A Deadly Snow Fall (8 page)

“Darling girl, how are you, Lady Elizabeth?
Long time no word. So nice to come home to your melodious voice,
cara mia.” Nigel spent all of his holidays in Italy and loved using
his second, if generally butchered, language for emphasis.

“Drop the ‘Lady,’ Nigel; I live in America
now where such titles, like wearing fur, can get you splashed with
red paint. However, I am in fine fettle, running my sainted aunt’s
little bed and breakfast in a quaint seaside village, writing a
cookery book and having a jolly good time of it. However, I have a
question that only you, my darling friend, can answer.”

“Oh, beloved woman, just the fact that you’ve
come to me makes me weak in the knees. Anything. But please make
it, “Will you marry me Nigel and come to live with me in my seaside
village?”

“Maybe sometime, ducks, but just now I may be
about to---foolishly, I might add---plunge into a quagmire that
will probably be my undoing in my seaside village. But after all,
as my new gal pal Daphne Crowninshield would say, what is the point
of having a life if one does not go for all the gusto? Nigel,
something has occurred here that has pulled me into a little
mystery. Perhaps a murder mystery. Before I go ahead, however, I
need you to clear up something for me.”

“Did you say Daphne Crowninshield? The Daphne
Crowninshield, multi, multi-millionairess of the Crowninshield
South African mining fortune?”

“Damn. I knew that name sounded familiar. NO.
No, she couldn’t be. Could she?”

“Unless there is another, but I can tell you
that when the old man died two years ago she took off and only her
family knows where she is and the fortune just keeps on growing. Is
she tall, slim as a reed with an angular but striking face and a
gritty kind of voice? Sexy, I’m sure, to some, but for me only your
angelic voice trills in my heart.”

“Nigel, that describes her exactly. She has
been very circumspect about her roots and her past, but I
never….well, well. She is very dear to me, so I will respect her
need for anonymity…for now. May have to use it to blackmail her
sometime though.”

Nigel laughed with delight. I knew all too
well that I had to tread carefully since this sweet man was so dear
to me. However, not dear in the way he would have liked. Since
childhood, both children of busy parents who’d left the job to
nurses, governesses and school masters, we’d been thrown together
often. My parents and his had been best friends; thus, we were more
like siblings than just friends. I, however, still considered him
brother-like while his feelings were quite different toward me.

“I say, cara mia, why don’t I just pop over
for a holiday? Weather here is frightful. You could show me your
village.”

That would not do. “Nigel, at the mur…death
scene of a man who the police assumed took his own life by jumping
off of our very tall Pilgrim Monument, I saw something that has
been niggling around in my fertile brain for days. Something that
seemed, at least to me, to be incongruous. Only you can clear this
up for me before I jump in and get involved in a possibly dangerous
situation.”

Silence. Then, “Oh, darling girl, please do
not put your magnificent self in danger. I can fly right over and
be with you to protect you.” Nigel’s voice, so concerned and
sincere melted my heart as always and I wished that I could return
his love but chemistry being what it was I simply could not.

“Thanks, ducks. Tell you what, if it gets too
sticky you will be the first one I’ll call in. But for now, I need
information. I need to know how a person who jumped off of a two
hundred and fifty-two foot tower would land.”

I heard his snicker but waited for the humor
to pass and for him to regain his professional stance. “Well,
darling girl, I can tell you right off the bat that the sound would
be splat. But I suppose you mean how would the body meet the hard
ground, correct?”

“Yes Nigel, my swain, that's what I am
asking. Is there a formula or something that determines how a
person hits depending on the height from which he falls or is it an
individual thing or what?”

“The structure of the human body combined
with the automatic physical response to such a fall pretty much
pre-determines the outcome. Let me explain. No matter how
determined a person is to jump and end it all, the mind clicks in
once the flight begins and there is a most definite physical
response. Even deep despondency rarely overrides and obliterates
our natural human survival response. No one makes such a fall with
their arms pasted to their sides as they wait to hit solid ground.
Arms and legs flail like a fledgling bird taking its first flight.
I can tell you with certainty, my darling girl, that a person would
have to be trussed like a Christmas turkey not to flail in
flight.”

