A Deadly Snow Fall by Cynthia Gallant-Simpson Read Free Book Online Page B

right
on. A long, celibate winter and longer still since I’d met anyone
worth even washing my hair for!
    I walked into the Town Hall, looked to my
left and saw the reception area for the police department. To my
right a door was open and a well-dressed, gray-haired man sat at a
reproduction Governor Winthrop desk leaning over a pile of official
looking papers. Definitely the attorney. No sign of the
leprechaun.
    Introducing myself, I had my most skeptical
face on. The whole idea that a virtual stranger, the town
curmudgeon, had left me something was way beyond ludicrous. Surely,
there’d been a big mistake.
    “How do you do? I am Elizabeth Ogilvie-Smythe
and, of course, there has been a mistake. I did not know the man
who died and he did not know me. Therefore, he had no reason to
leave me anything in his will.”
    “How do you do Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe? Allow me
to introduce myself. Anthony Wilder from Wilder, Fitzpatrick and
Cohen, Boston.”
    The tall, well-dressed attorney exuded an air
of frostiness that I could feel right through my forest green
cashmere jacket. I was sure that this was a mistake that could
quickly be remedied.
    Ignoring my objections, the lawyer motioned
me to a chair. “Kindly take a seat here,” he pointed to a chair
placed at an angle to the one next to it, in between a small
handsome piecrust edged table on which was sitting a dainty
porcelain teapot and two delicate cups. Pretty nice stuff for a
police station interview room, I thought. Looking around at the
fine wood paneling on the walls and the tin ceiling I had to wonder
what purpose this room had served in the old town hall.
    “Tea?”
    Being offered tea by a po-faced city attorney
who obviously had me mixed up with someone else, thus keeping me
from more important things really grated. However, the familiar
fragrance of one of my favorite teas, Oolong, won me over.
    “I do realize that this perhaps comes as a
surprise, Ms. Ogilvie-Smythe, but I assure you this is legitimate.
Mr. Edwin”….he looked down at the papers on his lap, “So sorry, I
had to step in just this morning on the fly as my father was
stricken ill. Ah yes. Mr. Edwin Snow was my father’s client for
many, many years.”
    “So sorry. Is your father going to be
alright?”
    “Pardon me? Oh yes. Just a bit of gout.
Nothing serious. Except, of course, to poor father.” He tittered. I
grimaced but he either missed it or chose to ignore my human
emotion as it was probably alien to his nature.
    “Now, let us move on here. Mr. Edwin Snow III
has specifically named you as heir to his manuscript. His home and
the bulk of his monetary estate he left to the American Pit Bull
Advocate Society but this box belongs to you.”
    Reaching for a leather box about the size of
a small valise, he pulled it toward him, hesitating for a moment as
if trying to judge my worthiness. Looking directly into the man’s
pellucid eyes I wondered how this crazy error might have occurred.
My natural cat-like curiosity however kept me glued to the
chair.
    The sun slanting in through the tall,
many-paned, not too clean window was warm and spring-like. In the
past, I would have nipped off to the Caribbean or the Côte d’Azur
to avoid the discontent that can come with the long, gray days of a
London winter. I had surprised myself by my state of contentment,
that winter. Maturity or simply novelty? Whatever. As Daph would
have said.
    At last, the stuffed shirt spoke. “This case
contains the manuscript formerly belonging to Edwin Snow III. It
now belongs to you, by order of his will.”
    I simply offered a perplexed look and sat
there hoping the cute sounding, Irish cop would suddenly appear. We
could maybe pop off to kiss the Blarney Stone together.
    The attorney removed an envelope from the
folder in front of him. I sipped my tea. Sun motes danced in the
slanted light. No Officer Finneran came to my rescue. Damsel
disappointed.
    He handed me the letter and I took it as if
it was on fire. A pause