Mulled to Death, page 14
Then I think of who is here that I might have offended. Hudson Gray and Paisley Moore. I’d prodded both earlier, thrown accusations at them, Hudson about his abysmal driving and the fight I’d overheard, and Paisley about how I saw her on the gondola yesterday morning.
I tell Jenny as much.
She jots a few notes down. “I recommend you lie low.”
As if I haven’t been doing that, or at least trying to.
I lick my lips, chapped from the dry air, made even dryer by smoke. “Do you still think the Jacuzzi incident was a coincidence?”
“I’m reevaluating in light of recent events.”
So, someone has it in for me. Fire and ice; what I once thought a cute party theme is now the drama by which I’m living my life.
I glance outside at the snowflakes, which have grown fatter and more condensed since I last looked, blanketing the ground in a fresh layer of snow.
“Could it be related to Annmarie?”
“Possibly,” she says, although it’s as clear as a crystal flute she absolutely thinks it is.
“Did you ever find where the discolored pine needles came from?” I ask, not expecting an answer.
“As a matter of fact, we did.” A fervor that I hope means she has a solid lead enters her eyes. “A large tree branch with reddish-brown needles was discovered approximately fifty feet from the scene of the crime, with a single strand of blond hair attached. We won’t have confirmation until the DNA analysis comes back, but I’m willing to wager that was what actually killed Annmarie.”
“Not the tree.”
“No, the forensic botanist said there was no sign of impact, no damage to the bark, nada.”
I blink slowly, absorbing the fact that forensic botanists are indeed a thing along with new pieces to the puzzle. “The markings in the snow weren’t just to disguise footprints, were they?”
She shakes her head, watching me steadily as I draw my own conclusions.
My pulse ticks up and goose bumps form on my arms. “They were also to camouflage repositioning her body.”
“That’s my guess.”
“All we have are guesses, huh?” I prod.
Admittedly, uncertainty isn’t my forte. The ambiguity in winemaking is alleviated by science—by testing the Brix (the amount of residual sugar in the fruit), titratable acidity, and pH of the grapes every step of the way. The same is usually true in a murder investigation. Usually being the operative word.
“Between us, I don’t expect to get much more than that. Yours is the only witness statement, and everyone wears gloves and enough layers on the mountain that I doubt we’ll find any DNA apart from Annmarie’s at the crime scene.” She scowls, this fact clearly grating on her. “There’s one thing I know: You got very lucky. Fires up here are no joke.”
“They’re no joke in Boulder, either.”
Colorado is notoriously plagued by fires. In the height of summer, temperatures soar, humidity drops, and rainfall becomes a thing of the past. You get used to seeing smoke on the horizon or rolling down the mountains, an orange tinge to the gray. When everything is that dry, a stray ember—a strike of lightning, a campfire, a firework—can catch and destroy thousands of acres in mere days. And while February isn’t typically considered wildfire season, flames can be just as detrimental.
“This isn’t the city,” Jenny says, folding her hands on the table in front of her. “You’re in the wilderness. There are different rules.”
My mouth goes tannin dry. “What exactly are you saying?”
Jenny gets to her feet and paces across the conference room, pausing at the window, arms crossed over her chest. When she speaks, her voice is hollow, haunted.
* * *
* * *
With her eyes fixed on the falling snow outside, hypnotized, she starts, “There was a deadly fire at H Basin a couple years ago.”
H Basin is a neighboring ski resort, the only other one located off the frontage road we took from I-70. I don’t recall hearing about a fire there, but it’s far enough from Boulder it wouldn’t necessarily make the news.
I listen, transfixed, as she continues, “There were plans to expand, add new runs and a chairlift that would’ve been located right by a luxury development going in. A private entry point for the upper class.”
I raise my eyebrows. My, doesn’t that sound nice? And wholly unnecessary.
“Not everyone was happy about it. Most around here agreed it’d be better to build something that would benefit the local community, not just tourists who visit for a week at a time.”
Real estate in the mountains is like Dom Pérignon—highly sought after and extremely pricey. I was astounded when Reid told me what it cost to live up here for a season. I’d thought renting in Boulder was expensive, but it’s not even in the same orbit as a place like Silver Creek.
“Makes sense folks would be upset,” I say.
“Yeah, but not enough to do more than whine and pass around a petition. Until the Coalition to Save Earth got involved.” Jenny pauses and swallows. “They were a radical environmentalist group who saw themselves as crusaders, set the whole place ablaze.”
Debates over land—whether to preserve or exploit its natural beauty—can get intense, especially when money is at stake. I peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “What happened?”
“An entire wing of the main resort lodge was destroyed and a couple was killed due to the group’s recklessness.” She dips her chin in respect but then cocks her head to the side. “The expansion went forward as planned, just slightly delayed.”
“And the environmentalists?”
“They were apprehended and charged, their group disbanded.” She turns toward me, a pained smile on her face. “Well, all but one of them.”
I give her a pleading look, too tired for mind games. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Might be the wilderness, or that we’re on our own up here, but the mountains have a way of making a bad situation worse.”
Understanding your environment is part of knowing your adversary, essential in business and in life. “Do I have to stay in town?”