“But more specifically, would he have fallen
face-first or on his back?’

“That would depend on his movements as he
approached his landing site. There would be some effect upon the
landing depending on the body’s movement and whether the jumper was
still conscious. However, it would be a toss-up. Like tossing a
coin. Well, I mean I could get into the mathematics of it but not
necessary.”

“Thanks, Nigel. That is precisely what I’m
looking for. So, unlikely he’d come down like a bomb with his head
like a heat-seeking missile that would hit and crack open upon
impact?”

“Mercy, no. Whatever gave you such a
Hollywood idea?”

Not bothering to address his question, I
moved right on to the next one. “Well, before I leave your charming
company, Nigel, please tell me this: What would cause someone to
land squarely on the top of his head if he jumped or was pushed
from a two hundred foot tall tower?”

“Angel girl, stretching my imagination, I
suppose I could propose a hypothetical situation. However, I’d
rather not describe it to you; could cause nightmares.”

“Nigel darling, I do really need to know. I
can take it. Tell you what, let’s suppose that the victim was
already dead or at least unconscious and set it up for me,
please.”

“The murderer might have tied the victim’s
ankles together with a rope. Thus, when tossed over the side of the
tower the trajectory would be guaranteed to end in a head-first
landing.”

“I see.”

“Is that helpful, darling? Did your victim
land head-first?”

“Thanks so much, Nigel. Let’s get together
next time I’m in London. Cheerio.”

“Wait, Liz, what….”

I felt terrible about hanging up abruptly,
but I was suddenly on pins and needles. Agatha Raisin was
screeching inside my head and Miss Marple was sitting on my
shoulder, carpet bag in hand, advising me as to my next move. This
sleuthing business could be hard on the nerves.

Next stop the Provincetown Police Station. I
jumped out of bed and quickly dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt.
I added a rust colored linen blazer to add a bit of professionalism
to the casual outfit. Maybe not right for the city but perfect for
the village. Having pulled my hair into a ponytail, I began to
think about the Irish cop with the great, sexy voice and pulled off
the elastic. I fluffed my newly trimmed and gently streaked,
“sun-kissed” Daphne’s hairdresser had said, shoulder length hair
and checked my eye makeup and lipstick. Subtle, soft, feminine but
with a definite edge that said, I am a serious minded woman in
search of answers. Hoping to, as the saying goes, kill two birds
with one stone, I set out for the Town Hall. I would ask some
questions pertaining to the Snow case and at the same time check
out Officer James Finneran. Oh, how I hoped he was not married,
covered in warts, had long, protruding canine teeth and was only
five foot three inches tall. Well, I had considered that he was a
leprechaun. Be careful what you wish for.

The weather was the loveliest it had been in
weeks. The gentle, salt breeze off the harbor reminded me, as it
always did, of why I loved living there. Then, my mind slipped to a
day on the Thames when my history tutor and I boarded a river boat
to take the ride all the way to Greenwich. We were studying British
naval history and so we were off to view the Meridian and check out
the naval museum. A great plan that soon went awry.

Boarding the boat in the shadow of Big Ben
with tourists from everywhere, I bought a little book telling the
story of how Greenwich Mean Time had been established. I remember
how it seemed odd to me that anyone could mess around with time.
Time just was, or so I thought until I read the edifying little
book.

But the real high point was yet to come. Once
out on the water, the loquacious tour guide related funny and
historical stories about places we passed. I, however, had my eyes
on the water watching the things that floated by. The Thames is a
catch basin for everyday and also unspeakable things. This thing of
which I speak fell directly into the “unspeakable” category.

After counting five wood planks, a broken
kitchen chair, a blonde wig and what appeared to be a child’s
stuffed Kermit the Frog toy minus its stuffing, a lumpy, plastic
bag awkwardly floated by. Sticking out of a hole in the bag and
gently “waving” at me as the passing boat wakes tossed it around,
was a hand. A human hand.

