzzle pieces Evelyn and I had collected gathered in mid-air and fit into one another just so. I could almost hear them click. But the big picture was still too abstract. It was maddening.

  I gazed over toward Henry, trying not to look too suspect. He had taken a seat at the bar, his back to us, and was now sipping a martini, his legs crossed casually. Henry is gay? But that would mean…

  All at once, I needed air. And then I needed to lie down.

  Al and Ry were still going at it. “Ok!” Ry slammed their hands down onto the table. “I know what I want! An Ernest Hemmingway.”

  Al tipped her head to one side suspiciously. “Seriously?”

  “You know what kids?” I interrupted. “I’m pretty tired.”

  Al watched me closely, trying to decide whether she should be concerned or not. “We can walk you back…”

  “No, no,” I gestured toward them both. “Stay here. Enjoy yourselves. I just need a little bit of alone time.”

  “You sure?” Al grasped my hand and squeezed.

  “Positive.” I looked at her and nodded, smiling weakly. “I’ll leave the front door unlocked.”

  “We probably won’t be too long,” Al said.

  “Not a raver scene here, I take it,” Ry mumbled under their breath, one eyebrow raised, the menu pressed up against their lips.

  I couldn’t button my coat up fast enough. I dashed through the front door of the café and out into the great outdoors. The winter chill slapped me in the face like a welcome ice dunk. The cold cooled my cheeks and brought life back into my body. I inhaled and exhaled deeply, savoring each gulp of cool mountain air as it funneled into my lungs and doused them in reprieve.

  I shuffled my way up the sidewalk through piles of old snowdrifts, thinking at a frantic pace. Henry is gay. Why did that made me so upset? Sure, that meant that he was off the table for me as a lover. But I had never been convinced of my feelings for him. How was I so viscerally certain Henry’s sexual orientation meant something … tragic to me? My body was shaking. It had engaged a fight or flight response.

  So, either I was a maiden on the verge of her very first heartbreak, which meant that I was secretly in love with Henry—a secret so hidden I had kept it even from myself. Or … Henry is gay. He had said he and James used to be close. That James was part of the reason he had moved to Warren County. What if James was gay?

  What if Henry and James had been lovers?

  I reached my front porch and climbed the steps cautiously, watching for patches of black ice—and other cognitive landmines. I opened up the front door slowly and flipped on every light I could reach. I didn’t know why—I felt frantic. Irritated. In upheaval. Rupert was waiting for me in the hallway, oblivious—sitting patiently, poised to go out.

  I pulled off my boots but kept on my coat and scarf and walked Rupert out and into the back yard, firmly shutting the door against the cold behind him. It had started to snow—big flakes. The kind big enough that you could make out their designs when they first fell into your mittened hand before they melted.

  I stood inside and watched Rupert through the windows. I wrapped my coat and scarf tight around my body like a security blanket—and shivered. A little voice in my brain told me not to pull the thread any further—but I couldn’t help myself.

  Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Henry
and James had been lovers. Had they been lovers way back? Or was Henry the person James cheated with? Even if either scenario were the case—even if both scenarios were the case—that wouldn’t give Henry reason to kill James, plus two other people. Would it? What could the motive possibly be? And why would he be trying to frame me or Evelyn?

  I shook my head, almost amused by myself, taking note of the indistinct outline of the wrapped up, frail old woman in the bay windows standing between myself and Rupert—who was happily entranced by an unfolding winter wonderland.

  I still loved to watch Rupert play in the snow. Since he was a puppy, he’d chase the wind and toy with the snowflakes routed to land on his nose. He was doing just that now. Running in circles, trying to catch the biggest of them. He wasn’t especially successful. I smiled. It was so calm, this picturesque little scene of ours. Quiet. Cozy, even. Just the faint sound of the winter wind shivering against the windows. So why did I feel so distraught? Why were the little hairs on the back of my neck standing on end?

  “Hello, Claire.” It was the unmistakable voice of Henry Castle, the smooth baritone that mere moments ago had made me weak in the knees. He was standing right behind me.

  “Hello, Henry,” I said with a stifled sigh, too scared-stiff to turn around. My eyes searched the black of the big bay windows, adjusting to focus on his fuzzy reflection—and the revolver he pointed straight at the back of my head.

  “Why don’t you step away from that back door? And turn around slowly. Let’s go have a talk in your foyer. Leave Rupert outside to do his business. And we’ll do ours.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “So you think you’ve got me figured me out, huh?”

  I had my hands up, though I’m certain they barely showed beneath my long winter coat sleeves. Henry had led me (by the barrel of his gun) into the den. Great, I thought. Another bad memory in this room. I was too much in denial to even consider it might be my last.

  I was facing him, my back to the dwindling fire Al and I had built earlier that evening. Henry’s face flickered in the flames, his eyes boring angrily into my own.

  “Nothing to say on the subject now, huh?” he taunted me.

  I watched him wearily—like a jogger watches a stray dog. “I wouldn’t say I’ve got you figured out. In fact, I’m beyond confused.”

  Henry chucked meanly. “Surprise, surprise.”

  I gazed into his revolver. In the dim light, it didn’t look so bad. Kind of small—dainty, really… Snap out of it, Claire. “So… You and James were an item?” I asked.

  Henry sneered. A nasty smile that made his blue eyes narrow into tiny black pin-points. “You could say that. We were partners. Silent partners. For over twenty years.”

  “On again, off again? Or…?”

  “What does it matter now?” he shot back, testily.

  I shrugged, my hands still erect. “It doesn’t.”

  He watched me closely, his gun at the ready.

  “So he wanted out all together? Did he leave you for someone else? Or just for himself?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Henry almost sounded hurt.

