Mountain Ice (David Dean Mysteries)

"I like a mystery without dead bodies. Besides, now that you're a retired detective, Fred and I have to carry the ball."

Dean poured himself a cup of coffee. "Edith was down here earlier," he said, a smug look on his face.

"How do you know that?"

"I set up fresh a pot of coffee on the timer last night. It's down a cup or so, and you haven't poured any for yourself yet. No cup next to your place. See? I can still detect."

"It might have been Fred. Or one of the others. Don't forget Ryland was down here."

"Nope." He smiled at her with continued smugness. "The handle's turned to the left. That's the way a left-handed person pours and Edith is the only lefty at Bird Song."

"Think you're pretty smart, don't you?"

"Once an ace detective, always an ace detective. Six months without a mystery and I'm still in top form. Otherwise, they boot me out of the fraternity."

Cynthia busied herself with the notebook once again. "It kills me to admit it, but I think you might have something," she said. "The space business doesn't seem to work but she might have used a character for a period."

Footsteps on the stairs were the Deans' signal to prepare for breakfast. Cynthia reluctantly put the notebook aside and the couple began to carry the fresh baked goods and other breakfast items to the dining room. Fred O'Conner, dressed for the slopes, gave a grumpy wave. Dean was about to ask him if his nineteen-fifties sweater came from the same garage sale as the skis but he proceeded directly to the parlor. Effie Quincy, close behind, burst forth with an animated editorial on the splendors of, Bird Song, Ouray, the sunny weather and life in general.

"I can hardly wait to start our research on Aunt Annie!" she exclaimed as she sat at the table. "I'm so excited!"

While Cynthia began serving breakfast, Edith Shipton emerged, looking as if she'd had little sleep. She said nothing, barely nodding in response to the various greetings. Fred O'Connor joined the others, looking distressed.

"What's the problem?" Dean asked. "Are you worried about the slopes?"

"It's the picture from the museum. I can't find it. It was on the parlor table last night."

Effie looked up. "Perhaps my sister borrowed it. To examine it more closely."

"I'm obliged to return the picture so I shouldn't have let it out of my hands," he muttered as he reached for a pitcher of orange juice. "I'd appreciate your asking her." Just then, Claire Quincy descended the stairs on cue. Effie immediately asked her about the missing portrait of the reverend and his wife.