The Body in the Snowdrift (18 page)

“Have you been able to get time to ski? On you days off?” she asked.

Alessandro giggled. “On our days off, we work, but I tried skiing. The snow—
la nieve
—is too cold and hard. I was falling always.”

“What do you mean you work on your days off?” Faith was startled. The Staffords might be having trouble, but there were laws about this sort of thing.

“We want to. When Mr. Tanner said he needed us to, we were glad. It means more money for us to take home.”

“So, Mr. Tanner is your boss. The one who assigns the jobs and the hours?” It was what Faith would have expected. Simon
was
the manager, but she wondered if the Staffords were aware of what he was doing.

One of the swinging doors from the dining room opened and a man walked in. Faith stood up.

“Hello,” she said, walking toward him. “You must be the new chef. I'm Faith Fairchild. I've been covering for a few days. And this is your crew—a very well trained and—”

“Yes, I must be the new chef, and no, I don't have all the time in the world to chitchat, lady.”

He looked like Nick Nolte on a bad day and was twice his size. Sampling his own wares had added rolls of fat to his large frame. He wasn't wearing anything resembling chef's clothes—no crisp white jacket or checked pants. He wasn't carrying a bag with his knives or other favorite implements. There was no long white apron or even a toque in sight. He was wearing jeans that might have been clean several weeks ago and a flannel shirt—not one of your better-known tartans, perhaps belonging to the Kmart clan. His wide black leather belt was cinched tightly, causing his belly to cascade over it, pulled by gravity toward his knees.

“I understand you were at a restaurant in Middlebury?” Faith was aware of the dismay in the room. She was feeling it, too. Yet, perhaps he was an eccentric, like John with his Hawaiian shirts. A gem in slob's clothing?

“Huh? Yeah. So, let's get this show on the road.”

“Well,” said Faith brightly—too brightly. “As I was saying, this is your staff. They are all very well trained. Over there is Eduardo; then next to him is Alessandro, not to be confused with Tiny, who is also named Alessandro….”

“Lady,” the man said wearily. “Are you still here? I know what to do, and as far as I'm concerned, they're all named María or José. Makes life easier. They'll get the picture.”

From their faces, the utter lack of any expression whatsoever, Faith knew they already had. Her heart was sinking. What could Simon have been thinking of when he hired this guy? Surely there had to have been someone else?

She made one last try. “Here's a list of the specials for this week, and here's our regular menu. I ordered from Sysco yesterday, and we also have some local suppliers.”

He looked at the lists she'd prepared and opened the menu. She realized she didn't know his name. Didn't want to, either.

With a swift motion, he crumbled the lists in a ball and tossed it into the trash can, closing the menu.

“We'll keep the steaks, add more pasta, and fry all the fish. That's what people want.”

“But this is a French restaurant! Some of the dishes borrow from other cuisines, but the customers expect primarily French food. I'm sure you know the kind of reputation Le Sapin has.”

“This is a ski resort, isn't it? That's what I know. After coming down the mountain all day, people want meat and potatoes. There's your French for you—french frieds. Now put on the exhaust fan and open a window one of you. It stinks in here.”

“If you need any help—”

Cutting her off seemed to delight the new chef. “I won't. Now, lady, are you still here?”

Eduardo opened the door for her, and out of sight of his new boss, he gave Faith a look of such longing that it was all she could do to keep from firing the man herself and taking his place.

What she did do was go straight to Simon's office.

The manager's office was strategically located on the top floor of the main lodge, a site that was almost exactly in the center of things indoors, with a view of everything happening outdoors at the base of the mountain. Her questions—and irritation—mounting, Faith realized she would have to take a number. Stepping through the door at the end of the corridor, she saw an unmistakable creature slip out of the office and head for the stairs across from it. She was grinning broadly. What business could Gertrude Stafford have had with Simon? As Gertrude was heading down, Craig and Freddy were sprinting up. The look of intense hatred on both the men's faces as they passed Gertrude shocked Faith. None of the three paused to exchange pleasantries, and the two men were in Simon's office before Faith had a chance to say anything. There was no telling how long they would be there, but she decided to wait for a few minutes. She sat down outside the door. It had been a busy morning and she was very tired. The floor was hard and cold—like Alessandro's description of the ski slopes. But Faith didn't care. She leaned back against the wall. Vacation? What vacation?

