The Body in the Snowdrift (12 page)

“Well, next time, tell Nature to take a hike. It's very dangerous.”

“Then the chef walked out yesterday, and they haven't been able to—”

“Find anyone to replace him or her, so naturally you're doing it. Faith! What's going on? Isn't this a business? They could get some temps from NECI.”

“It's complicated because the owners, the Staffords, are such close friends of my in-laws, and I think they were afraid to take a chance on even a very qualified
student. The place is full and the restaurant's booked every night. But they have a lead, and I'm only doing it one more night. Really, it's a snap. Only dinner, and it's a great crew. They're all from South America. I'm learning a lot of Spanish—well, kitchen Spanish.”

“Do you want me to come up? We don't have anything until the Tischler bat mitzvah next Saturday night.”

“No, really. It will only be for one more day, and you need time to finish the wedding plans.”

“Look, I'll pay you to call my mother and tell her there's an emergency and I need to help you out.”

Niki was getting married in June. She had wanted a December wedding, but her mother had other ideas. She'd also wanted a simple ivory slip gown, but was ending up looking, as she said, “like one of those crocheted dolls my aunt Alcina makes to go over the spare roll of toilet paper.” For years, Niki had managed to alarm her large Greek family with her choices, only to fall head over heels in love with the man of their dreams—a Greek-American Harvard MBA who carried pictures of his nieces and nephews in his wallet. Niki was seriously thinking of getting in touch with HBO to offer the ceremony and reception to the producers of
My Big Fat Greek Wedding II.

“The only thing I need is for you to look up how much chicken broth is in the Apology mushroom soup and call me back.” They called the soup this because the recipe had come from their friend David Pologe, whose last name was pronounced like the word's last three syllables, hence “A Pology” mushroom soup. It was a way to differentiate it from the scores of other mushroom soup recipes they'd collected.

“Okay, but please no more bodies, no more jobs. You're supposed to be having fun.”

Faith decided not to mention the party playmate in the pool, but she needed to tell her friend about Betsey.

“What a witch! Or more like the woman definitely needs some magic bullets, little round white or pink ones.”

They laughed.

“Promise you'll tell me if I ever get that involved with my kids. I keep wondering what she's going to do when they leave for college. Somehow, I don't think Dennis is going to be willing to take their place.” She flashed on the picture of his car outside the motel. Maybe he'd just been asking for directions.

Faith gave Niki the number for the resort's kitchen and said good-bye. She wished Niki were here, but this was family time. Although she considered Niki part of her family, she wasn't part of the Fairchild clan. Faith hadn't wanted to tell Niki that one of the main reasons she didn't mind pitching in at Le Sapin was that it was a whole lot more fun in the kitchen with her new friends than dealing with the ties that bind. Niki would have understood, but Faith felt more than a little guilty.

 

“Who on earth is that woman? Has she been here before?” Faith asked Eduardo. He'd been on his way out the door with the woman's salad, but Faith had pulled him back into the kitchen to add the requested extra croutons, which she had almost forgotten. There was no new chef on the horizon, and Faith was on duty again. She had also met with the staff to plan the following night's Scandinavian soiree. With a silent apol
ogy to the Nordic nations, she'd replaced boiled potatoes with oven-roasted and twice-baked ones. And no one would miss lutefisk, or several kinds of herring, unless there was a Minnesota contingent among the guests. Apart from these alterations, the smorgasbord would be as authentic as she could make it.

“She's been here a couple of times before, twice with a tall, skinny old man. Silver hair. Ask Mr. Tanner. He knows her,” Eduardo said. The young Peruvian was majoring in English, and Faith had come to rely on him as an occasional interpreter. His bright eyes, with their suggestion of mischief, didn't miss much, and he was also her main source for gossip. It was Eduardo she'd taken aside on Sunday to find out if any of the kitchen help knew where John Forest was. They hadn't. They also hadn't had any idea that he was planning to leave.

