The intrepid psychic detectives of Snowe Agency are on the case again, this time investigating a thirty-year-old note from a teenager that hints at murder. Here's a bit of the first chapter of the fourth installment of The Parsifal Snowe Mysteries,
Past Imperfect.
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Seth
Augustine picked up two pieces of firewood from the neatly-stacked pile on the
porch, and turned around in time to see the front door of the cabin close with
a bang.
Then
there was the sound of a lock turning.
He
strode up to the door, and kicked it twice with his bare foot.
“Hey,
what the hell?” he said. “Let me
back in!”
Bethany
Hale’s voice came from the other side.
“Not until you admit I was right.”
“What?”
“You
heard me.”
“It’s
fifteen degrees out here, and I’ve got nothing on except my boxers!”
“Then
that gives you a little incentive, doesn’t it?”
Seth
set down the firewood, and gave the door handle a futile jiggle.
“Seriously?”
he said.
There
was a snort from the other side of the door. “How long have you known me?”
The
wind blew a spray of snow onto Seth’s bare back, and he gave an involuntary
squawk. “C’mon, Bethany, I’m
freezing to death out here!”
“You’re
still talking, so you’re not beyond hope of resuscitation. Admit it, you were wrong and I was
right.”
“Are
you even kidding me right now?”
“Hmm,
maybe I’ll get into the hot tub.
Yeah, that’ll be nice. Too
bad you’re out there, or you could join me.”
Seth
gave a strangled, inarticulate noise of outrage.
“Hey,”
came a voice.
Seth
looked over to the next cabin, only about thirty feet away. An old lady in a plaid bathrobe,
wearing a bright orange stocking cap, was standing on the front porch, leaning
on the railing, watching Seth with obvious interest.
“Yeah?”
Seth said, his teeth chattering.
“If
your girlfriend won’t let you in, honey, you can come over and warm up in my
cabin,” the old lady said.
“No,
that’s okay,” Seth said, his voice rising in alarm. He rubbed the backs of his arms with his hands. “Bethany, dammit, let me in!”
“Wow,
the water is really nice and warm,” Bethany said. “Oh, yeah, and I’m not wearing anything. Just thought I should mention.”
“Fuck,”
Seth said under his breath. “Fine. You
win. I admit it, you were right,
and I was wrong. The Earth is closer
to the Sun in winter. Even though
it feels pretty goddamned far away at the moment.”
There
was a click as Bethany, wrapped in a towel, unlocked and opened the door, and
she motioned him in. “There,” she
said. “Was that so hard?”
“If
she locks you out again, you’re welcome here any time!” the old lady shouted
after him as the door closed.
The
warmth of a wood fire struck his skin, and he shuddered a little. “You are ruthless.”
She
kissed his cheek. “Damn skippy I
am. Now, come on, get into the hot
tub and warm up. You could have
caught your death of cold out there, you know.”
Seth
glared at her, then dropped his boxers, and put one foot into the bubbling
water, and yelped.
Bethany
slipped her towel off, and stepped into the hot tub herself, settling in with a
sigh. “Oh, c’mon, you big
baby. It’s not that hot.”
“Easy
for you to say,” he said. “You
didn’t just narrowly escape hypothermia.”
He climbed the rest of the way in, then sat down, wincing a little, and
leaned back and closed his eyes.
“It was that important to you for me to admit I was wrong? I mean, we looked it up on your laptop,
and you proved your point, and everything.”
“Yeah,
but you didn’t say it. ‘You were right and I was wrong.’ So I decided that you need
practice. After all, if I had been
wrong, I would have admitted it graciously. But I, unlike you, remembered my high school Earth Science
class, wherein Mr. Grunder explained in some detail that axial tilt causes the
seasons, and that the Earth is actually closer to the Sun when the Northern
Hemisphere is having winter.”
“In
my Earth Science class, I was too busy thinking about how to get into Jennifer
Kaplan’s pants to pay much attention to orbits and so on.”
“You
have a one-track mind.”
“Yeah,
but I like that track. And you
seem to be pretty fond of it, yourself, Ms. Hale.”
Bethany
reached over and rubbed his shoulder.
“Are you having fun up here?”
Seth
opened his eyes, and smiled. “Of
course. Aren’t you?”
“I
love it. I’ve always thought the
Adirondacks were gorgeous. And
this is my first real vacation in years, unless you count visiting my mother.”
“That’s
not a vacation.”
“No,
it’s not. So this is nice. I’m glad we came here, together.”
“Me
too. Even if you do periodically
try to kill me.”
She
laughed. “Relax. I wouldn’t kill you for real. I’m happy not to be hip deep in murder
for a change.”