“Look, Simon, we know you're doing everything you can—Nordic Night was a great idea—but Dad wants us to have another try. You're the only one who can possibly get through to her.”

Freddy's voice was coming loud and clear through the door. In their haste, they hadn't closed it completely. Faith edged closer. If anyone came out suddenly, she'd simply tell the truth. She was waiting to talk to Simon about the new chef.

“I
have
been talking to her, believe me. I'll keep on, but we have to face facts. Gertrude's not going to change her mind. What Boyd left her is
hers
.”

Faith was stunned. Gertrude was Boyd's heir? Although, remembering what Candy had said about their relationship, it made sense. What didn't was Gertrude's adamant refusal to wait until Pine Slopes was in better shape. Mary and Harold Stafford seemed like such kind—and reasonable people. Couldn't they persuade her? Freddy and his little shadow, Craig, were too angry to be of any use. And Naomi? She seemed to exist on the margins here. Faith had no idea what the woman did all day.

Craig was speaking now, and the desperation in his voice would have made his situation evident even if Faith hadn't talked to Glenda.

“Look, I don't care about a profit. I just have to get back what I've put in. If I don't, I stand to lose my house—and my wife.”

“Mate, I'd like to help. I wish I could give it back, but it's not there. You know that. I explained it to you. I also explained the odds when you said you wanted to invest. This is a risky business, and everything's that happened this week shows why. But we'll break even, and there's still the Canadian school vacation week—we're completely booked—and with luck we'll have snow through March or even into April. People love spring skiing. We'll be turning them away.”

“I think we should try to give Craig back at least some of his money. He has a mortgage payment coming up, and after all the support he and his family have given us over the years, we should be helping him out.”

“Too right. We can do that much. We'll scrape it up from somewhere, but meanwhile we have to find the bastard who wedged the bull wheel and put sand in the tank of the newest groomer.”

“
What
?” Freddy yelled. “Nobody told me about this!”

“Pete discovered it yesterday. I assumed you knew. Fortunately, he noticed something was wrong right away, so it should be back in service by the weekend. That's what your father told me.”

“It's like someone is out to get us,” Craig blurted out. “How hard would it be to wedge that bull wheel? Could a sixteen-year-old girl do it? She could pull all the other stunts all right.”

Faith had straightened up at Freddy's cry. What was going on? Could Ophelia be behind this? The fury was there, but Scott was so sure she wasn't involved. But then, he would have to be. A passionate partisan.

“You're sure the will can't be contested?” Craig asked, coming back to Gertrude when no one took him up on the Ophelia suggestion. There had been a short silence. Faith had no idea whether it was because the men didn't suspect Ophelia or because they wanted to discuss it when Craig wasn't around.

“Sure as can be. Remember, Boyd was a lawyer. He left everything signed, sealed, and delivered to her. That's the way he wanted it, apparently,” Simon said.

“I knew about them,” Freddy said. “Everyone did, but I never thought he'd cut us out. Mom and Dad didn't, either.”

Faith heard a chair scrape. Someone was getting up. She scrambled to her feet and moved farther down the
hall, out of earshot, but not before she heard Simon's last words.

“Gertrude was the love of his life, Freddy boy. It's down there in black and white in his last will and testament for all the world to see.”

The two men stepped into the hall.

“Hi,” Faith called, coming through the door at the end of the hall once again. “Craig, did you see Tom?”