The police boat was summoned and we all went
on our not so merry way. The day was ruined for all but one little
red-haired, freckle-faced American boy who kept asking his mother
if they could see the “friendly bag” again.

The Provincetown Town Hall was quiet as I
stepped inside. Turning to my left, through the dust motes
highlighted by the tall window, I spotted the handsome Irish cop. I
took a deep breath. His dark rust-colored hair was a bit longer
than police regulations warranted but after all, it was an
unconventional village. I stood quietly watching him working at a
computer. Intent on his work, it took him a bit of time to realize
I was there. Turning toward me and rising, gentlemanly, I was
immediately aware that there was neither a wart nor a protruding
canine on view. Then, Officer James Finneran smiled. I thought only
silly women swooned!

Now, I thought, if only he’s single and
available. My day was looking better and better. This sleuth stuff
was beginning to pay off. If I hadn’t become involved I’d probably
have had to get arrested to meet the gorgeous Irishman.

“Excuse me, may I speak with you? Officer
Finneran, is it?”

Turning toward me and grinning from ear to
ear, the handsome Irishman responded in a deep, lilting brogue,
“Ah, as I live and breath, Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe, I presume. Unless me
granny’s talent for the knowin’ skipped me by.”

I put out my hand hoping it would not betray
me by shaking. “I think we can proceed to Liz, Officer
Finneran.”

“Delighted. And it’ll be James if you please,
just James. At last we meet. Sorry I didn’t know you were coming or
I’d have baked a nice Irish soda bread like me Granny always did
for drop-in folks.”

My knees felt like jelly but I clamped them
together for better support. Get a grip Liz, I told myself; this is
not a cotillion and you’re not thirteen.

“Sorry the place is a mess. But there’s
coffee and it’s not half bad.”

“James, I wonder if you might be free to have
that coffee at the Green Genie? I’d like to speak to you in a more
private setting.” Looking around, I could see that there was not a
single other soul but the two of us and yet, something about the
walls of a police station felt like an environment of perpetual
eavesdropping.

James nodded to me, walked over to a
partially open door and spoke to a woman he called, Mrs. Cannon.
“Mrs. Cannon, the Chief, I assume, will be along in a tick. So, if
you are not needing me, I’ll be stepping out for a bit.” Mrs.
Cannon’s response revealed that she’d been privy to our every word.
Perpetual eavesdropping. “Please bring me a nice cup of that lovely
Puerto Rican coffee Mamie is offering these days. Just black, dear.
Have a nice time.”

We sat at a window table overlooking
MacMillan Wharf. It was a busy morning as fishing boats prepared to
go out on the in-coming tide. Unless the Green Genie was bugged by
the FBI, we could talk freely. James and I were the only ones
sitting to enjoy our drinks. Everyone else was a takeaway
customer--in and out again.

Might as well get right to it. I looked James
right in the eyes and presented my question.

“Despite the suicide verdict in the death of
Edwin Snow, is there any suspicion at all that he might have been
murdered?”

James’ eyes did something that I later
learned to read. At rest, they were an amazing shade of azure with
a hint of the Irish green. When he was particularly intrigued, they
flashed with a king’s ransom worth of golden glints.

“Liz, what I am about to reveal must stay
between us. At least, for the time being.”

“You too have your doubts, don’t you,
James?”

“Off the record, way off, I do believe that
the Chief chose to believe the man took his own life principally to
extinguish the volatility of the situation for townspeople.”

“Do you mean that the Chief of Police might
be covering up what really happened to quell the town’s likely
reaction of turning on one another with accusations of murderer?”
My voice was edgy.

James clicked back into professional cop
mode. He chose his words ever so carefully. I could almost hear his
mind whirring. In that stretch of weighty silence, rather than any
words he might have uttered, his concentration served to forge a
special bond between us. In those significant moments, our
partnership gelled like a nice, tangy, tomato aspic. I was not only
terribly attracted to the charming and handsome cop but I respected
him, as well. A perfect package.

“The Chief is a saint of a man. He loves this
town like it was his child. Whatever reasons he had, and still has,
for his position in the Edwin Snow case, they are not for me to
question.”