  “Oh I don’t know. I guess it’s just that—well, it stings when somebody leaves you for somebody else. But sometimes I think it hurts more when they don’t leave you for anybody. When they just want out. Somehow it means you weren’t enough… At least that’s how I’ve felt when it’s happened to me…” I was rambling. I wasn’t sure whether it was the wisest move to poke the bear… Then again, I figured trying to keep him talking—or better, to get him really talking—was my best bet.

  He eyed me suspiciously. “Are you trying to make me shoot you?”

  I shook my head anxiously. “I just want to know why you did it.” And it was the truth.

  “Well… it’s not like you’ll be blabbering to anyone else when we’re through…” He looked almost compassionate for a moment. “James had it comin’. He had it comin’ for a looong time. Yes, he wanted out. But it wasn’t that he met somebody. He met many somebodies.” Now we’re talking! “He was off meeting other somebodies for years and years. And that’s not the worst of it. Do you know that when he and Nina decided to get married, he told me the day before they tied the knot?”

  I gasped empathetically—trying to make it sound as over-the-top incredulous as possible. “You’re kidding!”

  “I’m not. That bastard planned the whole thing without telling me. Assumed I’d never be interested in making anything official between us—just because we had agreed to keep our relationship a secret from business partners. And from this sorry redneck town.” He shook his head in absolute disgust.

  “But … they weren’t really together, were they? James and Nina, I mean?”

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. “No. She was a beard.”

  I nodded. “Makes sense. So … you wanted more? And James wasn’t willing to give it?”

  “That’s the PG version of the story. If that’s what you’d like to believe…” he gestured casually with his gun, “…then you be my guest.”

  “So you poisoned one of his drinks—with nightshade?”

  Henry’s eyes widened. “How did you know that?”

  Careful, now. “I saw it outside Ella’s place. And Leslie and Ben’s.”

  Uh oh. I had insulted him, it seemed. “Yes,” he spoke slowly. “I poisoned him with nightshade. The berries and the roots. Belladonna, it’s also called. A perfectly-named poison for a cheating mistress, don’t you think? Turned them into a sour little cocktail he just loved.” He raised his eyebrows, clearly proud of himself.

  “Wow. Cool.” I was genuinely—albeit macabrely—impressed.

  Henry raised his gun, which had drifted to a downward tilt a bit during our little chat. Now he was back on high alert. “What are you playing at?”

  “I … Nothing! I just … as you might remember, I live in Brooklyn. And I love gardening … learning about plants, handling them… We have a plot in a community garden, but I don’t have my own garden because we don’t have our own yard,” As I spoke, I recalled a memory of George telling me endearingly that I blabbered when I got nervous. Apparently, that fact still held true. “So I’ve always been really impressed by people who, you know, take the bull by the horns and roll up their sleeves and get in there…”

  “Quiet!” Henry rubbed his temples, his gun drawn up and pointing precariously toward my ceiling. “You’re … a pain in the…”

  “Can I ask a question?” I interrupted in a tinny voice. I had one finger raised, like an impatient little kid. The one no one wants the teacher to call on in class.

  Henry glared at me, beyond impatient. “Yes. One.”

  “Did you kill Leslie because she blackmailed you?”

  He nodded. “Good guess. Saw me drop a little belladonna into James’s martini glass down at the pub—or so she claimed. Whitney help you put that together?”

  “No. Well, sort of. Not really. I don’t know.”

  Henry shook his head in a sort of annoyed amazement of my antics.

  I felt obligated to clarify in my adrenaline-fueled haze—in case I had inadvertently put Whitney into danger. “She hinted at it, but she didn’t know anything. It’s more Nina who knew. She thought Leslie was the killer. So that means … you killed Nina because she knew about you and James, so she must have suspected you were involved, plus, she knew that Leslie would probably blackmail you if she wasn’t the killer herself, so when Leslie turned up dead…”

  “Correct.” He nodded. “Not bad for an English major. I knew you went to Smith College, but I didn’t…”

  “Actually I majored in art history.” I shut my mouth. Probably shouldn’t have said that.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I guess…” still biding time… “none of that matters now.”

  “No,” he spoke his words pedantically, painfully drawn-out-like. “It. Truly. Does. Not.”

  My brain continued searching for puzzle pieces to stick together.
Another click. “Were you at Nina’s house when she called me? After I had spoken with her at the café? Is that why she called me?” My heart was racing even faster with the excitement of this new discovery.

  Henry nodded. “She told me about your little talk—right after she accused me of offing both James and Leslie. Thought I wouldn’t lift a finger to hurt her—thought I’d immediately surrender to her accusations and turn myself in. Poor thing. How wrong she was.” The last part he said emphatically, like a villain in a movie would say a gotcha kind of line.

  “So you made her a cocktail, too?”

  “Indeed I did. In her tragic naivety, she was already halfway through the drink I so kindly made her when she confronted me. That’s when I suggested we call you—thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. She was beyond amenable by then. It was right around that phone call she started to feel the more … deadly effects … so I put a pin in it, as it were.”

  I gasped. “Were you going to poison me at dinner?”

  “Thought about it! But this—” he pointed his gun straight at me “—seems quicker, don’t you think?”

  I pursed my lips. Then murmured under my breath: “It’s much messier, though.”

  “And why should I care about that? They’ll find your body no matter how I decide to orchestrate your end!”

  I shrugged. I supposed he was right.

  There was a pregnant pause—during which I stared down the barrel of Henry’s gun with more problem-solving will than anything else. My mind was racing. How do I get out of this? What do I do? And of all things, this mind of mine jumped to my and Evelyn’s ill-fated game of ouija board.