The Body in the Snowdrift (26 page)

Faith was fuming. A plea for help, a possible suicide—not serious?

“Where do you think she was calling from?”

“I have no idea. Been meaning to get caller ID, but it's one of about a thousand things I haven't gotten to.”

“She seemed to spend a lot of time at Gertrude's house. She might be there. But how would she get in?”

“Gertrude always keeps a key hidden alongside one of the front windows. Ophelia would know about it. So you think I should go check there? I've left messages for Naomi and Fred. I'll call back and add that.”

“Good idea. Who knows, maybe Scott is with her, has been all along.” Faith was happy that Simon was volunteering to trek out to the Gingerbread House. Aside from all its other associations, she didn't feel up to the long walk. “I'll check out the pump house, although that will surely be locked now.”

“She could have taken a master key from Fred. That would open it.”

Faith stood up. The snow guns were off, but she thought of that deep pool. The frigid waters closing over someone very determined to end her life.

“I'm leaving now. We don't have any time to spare. I hope it's not too late. Good-bye!”

Faith flew down the stairs, grabbed her parka, and went out the front door.

The pump house was on the other side of the employee parking lot, down a path, out of sight to the general public. The lot was filled with cars, and farther away, light was blazing from the Sports Center, the hub of operations. Would this dreadful night never end? She looked at her watch. It already had; it was almost 1:30
A.M.
Now the dreadful day had begun.

The door to the pump house was open, and thin slivers of light shone on the new-fallen snow. A single pair of footprints led inside. She's here! Faith thought. She ran as fast as she could and, flinging open the door, called out, “Ophelia! Phelie! Stop!”

The room was empty. Faith put her head in her hands and sobbed. She'd been too late. The message on Simon's machine could have been there for hours. The girl was gone, and unless she'd left a note, it would never be clear why.

Suddenly, she was angry. Angry at Naomi and Fred, and at Ophelia's father and stepmother. Why hadn't they taken better care of this child? Why had they ignored all the obvious signs? And why had she? They were all to blame. She'd have to go find someone to tell. Simon was on a fruitless mission. Tom. Tom would know how to handle this. That's where she'd go.

First, she heard the whistling. Not a tune, just a sound. A meaningless sound. Someone was stepping from behind the door. She jerked her head up and turned around. “Ophel—”

But it wasn't the girl; it was Simon Tanner. Faith was confused. How had he gotten here so quickly? He
said he was going to Gertrude's on his snowmobile. A quick trip, but this quick? And she hadn't heard the noise of the engine.

“Simon! I'm very much afraid that we're too late.” Her voice caught. “There were footprints coming in, but none going out.”

“Those were mine.”

“Yours?” Faith said. Simon was smiling, but it wasn't the “How are you, mate?” grin she had seen before. It was a new smile. A smile she didn't like at all.

“Mine.” He was still smiling.

“Ophelia didn't leave a message.” Faith started to walk toward the door.

“Ophelia didn't leave a message. And please stay where you are. If you move, I'll have to kill you. Kill you sooner.” His smile broadened. Simon Tanner was having fun.

Faith wasn't. “What on earth are you talking about?” She moved closer and faster.

He stopped smiling. “I mean it, Mrs. Fairchild.” He raised his hand. He was holding a gun. He definitely meant it. “Gertrude found out about you from Ophelia.
How you stick your nose in things, get involved in affairs that are none of your business.”

Faith's heart rate increased. It was reassuring. She was still alive—and terrified. Scott must have told the girl about some of the crimes his aunt had solved, and Simon saw her as a threat. A threat to Gertrude
and
him. And she was. Sitting in the condo with Betsey all these hours, Faith had figured out that Gertrude had to be involved in John's death and in everything else that had happened during the week. It was Betsey's bitter words about her place in the family that had triggered Faith's thoughts. She'd gone over the scene outside Simon's office, witnessing again the hatred on Fred's face when he saw his aunt—his father's sister, who was destroying the whole family, an implacable foe on their very doorstep. But she couldn't have managed it all by herself. Apart from being stoned much of the time, she would have had to have an alibi for last night if she was going to become the new owner of Pine Slopes. Which had to be her goal. Once Faith had gotten to this point, she'd started looking at the staff. Pete? Josh? Simon?

Yes, Simon was too right. Faith was a threat.

“I told her she was overreacting—Gert tends to get a little paranoid at times—then I began to see you popping up in all sorts of places you shouldn't have been. It would still have been okay—that is, if you hadn't followed Phelie to Gert's. She was positive you'd seen me, but I wasn't sure. We saw you, though. Then you followed Gert to Burlington. She spotted you one night when she was singing there. That's when I decided you were more than a nuisance.”

