The Body in the Snowdrift (20 page)

Glenda nodded. “Faith will explain everything.” She was moving toward the door, and Roy, Scandinavian gentleman that he was, had grabbed her suitcases.

“No, thank you,” Dennis said emphatically. “I'm not getting involved in this.”

Glenda gave Roy a pained look, which clearly said, See what I have to deal with?

“It doesn't really matter. I was
trying
to be thoughtful. If he comes back and I'm not here, he might worry. Do whatever you want, but if he starts sending the ski patrol looking for me, you might tell him not to bother. I guess I can ask you to do that much.” Sarcasm was not Glenda's style, but she managed to pull this last bit off. Faith realized she was right. They, the team of
Faith and Dennis, would have to tell Craig, or he would report his wife missing.

“I'll be staying with Marcy, and I'll call him about the divorce. It will save money not to use lawyers. Say good-bye to everybody for me. It was a fun couple of days. I never thought I'd learn to ski.”

And with that, Glenda Fairchild walked out of the door and out of their lives.

 

Dinner was a subdued affair. Initial attempts at light conversation had proved as leaden as the vegetarian lasagna Betsey had prepared. After the first bite, Craig had made no attempt to eat any more. He was opting for a liquid diet of Otter Creek. After Glenda left, Faith and Dennis had gone next door and told Marian what had happened. Then the skiers had arrived back all at once. Faith had taken Tom aside, and he'd ended up being the one to break the news to Craig.

“It's cold out. Too cold to walk down to the Sports Center. Why don't you kids go next door and watch some videos?” Faith suggested. “There's popcorn.” Even Amy had picked up on the tension and the fact that there was someone missing at the table.

“Where's Aunt Glenda?” she'd asked when Betsey had started serving.

“She had to go home early,” Tom had said, and then ignored Ben's whys until the Parker boys picked up the cue, diverting Ben with promises of a full morning of boarding on Saturday, their last day.

The movie idea seemed to be going over well. “Okay, Mom, can we invite Phelie?” Amy asked. Little feet dared tread where none, even angels', would.

Before Betsey could say anything, Marian said, “I think that's a wonderful idea. You can call her from next door. We'll all be here if you need anything.”

The kids left. Giving up on dinner, the adults cleared the table, stacked the dishwasher—Dick rinsing, mirabile dictu—and then sat back down while Faith set out mugs of coffee and tea, along with a big plate of sugar and spice cookies. Soon everyone was cradling a mug, but and no one had reached for a cookie. There was no talk of night skiing. There was no talk at all.

Then Craig let the dam burst open.

“Okay, I've been an idiot again. I've lost all my money, my house, and my wife,” he said in a choked voice. “I thought Pine Slopes would be a safe bet. I
know
the owners. They'd never screw me over the way the others did. It's been a nightmare. One thing after another. Freddy doesn't know what to do.
Harold
doesn't know what to do, and that's never happened before. Simon may be able to get me enough so I don't lose the house.” He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots. “Nothing as bad as this week can happen again. We can still pull it out, but it could be too late for me. It's too late for Glenda, that's for sure.”

Dick walked over and sat on the arm of the easy chair his son was slouching in.

“Everybody goes through bad times, son, and, yes, you've had more than your share of them, but don't you
ever
call any kid of mine an idiot.” He put an arm around Craig's shoulder.

Faith thought she had never loved her father-in-law as much as she did at this moment.

Craig sat up straighter.

“You can't keep bailing me out, Dad. All of you. I can't accept any more help.”

“Nobody's talking about that, and I'm proud to hear you say this. But there's help and there's help. About Glenda—well, she was a knockout, but maybe the two of you got hitched too fast. It hurts and it's gonna hurt, but your mother is a good listener. Keeps her mouth shut, too, which is more than I can say about myself. Talk to her. And then as far as the rest goes, I think it's time you finished reviewing and took the licensing exam. Time for you to join Fairchild Realty. People like you. You know that. You're a natural-born salesman.”

Dick was beaming. He'd come up with a solution and all was well in the garden. He didn't notice the cyclone approaching from the south forty, though. Betsey had covered her mouth with her hand, but at any moment she'd drop it and suck the whole universe into her wrath.

“Dad, I agree with you that Craig is made for sales. I've been telling him that for years, but I'm not sure real estate is for him,” said Robert, his voice calm and steady. Betsey's hand slowly dropped into her lap and joined the other, which was clutching her empty mug with almost enough force to shatter it.

“What are you proposing?” Dick asked.