“He was so good to work for,” Eduardo had said. “Alessandro, the short one—we call her ‘Tiny,' because there is another Alessandro working in housekeeping, and she's tall—was teaching him to play some Bolivian love songs on his guitar. He was always playing for us and singing all these American ones. My favorite was ‘Wake Up Little Susan.' He seemed very happy with his cooking and his music. But life is not always what it seems.”

Apparently, Eduardo was a philosopher as well as an Everly Brothers fan. Faith had no musical talents, so entertaining the crew as John had done was out, but she'd found an oldies station and helped everybody as they tried to sing along. It
was
a cheerful place to work. The kids were great and as eager to learn how to
butterfly a leg of lamb as they were to learn about the existence of the homonym—and its nuances.

The lady who had caught Faith's eye was seated alone tonight, her tall silver-haired friend somewhere else. After Eduardo went through the swinging door, Faith continued to look out the small round window into the dining room, a small corner of which was now staked out as Forever Woodstock. Dark hair that was competing with gray for space streamed past the woman's shoulders from a center part. She wore granny glasses tinted rose and a peasant blouse exuberantly embroidered with a rainbow of flowers never seen in nature. The drawstring of the blouse had loosened, revealing one bony shoulder and a small daisy tattoo. Strings of beads were knocking against the table, and as Eduardo served the salad, she cavalierly flung them over her shoulder, where they encountered resistance from her long silver and turquoise earrings. She stood out from the Patagonia/EMS/L. L. Bean crowd at the other tables, just as a woman dressed in anything but black stands out at a New York cocktail party.

Eduardo had said she'd been in before. Was it recently? Someone's eccentric old grandmother or aunt brought along to get her out of the house—and her time warp—for a vacation? Or was she a local? This made more sense. Vermont was a haven for the Flower Power generation—witness Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream and the abundance of tie-dyed shirts for sale in their gift shop. Witness also the fierce independence that periodically expressed itself in the secession of individual towns. Killington had recently voted to
reunite with New Hampshire—it had originally been part of the Granite State in 1761, not joining what was then the Republic of Vermont until 1777. So what if they were thirty-five miles from the border? It was the principle that mattered, even if the states involved didn't pay any attention to the act.

Faith was curious to find out more about this interesting creature with a penchant for croutons. If there were a lull in the kitchen, Faith would go over after the main course was served and ask her how she'd liked it.

It wasn't until the woman was taking the last succulent bite of her tarte tatin that Faith was able to leave the kitchen. A couple at another table stopped her on her way. It was the best onion soup they'd ever had, even in Paris, they told her. Always nice to hear, but by the time she reached her quarry, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds had stood up. She tossed her long hair back over her shoulders and rearranged her beads. Up close, Faith was impressed with how attractive the woman was, although obviously she was someone who would never see fifty again. She had cheekbones Audrey Hepburn might have envied and smooth clear skin. Yes, she was a caricature. Now that she was standing, Faith noted that, as she had suspected, the rest of the outfit was one of those long wraparound skirts made from an India-print bedspread. But no, she wasn't a joke.

“I hope you enjoyed your dinner,” Faith said.

“Very nice. Very nice indeed.” Her voice was slightly husky, hovering between an alto and a tenor. She gave the chef a gracious nod and a Mona Lisa smile before sailing off, leaving patchouli, incense, and definitely Mary Jane in her wake.

Eduardo had been smiling even more than usual throughout the evening, and now Faith had her answer. It must have been a pretty potent contact high. No wonder she'd enjoyed her meal so much—munchies. The breadbasket was empty; even the little bags of oyster crackers had been devoured. Le Sapin had a dense chocolate brownie à la mode on the dessert menu, but it was the wrong kind. Faith would have to get out her Alice B. Toklas cookbook to satisfy this palate.

