A Deadly Snow Fall (12 page)

“Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.” Emily’s
voice sounded unearthly. I tried to shake the bits of glass from my
hair but kept my eyes glued to the tiny woman. Emily’s face twisted
and paled. Her body seemed to implode. Her shoulders fell as if
under a great weight and her chest sunk inward, as if the plug had
been pulled on an inflated doll. My first thought was that the
flying glass must have hit her and caused the cave in. Was I losing
it? Had the tiny woman cast a spell on me?

“Are you ill? Did the glass hit you?” I
reached out and touched the tiny, soft hand that lay palm down on
the lace covered table.”

“Oh, my, my. I am so sorry but I cannot tell
you what the artist said to Edwin that final night. Edwin forbids
it. Sorry, please excuse me, I must lie down.”

Emily rose and headed through a glass bead
screen that evidently led into her private quarters. I heard the
cat jump down from a nearby shelf. I felt a sudden rush of wind
that came from nowhere. I could see no open window or door. Our
session had ended. What else to do but leave. The air outside was
life-saving. I gulped at it hungrily.

Chapter Thirteen

Sitting in Daphne’s gallery on a paint
spattered stool, I watched my best friend put the finishing touches
on a scene duplicated right out the back window. Like looking into
one of those fun house mirrors wherein the scene is duplicated
endlessly. This, however, was just the original and the duplicate
on canvas. “It’s just lovely, Daphne. Is it a commission?”

“Yep; money in the bank. So how’s the murder
investigation going?” Daphne put her brush into a Mason jar
half-filled with turpentine and wiped her hands on an apron that
could easily have been hung in any gallery and mistaken for an
original Jackson Pollack.

“Brace yourself, Daph. It seems, according a
reliable source, Bill Windship, that he was the man Rosita left
Edwin for on her wedding day. If we can believe him. Imagine how
embarrassing for poor, old Edwin all decked out in his wedding
gear, the pews full of guests, the organist ready to strike the
first note of the wedding march and ta da, no bride.”

“Maybe old Bill was worth more than Edwin and
when she found out she jumped ship. Maybe the lovely Rosita was
just a gold digging opportunist.” Daph laughed and sat next to me
on an upturned antique wooden lobster trap.

“How about this, Daph? What if the lovely
Rosita had an affair with Granger while he was painting her and she
got pregnant? If he refused to leave his wife she might have
grabbed onto Edwin? What man would refuse such a gorgeous woman if
she was also very clever? She could have convinced poor Edwin that
she loved him and pulled off the bun in the oven thing. Then, at
the eleventh hour, she regretted it and just split.”

Daphne shook her head and reached over to
pick up a fallen paint brush. “So, old Bill wasn’t exactly the
source of enlightenment, gal pal?”

“Not exactly. He’s cagey, but he’s not
fooling me. Mark my words; Bill Windship knows more about this
murder than he’s willing to share.”

“Hey, how about this idea? Rosita came back
recently to hit up old Edwin for long-overdue child support, still
insisting the kid was his? Maybe they’d had a romantic moment up at
the top of the Monument six decades ago so, she convinced him to
return with her there. When he refused to hand over the dough she
pushed him over the side. Splat!”

“So, you think two octogenarians could have
climbed the Pilgrim Monument in the throes of old remembered
passion and Rosita convinced the old man to hang over the edge and
carve their initials into the side of the Monument so she could
give him the final shove?”

“If only I could find Rosita and talk to her
it might clear up a lot of things. If she’s still alive. This is
giving me a real headache. By the way, on the subject of heads,
what is that color your hairdresser foisted on you this time?”

“This gorgeous shade of my lush, magnificent
locks is called the Strawberry Fields Fade. It’s the Hollywood
rage. The “fade effect.” See how the soft red at the top of the
hair shaft gradually moves down to become a gentle, golden brown as
it approaches my shoulders. If you you, my dear, were a fashionista
like moi, you’d know that.”

“Oh right. I really want hair that looks like
some kind of hard candy. How can I find Rosita?”

“Google her. Facebook her.”

“Of course. Do you have your laptop
here?”

Daphne rummaged under a pile of rags, paint
spattered smocks and brown paper bags to retrieve a leather case
that looked as if it had come over on the Mayflower.

