A Deadly Snow Fall by Cynthia Gallant-Simpson Page B

woman spend her days in
the thick haze? I wondered. Every breath was painful. I wanted to
flee like a lemming. I reminded myself that every case has its
drawbacks and a good sleuth must suck it up and proceed despite the
difficulties. This is for Edwin Snow III. Justice must be served.
Charge!
    Moving away from a heap of little net pillows
labeled “Lavender Love,” “Mint Magic” and “Patchouli Passion” among
other gag-producing names, I backed smack into a life-sized fabric
angel doll with pink gossamer wings. The doll fell forward and her
movable arms enfolded me.
    “Isn’t Mirabelle lovely? She’s our mascot,
blesses the shop and spreads ever so needed joy on this miserable
skeptical world. Was there something special you were looking for,
dear?”
    “Oh, hello. My name is Liz Ogilvie-Smythe,
how do you do?”
    “I know who you are, dear. This is a very
small community. So nice to meet you, at last. I’d like you to meet
my familiar, Jasmine. Not just witches have cats as their animal
spirit advisors, you know.”
    Looking down I saw a pretty charcoal gray
face looking up at me. One double paw reached out to stroke the leg
of my jeans as wide yellow eyes took my measure.
    “She’s lovely. I am particularly fond of cats
but my life to date has been too peripatetic to have one.”
    “No better companion or confidante than a
cat, dear. Now, what is it that you are seeking? The tarot?”
    Tread carefully, Liz, I told myself. Don’t
give too much away until you know what this pretty, tiny, pink and
white lady knows. Although, to tell the truth, I had the very real
sense that Emily Sunshine was already reading my innermost
thoughts.
    “Emily, I am writing a book about the artist
Edward Granger. Not a memoir like Mr. Snow’s, but a scholarly book
about the effect of Granger’s art on the art movements of his
time.”
    “Oh dear, why waste your efforts? You must
have other more important things to do with your time.”
    Thrust and parry. The joust had begun.
    I chose to ignore Emily’s belittling of my
fictional excuse for being there. “It would be very helpful to my
research to better understand Edwin Snow since he seems to have
known the artist well.” Sneeze, sneeze, sneeze. Emily handed me a
tissue. I continued. “Sometimes writers like to get readers’
opinions so they ask friends to read the material in progress. I
was just wondering if Edwin Snow might have asked you to read it to
get your take on it.” Naturally, I was basing that on nothing. But,
in for a penny, in for a pound.
    “Oh no, my dear. The nasty man was not a
sharing person.”
    “I see. Well, perhaps you could provide a
little insight into him since you’ve lived in town for so
long.”
    Jasmine yowled and marched away as if either
disgusted or called away to investigate a sudden vermin invasion.
The cloying air choked me.
    “Do sit down, dear. Over here at the table.
We’ll ask.”
    We’ll ask? Who will we ask? I wondered. Then,
I saw it. Something I’d only ever seen in movies. Bad movies. Hokey
movies. A crystal ball. Not exactly modern technology but who was I
to question one’s method of information gathering. Next to the orb
sat a pack of tarot cards with their weird pictures in harsh
colors. Five sneezes in succession. Emily handed me a box of
tissues.
    “Have you lived here all your life,
Emily?”
    “No, I have only been back in town for a few
years. But I almost got born here. My mother left when she was
young. However, before leaving, she conceived me. Therefore, I
believe I have the right to call myself from here. ”
    “Yes, I agree.” Three more sneezes. I ached
for fresh air. “I wonder if Edwin ever shared stories of his
youth…things that would add interest to my book? Do you know if he
deserved the bad feelings of the villagers? Or did he simply
inherit his father’s blackened name and reputation by
association?”
    “I’ll let you decide, dear. One time, he let
something interesting drop. When he