 

The moon was bright, an altogether-different sphere from the one over Manhattan. Faith was glad she didn't have to choose between the two kinds of radiance, each special in its own way. True, she didn't see the Chrysler Building gleaming in its rays or hear Gershwin when she looked up at this shining orb, but the treetops shimmered and the deep silence was musical in another way, deep music—music you had to listen very hard to hear. She'd worked later than last night, helping clean up, charmed by Alessandro's—or rather, Tiny's—beautiful singing voice. Maybe she could sing for the guests one night in the pub or down at the Sports Center. Faith was surprised Simon hadn't thought of it. He was on top of everything, but perhaps she'd been too shy to sing when he was around. I'll let him know, and the Staffords, Faith resolved. Fred and Naomi had come by around 4:00
P.M.
and apologized for not letting her know about Nordic Night. They had thought Simon had told her; he'd thought they had. It was only when Marian had said to Harold and Mary that she thought they needed to communicate with
Faith a bit better that it had all come out. Faith hadn't complained to her mother-in-law, but she had mentioned to Tom she was slightly annoyed—and Tom had told his mother. Round and round it goes, Faith had thought, listening to the Staffords. Fred was positive they would have a chef by Wednesday. Naomi'd nodded vigorously in agreement with her husband. Faith had been tempted to grab her to get her to stop, or suggest she find a spot on a dashboard. Did Ophelia ever call forth this kind of approval from her mother? Simon was going to Middlebury tomorrow to check the chef out, Freddy'd said. Faith had assured them that all was well—and it was. Naomi'd stopped bobbing and they left.

She took a deep breath of the night air. She would never want to have her own restaurant—it owned you—but it was fun to pretend for a few nights.

She was at the back door of the condo when she saw a flash of movement under the farthest spotlight—the one that had revealed Ophelia the previous night. And it was Ophelia again. She'd probably dropped Scott off—well, it was before midnight; surely Betsey wouldn't be upset by that. Faith had only a hazy idea of what curfews were appropriate for what ages. She'd never had one. Jane had simply expected them to behave sensibly, and Faith's father wouldn't have noticed. She and Hope, especially Hope, mostly had.

Faith reached for the doorknob, then impulsively decided to follow the girl. It wasn't cold, and she knew she wouldn't sleep until she found out where Ophelia was going at night. Was there a party in the woods?

She walked quickly and went where she'd seen
Ophelia go the night before. The moonlight was better than any flashlight. Wherever Miss Ophelia was heading, it was someplace she—or others—went frequently. There was a well-defined path in the snow.

Faith couldn't see her, but she could see the tracks Ophelia's boots had made. She knew she would have to be careful not to get too close. She didn't want to be spotted.

It was a lot farther than she thought. She looked at her watch. She'd been in the woods for at least ten minutes. A mouse or a mole—impossible to tell—scurried across the path, startling her. She pressed on. This was no time to turn back. Ophelia hadn't been carrying any equipment, so she wasn't headed for the backcountry—no midnight trek on the Catamount Trail to Stowe, thank goodness. Faith was beginning to get tired just walking fast. It had been a long day.

She decided she would go another five minutes, then call it quits and come back when it was warmer and she had a few more ounces of energy.

The clearing took her completely by surprise. One moment she was in the dense woods, and the next she was stepping into a fairy tale. The cottage was dark brown and had white gingerbread trim; the curlicues gleamed like boiled white icing. Lights blazed from every window, sending bright golden ribbons across the snow. Smoke was coming from the chimney. It was all Faith could do to keep herself from knocking at the door and collapsing into the cozy armchair she was sure must be pulled up in front of a fireplace. The time of night, and the house's location, precluded any notions of canvassing the neighborhood for its opinions
on genetically altered veggies or posing as the Welcome Wagon lady. She was about to creep forward and peep through one of the side windows, when the front door opened. Ophelia walked out onto the porch. She had traded her parka for a long purple suede coat.

“You forgot the keys, silly!” a voice called from inside, and a woman appeared behind her. Ophelia turned and took them, gave the woman a quick hug, and said, “Thanks! See you later.” As she moved down the steps, Faith had a clear view.

It was the Flower Power woman from dinner. And there was a man in the shadows behind her.

She had barely taken this in when a vintage VW van came chugging down the drive from the back of the house. It was painted pink and covered with bumper stickers and decals. Ophelia was at the wheel.

Faith hoped she had plenty of bread crumbs with her.

