Mountain Ice (David Dean Mysteries)

Dean's snuggled slumber drifted to wakefulness sometime in the heart of the wee hours when a metallic sound of ringing returned him to the world of the living. At first he feared it was a telephone until its uninterrupted sound told him otherwise. It woke Cynthia, too. She assumed it was morning in her grogginess until a squinted peek at their clock showed two AM. The sound stopped in a minute or so but a three AM recurrence woke them enough to hold a brief conversation on the source of the nocturnal noise, a conversation repeated at four AM, by which time the couple were fully awake.

"It's upstairs," Cynthia mumbled. "That's all I can tell. But who gets up in the middle of the night?"

Dean thought of Edith Shipton. "Edith said she was leaving in the morning. Maybe she wanted to get an early start."

"At two A M? And again at three, and four?"

"Maybe she keeps changing her mind," he answered. Then he remembered the ringing alarm clock in the luggage of their other guest. "God," he muttered. "I'll bet it's a collect call for Gladys Turnbull from the planet Draghow!" Further speculation ended as they both drifted back to sleep.

After dawn arrived at last and the couple were showered and dressed, they speculated further on the late night sounds as Cynthia filled Bird Song's breakfast table with fresh baked goodies. A quiet investigation revealed all upstairs doors closed and the sound of snoring from the Dame Turnbull's room. Edith Shipton's rental car, blanketed in six inches of fresh snow, remained out front.

Cynthia buttered her toast while Dean dribbled orange blossom honey on three leftover rolls from last night's supper. "If that was Gladys Turnbull's alarm clock, I hope she gets it fixed. Her room is right next to Fred's. If she's kept him up all night, he'll be more of a morning bear than usual."

"My guess is she sets the damn alarm multiple times every night."

"Why would she do that?"

"To interrupt her dreams."

"Why?" Then Cynthia answered her own question before biting into her toast. "So she can write about what she's dreaming?"

Fred The Bear joined them, later than usual, and confirmed their speculation. The old man was as nattily attired in his customary fashion, but his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. "She was up half the night," he muttered. "The alarm clock wasn't enough. Then she shuffled around with the computer, giggled, sighed, snorted, yawned and went back to sleep. Then, as soon as it was quite a while, she'd start the whole business over again! I don't know how I got a wink of sleep. And now she's snoring like a bum after a three day drunk." He poured a heaping bowl of Cheerios. "And I need to be top-alert today, with all the research stuff I have to do before them Boston ladies get here."