“Rosita Gonsalves. But what if she married
and changed her name? I’ll start with Facebook.”

Suddenly, there on the screen was a photo of
the most beautiful and glamorous octogenarian imaginable. “Look at
this, Daphne. She’s still gorgeous although she must be at least
eighty-three. We should look so good at that age.”

“Hey, I should look that good right now.
Well, so there she is, the vixen who went around town breaking
hearts and leaving grooms red-faced at the altar. What does she say
about herself?”

“Let’s see. She lives in Asheville, North
Carolina, but she gives Massachusetts as her birthplace. She
writes, oh my gosh, romance novels. Well, write what you know.
She’s widowed. She has a daughter who lives in New Hampshire.
Edward Granger’s lovely portrait model. Rosita in the morning
light. Makes me wonder if they ever….”

“Quick, send her a message. Ask her about
Provincetown. Tell her Edwin bit the dust or, more appropriately,
the snow.”

“No, not just yet. I have to think about this
before I go off half-cocked.”

“A bit of advice, gal pal. Considering her
advanced age, better to go off half-cocked than not cocked at all.
She could pass on any minute and then you’ll have nothing.”

Daphne pulled on a ratty looking sweater at
least two sizes too large for her and headed for the door. “I’ve
got a hankering for a lobster salad roll. How about you? Let’s
saddle up and hit the trail.”

I turned off the computer, slipped it back
into its case and put it on a shelf alongside a pile of blank
canvases and assorted tubes of oil paints. “Imagine the lovely
Rosita still savvy in her ninth decade. We might just be getting
somewhere, Daph.”

“The only where I want to get to right now is
a table by the window where I can dig into the best lobster roll on
the east coast. Saddle up, Liz.”

“You know, pal of mine, you are beginning to
sound a lot like Hollywood westerns. Bad westerns. And, you’re
influencing my vocabulary against my will. Maybe I will just have
to stop hanging around with you. My father always said that I was
too easily influenced by my peers.”

“Just trying to fit into the colonies.”

“Right.” We headed out of the gallery and
down Commercial Street. “What should I ask Rosita first, Daph?”

“Let’s see, how about asking her if she did
it? If she adamantly says “NO” then ask her for a list of likely
suspects.”

“Duh. Brilliant, Daph.”

“Just trying to be helpful. Did you stop to
consider that he might have dumped her, at the last minute?” Daphne
asked.

“Sure, and then he got into his wedding
finery and showed up at the church just asking to be pitied. Get a
grip, gal pal.” Why not? Agatha Raisin asked

I stopped dead on the sidewalk while Daphne
marched ahead salivating for lobster. Realizing I wasn’t next to
her she turned back. “Where are you, girl? What? You look
weird.”

“Let’s suppose that Edwin did find out the
night before the wedding that she had shacked up with Granger and
the baby was his. She might have begged him to marry her anyway.
She was, after all, quite a catch for “Eggy.” But, he stood his
ground and dumped her, in a rage. Then, Edwin showed up for a
wedding he knew was not going to take place? Why?”

“Damned if I know. A fondness for wedding
cake frosting?” Daphne asked as she pulled me along the
sidewalk.

“Consider this, Daph. Men fell all over the
gorgeous Rosita. Probably had fistfights over her. Yet, Edwin had
the chance to marry her. All he had to do was look the other way
about the baby and pretend to be the little blighter’s father. It
is done. Rosita would have been quite a brilliant feather in
unpopular Edwin’s cap. However, at the very last minute Edwin
showed some pride and refused her.”

“Damn, you just might have something. Now,
let’s discuss it further over heaping lobster chunks mixed with
finely diced celery and drowning in home-made mayo on a toasted
Portuguese roll.”

“Daph, you will be thinking of food on your
deathbed.”

“Planning right now to be laid out on a
buffet table surrounded by the stuff. Do you think that will put
people off the lovely food?”

I groaned and followed Daph to the Lobster
Bowl. “Daph, you are seriously in need of professional help.”