“Same.” He looked over at her. “But are you serious about not killing
me?”
“Of
course. Why?”
“Because
I left the firewood on the porch.”
The
next days were filled with cross-country skiing and snowshoeing, followed by
basking in front of the fire, sipping wine, and reading. Seth had brought along his Kindle, and
was absorbed in a spy thriller; Bethany preferred actual books, and her tastes
ran more to historical fiction.
But both of them settled quickly into the sweetness of shared down-time,
Bethany lying on the sofa with her book propped up in front of her, and Seth
sitting with her legs across his lap, one of his hands and his Kindle resting
lightly on her ankles.
It
was on the fourth day there that they decided to venture down into Finn Hill,
the nearest village, for some groceries and a change of scenery. Finn Hill was nothing more than a few
businesses and some widely-scattered houses and churches, but it was
picturesque and quaint and looked as if it could provide at least a couple
hours’ diversion.
They
made a stop at the Nice ‘n’ Easy and Kwik Fill, where they bought bacon, eggs,
milk, and provisions for lunches and dinners. Then it was off on a brisk walk through the town. The walk was made even more brisk by
the frigid temperatures, although the sun was high in a brilliant blue sky,
making the snowbanks almost too bright to look at.
The
main road was lined with a row of businesses, of which the first two – a bakery
and an antiques store – seemed the most interesting. They purchased scones at the bakery and then went next door
to Parker’s Antiques. The door
shut behind them, and the jingle of the bell coincided with a sour voice saying,
“You can’t bring that in here.”
Seth
looked up and saw that he was being scowled at by a rail-thin old man, mostly
bald, with wire-rimmed glasses.
“What?”
Seth said, his mouth full.
“Food,”
the old man said. “Sign on the
door. ‘No Food Inside.’”
“Oh,”
Seth said, and popped the rest of the scone in his mouth. “There,” he said, a little
indistinctly. “All gone.”
“What
about her?” the old man said, gesturing with one gnarled finger at Bethany.
Bethany
wrapped up the remaining half of her scone in a napkin, and put it into her
purse. “There we go. I promise I won’t take it out until we
leave.”
The
old man turned away with a snort, mumbling something about “Damned
out-o’-towners,” and disappeared into the back of the store.
“Charming
gentleman,” Seth observed, as Bethany went over to a display of old mantelpiece
clocks, each with hand-carved scrollwork surrounding the face.
“My
uncle had one of these,” Bethany said.
“I’ve always wanted one.”
“Don’t
they ring every hour?”
“His
did. Also the half-hour.”
“How
do people sleep with that racket?”
She
smiled. “I never found it
disturbing. It was kind of
soothing, really.” She lifted the
tag, and gave a low whistle.
“Never mind.”
“How
much?”
“Twelve
hundred.”
“Jesus. For a clock?”
She
shrugged. “I guess some people
will pay that. Not me, however.”
Seth
looked briefly at a box full of ancient tennis rackets and baseball bats. He picked up one of the rackets,
examined its worn wooden frame and gut strings, and took a tentative swing with
it. “Man, this thing weighs like
fifty pounds. I’ll keep my
carbon-fiber racket and just go lift weights if I want to bulk up.”
“Young
man,” came the nasal voice of the elderly proprietor, who apparently had the
ability to appear out of nowhere whenever anyone did something that was against
the rules. “Please do not swing
around my merchandise. Anything
that you break, you must pay for.”
“Gotcha,”
Seth said, rolling his eyes a little, and put the tennis racket back into the
box.
Bethany
wandered over toward a shelf lined with old books. She ran her finger lightly down the worn cloth-bound spines,
and then pulled one out. She
smiled and motioned Seth over.
“Hey, this one is right down your alley,” she said. “Babu the Jungle Boy.”
“What
are you saying, dear?” Seth said, joining her in front of the shelf.
“Well,
it appears to be about an uncivilized savage who runs around without any
clothes on, and how he was tamed and taught etiquette. Maybe I should buy it. You know, for suggestions on how to proceed.”
“Good
luck with that. And don’t forget
that as you try to civilize me, I’m trying to wild you. And I think, all things considered, I’m
making more progress than you are.”
She
shut the book with a snap, and pulled another one off the shelf. “Hey, look,” she said, her voice rising
in excitement, “it’s a murder mystery by Dorothy Sayers. I love Dorothy Sayers. The Nine Tailors. I
haven’t read that one.” She opened the cover. It creaked a little, and Seth got a whiff of the familiar
dusty old-book smell. Inside was a
pocket, now empty, that said, “Property of Finn Hill Public Library.” Underneath was a word stamped in purple
ink that said, “WITHDRAWN.”
