Iced Page 7

  16

  I THOUGHT YOU were going skiing early today,” Bessie Armbuckle barked at her employers, Yvonne and Lester Grant. “Does this mean you’re going to hang around for lunch?”

  She’s been a wreck since the robbery, Yvonne Grant reminded herself. She shot a warning look at her husband, who was never known to take guff from his employees: Be patient.

  “We’ll have lunch on the slopes, Bessie,” she said patiently. “Right now we’re waiting for Regan Reilly, a private investigator who is a friend of the Woods. She wants to talk to us about the other night.”

  “A private investigator?” Bessie exploded. “Haven’t we had enough people around here asking questions?”

  Yesterday afternoon, after they’d learned about the missing painting, there’d been an onslaught of police and media types. Aspen was teeming with photographers and reporters covering the activities of celebrities during the holiday week. They’d gotten wind of the robbery not long after Bessie discovered it; the phone and the doorbell never stopped all day Sunday. In desperation, the Grants had escaped to a friend’s house for Christmas dinner, leaving Bessie to hold down the fort. By now, Monday morning, her nerve endings were jangling.

  “She wants to help us,” Yvonne said patiently. “What time is your bus to Vail?”

  “Not soon enough,” Bessie replied.

  After breakfast Lester had informed Yvonne that either she had to fire Bessie, give her a couple of days off, or spend the rest of the vacation without him. Bessie had jumped at the chance to go visit her cousin in Vail and get off her sore feet for a couple of days. “It’s about time I had a day off,” she added. “You people have run me ragged with your parties in New York, the party here, and the fancy caterers with their sloppy help who I had to clean up after. This is getting to be too much for me.”

  Yvonne’s lips tightened. She was about to say, “Maybe it is,” but when she looked at Bessie’s weary and stress-filled fifty-something face, she knew that this was unusual behavior for her. She’d been with them for seven years now, traveling with them among their various homes; her dependability and efficiency made her aggressiveness bearable. Bessie’s elbow grease had made every nook and cranny of their three homes sparkle. Yvonne knew that anytime anything went wrong in the Grant household, Bessie felt responsible. The theft of the painting was the biggest thing that had gone wrong since she’d been in their employ. She just needs to get away for a few days, Yvonne told herself.

  The doorbell rang. Please let that be Regan Reilly, so we can talk to her and then get out of here. To have to escape your own home, Yvonne thought wryly. How do these things happen?

  Outside, Regan stood waiting, glancing around at the sloping street lined with condos. The house backed right into the mountain, which of course meant easy ski-in, skiout access. Because the Grants lived in town, they didn’t have as much property as Kendra, but Regan supposed that having the ski lift practically in your own backyard more than made up for it.

  The stone exterior of the house was most impressive. A massive carved oak door was adorned with antique hardware. It looked as if it could have been ripped off from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. But it was no kindly cleric who answered the door asking, “What can I do for you, my child?”

  Instead, a stern, hefty woman wearing remarkably unflattering steel-gray glasses and a gray uniform stood before her. Looking at the hairdo gave Regan a headache. The woman’s locks were tightly braided, yanked back and plastered to her skull with hairpins that looked as if they had removed at least her first couple layers of scalp.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Regan Reilly,” Regan answered in an equally brusque tone. Over the years, Regan had found that it was the only way to deal with the rude people of the world.

  “Oh.” Broom Hilda waved Regan in.

  Regan stepped into the enormous entryway. A second-floor balcony framing the foyer on three sides and numerous doors leading God knows where made Regan wonder just how big the house was. To the right was an elevator. A must, Regan thought, after a hard day of skiing.

  “Mrs. Grant,” the woman bellowed as she led Regan across the marble foyer toward the back of the house, through a family room with a movie-screen-size television, finally reaching a magnificent library with Chinese red leather couches and chairs. “She’s here.”

  The terse announcement made Regan wonder what they’d been saying about her.