“Not sure who that would be, Mrs. Fairchild.” Pete Reynolds turned the tap off and stood straight. He'd been bent over the tub in their bathroom while Faith studied the stripes on the wallpaper, avoiding the sight the pull of his heavy tool belt exposed.

“Works like a charm now. You won't have any more problems. Every once in awhile, you have to clear all the hair out of the trap.”

Faith was surprised. Not by the hair in the trap. She'd figured that was why the tub wasn't draining, but she hadn't wanted to tackle it herself, since it wasn't her property. No, she was surprised that Pete didn't know who the mystery woman in the woods was. He lived a mile down the road and had apparently been raised by wolves in the forest surrounding the resort—this according to Tom when he'd de
scribed Pete's long-standing connection to Pine Slopes.

“We've been getting a lot of newcomers these past years. Hard to keep track.”

“You'd remember her if you ever saw her: tall, long dark hair with some gray streaks, dresses like people did in the sixties—you know, beads, granny glasses.”

Pete laughed. “Sounds like half of Vermont. The other half dresses like me.” Pete's work clothes—Dickies—were soft from many washings and permanently spotted with remnants of maintenance jobs—chimneys to chairlifts.

“Thanks for fixing the tub,” Faith said, giving up. It seemed that humanity was less interesting—and diverse—to Pete than machinery.

“Give me a call if you need anything else.” Pete hitched up his pants and went downstairs.

Faith thought she'd grab the time to take a bath, now that the tub was operational. The kids were at the ski school. Amy was doing very well and had proudly demonstrated her “pizza slices” when Faith had dropped her off. Ben had started to scoff at Amy's lack of poles, but Faith had loudly talked over him and bustled him off to his group. She'd reminded him that none of the children, including himself, had started out with them. It was easier to teach balance and control without adding pole techniques—and being low to the ground to start with, kids didn't have far to fall.

They'd waved to Glenda, who was surprising her husband by getting up early to take her lesson and hit the slopes.

“My little sleepyhead has turned into my little snow
bunny,” Craig had said when he and Robert came to get Tom, accompanied by the elder Fairchilds. Recalling how close the little bunny had stood next to her jackrabbit ski instructor in the bar, Faith had wished that the little sleepyhead would return. A flirtation, a fling, call it what you would—but if Craig found out, he would be devastated.

Betsey had announced that the Parkers would be joining Dick and Marian for a postbirthday day of cross-country ski touring, ignoring the sullen looks her boys gave her, as well as missing the slightly pained glances her parents had exchanged—glances that said, There goes our time alone together. Faith had noted with amusement that Dick took the silver heat-reflecting space blanket from his day pack. No off-trail canoodling on this outing. As he was fond of saying, “I may be getting older, but I'm not getting colder.”

At the last minute, Dennis had decided to catch up with his brothers-in-law, who had just left. Faith had expected Betsey to protest, but oddly, she had looked relieved. Seizing the moment, Scott and Andy had tried to follow their father's lead, but the only concession Betsey made was that they could come back at lunchtime.

“We'll certainly have enough to eat,” she'd told her parents brightly. “It will just be the three of us! And I made some egg salad sandwiches just the way you like them, Daddy, with plenty of mayo. And cupcakes for dessert.” Betsey had proclaimed the entire week “Birthday Week,” and she was sticking to the theme. Faith had no doubt that Betsey's pack also included party hats and favors.

Pete had arrived as the others were leaving. Now everyone was gone. Faith reveled for a moment in the silence, a precious commodity this week, then measured some lavender and aloe bath salts into the tub and turned on the taps. She went into the bedroom to get clean clothes, stripping off the sweats she'd been wearing since she got up, and was startled to hear the doorbell. Who was it now? She turned off the water, pulled her clothes back on, and went downstairs.

It was the head of housekeeping, Candy Laverdiere, and she was emptying the kitchen trash into a large Hefty bag.

“Oh, sorry, Mrs. Fairchild. I didn't know anyone was here. I rang the bell, but there was no answer.”

“It's just me. Everyone else is off, and I'm being lazy.”

“From what I hear, I'd say you're anything but. I don't know what the place would have done if you hadn't stepped in for John.”

