A Deadly Snow Fall (11 page)

“That’s good, James. Yes, maybe. Tish told me
about Rosita Gonzales who left him at the altar. Should we try to
find her, do you think? If she’s alive.

“That’s right. Tish and Manny bought the
Gonsalves’ store. Their daughter Rosita cleaned for Edward Granger
and his wife in Truro for a couple of summers. Might be worth
trying to find her, sure. I’ll look into that when I get to the
station tomorrow. I’ll ask around.”

“Absolutely splendid, James. Why, you ought
to go into police work!”

Chapter Twelve

The bedside clock said three-sixteen when I
suddenly burst into wakefulness from a deep sleep
.
Rosita!
Of course, Rosita, how could I be so dumb? She had cleaned the
Granger’s house? So that’s how he came to paint her. The rare
portrait Granger painted of a beautiful girl with creamy café au
lait skin, raven hair and eyes like blueberries, if blueberries
were black. He’d called the lovely painting Rosita in the Morning
Light.

Leaping out of bed as if it had been in
flames, I headed to the computer. Pushing aside piles of notes for
my cookery book, I waited impatiently for the boot up. Facts
collided in my semi-groggy head. Rosita could surely have
introduced her boyfriend, or perhaps he was already her fiancé, to
the Grangers. Logical. So, what does that prove? Thoughts tumbled
like bits of shattered glass from a broken kaleidoscope. I was
grasping at straws but somehow I knew that I was on the right
trail.

Then, there on the screen was the painting of
a lovely young woman just as I’d seen it at the show in Boston.
Rosita in the Morning Light. So that was Rosita Gonsalves. Cleaning
lady turned portrait subject. Granger, it said, had only painted
two portraits during his long career and the other one had been
lost in a gallery fire on Newbury Street in Boston in the
seventies. Crawling back into bed, a plan began to gestate and I
spent the rest of the night sleeping fitfully between dreams in
which I raced through the tangled back streets of London pursuing a
killer in a lilac wig and swam in the Thames holding hands with a
plastic bag.

Time to beard a certain lion in his den. Or
hers, as it were. I had walked by the Fairies in the Garden shop
many times and never been tempted to enter the front door. Daphne
had mentioned that Emily Sunshine knew everything worth and
probably not worth knowing in the village. As the official village
fortune teller, Emily, as Daphne had kidded, “Knows where all the
bodies are buried.” Therefore, I hoped that she might know more
about what might have motivated someone to kill old Edwin Snow. Not
that I had ever believed in what the woman did for a living but
sometimes one must suspend one’s own reality in the cause of
justice. I noticed that my thoughts were beginning to sound like
Dashiell Hammett.

Daphne had said, “Emily Sunshine is a bit of
a weirdo but really sweet. I have to admit that she sure surprised
me more than once with things she knows. Once, she stopped me in
the street to tell me that I really ought to get a doctor to look
at the mole on the sole of my foot. I didn’t even know I had a mole
on the sole of my foot. The next time I went to Doc Emory for a
checkup I pointed it out to him and he sent me right off to Hyannis
to have it checked. Well, I no longer have a mole on the sole of my
foot because it was removed due to it being very suspicious. You’ve
got to admit the woman is not to be discounted as a total nut. I
myself am very grateful to her. Gave her a painting to thank her.
She’s your oracle.”

Stepping into the thick smog of the shop
where the miasma created by the combat of dozens or more flowery
and spicy scents vying for dominance created a sinus-blasting blend
of Biblical proportions, I gasped in search of a clean breath.
Finding none, my decision to get out quickly was reinforced
tenfold.

Emily Sunshine was busy waiting on a customer
so I wandered through the crowded shop where angels, fairies, worry
beads, incense, scented candles, scented cards, and even dangling
earrings that were guaranteed to waft their scent as one walked,
filled every shelf and crevice. The air in the place could have
brought an army to its knees. How did the woman spend her days in
the thick haze? I wondered. Every breath was painful. I wanted to
flee like a lemming. I reminded myself that every case has its
drawbacks and a good sleuth must suck it up and proceed despite the
difficulties. This is for Edwin Snow III. Justice must be served.
Charge!

