Hot Toddy in Montana
“I need a drink and preferably a hot one. Can you recommend somewhere close by? I’m staying here at the Inn. Name’s Cecil T. Wulfe.”
“Certainly Mr. Wulfe. My favorite and I’m a local, is the White Fang located right around the corner. It’s easy to miss because it’s on a side street but you’ll see the chimney spewing smoke from the fire inside and the door is red.”
I drove east after visiting friends in Washington State. I stayed a couple of days and left when my allergies to their cat became unbearable. Skiing wasn’t my thing but I came to Whitefish Montana because the vistas were breathtaking. The snowcapped mountains, azure skies and the most interesting people. It was a unique person that chose to live in the frozen tundra.
The red door and the chimney spewing smoke were just as described. There was no sign indicating it was the White Fang but the description was enough. A spot at the bar made of roughhewn timber was calling my name.
“Something warm for ya? I’ll bet you’re staying at the Inn around the corner cuz you don’t look familiar. They’re always sending folks this way.”
“A warm drink is just what I need. I’ll have whatever the gentleman at the corner table is having.”
“I’ll be back with a hot toddy for ya. You’ll sleep well tonight, ah – what’s the name sir?”
“Cecil T. Wulfe and you are?”
“Jack Parsons. I own this establishment. Bought it when the previous owner died after he had it for 50 years. They think he was killed but they never found the body. I got the place cheap at auction.”
Jack walked behind the bar, which seemed to specialize in whisky as there were over a dozen brands. I didn’t call any particular brand so he looked back at me and sized me up; figuring how much I would spend. He reached for a bottle of bourbon from the middle of the shelf. He poured about a shot and a half of the brown liquid into a clear glass mug with a handle. The glass had been sitting upon the espresso maker so it was warm. Jack picked out a fat lemon from a hanging basket and squeezed half over the bourbon after he sliced it with a single whack. He had a small carafe of simple syrup and poured in about an ounce. A decanter nearby held steaming hot water, which he poured over the mixture. Jack garnished the brew with a cinnamon stick, sprinkling of whole cloves and a lemon wedge.
Jack placed the steaming drink down. The bartender looked as if he was lonely, which was probably the case when it was 17* below zero. Even for Whitefish, it was cold and unbearable.
“The man at the corner is keeping a secret, Jack.” I looked in his grey eyes and I could tell he wanted to hear more of my story. “He knew the old man who owned this place. He killed him and he comes here as a sort of penance for what he did.” I placed my hands around the glass mug for warmth.
“How can you tell by just looking at him and knowing what he drinks.”
“You mentioned a hot toddy in the evening will help one have a good night’s sleep. Our friend over there needs one after what he’s done. I’m guessing he’s about mid-70’s and he grew up with the former owner of this establishment. They had a falling out as good friends do and things escalated. Perhaps there was drink involved and they had a passionate battle over a woman or money. I’m sure it was one or the other and a man ended up dead because of it.”
“Do you think there’s evidence of the crime?” Jack asked as he leaned over to stoke the fire.
“Does he always have that tattered valise by his side?”
“He does.”
“He keeps directions to the location of the body and details of the crime. It was a bloody mess and he doesn’t want the corpse to be found until after his death. The papers may publish photographs of something he doesn’t want to see again. It’s easy to hide a body in this cold climate and if one travels north it only gets colder. A body would freeze over and remain there for centuries within a tomb of ice. Global warming has him a bit nervous and I bet he’s been asking about the weather more lately.”
“That’s quite the macabre tale you’ve got there Wulfe.”
“I knew when I set foot in this town, that this was place where secrets could be well kept. People walking around in ski masks and overcoats that conceal who they really are. Our friend drinks his toddy with his left hand but his movements are unnatural and shaky. He was born a righty but injured the hand tussling with the dead man. He probably has a bad scar, one that would arouse suspicion of a clever detective. He didn’t go to the emergency room to get it sewn up because what was he going to say I cut up my hand while murdering my friend. Jack?”
“Yes Cecil.”
“I’ll have another toddy and make one for my friend at the table as well.”
“Coming up.” Jack retreated to the bar unsure of what I had just told him. He might have taken me for a crackpot but I was always right about these things. The bartender placed the unexpected drink in front of the man with the briefcase. After he was told, the steaming beverage was from me he simply nodded and stared at me with his grey eyes. A shiver went down my spine and I knew that he suspected I knew the truth. The look in his eyes told me that the man had suffered enough. He replayed the murder in his head each time he entered the White Fang. It was enough I thought, enough.
