A Crossworder's Holiday (5 page)

“A poet long before
your
time, Sara.” Belle took the older lady's hand. “Besides, what happened to ‘pure as the driven snow'?”

“Touché, dear girl.”

D
URING
the night, Sara was awakened more than once with abdominal pains and a slight case of the chills. Being a “mind over matter” New Englander, and a devout believer in physical exercise, she finally got up, pulled her woolliest sweater over her flannel robe, and began pacing her room, all the while criticizing herself for overindulgence in the previous evening's feast. It was the pudding, in particular, that bore the weight of her ire. She was too old a lady, she decided, to be filling her gullet with rich foods.

“Besides causing bad dreams,” Sara said aloud, then smiled in the dimly lit room. It was the voice of her long-dead father she heard. Her father who had espoused the notion that nightmares were the product of fats and sugars improperly digested. Apple pie slathered with ice cream was high on his list of guilty comestibles. And floating island, and plum cake with hard sauce. As a child, Sara had paid only lip service to the dire parental warnings.

Feeling a trifle better, she removed her sweater, folded it carefully, then returned to bed. Within a few minutes she was fast asleep. But her brain was full of disquieting visions. She imagined she heard whisperings outside her door, imagined she heard furtive footfalls creaking past, imagined the snow had grown so deep that the roads had vanished, that the inn was cut off from the rest of civilization.

Then Sara dreamed she heard a woman screaming, and awakened to find it was true.

“D
EAD
… He's dead!” It was Marcia, the argumentative wife of the previous evening, now distraught and sobbing spasmodically while Frank and Agnes Finney tried to calm her as the other members of the party hurried bleary-eyed from their rooms. “And I was … I was … Oh, my God … the last words I—!”

Rosco arrived on the scene followed immediately by Belle. “What happened?”

Frank Finney pointed toward the bed. “I'm afraid Mr. Jaffe—” while Marcia screeched out a tear-shaken:

“It's Gene … He's …” She gazed goggle-eyed at the prone figure of her husband, his rumpled pajamas and tangled sheets, the glass of water lying spilled on the nightstand. “I told him he should go on that diet! Over and over, I told him! The doctor said so, too.…” Her words flew out in bumpy gasps. “With his cholesterol … risk of a heart attack … He must have …” Marcia buried her face in Agnes Finney's protective shoulder and wept afresh.

Rosco, ever the P.I., eased his way over to the bed and assessed the situation. The deceased's eyes were wide open; the hands clutched the bedclothes, and a look of horror had frozen on the face. It was true that Gene Jaffe was no longer among the living, but Rosco guessed that coronary disease hadn't been to blame. He decided to keep that opinion to himself for the moment, however. If Jaffe had been murdered, the criminal was too close for comfort.

“Look here,” a male member of the group said while he strode farther into the room. It was the same man who'd initially taken charge during Marcia's outbreak the evening before, and he now confronted Rosco with the belligerence of an accepted leader. “Our party needs a little solitude here. The lady's—”

“I'm a private investigator and former police officer, and until we contact the Vermont authorities—”

“The authorities!” Marcia shrieked, tottering forward until it looked as though she were about to collapse on her husband's body. One of the other women in the group pulled her back. She was clad in a flame-colored velour dressing gown that matched her flame-colored hair; genuine concern seemed to emanate from her. “Oh, Bobbi …” Marcia wailed while Rosco turned to Frank Finney:

“Is there a local constable you—?”

“I appreciate your sense of decorum, Mr. Polycrates. But the snow seems to have knocked out the phone lines. Agnes just tried to reach an ambulance service—”

“I'll get our cell phone,” Belle offered while Rosco returned his gaze to the body on the bed, and then gradually took in the fact that the other bed hadn't been slept in, and that the new widow was swathed in blanketing.

