It was still snowing outside. The town, a former mining center, looked postcard-picturesque under the snowfall. The streets were full of skiers, bar-hopping in noisy groups, but the Red Lantern was a more sedate place. It had chandeliers, a long dark wood bar, plush stools, and candles on the tables. Behind the bar an ornate mirror reflected the chandeliers. The wallpaper was red with black arabesques.
“You like this place?” Joe asked me.
“It’s quiet.”
“Too grand for my taste,” he said.
“Do you feel like walking through the snow some more?”
“No,” he admitted.
We took stools at the bar. Joe ordered a Coors and I asked for a margarita — the setting may have suggested it. The bartender was a slightly built man in black bow tie and white shirtsleeves — and red arm garters. I thought that was overdoing it.
When we ordered a second round, the bartender asked us if we were skiers.
“Isn’t everybody?” Joe said. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard you talking,” the bartender said. “I thought you might be cops.”
“Do you get to see a lot of cops?”
“Not here, but I tended bar in Chicago for twenty years. I got to know cops pretty well.” He wiped the clean bar with a clean cloth. “And I figured, well, what with the murder—”
“You’re right,” I told him. “We are cops. But we came out here to ski.”
“I saw the guy,” the bartender said.
“What?”
“He was in here last night.”
“How do you know it was the guy?”
“A fellow who works at the hospital dropped in earlier this evening. He told me his name was Wingfield — tall, goodlooking, mid-thirties. Well, a guy named Wingfield following that description was drinking here last night.”
“How’d you know his name?”
“He paid the bill with a credit card. But that’s not the main reason; it was the blonde on his arm that made him stick in my mind. She was wearing one of those see-through blouses.”
I could see cop-curiosity in Joe’s face. I was leaning across the bar myself. “Yeah?” Joe asked.
“They weren’t here too long, maybe forty-five minutes. They were both pretty high. It looked like they were making a round of the night spots and they’d been to several before they got here.”
“Chummy?” Joe suggested.
“Couldn’t be much chummier. I thought you guys were out here to ski,” the bartender said.
“What’d she look like?” Joe asked.
“Like everybody’s dream. Long blonde hair, blue eyes, the kind of figure you imagine but don’t often see.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” I joked.
“I’m only forty-five,” he said. “My knee still jumps when you hit it with a hammer.”
“Did you hear any of their conversation?” I asked.
“No. They sat at a table. That table.” He pointed to one in a corner under a red wall lamp. “There was one other thing that made me remember him. When they left, he told me to add five dollars for the tip.”
“Trying to impress the blonde,” I suggested.
“She didn’t seem to need any impressing.”
“If you see her again, I think Chief Hewitt at the station would be interested to hear.”
“I don’t like getting involved.”
“This was a murder,” Joe reminded him.
“You’re right,” the bartender said. “If I see her, I’ll tell the chief.”
After the second drink, Joe wanted to move on. We tried two more bars, but the first was full of young kids and loud music and the second had sawdust on the floor and barrels for stools. It also had piped-in country and western music. But we ordered two beers. While I was paying for them, a girl walked up and gave me the once-over.
“You’re the madman from the mountain.”
“I’m the what?”
“I recognize your jacket.” She gestured to my ski jacket, red with yellow stripes. “I thought you were nuts when you told me about a man being shot.”
I recognized her then. She looked even prettier without her cap and goggles and in her tight black sweater, but still like a ski bunny.
“Hello again,” I said. “Do you want to join us?”
“All right.”
Joe made room between us. He also shot me a very meaningful, if not envious, look.
“What’s your name?”
“Connie Petersen.”
“Bob Timothy. My friend is Joe Scully. What are you drinking?”
“Beer’s fine.”
I ordered it.
“I suppose I should apologize,” she said.
“Under the circumstances it was very understandable,” I said.
“All anyone’s talking about is the murder.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You must feel funny, being the one who found him.”
“I felt pretty funny then,” I admitted.
She crinkled her lovely blue-grey eyes. “I like you. How long are you staying?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed. Then, abruptly, “I’d better be going. My boyfriend’s waiting for me.”
“How come he’s not with you?”
“He’s not my jailer,” she said flippantly.
She grabbed her coat from a peg near the bar. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Could be.”
She went out through the swinging doors and pushed open the glass door beyond.
“You blew it,” Joe said. “I’ll be damned if you didn’t blow it.”
The bartender came up with Connie’s beer. Joe and I shared it, then I suggested we go back to the police station.
Mrs. Wingfield had arrived fifteen minutes before us. She was in the chief’s office. He’d given instructions to send us in if we turned up.
She was handsome and slightly overweight, in her early thirties. She was wearing charcoal grey slacks, a heavy cream-colored sweater, and a suede coat lined with lamb’s wool. She turned to the door as we entered and the chief introduced us. Her eyes were dry and she looked very self-possessed.
“Mrs. Wingfield was just telling me about her husband,” the chief said. He gave me a quick glance that implied it was an earful.
We sat down.
“So he left on Friday morning,” the chief continued, “and arrived here Saturday night. Was he in the habit of taking vacations alone, Mrs. Wingfield?”
“We both have, for many years now.” She had a dry, grating voice.
“You didn’t get along very well?”
“We’d been married for eleven years. The first two were all right.”
“Do you think it’s possible your husband was involved with another woman here?”
“Quite possible.”
“He’d done that sort of thing before?”
“Oh, yes. Claude was a womanizer. He preferred big-chested, blue-eyed blondes. You notice I’m dark.”
“Your husband was seen with a blonde woman last night, Mrs. Wingfield,” I interrupted.
The chief raised his eyes at this. This time his eyes said it wouldn’t have hurt if I’d filled him in first.
Mrs. Wingfield shrugged her shoulders. “It might have been Marilyn Losser.”
“Who’s Marilyn Losser?” the chief asked.
“His most recent flame, as far as I know. Somebody else’s wife. One of my friends was kind enough to tell me about it.”
“All the indications are that your husband came out here alone,” the chief said.
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said.
“Do you know the address of this Marilyn Losser?” I asked.
“No. You could try the Des Moines telephone book.”
“Do you have any children, Mrs. Wingfield?” I asked.
“No. I suppose you’re wondering why I stayed with him. The answer’s very simple. Money. I’m not used to doing without it and I’m not very good at making it myself.”