“No. In fact, if I were you, I’d get the hell out of Dodge, and step on it. There’s already a storm warning in effect and I-70 will close soon, all the way to the Eisenhower Tunnel, and the back roads will be almost impossible to navigate.”
I condense what she’s saying into a harsh statement: “We’ll be stuck here.”
“Hey, I’m a sheriff, not a meteorologist.” Jenny gestures to the flakes falling, a knowing look on her face. “But yeah, unless you hightail it outta here.”
Chapter Twelve
If our old hotel room was posh, our new one is the pinnacle of extravagance. Someone on the resort staff must have taken pity on me and upgraded our accommodations to a suite. In addition to a private balcony, fireplace, and luxurious four-poster bed, we also have a sitting area and a small kitchenette. None of it is enough to entice me to stay.
By some miracle, our luggage survived the fire. The same can’t be said for my skis, the melted fiberglass looking more like giant misshapen corkscrews than sporting equipment. It’s okay, though; I wasn’t planning on skiing more this weekend, anyway.
I plop my suitcase on the end of the bed and, a testament to my distraught state, I think I hear the mattress let out a meow.
You’re losing it, Parker.
I press down on my suitcase again and detect another, more distinct meow. Giving in to my better judgment, I kneel down and lift the bedskirt. Two pale-gold orbs stare out at me.
I fall backward, crab-walking until I bump into the entertainment center, my heart racing.
And then I feel ridiculous. Because Madeline traipses out as if this were her room and I were the intruder. Her bell collar jingles merrily as she stretches her back languidly, front paws extended, tail high in the air.
“Did you sneak in here for a nap?” I ask her. “Because you have a perfectly good bed downstairs.”
She gazes at me adoringly, a purr radiating from her chest.
“Okay, you can stay,” I say. Seeming to comprehend my meaning, she leaps onto the bed and begins what’s sure to be a lengthy process of making herself comfortable. “I won’t be here much longer, and then you can have the room all to yourself again.”
And I’m talking to a cat when I should be packing. Great. I shake my head and refocus on my task.
I’m a tornado of action, pulling on fresh skinny jeans, a tank, and cropped cable-knit sweater—clothes that don’t have the stink of smoke stuck to them. Überplanner that I am, I packed extra clothes for this trip, not really knowing what to expect in terms of dress. I’m grateful for my preparedness now, if not for the reason.
It’s funny how, whenever I try to rush, even the simplest of tasks can take twice as long as it should. Like tying my hair into a ponytail.
Reid finds me in a state of frustration and panic, my hair tie getting the better of me. He drops his snowboard by the door and hurries to my side. He scoops me into his arms, pushing stray locks out of my face and raining kisses down on my cheeks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really.”
He scans me, his eyes full of worry and disbelief.
To prove my point, I give him a deep kiss, something I feared I’d never be able to do again when I was huddled in the bathroom. I savor the feeling of his lips pressed against mine, our mouths opening against each other in ecstasy. I only pull away when I need air.
We drink each other in, our foreheads resting against each other, our fingers tangled together. His scent envelops me in calm, washing away the last lingering traces of smoke.
“I came as fast as I could when I got your texts,” he explains. “Reception on the mountain is shit. If I could’ve come sooner—”
I shush him, holding a finger to his lips. “You’re here now, which is all that counts. Because we have to go.”
“Where?”
“Home. Boulder.”
Reid clenches his stubbled jaw and nods, casting a glance at the walls as if they might be watching us. His attention snags on Madeline, who’s perched at the end of the bed in what I affectionately refer to as bread-loaf pose. With her paws tucked underneath her, she could pass for a boule.
His eyebrows furrow in confusion, but he ultimately doesn’t question my insistence that we flee while we can, nor the feline’s presence. Maybe there was a resort cat when he worked here, too.
“You’re right,” Reid finally says. “It’s not safe here.”
He peels off his jacket and the fleece underneath, a sliver of his abs visible as his T-shirt is tugged up. Despite our urgency, I take a second to appreciate that inch of skin and the smooth muscles beneath.
A knock at the door interrupts my blatant ogling. Of course, it’s my brother and best friend. They’ve shed most of their bulky gear but are still in their snow pants.
“Would you please stop getting yourself into life-threatening situations?” Liam asks. “It’s really cutting into our vacay.” Beneath his carefree facade, annoyance flickers in his eyes. No doubt he blames me for the fire, for not heeding his warning.
Tension simmers between us, unspoken yet palpable, at least to the Valentine siblings. The thing about tiffs between Liam and me: they have to run their course. And any progress made in the last twenty-four hours has been wiped away.
“I’ll do my best.” I punch him mildly in the upper arm, equally aggravated. “I’m fine, by the way.”
“Glad to hear it,” Liam says. His shoulders slacken and he throws me the faintest head nod, a movement that signifies a momentary truce, his relief at my safety trumping our disagreement.
Sage gives me a tight squeeze. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you guys on the drive. For now, get packed. We need to vamoose before the road closes.”
Sage gets an unreadable expression on her face, one I haven’t seen since she admitted she wasn’t sure she could get Reid out of jail following his arrest. She’d been right then; it’d taken my finding the real culprit to free him. I hate to think about what she’s afraid to tell me now.