“I
don’t think I’ve ever read anything by her,” Seth said.
“Amazing
writer. And her detective, Lord
Peter Wimsey, is the pinnacle of civilization, just so you know.”
“I’m
sure. But I thought you were glad
to get away from murder.”
She
gave him a sheepish grin.
“Actually, I miss it a little.”
She rifled the pages. “I’m
kind of looking forward to getting back to it, to tell the truth.”
And
that was when a yellowed piece of paper, folded in quarters, fell out of the
book.
Bethany
leaned over and picked it up, then gently unfolded it. Seth looked over her shoulder. It was handwritten, in a sloped,
scrawly cursive. It read:
I expect by the time anyone reads
this, I’ll be dead. Maybe long
dead. I’d tell the authorities,
but who would believe me? I tried
to tell my uncle, because he’s the only one I can trust, and he just told me
that I read too many fanciful stories and now I think they’re real.
Maybe, though, someone will find
this. So I guess I’ll talk
directly to you, person in the future who is reading this; if I’m dead, it
wasn’t an accident or natural causes or any of that sort of thing. I was murdered because of what I heard
at Denny Goldsmith’s funeral, and what I know because of it.
I’m not asking for revenge, or
whatnot. It’s just that I think
someone should know the truth.
Even if it’s too late for me, the truth should get out somehow.
Martha Darnell
“Wow,”
Seth said, in a hushed voice. “Be
careful what you wish for.”
Bethany
turned toward him, her face a little pale. “This has got to be a prank, right? No one would do this seriously.”
“I
dunno. It doesn’t sound like a
prank.”
One
corner of Bethany’s mouth curled upwards a little. “You can tell the difference?”
“Yeah,
I think I could. Don’t you think
if it was some kind of joke, they’d put in less detail? Why mention names? Just write, ‘I’m in danger. People are trying to kill me, because
of secret stuff. Please send
help!’ The names make me wonder.”
“Hmm,”
Bethany said, frowning. “Maybe
you’re right.”
“Can
I hold it?”
“Sure.”
Seth
reached out and took the slip of paper, and pressed his fingertips against the
faded print. Through the point of
contact, he got a confusing array of sensations; fear, distrust, arrogance,
curiosity, anger. And loneliness. Pervasive, all-encompassing loneliness.
He
looked up to find Bethany watching him, her eyebrows drawn together in a
concerned expression. “What?” she
said. “What are you getting?”
“Well,”
he said, quietly, “it’s real, I think.
I’m assuming that the last person who held it was the one who wrote it –
that’s the impression I’m getting.
And I think that the note is truthful at least in the sense that the
person who wrote it thought she was
being persecuted. But whoever
wrote it – Martha Darnell? – she was a drama queen. Highly emotional.
And not very honest, I’d say.
Of course, that doesn’t mean that what she wrote was a lie.”
“Well,
we can see what the shopkeeper knows,” Bethany said.
“Good
luck with that. He’s the human
porcupine, as far as I can tell.”
“Well,
I can try.” She turned, still
holding the book in one hand and the note in the other, and walked across the
wood-plank floor toward the register at the back of the store. The sour-faced old man was standing
behind the counter, leafing through some receipts, and didn’t look up until the
third time Bethany said, “Excuse me?”
“Yes?”
he said, and gave a harsh little sigh of annoyance.
“Do
you know of families around here named Darnell and Goldsmith?”
He
looked at her through narrowed eyes for a moment, as if he was trying to figure
out a good reason to refuse to answer.
Finally he said, his voice heavy with suspicion, “Yes. Couple of Darnell families
hereabout. Matt and Lawrence
Darnell. Brothers. Both live up on the north end of the
village. Lots of Goldsmiths. Old family name in this part of the
county. Goldsmiths and Parkers and
Jenkses, and a couple of others, founded this village back in the 1700s.”
“How
about a Martha Darnell and a Denny Goldsmith?”
There
was a long pause. “Why’d you want
to know about them?” He peered
over at the note, but Bethany had it angled upwards so he couldn’t read it from
where he was standing.
“Just
curious,” she said, with a smile.
“Both
of ‘em died a long while back.
Maybe thirty years ago.”
“And
the two deaths – they happened right around the same time?”
He
frowned. “Yes. I reckon so. But why…”
“Do
you know anything about how they died?”
The
old man had evidently reached his tolerance level for answering questions. “Nope,” he said.
“You’re
sure about that?”
“Yup,”
he said, and his mouth shut tight.
“I
want to buy this book,” Bethany said, setting it down on the counter and
tucking the note into her purse.