Sitting at a window table, gazing out at
three catboats gliding along, I mulled over my new idea. As we
waited for our orders to arrive Daphne offered, “So, he turns
Rosita down flat. But, not to be outdone, the lovely lady turns to
number two, Bill Windship, also a man smitten by her beauty and
charm. Then, she dumps him for…who knows? Maybe a traveling
salesman. But we still have a very strange situation unresolved.
Why would Edwin Snow, Provincetown’s bad boy and least favorite
son, show up for a wedding he knew was not going to happen?”

“For the very reason that he was unloved and
unpopular--to earn the town’s pity. At least, pity is a human
emotion. Maybe the poor guy was willing to take anything he could
get. Even if it involved utter humiliation.”

“Right.” Plates heaped with chunky lobster
arrived and we dug in. Silenced by the delectable food.

“By the way, I need to tell you what I
learned from a trusted scientist colleague and old friend from
childhood. He is a renowned forensic scientist employed by MI6. He
told me that if Edwin jumped he would not have landed squarely on
the top of his head but on his front or possibly his back but never
the way he landed, point blank on the top of his cranium.” Like
Humpty Dumpty.

“How do you know he landed on his head? How
could you know that? Did you witness his fall or were you in
attendance for the forensic investigation? What are you talking
about, Liz?”

“None of the above. I, just as you did,
watched the EMT’s take the body away. Obviously however, you are
not as observant as I am although you certainly ought to be since
you are an artist, Ms. Crowninshield.”

“Touché, friend. Sorry I wasn’t captivated by
the blood on the snow and checking out the head of a man who’d
fallen over two hundred feet to his death. Yuck, brain mush on ice.
You really checked that out?”

“Of course. Agatha Raisin would have been
that astute. Miss Marple would most certainly not have overlooked
it. The very top of Edwin’s head was horribly broken from hitting
the ground. Like tossing an egg. In fact, according to my friend
Nigel, that indicates that someone tossed him off the top of the
Monument probably with a long rope tied around his ankles. Let’s
hope the old man was already dead or at least, unconscious. That
would have guaranteed his fall, head-first. ‘Like a heat-seeking
missile,’ as Nigel put it.

“Ouch.”

I suddenly jumped up and headed for the door
nearly toppling the half-filled glass of iced tea I’d been
sipping.

Daphne grabbed what remained of her lobster
roll, plunked down some money on the table and raced after me.
“Hey, was it something I said? Do I have parsley between my teeth?
Hold up, Liz.”

“Daphne, I’ve got to go up to the top of the
Monument. Want to come?”

“No.”

Arriving at Bill Windship’s house, I knocked
and knocked but no one answered. “Have to see if he’s at his store;
come on.”

Heading back along Commercial Street toward
the Army-Navy Surplus store followed by Daphne, I spotted Bill
outside the shop talking to a man dressed in overalls and carrying
a tool box.

Going right up to the men, I stood waiting
for them to finish talking. Bill gave me a frosty look and then
turned back to the carpenter. “Thanks Henry. Like to get the work
done just as soon as possible. I’ll look forward to seeing you on
Tuesday.”

“What do you want Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe? I’m a
busy man. I have nothing more to say to you.”

“Mr. Windship, I need to get up in the
Monument. Today. Right now.”

“Sorry, Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe, but the Monument
is closed for the winter. As is the museum. Come and see us after
Memorial Day.” He turned but I grabbed at the arm of his
jacket.

“Look, Mr. Windship.” I quickly rummaged
around in my mind for a reasonable excuse for my urgency. “My
editor insists that I get pictures from the top of the tower and
familiarize myself with the climb and the viewing platform to give
my writing more integrity. It will not take long, I promise. I’m
working on a tight deadline.”

“Don’t care to hear your reasons. The answer
has not changed, Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe. It is still emphatically,
no.”

“But, Sir, this really is important. Can’t
you make just this one exception?”

“No.”

“So, if it is not convenient now, then how
about some other day this week?”

Looking at me as if I was either deaf or
daft, Bill went on to explain that there were five broken steps
undergoing repair and it would be at least a week before anyone
could safely climb the tower.

“How and when did the steps get broken? Could
a body being dragged up the stairs bumping and dragging have
damaged already old and crumbling wooden steps?”

A deep sigh from this man whose late onset
misogyny had grown, over the years, to nearly match his homophobic
stance.