A Deadly Snow Fall (6 page)

“I suppose that depends on the reason for
this call. If I have a parking ticket I do not know about or you
saw me pinching the fruit at Souzas’ market, then it is ‘Ms.
Ogilvie-Smythe.’ If you want a donation for the policeman’s ball or
want to book a room for your mother visiting from the old country,
then it is definitely ‘Elizabeth.’ Should we ever become good
friends, I have no problem with simply ‘Liz.’”

“It will be my extreme pleasure to look
forward to ‘Liz.’ For now, I must let you know that there is a
lawyer here from Boston who would like to talk to you. When it’s
convenient, of course. However, he would like it to be today.”

“A lawyer. So, you do prosecute for fruit
pinching.”

“Oh, Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe, you are a card.”

“Mr. Finneran, or should I address you as
‘Officer’? I can be available at one this afternoon if that works
with the lawyer. However, might I know what this is all about? I’ve
never been fond of surprises.”

“As you may know, we recently had a tragedy
in town. Old man Edwin Snow…. jumped from the Pilgrim Monument.
According to the lawyer, it seems he named you in his will.”

I was glad he could not see my face at that
moment since he sounded good looking and I was anxious to take his
measure. But if a look of surprise could be measured on a scale of
one to ten then mine was easily a fifteen.

I hung up the wall phone and simply stood
there utterly dumbfounded. Then, I grabbed it back and punched in
Daphne’s number.

“Hi. Something really, really odd is going
on.”

“Yes, and your point exactly? This is P-town
where odd is de rigueur.”

“No, seriously Daphne. I just got a call from
the police station about a lawyer who wants to meet with me to tell
me about…It just has to be a mistake, that’s it.”

“Blimey, Liz, will you please get to the
point.”

“It seems that odd little man who jumped from
the Pilgrim Monument left me something in his will.”

Silence.

“Aha, so you and the old guy had something
going, did you? After his money were you?”

“Get serious Daphne, I’ve got enough money to
buy this entire town so what would I be doing with a weird little
man whom everyone disliked?”

“Damned if I know. Perversity? A long,
celibate winter?”

I hung up and smiled. Yes, a long, celibate
winter, indeed.

I walked to the police station hoping the
Irish policeman would be there. He sounded so delightful on the
phone. It had been a long time between men. Daphne had been right
on. A long, celibate winter and longer still since I’d met anyone
worth even washing my hair for!

I walked into the Town Hall, looked to my
left and saw the reception area for the police department. To my
right a door was open and a well-dressed, gray-haired man sat at a
reproduction Governor Winthrop desk leaning over a pile of official
looking papers. Definitely the attorney. No sign of the
leprechaun.

Introducing myself, I had my most skeptical
face on. The whole idea that a virtual stranger, the town
curmudgeon, had left me something was way beyond ludicrous. Surely,
there’d been a big mistake.

“How do you do? I am Elizabeth Ogilvie-Smythe
and, of course, there has been a mistake. I did not know the man
who died and he did not know me. Therefore, he had no reason to
leave me anything in his will.”

“How do you do Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe? Allow me
to introduce myself. Anthony Wilder from Wilder, Fitzpatrick and
Cohen, Boston.”

The tall, well-dressed attorney exuded an air
of frostiness that I could feel right through my forest green
cashmere jacket. I was sure that this was a mistake that could
quickly be remedied.

Ignoring my objections, the lawyer motioned
me to a chair. “Kindly take a seat here,” he pointed to a chair
placed at an angle to the one next to it, in between a small
handsome piecrust edged table on which was sitting a dainty
porcelain teapot and two delicate cups. Pretty nice stuff for a
police station interview room, I thought. Looking around at the
fine wood paneling on the walls and the tin ceiling I had to wonder
what purpose this room had served in the old town hall.

“Tea?”

Being offered tea by a po-faced city attorney
who obviously had me mixed up with someone else, thus keeping me
from more important things really grated. However, the familiar
fragrance of one of my favorite teas, Oolong, won me over.

“I do realize that this perhaps comes as a
surprise, Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe, but I assure you this is legitimate.
Mr. Edwin”….he looked down at the papers on his lap, “So sorry, I
had to step in just this morning on the fly as my father was
stricken ill. Ah yes. Mr. Edwin Snow was my father’s client for
many, many years.”