  Yvonne and Lester Grant were sitting side by side having coffee. They both got up and shook Regan’s hand. Yvonne was wearing a sleek black ski outfit and looked as if she were ready to do a photo shoot for Vogue. Lester was also decked out in the finest skiwear money could buy. Yvonne looked about forty. Her husband was probably ten years older.

  “Kendra told me you were about to go skiing and I’m very grateful that you waited for me. I know you’ve talked to enough people about this already.”

  “That’s for sure,” the housekeeper mumbled as she started to leave the room.

  “Wait, Bessie,” Yvonne said. “Regan, would you like some coffee?”

  From the look on Bessie’s face Regan decided it was probably best to feign caffeine overload and declined the offer.

  “What time did you say her bus was leaving?” Lester asked his wife after Bessie disappeared around the corner.

  Yvonne laughed and turned to Regan. “That’s Bessie, our housekeeper. She’ll be taking the next few days off.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Regan said wryly as she sat down.

  Regan explained to them her involvement with Louis and her knowledge of Eben’s background. “So you can understand why I really want to find out what happened.”

  “That makes three of us,” Lester said.

  “Five of us,” Yvonne corrected him. “Kendra and Sam would like their stuff back too. I only wish I had paid more attention when he was here the other night. But I was playing host to all my friends in the living room and the children were in the family room with that big red thief…”

  “I was helping too,” Lester said in mock protest.

  Yvonne squeezed his hand. “Of course you were, darling. You’re the perfect host.” She leaned over and gave him a little kiss.

  I may throw up, Regan thought. Instead she waited for them to denuzzle before steering the conversation back to the crime.

  “So you both were in the living room,” she said.

  “It really was a great party.” Yvonne smiled. “I wish Kendra and Sam and your parents and even you had been here for it.”

  Even me. “Why, thank you,” Regan managed to say. “I’m sure it would have been a delight.”

  “Really,” Lester said. “When you think that at the party itself everyone had a wonderful time.”

  “Especially Santa,” Yvonne said and burst into gales of laughter, soon joined by her husband.

  “Cookie, you’re so funny,” Lester choked.

  Am I missing something? Regan wondered. I thought these two were upset about the theft.

  “We’re sorry, Megan,” Lester offered as he struggled to regain his composure.

  “It’s Regan, honey,” Yvonne said and the two of them started laughing again. When the hearty sounds of her mirth subsided, Yvonne said, “Regan, we’re reading a book on stress management. It says that if you laugh at your troubles, they won’t get the best of you.”

  “When did you start reading it?” Regan asked.

  “This morning,” Lester sputtered.

  My timing is impeccable, Regan thought. It must be great to be so rich that you can laugh at the loss of a million-dollar painting. Maybe she ought to get a copy of the book for Louis. It would be a lot more helpful than tissues. “Was the painting insured?” she asked.

  Lester’s laughter stopped on a dime. “Of course!”

  Bingo, Regan thought. It’s a lot easier to yuk it up when you know there’ll be an insurance check winging its way to you.

  “All of our friends love our Christmas
Eve party,” Yvonne said. “A bunch of them have been calling asking if they’re in any of the pictures of the party we handed over to the newspaper. I understand they’re going to do a big spread on it.” Yvonne’s eyes widened. “It’s amazing how much publicity we’ve gotten.”

  “Do you have any pictures with Santa?” Regan asked.

  “Not a one. He was in and out of here so fast….” Yvonne answered.

  “Which was a relief,” Lester said. “Last year he hammed it up so much, stopping to pose for pictures with every last guest. We had to practically use physical force to get rid of him. This year we left instructions with Bessie to let him do his thing with the kids and then get the hell out.”

  “Darling.” Yvonne looked at him.

  “Sorry.”

  “Bessie was in charge of everything.”

  “As usual,” Lester added.

  Yvonne ignored him. “She’s sick of talking to people, but let me get her in here. BESSIE!” She paused. “BESSIE!”

  “WHAT?” Bessie shouted back from down the hall.

  She must be very good at cleaning, Regan mused. She’s certainly not here to give the children French lessons or offer tips on gracious living.