At that moment, everyone else crowded into the room appeared to notice the same thing, and there was an uneasy shuffling of slippered feet as Marcia, again trying to control her fear and shock, began to speak. “Gene and I … You all know we had that itsy-bitsy little blowup at dinner … and then, well, he was kind of in his cups … I mean, weren't we all?” She looked beseechingly around the room. Blank faces gazed back. “So, I decided … well, you know what they say about arguing when under the influence … So, I thought I'd just curl up by the fire downstairs … and sort of let the heat up here cool off … And then I guess I dozed off …”

Again, she looked to her friends, who again ignored her unspoken pleas. “After I woke up, I thought I'd just creep back and climb into bed …'Cause I thought, you know, that Gene and I could kiss and make up in the morning. But, but—” She began to sob anew.

“So you only entered the bedroom a few minutes ago, Mrs. Jaffe?”

All faces swiveled toward Rosco, then swung back toward Marcia as though they were watching a tennis match.

“Well, you know how Gene can be when he—” She bit her lip; her chest rose and fell. “No, I guess you don't …” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Yes, yes, I slept downstairs … All by my lonesome …”

The guest who'd first addressed Rosco took the lead again. “Look, Polycrates—or whatever your name is—I don't know why you're here, but it's obvious that Mrs. Jaffe is in a highly agitated state … She needs sympathy and care, not an interrogation. None of us do. Gene Jaffe was both friend and colleague—”

But Rosco was not to be browbeaten. “And you are?”

“Sacks … Chuck Sacks … Charlotte, my wife,” he added as an afterthought, indicating a woman in a black dressing gown trimmed with glossy maribou feathers, then waved his hand to indicate the third couple who made up the party. “Bob Tyler and his wife, Bobbi—”

Belle reappeared at that moment, silently handing Rosco the cell phone; who then diplomatically passed it to the inn's host.

The room was silent while the emergency call was made, and the death reported. Finney flipped the receiver shut. “There's been a car wreck,” he said. “On the other side of the covered bridge. A bad one. No one can get through until they cut the driver out and a tow truck moves the vehicle—and someone assesses structural damage to the bridge. We've been advised to sit tight.”

“Not much else we can do in the middle of the night, in the middle of a snowstorm,” observed Bob Tyler. His mouth was hard. He shrugged. “Sorry, I'm just being practical.”

“The night is darkest just before the dawn.” It was Sara who offered this bit of homespun wisdom. She smiled sympathetically as she spoke, the very image of an old woman with a heart of gold and demeanor to match. “Why don't we all go downstairs and have some cocoa. It's a comfort in terrible times like these to feel that one is not among strangers.” She looked at Belle, who glanced at Rosco; all three nodded in private collusion while Sara moved to Marcia Jaffe's side. “I'm so sorry, my dear … I'm a widow myself …”

Marcia said nothing.

S
TILL
in their robes, the residents of the Misty Valley Inn sat clustered in front of the fire in the first-floor parlor. Lori and Agnes passed around mugs of cocoa and coffee, which some sipped at but no one truly drank.

“Cosby's Coffee,” Chuck Sacks announced in a tone that was overloud and overebullient. “I'd recognize the taste anywhere.”

His black-clad wife snorted, and grasped her coffee mug so tightly her vermilion-colored nails looked like bloodied talons. “Can't we talk about something other than business, business, business?”

“C'mon, you two—” began a sincere Bobbi Tyler, but Charlotte fixed her with a withering stare:

“Are you telling me you enjoy discussing—?”

“You wouldn't have that new fur coat you were dolled up in yesterday if it weren't for—”

“Cosby's Coffee?” Sara supplied the words. She'd been sitting near Belle and Marcia, and idly penciling in answers to the crossword recipe. “You mean,
the
Cosby Café chain? Are you young people connected with that extraordinarily successful enterprise? Why, your attractive shops are all over the country. Almost on every street corner.”

Bob Tyler answered. His voice had an aw-shucks openness. “Founders and partners. At least, we men are. Started the business back in our college days. Harvard, of course.”

The smile was a little too smug for Rosco, but he said nothing as Tyler pushed on:

“Small time—a way to earn a little extra dough. We all roomed together, but by senior year we'd picked up an apartment in Cosby House, so the name kind of stuck. It was Gene who supplied our start-up capital; Stan's the bean counter … No pun intended.”

“Well, isn't that wonderful!” Sara said. “And you've been good friends since then.”

“Some of us,” was Charlotte's steely reply.

