Mulled to Death, page 15
I cock my head to the side, taking a sip of wine, subtle flavors of vanilla and berries dancing on my tongue. I’m not sure if it’s thanks to my adrenaline calming down or the dose of liquid courage, but getting out of the hotel sounds appealing. “Sage does have a point.”
“Guess we’re on our own,” Reid says to Liam. “Think there are any instruments in the rec room?”
Reid is the drummer for an alt-rock band called Spatula, which is how he and Liam first became friends. Liam subbed for their bassist for a show one weekend and the rest, as they say, is history.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Liam says, shoving the last bite of his taco into his mouth, licking each of his fingers in turn. “I’d also be down for a game of eight ball.”
A cocky smirk appears on Reid’s face. “If you want me to take your money, just say so.”
“You forget, I’ve seen you play pool,” Liam says. “So keep your money and, more aptly, I’ll hold on to mine.” His phone rings, a jovial whistling tune. He checks the screen before silencing it and tucking it back in his pocket.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” I ask.
“If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “But it could be a client.”
Since ringing in the New Year, Liam has been trying to get his fledgling freelance photography business off the ground, offering professional headshots, family portraits, and documenting special occasions. While I know the repetition of these jobs grates on him, he’s proven to have a knack for making people feel at ease—getting them to loosen up in front of the camera. But that doesn’t matter if he doesn’t answer his freaking phone.
“Then I’ll call them back Monday morning,” Liam answers, wagging a fry at me before popping it into his mouth.
My eyes widen at all the things I want to say. I finally choose, “Take it from me, timeliness is huge for new businesses. If you don’t respond soon, they’ll just call another photographer. No skin off their back.”
“Trust me, sis, I’ve got it covered.” He rubs a hand over his messy raven hair, shifting under my scrutiny. “Don’t you have enough to worry about?”
Message received. Truce over.
I drain the last of my wine and get to my feet. “You’re right, I do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Sage and I have a date.”
* * *
* * *
The storm may have wreaked havoc on travel plans, but it worked wonders on the village. Silver Creek is a winter wonderland with snow glittering on the sidewalk, blanketing pine trees, and landing on eyelashes.
With nowhere else to go, people have taken to the outdoors. The restaurants and shops along the cobblestone street, the mountain to take advantage of the fresh powder, or the ice-skating rink for more laid-back fun.
A feathered dusting of snow gathers on Sage and me if we’re stationary too long. Bundled in thick jackets, gloves, hats, and with scarves wound around our necks and mouths, you’d be hard-pressed to tell us apart. Which is a huge gamble on Sage’s part, and not one I’m likely to forget.
We traverse the frozen lake, gliding back and forth in our rented skates, losing ourselves in the anonymity of the crowd. The snow swirls around us, blowing across the ice in mesmerizing looping patterns. The rhythm and movements come back to me easier than they did for skiing, meaning I’m not the clumsiest one out here. That title is reserved for my friend, whom I eventually take pity on. I link my arm through hers and help her stay balanced.
“All right, spill the tea,” Sage says. “How are you really doing?”
“Not great.” I let out a long exhale, the back of my throat still singed from smoke. I know she’s asking about my general well-being after the fire, but something else is bothering me. “How do you balance everything?”
“Everything, meaning . . . ?”
“Work, life, relationships, being a total badass.”
“Well, the badass part comes naturally, obviously.” She wobbles on her skates and digs her fingers into my arm. “The other stuff, I’m still figuring out.”
My fight with Liam comes back to me, his words a wound that won’t quite heal. About my being distracted and needlessly sticking my nose in other people’s business, the closure he’d (accurately) guessed I craved. Leave it to family to know just what buttons to push. It doesn’t help that Eli said something similar. “Do I seek out trouble?”
We bypass a mom pulling a young child on a sled, the woman skilled enough on skates to make the feat look easy, while Sage mulls over her answer like wine over spices. “You certainly get involved in a lot of investigations for a vintner.”
I cast my gaze up to the cloudy sky. “What if there’s something wrong with me? Like, why can’t I just relax and leave detecting to the, well, detectives?”
She stops, or rather, slows to an ungraceful stop with both arms waving in the air. I spin around, scraping the edges of the blades outward against the ice in a snowplow stop before her.