Moving away from a heap of little net pillows
labeled “Lavender Love,” “Mint Magic” and “Patchouli Passion” among
other gag-producing names, I backed smack into a life-sized fabric
angel doll with pink gossamer wings. The doll fell forward and her
movable arms enfolded me.

“Isn’t Mirabelle lovely? She’s our mascot,
blesses the shop and spreads ever so needed joy on this miserable
skeptical world. Was there something special you were looking for,
dear?”

“Oh, hello. My name is Liz Ogilvie-Smythe,
how do you do?”

“I know who you are, dear. This is a very
small community. So nice to meet you, at last. I’d like you to meet
my familiar, Jasmine. Not just witches have cats as their animal
spirit advisors, you know.”

Looking down I saw a pretty charcoal gray
face looking up at me. One double paw reached out to stroke the leg
of my jeans as wide yellow eyes took my measure.

“She’s lovely. I am particularly fond of cats
but my life to date has been too peripatetic to have one.”

“No better companion or confidante than a
cat, dear. Now, what is it that you are seeking? The tarot?”

Tread carefully, Liz, I told myself. Don’t
give too much away until you know what this pretty, tiny, pink and
white lady knows. Although, to tell the truth, I had the very real
sense that Emily Sunshine was already reading my innermost
thoughts.

“Emily, I am writing a book about the artist
Edward Granger. Not a memoir like Mr. Snow’s, but a scholarly book
about the effect of Granger’s art on the art movements of his
time.”

“Oh dear, why waste your efforts? You must
have other more important things to do with your time.”

Thrust and parry. The joust had begun.

I chose to ignore Emily’s belittling of my
fictional excuse for being there. “It would be very helpful to my
research to better understand Edwin Snow since he seems to have
known the artist well.” Sneeze, sneeze, sneeze. Emily handed me a
tissue. I continued. “Sometimes writers like to get readers’
opinions so they ask friends to read the material in progress. I
was just wondering if Edwin Snow might have asked you to read it to
get your take on it.” Naturally, I was basing that on nothing. But,
in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Oh no, my dear. The nasty man was not a
sharing person.”

“I see. Well, perhaps you could provide a
little insight into him since you’ve lived in town for so
long.”

Jasmine yowled and marched away as if either
disgusted or called away to investigate a sudden vermin invasion.
The cloying air choked me.

“Do sit down, dear. Over here at the table.
We’ll ask.”

We’ll ask? Who will we ask? I wondered. Then,
I saw it. Something I’d only ever seen in movies. Bad movies. Hokey
movies. A crystal ball. Not exactly modern technology but who was I
to question one’s method of information gathering. Next to the orb
sat a pack of tarot cards with their weird pictures in harsh
colors. Five sneezes in succession. Emily handed me a box of
tissues.

“Have you lived here all your life,
Emily?”

“No, I have only been back in town for a few
years. But I almost got born here. My mother left when she was
young. However, before leaving, she conceived me. Therefore, I
believe I have the right to call myself from here. ”

“Yes, I agree.” Three more sneezes. I ached
for fresh air. “I wonder if Edwin ever shared stories of his
youth…things that would add interest to my book? Do you know if he
deserved the bad feelings of the villagers? Or did he simply
inherit his father’s blackened name and reputation by
association?”

“I’ll let you decide, dear. One time, he let
something interesting drop. When he was just a boy attending the
one room schoolhouse, the other kids made fun of him and called him
Eggy. Because of the shape of his head.”

“The shape of his head?”

“Yes, it was oddly shaped, just like an egg.
Narrow at the top and broader at the chin so that he looked like he
had an egg sitting on his neck. In fact, as the story goes, one
Halloween a bunch of his schoolmates walked up Pilgrim Lake Hill
Road and tossed eggs at Edwin’s house. They called out, Humpty
Dumpty come out and meet your relatives. Well, you know how mean
kids can be. They meant that the eggs were his relatives.”

Emily gave me a look she might have directed
at someone not too bright who, without clarification, might miss
the obvious joke.

“Yes, I got it, Emily. Mean kids. Yes, poor
Edwin. So, he must have been disliked, even back then?”

“He could have tried a bit. But, never did.
His father was hated and it seems, Edwin just added to the family
reputation for nastiness and stinginess.”