Faith had met Candy on Friday when she'd come by with fresh towels. They had bonded instantly when Faith told her that as far as her family was concerned, they would let her know when they needed clean ones and that it was not necessary for the staff to change them every day, or make their beds. Taking out the trash and vacuuming the downstairs—even with their boots off, Faith had known the dark green carpeting would get gritty—was all they'd need. Candy had relaxed visibly and confessed to Faith that she was extremely shorthanded. Betsey had come in at that point and, fortunately, had agreed with Faith. “I have tried to teach my boys to be conscious of the planet. We have
timers on our showers, and between recycling and composting, we end up with barely enough trash to fill a teacup!” Faith had tried, without success, to picture this, but at the time, she'd been glad Betsey was going along with the plan. Now she realized she had another chance to find out who lived in the cottage in the woods—and maybe something about chef John. His whereabouts continued to puzzle her. She'd pumped the kitchen staff, but it was a dry well. None of them had any idea where he might be, had never heard him mention the name of another restaurant, nor had he had a lot of phone calls or a visitor—nothing that might suggest who had wooed him away.

Pete might be oblivious to the animate part of his surroundings, but Faith was sure Candy wasn't. This was one of those gender differences that made Faith particularly glad to be a woman.

“Let me give you a hand, and then I hope you'll have time for some coffee.”

“I
always
have time for a cup of coffee, Mrs. Fairchild. Every time I go to donate blood, I'm afraid they're going to find Maxwell House instead.”

Faith laughed and went upstairs to get their dirty towels and the Parkers'—Betsey had said she'd put theirs in their tub. “Please call me Faith,” she said over her shoulder.

Soon, steaming mugs in hand and a plate of Faith's sweet, crunchy oatmeal lace cookies (see recipe in
The Body in the Moonlight)
between them, the two women were chatting away.

“How long have you been working at Pine Slopes?” Faith asked.

“Oh Lord, off and on for more than twenty years. I started when I was in my teens. Then I got married, and my husband was in the army, so we moved around a lot. Finally, I told him we had to pick a place. It wasn't good for the kids. My oldest—that's Jessica—was starting to have problems at school. Always being the new kid, and she was shy to start with—not like her two brothers. They'd have a few fights on the playground and everything would be hunky-dory. Jessica would just come home every day and cry.”

Faith nodded. “So you moved back to Vermont?”

“Well, some of us did. Me and the kids. I expect Ralph will retire one of these days, and then Richmond might look better to him. But I can't complain. He's a good provider. Never misses a check, and spends time with us when he can.”

“So you're not divorced?”

“No. I guess that might seem a little strange, but there was no reason to. I never wanted anyone else—getting used to one man is more than enough, in my book—and neither did he. At least not yet. You know when they get to his age, they start wanting to trade a forty for two twenties.”

Faith hoped Ralph would go for a sports car instead. She liked Candy and her blunt humor.

“Do you still have kids at home?”

“Only my youngest, Jason. He's sixteen. Jessica's a kindergarten teacher in Burlington, and Ty followed his dad into the service. I wasn't happy about it, not with the world the way it is these days, but what could I do?”

Faith tried hard not to think about the way the world
was—at least not during all of her waking hours. It was tough not to, especially when she thought about her kids' future, and that of all the other kids scattered across the globe.

She got up and poured some more coffee in their mugs. Candy didn't seem in a hurry to leave, but Faith figured she'd better get to the point.

“Do you know who lives in the house in the woods beyond the last condo? It's some distance in. I was taking a walk and came across it. Seems a bit isolated. A woman came out on the porch, but I didn't want to intrude.”

“That's Gertrude Stafford's place, and she has plenty of ‘intruders,' not that I've ever been invited. Wouldn't go if I was.”

“Stafford? I don't remember anyone mentioning any Staffords other than Harold, Mary, Fred, and Naomi.”