“Yes, and I told him if you weren't in the kitchen, you'd be at the condo.” He tried for a smile. Faith's heart ached for him, and her hand ached to slap him up the side of his head. Why was he always doing these stupid things? Putting all his snowballs in one basket like this? And without consulting any of them? She realized with that question, she had her answer. “Buddy,” as in “Little Buddy” was the club mascot and had never achieved anything on his own. They'd bailed him out, scolded him gently and not so gently, but they'd never treated him as an equal, an adult. Of course he kept plunging into new ventures, blindly hoping that
this
one—planned all by himself—would be the one that would elevate him to full club membership. She had a sudden image of Betsey's missing ring, and Scott's fancy titanium laptop. Craig had brightened considerably at the notion of pinning the blame on Ophelia. Both items would more than cover his mortgage and credit-card bills for the immediate future. Was he holding them in abeyance, in case he couldn't get his money back from the Staffords? Was Craig the thief? He was desperate enough. He knew the items were insured. Faith looked at his face, usually so open and honest. Craig never had a thought or emotion that
couldn't be read there. But not today. After that brief attempt at a smile, the book was shut tight, leaving an unfamiliar blank.

“Thanks,” she said. “I need to have a quick word with Simon and then I'll be over.”

“Pete's reopening the lift at noon. It was fixed earlier, but he said people wouldn't trust anything that didn't take at least a couple of hours to set straight. I'm going up first with Freddy.”

“And we'll be right behind you,” Faith said. She had absolute faith in Pete, in more ways than one. He hadn't told her about Gertrude for some reason, but the man was an astute judge of human nature. It was true: If he'd announced the lift was safe fifteen minutes later, not a soul would have believed him.

She knocked on the manager's door.

“Come in,” Simon said.

Faith had been in Simon's office only once before and had been impressed then, as now, by its appearance. The large window overlooking the slopes was a constantly changing dynamic backdrop to the furniture, which Faith recognized as coming from Thomas Moser—clean lines and beautiful woods. An extraordinary Aboriginal painting hung on the wall—undulating curves of color. Simon was working on a Mac G5 with a large flat-screen display, state-of-the-art.

“What a wonderful piece,” Faith said, gesturing toward the painting.

“Yes,” Simon agreed. “It was from my parents' collection, and I was the lucky one when we drew straws. It's by Helicopter Tjungurrayi of the Balgo Hills. Got
his name as a kid when a helicopter flew him to the mission there for treatment.”

Faith had had the impression that Simon came from a working-class family, one that wouldn't have an art collection, but she hadn't really gotten very far in her exploration of his roots. Perhaps they'd simply been people with a good eye.

“But you didn't come here to discuss Abo art, although I'm always happy to have a chin-wag.”

Faith liked it that the manager was so direct. It made things much easier.

“I'm worried about the new chef.”

“Wendell?” Simon raised an eyebrow. He really was good-looking, and this gave him a slight Cary Grant air. A Mercedes in the outback.

“He's completely changing the menu, and I'm afraid we'll lose customers.” Faith noticed she had adopted the royal
we.
Well, it was “we.” Even the short amount of time she'd invested in Le Sapin had left her feeling like part of the operation.

“Every chef likes to put his or her own stamp on a menu. You know that, I'm sure.”

“But this may be the wrong stamp. Fried foods, pastas, steak, none of our specialties, nothing French, except the fries.”

Simon laughed. Faith hadn't meant her last words to be funny, but she could see how he might have interpreted them as a joke.

“Let's give him a chance. He came highly recommended.”

“But was he the chef or sous-chef in Middlebury? Has he had charge of an entire restaurant and staff? Be
cause that was the other thing: He didn't seem very sensitive to the staff.”

Simon laughed. “Those kids don't need a sensitive boss. They're here to make money and pick up some English. Believe me, they're a tough crowd. I don't know what wool they were pulling over your eyes—probably llama's—but don't worry about them. They'll be fine.”

Faith doubted it, but there was nothing she could do. She got up. It was getting close to noon and she had to change into her ski clothes. Craig was right: It was important that they all go on the lift.

“I told him to give me a call if he needs any help.”

Simon walked around the desk and opened the door for her.