“So sorry. Is your father going to be
alright?”

“Pardon me? Oh yes. Just a bit of gout.
Nothing serious. Except, of course, to poor father.” He tittered. I
grimaced but he either missed it or chose to ignore my human
emotion as it was probably alien to his nature.

“Now, let us move on here. Mr. Edwin Snow III
has specifically named you as heir to his manuscript. His home and
the bulk of his monetary estate he left to the American Pit Bull
Advocate Society but this box belongs to you.”

Reaching for a leather box about the size of
a small valise, he pulled it toward him, hesitating for a moment as
if trying to judge my worthiness. Looking directly into the man’s
pellucid eyes I wondered how this crazy error might have occurred.
My natural cat-like curiosity however kept me glued to the
chair.

The sun slanting in through the tall,
many-paned, not too clean window was warm and spring-like. In the
past, I would have nipped off to the Caribbean or the Côte d’Azur
to avoid the discontent that can come with the long, gray days of a
London winter. I had surprised myself by my state of contentment,
that winter. Maturity or simply novelty? Whatever. As Daph would
have said.

At last, the stuffed shirt spoke. “This case
contains the manuscript formerly belonging to Edwin Snow III. It
now belongs to you, by order of his will.”

I simply offered a perplexed look and sat
there hoping the cute sounding, Irish cop would suddenly appear. We
could maybe pop off to kiss the Blarney Stone together.

The attorney removed an envelope from the
folder in front of him. I sipped my tea. Sun motes danced in the
slanted light. No Officer Finneran came to my rescue. Damsel
disappointed.

He handed me the letter and I took it as if
it was on fire. A pause followed that, despite its insubstantial
nature, did however feel like a chill blanket that floated down
from the ceiling and, as it reached us sitting there as still as
statuary, altered the fiber of our corporeal reality. The room
shifted and then shifted back but this latter only because one of
us chose to speak into the yawning void.

“Oh my. Pardon me. How stupid of me not to
notice this. Ah yes. Well now, that changes things quite
dramatically, doesn’t it?” Attorney Wilder appeared either agitated
or constipated and anxious to remedy that situation.

“Aha, at last, there is a mistake isn’t
there? This is not my inheritance but belongs to someone else
entirely. Therefore,” I rose abruptly, “I shall get on with my day.
Good day, Sir.”

“No, please wait. There is no mistake about
this.” He turned toward the box. “Yes, it is to be yours. Oh my.
Not just yet. It seems that Mr. Snow added a codicil to his will
just nine weeks before his death. It seems that he feared for his
life. Told my father that, according to this file and
so…interesting, very interesting.”

I had never been famous for having a high
patience threshold and this ludicrous meeting had just gone on far
too long for me. The expression, cat on a hot tin roof came to
mind. I knew that I would have to leave or I just might pop this
fellow in his snooty nose.

“Look, why don’t you just burn this or put it
on e-Bay or let it blow on the wind because, quite frankly I have
lost interest in this matter and I do have a busy day ahead of me.
Gazing at my watch, I declared, “Well now, look at that; it’s
almost tea time. Talley ho, got to go.”

“Ms. Smythe, please.” The man’s tone made it
abundantly clear that he was totally disinterested in what I might
want and, in addition, he’d gotten my name wrong. I began to
bristle like a hedgehog.

“I think that you will want to hear this, as
it explains everything quite succinctly.”

I groaned audibly and resumed my seat.

“Evidently, the man was a close friend to
your aunt. A Mrs. Elizabeth Smythe Huntley, late of this community.
As the man was evidently fearful for his life following certain
‘attacks’ to his person, he added this codicil to his will just
nine weeks ago. My, my, this is strange. Yes, indeed.”

I snapped. “And did you wish to share this
oddity with me or simply keep it to enjoy later at your leisure?
So, the tragic old man knew my aunt, did he? She is gone and I was
never even properly introduced to the man so this makes not one
iota of sense. Why me?”