Robert smiled at his brother. “What is the thing you've always been best at out of all of us—and loved the most?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Skiing, of course. The parent company of my company distributes ski equipment—downhill, boards, Nordic, and all the accessories. A salesman who knows the sport as
well as you do would be invaluable to them. I've talked to him about this before,” Robert said to the others.

“It's a possibility,” Craig said slowly.

Not enough money, Faith thought. Not enough money for the Glendas he wanted. Not enough money to show the family he could make a killing. It wasn't just Roy, Faith realized, or Craig's investment woes, but the sight of Betsey's flashy ring that had hastened Glenda's decision. Craig would never be able to afford a bauble like that—at least not in the foreseeable future—and Glenda needed baubles. There had been little mention of the thefts. Faith wished she'd been able to search Glenda's bags, and person.

The phone rang, and Craig was up like a shot, grabbing the receiver before the second ring.

“What? Who do you want?”

It wasn't his wife.

“Faith, it's for you. I think it's one of the kitchen crew at Le Sapin.”

He headed for the door. Marian made a little waving motion with her hand and Tom, Robert, and Dennis all got up and followed him out, pulling their jackets from the coat hooks that lined the entryway.

“Hello,” Faith said.

It was Eduardo. He was talking rapidly.

“Señora, you have to come right away. We don't know what to do. People are very angry. They are leaving! The chef has drunk too much of his beer. He was yelling. Now he is sleeping on the floor.”

“Did you call Mr. Tanner?”

“Yes, but he is not in his office or at the Sports Center. Vicente is looking for him. We called Mr. Freddy,
but we can't find him too. We are trying to feed the people, but more are leaving.”

“Okay, I'll be right there. Tell everyone there has been a delay and that their dinners are on the house.”

“‘On the house'? But…”

“I'll explain later. Just tell the people at each table that. ‘Your dinner and drinks are on the house.'”

The young Latin Americans were learning a number of unusual English expressions, Faith realized, as another popped into her mind: dead drunk.

Chef Wendell had collapsed in the corner next to one of the swinging doors that led into Le Sapin's dining room. Faith toyed briefly with the idea of dragging him to a more convenient spot, but the idea was repugnant. His mouth hung open and some kind of liquid—drool or beer—had collected in his jowls. His hair was plastered across his forehead in sweaty strands, and he was ripe. Ripe with alcohol, grease, and some indefinable smell all his own—something akin to wet dog.

“Should we try to move him?” Eduardo asked. He sounded no more enthusiastic than Faith was.

“No, we have better things to do.” She wished she had a tarp to throw over him. She didn't want to waste a tablecloth on the mountainous mound. They'd never get the smell out. “You told everyone their meal and drinks were on the house, right?”

Eduardo nodded. “We've been pouring a lot of wine and serving soup and salads. But what does—”

“It means it's free; they don't have to pay. We're ‘the house.' It's on us.” Her hasty explanation wasn't altering the puzzled look on his face. “I'll tell you about it later. Now I want all the servers to go and take orders for entrées. I'll be out in a minute, so people will know that the chef has been replaced.”

On the way over, she'd been thinking about what they could offer as fast as possible that didn't remotely resemble the evening's fast-food offerings. They'd go with steak, but offer it with béarnaise sauce or au poivre. There was still plenty of salmon. That would be tonight's special. She'd do it with a pecan crust and serve it with curried rice pilaf—quick dishes. And for pasta, they'd stick with good old Alfredo and primavera, plus the ravioli with sage and brown butter. She wrote it all out for the servers and sent them on their way.

Although it was obvious that the crew had been trying to clean up and get things organized, the kitchen was still a mess. Wendell had taken bags of frozen fries—his Continental touch—from the cafeteria's freezer, as well as hamburger patties. Faith could imagine the scene all too well. Le Sapin's freezers were well stocked. There wouldn't have been much room left to store the patties, so he left them to defrost on the counters. Plastic bags of buns were also strewn about. The crew must have been horrified, but given his treatment of them earlier, she was sure none of them had dared say a word. If he hadn't drunk himself into a stupor, Pine Slopes could well have been facing
lawsuits due to food poisoning. There was no telling how long the meat had been sitting out. She told Vincente to shove it all into trash bags and get it out of the way, then scrub the counters.

Taking a clean apron from a drawer, Faith donned the toque she'd placed on a shelf when she'd left last night. Trying not to look at Wendell, who was now snoring heavily, she went out into the dining room, using the door Wendell wasn't blocking. Wendell! If he were a chef, she'd
eat
her toque. Short-order cook, possibly, but even that struck her as a stretch.