  “Please come here,” Yvonne called.

  Bessie reappeared with an annoyed expression. “I was just getting out the vacuum. If I’m going to be gone for a few days—”

  “Could you please get the children and bring them in here? I think we should all talk to Regan at once.”

  “Oh, all right,” Bessie said begrudgingly and started down the hallway. “JOSH! JULIE! Your mother wants you!”

  “Regan,” Yvonne warned. “The children still believe in Santa Claus. Please be careful of what you ask them.”

  “We’re trying to keep up the myth that Santa is alive and well and not a slimy…”

  “Darling.”

  Lester closed his mouth and turned to Regan with a big smile. “Do you know how Santa spells his last name?”

  “I think I do,” Regan said.

  “C-L-A-W-S,” Lester said and started to chuckle. “I just made that up. Santa Claws.”

  Regan laughed. “Not bad.”

  “Not bad? I think it was pretty good, myself.”

  I have to get a copy of that book, Regan thought.

  One of the many doors in the house slammed and two lively brown-haired, brown-eyed children ran into the room. Their skiwear obviously hadn’t been bought at the local Ski Shack either. They jumped up and joined their parents on the endless couch, cuddling up and getting a few tickles from Lester before things calmed down. Your perfect nuclear richer-than-God family, thought Regan.

  Bessie unloaded her body into a chair next to Regan. She sighed, folded her hands, and started twirling her thumbs. Regan got the impression that she was not the type who could sit still for very long without getting mad at somebody. And she seemed nervous.

  Yvonne stroked her daughter’s hair. “Kids, this nice lady wants to talk to us about Santa.”

  “But Christmas is over,” Julie said practically.

  “I know,” Yvonne said, “but she wants you to tell her about the Santa who came by here the other night.”

  “The one who stole the picture?” Josh inquired.

  Yvonne glanced quickly at Lester. “We didn’t say that, honey.”

  “But you were mad in the restaurant yesterday and said that—”

  “Mommy was just reacting too quickly. We don’t know who took the painting.”

  Julie looked thoughtful. “Do you think one of your friends took it?”

  Regan tried not to smile.

  “No, dear,” Yvonne replied with a patience that did not seem heartfelt. “Now let’s answer some important questions.”

  The two children turned their gazes to Regan. Their stares were the stares of little children who expected to be entertained, or at the very least not bored to death.

  I’d better make this quick, Regan thought. She had the feeling that their undivided attention was a commodity that could disappear faster than the painting. She barely had time to form a question when Julie opened her mouth to speak.

  “Last year Santa was nicer,” she blurted.

  “What do you mean?” Regan asked in that gentle voice she thought you were supposed to use with young children.

  “Well,” the little girl said and cocked her head, “he was funnier and played with us more. This year he just gave us our presents in a hurry.”

  Josh extracted his thumb from his mouth. “The presents weren’t too good either. Santa was cheap this year.”

  Julie started giggling. “Santa was cheap,” she almost chanted. “Cheap, cheap, cheap.” Within seconds Josh and Julie looked like miniature versions of their parents, laughing hysterically at the thought of Santa’s stinginess. Had they read the stress-management book too? Regan wondered.

  “Who wanted another stupid dump truck?” Josh asked.

  “And who wanted another stupid doll that burps?” Julie added.

  It was clear that Big Daddy Lester took that as a personal insult; he started to interject, but Yvonne stopped him. “Maybe next year Santa will have something you like better.”

  “Hope so,” Josh said and resumed sucking his thumb. He leaned up against Lester’s chest and crossed his legs.

  “He’s back in the North Pole now,” Julie informed Regan.

  “Yes, I know,” Regan said. She knew she couldn’t talk about Eben playing Santa in front of the kids. After all, she thought, you have to preserve their innocence. Better to have them think that Santa’s cheap, not a thief. “So he just gave you your presents and left?”

  “Uh-huh,” Julie said. “We had lots of kids to play with, so we didn’t care.”