As the silence drags on, my anticipation builds until it becomes painful. That’s when I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
“Spit it out,” Reid says, not harshly but as someone who doesn’t shy away from hardship. Which is good since he’s dating me and I apparently attract trouble.
“We’re too late,” Liam answers. He doesn’t frown often but when he does, he looks like my dad, scholarly lines forming around his jaw and eyes. “We heard the lady at the front desk talking to guests when we came in. The storm shut everything down outside of Silver Creek Village.”
I push my bangs off my forehead and maneuver around the bed, pressing my palms flat against the window. The snowflakes are large and falling fast, and so dense I can’t even see the ice-skating rink below. Sure enough, the storm has morphed into a full-fledged blizzard, just like I suspected it would, back when it would make for a pleasant afternoon instead of a death trap.
An icy sweat breaks out all over my body and my throat constricts as the terrifying realization settles in: we’re trapped.
* * *
* * *
We all have different reactions to this news.
Mine is to stare numbly out the window, calculating the odds that whoever is trying to hurt me will be deterred by this snow, too.
Reid’s is to console me. He wraps his arms around me from behind, whispering into my ear, “Some Valentine’s, huh?”
And now, if possible, I feel even worse. My afternoon plans come back to me—how I was going to slip out and go shopping for my boyfriend extraordinaire.
“It’s not Valentine’s Day yet,” I counter. “Technically it’s not until tomorrow.”
Which means perhaps there’s still a way I can salvage this holiday.
Aunt Laura wouldn’t have been deterred by a few snowflakes. In fact, one of her most memorable soirees was during a heavy snowstorm. For those who managed to wade through the three feet of accumulation to her place, they were met with open arms and plenty of open bottles of wine. There hadn’t been many of us that year, but those who attended were full of warmth, laughter, and love, which could be why it remains one of my favorites.
Although, to be fair, Aunt Laura never had a homicidal maniac to contend with while planning her festivities.
Sage’s reaction is to research alternate routes home, forgotten backroads or even trains that might be able to pass through the Rockies. When that fails, she scours the internet for other, safer lodgings, although we all know none exist. Between the day-trippers and flood of fans who came to mourn Annmarie, there are more people than accommodations. Everything is booked up.
Liam’s response is to think of his stomach. “Let’s order room service.” At our scoffs, he continues defensively, “Come on, it’s lunchtime and we’re all approaching hangry territory.”
Reid drops his arms from around me and I immediately miss his warmth. “Liam’s right. Food might help us think clearer.”
“Exactly,” Liam says. He sinks into the couch and opens a leather-bound binder containing the menu, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
In the time it takes for our food to arrive, I catch up my friends on everything Sheriff Jenny divulged. Under Liam’s scrutiny, our cease-fire tenuous at best, I downplay my role in the investigation, focusing on arson instead of the suspects I may have provoked. I pet Madeline while I speak, grounding myself in the silkiness of her fur, the gentle vibrating of her purr. She seems happy in our room and, to be honest, I find her presence soothing, a reminder of Zin.
A hotel employee knocks on the door and wheels in a table loaded with covered plates and utensils. Madeline follows him as he leaves, no doubt hoping to be rewarded with scraps of food.
We settle around the small coffee table in our sitting room with our feast before us. In the center of the table are platters to share: kale chips coated in Parmesan and hand-cut garlic fries, which I suspect were on the house, thanks to Reid having placed our order.
As for the entrées, there’s an impressive assortment. Three-bean chili for Sage, topped with cheddar cheese and avocado relish. Short rib tacos for Liam with shaved brussels sprouts and crispy fried onions. Chopped salad for Reid, chock-full of enough goodies to keep things interesting. And a bowl of comforting chicken soup for me, elevated with hearty root vegetables, fresh parsley, and buttery thyme dumplings that melt in my mouth.
With each spoonful of savory broth, tension leaves my body, and soon, the whirlwind in my mind calms to a dull buzz. Of course, that could also be thanks to the glass of pinot noir Reid poured for me, insisting I drink it, like smelling salts to a distressed damsel.
Damsel I am most certainly not. Distressed? Definitely.
“It’ll be okay,” Reid says. “We’ll stick together and this will be over in no time.”
“You sound like a sitcom,” Liam says around a mouthful of taco.
“Doesn’t make it less true,” Reid says. “We just need to make sure someone is always with Parker.”
I set my spoon down and dab at my mouth with a napkin. “Like I’m a child or something?”
“I call first shift,” Sage says, throwing her hand in the air. At my pointed look she adds, “What? I want to hang out with my friend, preferably on ice skates.”
Reid spears a bunch of frisée and smoked bacon with his fork. “Do you really think ice-skating is safe?”
“It’s in a public place and we’ll bundle up,” Sage answers. “No one will recognize us with our scarves and hats. Besides, if they do, I dare them to take me on. No one messes with my girl and gets away with it.”
Sage has a fierce streak, usually reserved for people who call her cute or go up against her in the courtroom. Her eyes sparkle with tenacity, a challenge to test her. She is not one to be underestimated.