The bibulous offerings—or the prospect of a decent meal—had calmed the room, although there were more empty tables than she would have liked to see. People had fled in indignation before the crisis was resolved. Faith went from table to table, offering suggestions and apologizing for the contretemps. The French word was appropriate and infinitely more civilized than the English,
screwup,
which was what it was. A snafu. Outwardly smiling, greeting with special warmth the repeat customers she recognized from her previous stints, Faith was seething inside. What was the resort going to do now? She couldn't stay on, tempted as she was. There was only one solution, but she'd have to wait until all the diners were satisfied, leaving only with a lingering taste of dessert and words of praise on their lips.

They'd leave; then she'd call Niki.

Simon and Freddy were in the kitchen when she returned. Simon was slapping Wendell's face, a disgusted look on his own. He paused from his exertions to tell Faith that once again they were in her debt.
Freddy was equally effusive, but it was clear that both men were more concerned with the matter literally at hand than Faith's presence, welcome as it was.

Simon nudged Wendell with the toe of his boot. Still cowboy boots, Faith noticed, but a snazzier pair than the ones he had been wearing the other day. She wondered if Simon drove a Subaru Outback, too.

“Come on, get up!”

“It's no use,” Freddy said. “He's totally out of it. I thought you said he was one of the best new chefs in the Northeast? That his former employer was furious that he was leaving?”

“We've been had, Freddy boy. More like furiously happy. Let's get him out of the way. I don't fancy carrying him to his room, though.”

Faith was busy preparing the fish, but she looked up.

“You can't leave him here; he's a health hazard! And we need both doors.” She left the aesthetic considerations out, monumental though they were.

“You're right,” Freddy said. “I'll get a stretcher from the ski patrol and another pair of hands. Maybe Josh can help. No, scratch that. Forget Josh. Where's Craig?”

“Try the pub,” Faith replied. “Tom, Robert, and Dennis went out with him, so they'll all be together. More than enough hands.”

Freddy left by the side door, skirting the restaurant. It would have been a good time to make an appearance. He couldn't have known that Faith already had. After all that had been happening at Pine Slopes, the more the clientele saw of the owners, the better, Faith thought. Either this hadn't occurred to Fred Stafford or he didn't want to deal with potential complaints.

The fish went into the oven and she started plating the steak orders with Juana, who was showing a real talent in this department.

Simon washed his hands at the sink and sat down. He was a fastidious man, and Faith imagined he'd also like to polish the toe of his snakeskin boot, which connected with the chef.

“Hungry?” Faith asked.

“I was—before I saw him,” Simon said.

Her crew had had the presence of mind to serve one of their nightly first courses, French onion soup with plenty of melted Gruyère, and Faith placed a steaming bowl in front of Simon. It would go a long way toward reviving him. She wouldn't mind some herself when there was a lull. Betsey's lasagna had had far too much sticking power—and Faith had stuck as far away from it as she could. As she tossed asparagus spears with oil, salt, pepper, and minced garlic to pan-roast on high heat in the oven, she thought about what an international flavor this week had had—and all her weeks. So many of her staples for feeding large numbers of people had their roots elsewhere—chili, spanakopita, Swedish meatballs, and lasagna (Faith's recipe combined the essence of Italia with a soupçon of neighboring France in the form of the béchamel sauce she added to the layers. It bore as much resemblance to Betsey's as the wolf did to Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother).

“Phew! I think we've managed to stem the tide,” Faith said as the last entrée went out the door. The wrong door. Which reminded her.

“What was Fred saying about Josh? Is he tied up at
the Sports Center? He'd have Wendell out of here in no time.”

Too late, she realized she had committed that cardinal female sin of comparing one male's musculature to the detriment of the one present. But Simon didn't seem to be taking offense. He didn't seem to be taking anything—not the soup and not much notice. He did answer her, though.

“Josh has quit.”

“What?” The edifice of Pine Slopes wasn't crumbling slowly brick by brick, but all at once, like something in a Looney Tunes cartoon.

“He's got his knickers in a twist about being told what to do. Doesn't want any changes made in
his
Sports Center. I tried to convince him to see the season out, thought he'd be loyal after all these years—he started here as a kid, working in maintenance for Pete—but he wants out now. Or better still, yesterday.”

“Have you tried having Sally talk to him?”

“Sally?” Simon pulled the bowl of soup toward him. “Why Sally?”

“It's just a feeling I have. I think she may be able to convince him to stay, at least until the end of the season. He wasn't happy about giving more space to the Nordic program, but if Sally tells him those plans are on hold, as I'm assuming they are, what with everything else going on, then he might stay.”

Simon was eating his soup now. He'd been deathly pale when Faith came in from the dining room. The hot soup was putting the roses back in his cheeks, and he actually grinned.