  “But last year Santa spent more time with you?” Regan asked. “Was that fun?”

  “He sang some songs with us. It was all right,” Julie replied.

  Josh looked up at his father. “Next year, can we have Barney instead?”

  Poor Santa. He’s going to be wiped out by a purple dinosaur, Regan thought.

  “We’ll see,” Lester said.

  Yvonne looked at Regan and shrugged. It was clear that Regan wasn’t going to get too much more out of the kids. “We’d better get going, Regan. Why don’t you talk to Bessie for a few minutes? She’s the one who made the arrangements with Santa Claus.”

  Throw me to the lions, why don’t you? Regan thought. “That would be great, if Bessie doesn’t mind…” She didn’t have to look at Bessie; she could feel her reaction.

  “I’ve got a lot to do before I leave for Vail.”

  Yvonne gave her a look and Bessie knew that she was pushing her employer’s envelope. “I suppose I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  After the Grant family left for the slopes, Regan sat back down. The room took on a quiet, empty air. Alone with Bessie, Regan felt as abandoned as the room. She cleared her throat and figured it was best just to forge on. This was business.

  “Did you know Eben Bean?” Regan asked.

  “Just a little,” Bessie said quickly. “Last year when he was Santa he made a mess of this place.”

  “What do you mean?” Regan asked.

  “His boots were all muddy when he came in here. We’d had a little spell of warm weather and he went around the back of the house knocking on the windows, shouting, ‘Merry Christmas.” ’ Bessie leaned forward in her chair. “ ‘Merrrrrry Christmas. Merrrrrry Christmas.’ I said, ‘All right already. Enough’s enough.’ Then he tracked the mud into the house and I was following him around trying to clean up after him. It made me look like the Grinch who stole Christmas, but I told him before he left to make sure his boots are good and clean next year or he’s not setting foot in the door or down the chimney or however else Santa’s supposed to let himself in.”

  Regan’s pulse quickened. “What were his boots like the other night?”

  “I checked them when he came in the door and I thought there was a wad of
gum stuck underneath. I could have killed him. But he’d stepped on some kind of orange sticker you’d have to blast off. So I let him go. This place was such chaos.”

  “Did you see him again?”

  “No. He was in the family room with the kids and then went out through the library.”

  “When was the last time you saw Eben before that?”

  “He came to pick up the toys for his sack last Tuesday.” She managed a slight smile. “When you hire Santa, he needs to be supplied with the gifts.”

  Regan, deep in thought, frowned. “The boots are what bother me. At Kendra Wood’s house my parents are staying in the room that Eben was using. There was a pair of boots in the bathroom that looked like the kind you would wear if you were dressing up as Santa. They even had jingle bells attached.”

  “That sounds like Eben,” Bessie said.

  “But the boots Santa was wearing the other night didn’t have bells on them?”

  Bessie looked at Regan as though she were nuts. “No. These were black cowboy boots. Like they all wear around here. You’d think you were in the Texas Panhandle.”

  “I just don’t know why Eben wouldn’t have worn those boots,” Regan said. “As far as you could tell, you had no reason to suspect that it wasn’t Eben in the Santa suit.”

  Bessie shook her head. “I barely looked at his face. I was more concerned about his feet and then I had to run into the kitchen to check on those caterers.”

  Regan stood up. “Thanks, Bessie. I understand you’re going away today. But if you think of anything that might help in this investigation, no matter how trivial it seems, please don’t hesitate to call me.” Regan handed Bessie her number. Bessie’s hands were shaking when she took it. Why does she seem so nervous? Regan wondered.

  17

  GERALDINE SPOONFELLOW SAT in her creaky old rocker, lacing up her well-worn high-top boots. She loved to get up early in the morning and breathe in the crisp mountain air. A lifelong resident of the Roaring Fork Valley, she felt a part of the land, of Aspen, of everything that went on in town. She personified the Aspen ideal of self-expression, which usually meant letting everyone know your opinion whether they wanted to hear it or not.