“Do you happen to know why and approximately
when Mr. Snow began his book? It was way back in the forties when
the Grangers were around. Do you have any idea of what possessed
him to wait so long to write it?

Six shotgun sneezes. Emily appeared to be
annoyed by my sneezing. Evidently, she had developed a helpful
immunity to the terrible miasma of competing scents. Otherwise, she
could not remain in that business.

“So sorry, allergies. I was just wondering if
you might have an idea of what inspired the old man to write about
the artist, Edward Granger, six decades after meeting him?”

“In fact, I know just when he began to write
it and why. I was the conduit for the fateful message.”

“The fateful message?”

“Yes, Edward Granger spoke through me to
Edwin. Well actually, through Eloise who is a conduit for those
passed on to the alternate universes. I deliver what she tunes
into.”

“Eloise?”

Emily reached out to move the crystal ball
closer to her and, cupping it gently in her tiny hands, she gazed
into its smoky depths and then back up again at me. A tremor of
fear rolled across my shoulders.

“Liz, meet Eloise. Eloise, meet Liz. She
tells it like it is. No sugary coating. Can you take the
unvarnished truth, Liz?”

I know. I ought to have run like the
proverbial scalded cat. Bad imagery, but so was a talking glass
ball named Eloise.

“Edwin had no choice but to do what his old
friend commanded.”

“So, Edward Granger told Edwin Snow to write
a memoir or biography or whatever? Was that their only
communication…through Eloise?”

“No, there was one other time when they spoke
about the ghosts. But that was the last time, the time when…no
matter, not important.”

“Ghosts?” I was rapidly descending into
monosyllabic babbling.

“Up in that old arc of a house where he
lived. You wouldn’t catch me stepping beyond the front door. Full
of angry spirits.”

Do not, absolutely do not pursue this line of
foolishness, I cautioned myself.

“Came here in the dark of night, by the back
door. Heard knocking but as it was a stormy night I assumed it was
the shutters banging. Eventually, I went to check and found him
there drenched and as angry as a wet hen. I made him tea hoping to
calm the man so that he could tell me what had brought him to my
door on such a terrible night.”

“What had brought him, Emily?”

“Ghosts. They had been particularly uppity
for weeks and were keeping him from sleeping. Man was obviously
sleep deprived.”

I struggled to keep my expression
noncommittal but it was not easy. Between a crystal ball and a
story about ghosts, I wondered if I might be in a sleep deprived
emotional breakdown state myself.

“What could I do but recommend a priest? An
exorcism. But, he’d have no truck with priests. Begged me to do it.
I refused.”

I bit my lip. Could I bring myself to ask
questions pertaining to ghosts? I jumped when Jasmine hopped up
onto my lap and began kneading to make herself a comfortable place
to sit. I didn’t need to speak as Emily continued.

“Then, he demanded I contact Granger again
because he needed help with the book. He insisted that he had to
get the artist’s permission to include certain things in the book
he’d been ordered to write. ‘Things of a delicate nature,’ is how
he explained it to me.”

“And you helped him contact Granger that
night, Emily?”

What happened next I told and re-told both
Daphne and James until they both grew sick of hearing about it.

A flash of light beamed out of the crystal
ball, hit a mirror on the wall across the room and then re-bounded
back into my eyes causing me to blink hard. My eyes felt burning
hot and they stung like a million bees had struck. The flash caused
me to jump nearly out of the chair and with an angry growl Jasmine
was gone like a shot.

Emily said not a word. Had she even seen the
flash? Had she been aware of my reaction? I assumed not. Finally,
the stinging settled down and our conversation continued as if
nothing had happened. If Emily had been aware of what happened she
showed no sign. But I knew that she had tried to frighten me away.
Or had it been Eloise?

Looking at Emily I saw that she appeared to
be in a trance. I had to listen closely to what she said next.
“Perhaps since he’s dead, I can share this in the interest of
justice.”

Another far brighter flash issued forth from
trusty Eloise. This time, it hit a tall blue glass bottle just
about a foot from where I was sitting. It exploded into
smithereens. Blue glass flew like confetti. I ducked but my hair
was full of it. Fortunately, neither of us was cut. But only I had
screamed. Emily sat silent, motionless and seemingly transfixed.
Unaware and somewhere else entirely.