“Cherchez la femme, eh? Not a bad idea. I'll have a
word with her. Josh would be as hard to replace as John—and now you.” The roses wilted. “What am I going to do, wise Mrs. Fairchild? Where am I going to come up with a chef at such short notice?”

“I have a proposal. My assistant in the catering business, Niki Constantine, may agree to step in for a week or so. This is a slow time of year for us, and with my part-timers pitching in, I can handle what we have. Niki loves to ski and she loves to cook. You could also dangle in front of her the prospect of time away from her mother, who is micromanaging Niki's wedding plans. This will give you a chance to get the word out, and I can also help you there.”

“It's too much. We can't ask this of you.” Simon sounded very firm as he scraped the last bits of onion and cheese from the bottom of his bowl.

“What's your alternative?”

Simon spread his hands out. “Nada. At the moment, I have nada.”

At the sound of a familiar word, Vincente looked up from the pot he was scrubbing.

You really will have nada if you don't accept my offer, Faith said to herself.

Then the troops arrived—Freddy, his father, Tom, Robert, Dennis, and Craig. With Simon, they loaded Wendell onto the stretcher and bore him aloft. They looked like pallbearers.

 

Would John Forest come back, unhappy at seeing the restaurant he had created go down the tubes? Come back, that is, if they could find him?

Thursday morning, they did.

Pete was the first to see it: a gruesome vista of white snow splattered with patches of red gore. And he was the first to know what had happened. Calling Simon and then Harold Stafford as he ran to the pump house, he relayed the news. His walkie-talkie always worked.

“Someone's fallen into the water reservoir in the pump house. You know we had the snowmaking guns on all night, and whoever it was got chewed up and sprayed out all over the mountain. I heard about something like this happening once at a resort out west. Some fool got drunk and dived in. I told you we shoulda kept the place locked! I'm headed there now.”

Simon reacted tersely, saying he'd call the police and be there as soon as possible.

Pete repeated the grim news to Harold, who was having a harder time taking it in.

“What are you talking about, Pete? I can't believe it! You must be mistaken. No one would go near that pool of water, especially when the guns were going. And you know darn well that we've kept the pump house locked for years!”

“Alls I know is that the last few times I've been in to check the machinery, it's been open. I'm here now. You get ahold of Freddy and keep people away from the slopes. It's early, but some'll be up and looking out their windows soon. Post the ski patrol until the police get here. Call the Fairchild boys to help out.”

Pete watched a lot of TV in the off-season, and he read a lot of mysteries. He knew he wasn't supposed to disturb anything. He'd already noted that there weren't any footprints either going into or coming out of the small structure. The light snow that had fallen in the
early hours of the morning had obliterated them. His weren't going to mess up any investigation, he figured, and he had to get a look inside. He didn't know what he expected to see, but he knew he had to see it. Using the toe of his work boot to nudge the door open wider than the crack that had been left, Pete peered in. The lights were on, but other than that there was nothing out of the ordinary as far as he could tell. He was about to back off, when he noticed something sparkling in the sharp shaft of dawn the door was letting in, something gold. He squinted. It was a gold charm, but larger than the ones girls had on their bracelets. It was a frying pan. Last seen hanging from an ornate twenty-four-karat chain worn with a whole lot of others.

Pete felt his knees give way, and he toppled into the snowdrift the plow had made outside the pump house. His head fell back, and the sky seemed to be moving toward him. He let his face fall forward and caught it in his hands. The rough leather from his work gloves felt good. He was alive. But John Forest wasn't. John Forest was dead and would never be buried. John Forest was spread across Pine Slopes like some kind of hideous icing on a cake.

He'd worked with John a long time. Been surprised when he took off. It was out of character, and in Pete's experience, this didn't happen much with people. Whoever had done this was acting in character, only doing a good job of covering it up. Wasn't that what a murderer was? A damn good actor?

Pete turned around and sat with his back against the snow to wait for the police.

 

“Slow down, slow down! I can't understand what you're saying.” Tom Fairchild had grabbed the phone next to his bed on the first ring, awakening from a deep slumber instantly. It went with his job.

“Who is it? What's wrong?” Faith looked at the clock. It was 6:36.

“My God! This is horrible! I'll get Dennis and we'll be right there…. Okay, that's better. We'll meet outside the lodge.”

Faith grabbed Tom's arm. He'd hung up the phone and was flinging the covers off. She didn't let go. “What's happened? Where are you going?”

“That was Craig. There's been an accident. Somehow someone fell into the pool at the pump house. It supplies the water for the snowmaking guns. The guns were on all night and—”