Now Faith knew who the person standing behind Gertrude Stafford, in the shadows, had been Monday night. But it was too late. All she could do, she realized, looking at the dark water agonizingly close, was to keep him talking for as long as possible.

“Was John blackmailing you? Was that it?”

“I wouldn't have pegged him for a greedy man, and in a way, he wasn't.” Simon seemed happy for a “chin-wag.”

“All these years, the sap ran the restaurant on the up-and-up. Still not sure how he caught on to what I was doing. John knew a lot about cooking. Didn't know he knew about cooking the books though!” Simon laughed at his joke. It was like a hyena's cry. “He wanted to travel, he said. Was hot to see the world. More like hot to see it with one of those South American bimbos working for him this season. A break for me. Juana's boyfriend will never make it home again.”

A circumstantial case, but with false testimony from Simon, workable. Simon, the real murderer, had carefully framed Eduardo for a crime of passion. Had he “just happened” to run into the young student and tell him that Juana was in the kitchen alone with John?

Simon leaned back against the wall. He isn't in a hurry, thank God, Faith thought, then wondered, What is he waiting for?

“I'm out a lot of money,” he whined. “I was certain he'd have it in his room. There is no way I can get the suitcase from his wife without blowing the whole thing. I thought of sending Gertrude down there to try her hand at B and E, but Gert's not always reliable.”

“Simon!” Faith yelled. “This is crazy. You can't pos
sibly think you can do away”—a euphemism seemed infinitely preferable at the moment—“with me and get away with it. I called Tom before I left, and he knows where I am. Plus, I told my sister-in-law about your call. How will you explain yourself when they report me missing?”

He straightened up. “Oh, but I
will
get away with ‘doing away' with you. Wish I could also do you,” he added, leering at her, “but there isn't time. I was standing outside the window of the condo, talking to you on my satellite phone. Your sister-in-law was sound asleep on the sofa, and you came tearing out of the place as soon as you hung up. I had to run like the devil to get here ahead of you. You never called your husband, and she never budged.”

Keep him talking. Faith scanned the small room for something to throw at him, something to catch him off guard, so she could get out the door and start screaming. She'd start screaming now, but he'd kill her at the first sound. No question.

“It's been all you,” she said. “The dummy in the pool, the groomer, wedging the bull wheel, hiring Wendell. All to force the place to shut down. Why?”

“Don't like working for other people. Never have. Fancied running the place meself, and that's the plan. Gert calls in her markers. We buy it at the bankruptcy auction, and Bob's your uncle. She fancies me, you know. The old cow. But wicked moves in bed. You'd never suspect it.”

Faith was shivering, both from cold and disgust.

“Now, Mrs. Fairchild, it's time for you to take a swim. You came here when you got a call from Ophe
lia threatening suicide, and like the good person you are, you rushed to save her, only you fell in instead of her during the struggle. So tragic.”

“But you'll have to get Ophelia to corroborate your story. She won't.”

Simon tucked his gun into his belt. It had a fancy silver and turquoise buckle. “Ophelia will do anything Gertrude tells her to—and has.”

Faith backed toward the wall, eyeing the distance to the door. He couldn't shoot her first. That wasn't the plan. Ophelia wouldn't have had a gun, and when they recovered Faith's body, it couldn't have a bullet hole. But he could knock her out. She needed to stay as far away as possible. Make him come and get her.

Knock her out!

“You knocked me out when I was at Gertrude's this morning! What was it you didn't want me to see?”

If Faith was going to die, as was appearing more and more likely, she didn't want to die without all the answers.

“I've been so busy what with one thing and another that I haven't had a chance to get rid of a few things—like the container we used to keep John on ice this week. I had it banked in a snowdrift up at my place in the backcountry, but I took him down to Gert's on Thursday morning, and after his unfortunate end, I left everything in her shed. I knew if you saw the pine coffin, you'd figure out that John had been dead all week and that she had something to do with it. Too smart for your own good, Mrs. F.”

Would I have? Faith wondered. Probably. The car at the motel, everything had been meticulously planned.
Even the frying pan charm. Simon had wanted John identified immediately—all the worse for Pine Slopes.

“Now, be a good girl. I'll give you another tap on the head. Harder this time. You won't feel a thing. And no snow guns, I promise, although that was genius, wasn't it?”

“Ophelia! Scott! Thank God!”

Simon grinned. “Give me some credit, please. Do you think I'd fall for that old trick?”

Faith wished she had been able to suppress her outburst to ensure the element of surprise. Now there was the dread possibility that he might turn around or glance over his shoulder and see them. From the horror on the two teenagers' faces, it was apparent that they knew exactly what was happening—or about to happen. They couldn't see that Simon had a gun. How could she let them know? And fast! It had to be fast. She was terrified that Scott would tackle Simon and that the gun would go off in the struggle, with tragic results. If only she could get close enough to push Simon into the deadly waters! She shuddered, thinking of John's death. But he hadn't felt it. There was small mercy in that.