I considered faking a faint. Anything to
bring the strange meeting to an end. But there was something more.
Something so farcical that made this scene fit more appropriately
into a British drawing room comedy than my life. These kinds of
things don’t happen in real life. At least, not in my life. But I
was wrong.

“In effect, it states here that you do not
receive the manuscript until you find his murderer!”

“What?” I fell back into the chair like a
popped balloon.

Chapter Eight

I’d walked home in a daze. The snow was gone
but there were little reminder traces of the surprise snowstorm up
against places that did not get the sun. Along the way, my spirits,
if not my confusion, lifted as I noticed lots of pale green shoots
in front gardens that practically grew taller as one watched.

“Find my murderer.” Why in the world had that
unhappy old man chosen me for the task? Where did he get off
demanding such a thing? From a virtual stranger? I could only
suppose it was just one of his nasty plots to cause discontent.
Because I’d patted and befriended his dog? Surely, that could not
have been enough reason to foist such a ridiculous duty upon my
head. Therefore, I would simply ignore the codicil. I’d classify it
as the final trick of a sick and paranoid man and forget I’d ever
heard it.

Back at the inn, the architect and the
builder who were in charge of renovating my Aunt Libby’s nineteen
fifties kitchen were just arriving as I pulled up in the Jeep. They
left after we made a few changes to the plan, and I headed, with a
cup of tea, to the sunny sitting room. Just what I needed right
then. If this were a tennis match, I thought, the point would have
gone to Snow. He had managed to set my nerves on edge. Nothing like
the comfort of tea. The chamomile tea’s soporific effect took me
from contemplation of my strange meeting with the attorney who’d,
in effect, arranged a posthumous encounter between me and the old
grump, Edwin Snow III, into a lucid daydream.

Find my murderer!

Wearing a handsome, black London Fog trench
coat and a muted paisley Liberty scarf I moved stealthily through
the village in search of clues. Calling upon my newly formed
friendships, I surreptitiously inquired about the dead man while
carefully disguising the reasons for my interest. Best not to
arouse their suspicions that I was on a mission to find a
murderer.

One by one the clues accumulated until I had
the case solved and only then did I go to the police with my
findings. They applauded my efforts as the case had stymied them
for so long. I was thereby appointed a special ex-officio
detective. A sort of crime consultant.

The chiming of the old grandfather clock on
the landing brought me abruptly back to reality. The sun had lost
its gloss and the thick, dark clouds that had rolled in looked most
unfriendly. More rain? What is this, London? I asked aloud although
there was no one to answer me and, just as well. The silly, little
daydream had stirred up the memory of what I’d seen that day when
Edwin Snow lay broken in the fresh fall of snow. I couldn’t shake
the feeling that the incongruity of his crushed skull just could
not be so easily set aside as the Police Chief had obviously done.
But, who was I to question the highest law in the village? Chief
Henderson had closed the case after calling the death a suicide. I
needed professional information. Fortunately, that excellent advice
and possibly some helpful guidance was only an international call
away.

Being an inveterate list maker, I took pen in
hand and sat with a pad of yellow lined paper to get my thoughts
and impressions organized.

Suicide or Murder: Edwin Snow III

How did the old man gain access to the
Pilgrim Monument? Daphne said that Bill Windship practically owns
the tower and he has the key. Sleeps with the key, she
surmised.

How did Edwin Snow manage to climb all of
those steps at his age? It would seem that suicide would be a moot
point since he should have had a heart attack and died as a result
of the climb.

Why choose that method of suicide,
anyway?

Who would gain from his death?

What part does his manuscript play in the
plot?

Will reading the manuscript help to solve the
case and if so, how can I get my hands on it without first solving
the case???? Catch 22.

Next question; what on earth am I doing? I
asked myself. This is just plain crazy. What does it matter to me
how the old coot died? Then, Agatha Raisin with her “little bear
eyes” and “great legs” came vibrantly into my mind. As if she was
sitting across from me, her steely voice echoed inside my head. How
can you even think of not getting involved? Are you not a decent,
compassionate, civilized human being? Even miserable, nasty old
curmudgeons who are hated by everyone ought to have an advocate if
and when they are murdered. That’s why you must, I reiterate MUST,
get involved, bloody fool!