“Hon,” her husband began, but she retaliated with a waspish:

“I suppose you've conveniently forgotten what Gene announced last night—”

“This isn't the time—”

“Oh, stop it,” moaned Marcia. “Gene loved everyone here. You know he did! Besides, if you hated his idea so much, you should have spoken up.”

None of the others responded, and the remark echoed with ominous portent through the quiet room while beyond the still-dark windows the snow fell and fell and fell.

“38-Across,” Sara mused, “
PUDDING PART
… Oh, I see, it's ESSENCE OF ALMOND …”

Belle looked at her friend while the old lady returned the glance, adding a sly and subtle wink. “My young friends and traveling companions are married,” she said at length. “Rosco, as you've surmised, owns an investigative agency; Belle is none other than Annabella Graham, the crossword editor of Newcastle, Massachusetts's
Evening Crier
. It was for her sake that your missing friend created this marvelous crossword recipe—”

“That would be Stacy Lavoro,” put in Bobbi Tyler.

At the mention of the name, Marcia gave a violent shudder, but Sara appeared to overlook the intensity of the reaction. “Cold, dear? Of course you are. You've had a terrible shock … Why don't you move closer to the fire?”

Dry-eyed, Marcia did as she was told while Sara calmly turned the crossword toward her. “And here's your name, dear … JAFFE at 21-Across and MARCIA at 25-Down. Wasn't that sweet of your friend to put you in the puzzle?”

Again, a conspiratorial glance passed from Sara to Belle while Marcia hunched her shoulders into a taut and bitter line and failed to reply.

D
AWN
came, and there was still no sign of the town constable—or of a plow. Rosco took Frank Finney aside, suggested that the dead man's room be put off-limits, but didn't allude to his suspicions. However, the inn's host obviously understood the gravity of the situation; in turn, he relayed his own hopes that the guests show respect for the deceased and allow the room to be locked. No one batted an eye at the request, and Rosco and Belle went back upstairs to carry out the plan.

“Surgical gloves?” Belle asked in a whisper as they reentered the Jaffes' room. “Since when do you pack surgical gloves for a vacation?”

“Since the last time I used the suitcase for an investigation, and didn't remember to
un
pack them.”

“I take it you don't think we're looking at coronary disease.”

“Astute as always—”

“My middle name.” Belle pulled a pair of driving gloves from her bathrobe pocket, and dangled them in front of Rosco's eyes. “Let it not be said that I venture off on holiday weekends ill prepared.” She donned the gloves. “Do you think Sara's okay?”

“You mean left alone with Charlotte Sacks, the snake in fancy feathers?”

Belle shook her head. “What I mean is this is almost Sara's birthday … It's not exactly what you'd call a festive atmosphere.” They both stared at the bed where Jaffe lay.

“I wouldn't worry, Belle. You know how much Sara likes being in the thick of things—”

“Well, she's got her wish. A dead man … and a bunch of warring friends.” Belle sighed. “This was supposed to be a quiet weekend getaway … a special celebration just for her …” The words trailed off.

“Sara's nobody's fool, Belle … and she's not the kind of person who expects life to be one continual party. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she isn't busy prying guilty secrets from that crowd downstairs.” Rosco walked to the head of the bed. “Jaffe was obviously struggling when he died …”

Belle drew in another troubled breath, then again shook her head as if to clear her brain and banish further concerns over her elderly friend. “Couldn't that have been the result of sudden heart failure—as Marcia suggested? He wakes up from a sound sleep … a lot of booze in his system … experiences palpitations, maybe severe chest pains, and tries to call out for his wife, but she's not here—”

“Possible … But there's something unnatural in this guy's pose … in his expression, too. I may be playing devil's advocate here, but I have a strong hunch that Jaffe was killed … asphyxiation, I'd guess … although there aren't any marks on his throat to indicate he was strangled …” Rosco bent closer to the body. “He could have been smothered by a pillow.”

Belle thought. “Smothered …” Again, she shook her head, and repressed an additional sigh. “Well … what about an undiagnosed allergy … to nuts, or something like that? And he went into anaphylactic shock—which might look a lot like asphyxiation … I had a high school friend who couldn't get within twenty feet of almond extract.”