“And you won't.” Candy leaned over her mug, moving closer to Faith. “Gertrude—and don't ever call her ‘Gert'—is Harold's sister. She's much younger, sixty-six or sixty-seven, although to hear her tell, she's still in her fifties. Anyway, she was what her folks called ‘the extra dividend.' Harold was ten or eleven at the time, and they'd assumed he was it. My mom says all of them spoiled her rotten when she was growing up. Never heard the word
no
. When their parents died, Harold bought out her share of Pine Slopes. It had just started up. She wasn't even around—out in California, living on a commune. I think that was the time. Or maybe it was the one in New Mexico. She came to the funeral wrapped from head to toe in some kind of black lace, with a big red
rose pinned to her chest. Of course, I wasn't there, but people still talk about it.”

“It doesn't sound like this is her sort of place. What's she doing here?”

“Where else is she going to go? Especially at her age? She doesn't have any money. Never worked that I've heard about. Oh well, there was her folksinging career. She'd go on about that. Opening for Bob Dylan. Give me Patsy Cline any day. My kids laugh at me, but country is
my
music. You wouldn't believe what Jason listens to.”

Faith would and was dreading it.

“Part of the deal was that Harold would build her a house wherever she wanted on the mountain and give her so many acres to guarantee her privacy. She's never had much interest in the resort, although she's always been a wicked good skier. Just comes and keeps to herself in the woods.

“I don't like to speak ill of people,” Candy said with relish, Faith noted, “but it's no secret that Miss Gertrude Stafford is no better than she should be. My mother wouldn't let us go to the Gingerbread House—that's what we all call it—and I told my kids the same thing. Let her be a free spirit, but I didn't want her dragging any of my three down. Why the police haven't raided her parties for drugs and underage drinking is beyond me, unless the Staffords pay them off, which would be no surprise.”

“You said ‘Miss'—she never married?”

“Oh, she probably stood in a field someplace holding a bunch of daisies and exchanged vows more than once, but nothing legal. There were always men. You'd
see her with them in Stowe or Burlington. Sometimes here at the restaurant. But none of them lasted more than one season—that is when she was around at all. There would be years when we wouldn't see hide nor hair of Gertrude. No, there was only one man who was a steady. And he was local. We all thought she must have slipped him some kind of potion when they were kids. They grew up together, and he never had eyes for anyone else. She led him a merry dance, though. And he could have had anybody. It was a damn shame.” Candy almost spat the last words out. “And now he's gone. One of the sweetest men on earth.”

Faith didn't really have to ask Candy who it was, but she needed to hear it out loud.

“And that was…”

“Boyd Harrison. The guy you found in the snowdrift.”

She had her answer, and it left her with more questions than she'd started out with, Faith realized. At the door, she thought of her futile conversation with Pete and the nagging doubt it was raising.

“Pete has worked here a long time, too, hasn't he?”

Candy smiled. “Probably was stringing the rope in the old rope tows when he was a toddler.”

“He does seem pretty tied to the place,” Faith quipped.

“That's the word for it. Pine Slopes and this mountain are his wife, mistress, child—you name it—all rolled up into one. It's his world and all he has in this world. The Staffords may own it, but Pete keeps it going, always has. It's a human being to him, and he'd protect it with his life—or yours. If Pete thought some
one was hurting the place, he wouldn't think twice about getting rid of him, or her.”

Faith closed the door behind Candy, her last words echoing, joined by another refrain: If Pete was as tied to Pine Slopes as Candy—and others—indicated, why had he said he didn't know who lived in the chalet in the woods?

 

Tom had suggested meeting for lunch at the pub, and the idea of sitting by the big windows, eating onion soup—she'd modified John Forest's recipe only slightly, less salt, more cheese—getting glimpses of Ben and Amy skiing had appealed to Faith. After a relaxing soak in the tub—maybe there
was
something to the claims on the label of the bath salts, which promised everything from Zen-like tranquillity to baby-soft skin—the idea was even more appealing. She reached for the hair dryer and was about to turn it on, when she heard Scott and Andy's voices downstairs. She opened the door and called down, “Hi, hope you had a good time. Are you going to the cafeteria for lunch, or do you want to eat something here? There's chicken gumbo soup and plenty of stuff for sandwiches.”