Starting to move toward her and away from them, he was grinning even more broadly now at what he assumed was a feeble last ploy by a desperate woman.

A few feet away, Scott motioned for Ophelia to get behind him, gesturing at the door. She shook her head, then leaned over, steadying herself on Scott while she removed one of her boots. Faith watched, almost gasping out loud, as Ophelia teetered on the absurdly high heel of the other boot and Scott reached out an arm to
brace her. Faith began to talk loudly, insistently, hoping to cover any possible noise. If Ophelia dropped the boot, Simon would surely hear it.

“Why don't you throw your gun into the pool and take your chances with me? Not man enough,” she taunted.

“You are one hell of a lady,” he said, chuckling. “Want to make it one-on-one, do you? While I wouldn't mind getting my arms around you, I'm afraid I'll have to decline your very tempting offer. There's always that slight chance that I might fall—and I've come too far to take any more chances.”

He started to move toward her again with lethal intent. His expression clearly revealed his patience was at an end. Cat and mouse had been fun while it lasted, but game time was over.

The room was hushed; Faith could hear cars on the mountain road. Louder by far was the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears. Scott had Ophelia's boot in his hand and the girl, as still as one of Niobe's, not Naomi's, children seemed to be holding her breath. Her eyes were open so wide, Faith couldn't see the lids.

When Scott struck, it was like an adder, over before Faith could start talking again to mask his movements. With the agility of the athlete he was, he leaped for Simon and brought the stiletto heel of Phelie's boot crashing down on the man's skull. Simon screamed—and fell. Scott pinned him, grabbed the gun from his belt, and threw it into a corner. Ophelia, a whirlwind, rushed forward, kicking Simon with her booted foot over and over in a kind of delirium. Simon had been correct: Ophelia was mad.

Faith retrieved the gun and rushed over. “Phelie, stop! That's enough! Go get help. Run to the Sports Center. We can manage here.”

Simon had gone limp, moaning. Scott was sitting on his chest, holding his arms to the ground. While she longed to embrace her saviors, Faith stood over the murderer instead, pointing his gun steadily at the spot where Tanner's heart would have been if he had had one. There would be time for embraces later. Time, she thought, as in life, her life.

Ophelia picked up her boot, put it on, and cleaned the blood from the heel on Simon's leather jacket. But before she could leave, Pete appeared at the door, took the scene in, and reached into his jacket pocket for the roll of duct tape no self-respecting Vermont handyman would ever be without. He bound Simon's feet and wrists tightly. The Australian had looked even more terrified when he saw Pete. He closed his eyes and was mumbling to himself.

“You go get the police, Mrs. Fairchild, and see to these children. I'll stay here. He's not going any place,” Pete said, ripping off a piece of tape and covering Simon's mouth. “Language,” he said reprovingly, then added, “Never did care much for you, Mr. Tanner.”

It was pitch-dark outside, but Pete had handed them a flashlight. It would be dawn before too many more hours. The dreadful night
and
dreadful day were over. Scott held the flashlight and Faith grabbed one of Ophelia's hands. The girl was stumbling on her high heels—those blessedly high heels.

“How did you know where I was? Where have you been? Do the police know you're here?” Faith's questions poured forth in a torrent of words.

“We were coming up the mountain road and saw you cross the parking lot, going in this direction. I wanted to go get Uncle Tom, but Phelie said we had to follow you right away.”

Faith squeezed the girl's hand in gratitude.

“I drove Scott to the bus late Wednesday night,” Ophelia said, her voice so soft that Faith had to bend close to hear.

Scott spoke over his shoulder. “I called my girlfriend—one of the things I've managed to keep from Mom. Phelie's been great to talk to, but I really needed to see Karen. Her parents are cool. They said I could stay there while I got things straightened out. I told them I'd called Mom. And I would have, except I kept hearing what I knew she'd say. Then Phelie called about John, and I had to be here, so she hitched into Burlington, borrowed a car, then drove down and picked me up. Everything has been so wrong this week. On the drive back, we kinda figured out it had to be Simon. I mean, well, Phelie has seen him and Gertrude—”

“She left without saying anything. She never said good-bye. The house was all shut. She said we'd be together forever.” Tears were running down Ophelia's cheeks. The long magenta streak of hair glistened.

Feet of clay. Only worse in this case. Much worse.

“I'm sorry,” Faith said, stopping to hold the girl tightly. “I'm so sorry. But you two saved my life. I owe you my life.” Tears were streaming down her own face.

Ophelia shook her head slowly. “Scott saved you. I didn't. I'm a murderess. I killed Boyd Harrison.”