“Listen up, missy, there’s nothing wrong with you.” Her blue eyes bore into me with a laser focus. “Trust me, on behalf of my many, many clients, I wish there were more people willing to step up and help their fellow humans.”
Sage is too professional and idealistic to say so, but from what I’ve gleaned, the honeymoon phase of her new job as a public defender has come to a close. She has too many cases, not enough time, and is facing a system predisposed to punishing the disenfranchised. But she’s learning and finding her way, and I have no doubt she’ll do whatever she can to whip her office into shape.
“At least they have you.” I link my arm through hers again and pat it as we continue skating.
“If only that were enough.” She shakes her head, snowflakes tumbling free of her strawberry-blond curls. “But we’re talking about you and your perpetual awesomeness.”
“I don’t feel awesome. Reid did something so sweet for me for Valentine’s Day and you know what I got him?”
“Out of jail a few months ago?” she asks sarcastically. “Cuz I think that gives you a free pass on gifts.”
And this is one of the many reasons I love my friend: perspective. For the first time this weekend, I don’t feel like the worst girlfriend in history. Still, I’m determined to come up with something to do for Reid.
“Maybe, but I still feel terrible.” I chew on my lower lip. “This holiday . . . it’s not easy for me.”
Sage went to a couple of Laura’s celebrations with me, saw the extent to which my beloved aunt treated the women in her life to candies, empowering words of affirmation, and, above all else, love. Sage’s own mother is a train wreck, only calling her daughter when she needs money or to feel better about herself. I remember the look of awe on Sage’s face when she saw what matriarchal role models could be.
“I wondered,” she says, cutting a worried glance at me. “Does Reid know about your aunt and Valentine’s Day?”
“How am I supposed to dump all my sadness on him when he’s being all romantic? I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer.”
“First, why can’t those sayings use men’s names—Dougy Downer or Negative Neil?” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Second, and I say this as someone who cares about you, Reid would appreciate hearing how you feel. I know you, and I know you have this tendency to keep things bottled up. But he wouldn’t view it as anything besides another part of you he’s damn lucky to get to see.”
I let the truth and wisdom of her words sink in, feeling feverish at the prospect. “You may be right.”
“Oh, I’m definitely right.” She continues, “Besides, there’s too much pressure on Valentine’s Day. What matters is all the days that come after.”
“So, things are going well with you and Liam, then?”
“For the most part. I’m with you on him needing to take his freelancing more seriously, especially since even I’ve had to work a little this weekend. At the same time, I respect his work-life boundaries.” She lowers her voice, a look of sheer horror entering her eyes. “Although, last night he said Matt Smith was the best Doctor.”
“Blasphemy!” I exclaim, and then chuckle. “I have no idea who that is.”
“All you need to know is that the best Doctor in Doctor Who is David Tennant.”
“Got it.” We skirt around a talented skater gracefully twirling on one leg. “I’m glad you have someone to have these extremely nerdy debates with.”
She makes a sound alarmingly like a pfft. Then again, she could simply be blowing misguided scarf tassels from her mouth.
“You know I love your nerdiness. In fact, it saved my life.”
“Good thing it happened when it did because my lightsaber hairpin is MIA,” Sage grumbles. “After everything I went through to rescue it—and you, of course—it’s poof, gone.”
“Where did you see it last?”
“On the dresser in our room, next to my lightning-bolt earrings. I’ve looked everywhere—on the floor, under the bed, in every nook and cranny—and it’s nowhere to be found.”
I frown, steering us along the far bank, covered in steadily inclining pine trees that mark the beginning of the mountain. I recall the lady I overheard chastising Paisley for her missing sapphire necklace, and how Jenny mentioned she’d been called to the resort for the theft of a tennis bracelet. All the missing items along with, well, everything else makes my stomach churn.
“Was your pin valuable?”
“Mostly sentimental, but I suppose it could fetch a decent price tag online. Though why anyone would bother going to the trouble, I don’t know.”
“These things have a way of turning up.”
“Yeah,” she says glumly.
I make a mental note to check the lost and found when we return to the hotel, even though I’m acutely aware that there are plenty of things that don’t turn up. Items and truths that are never uncovered because they’ve been purposely buried, secrets that remain hidden. Unless you go looking.
And just look where looking got me—the target of a murderer and none the wiser.
The Jacuzzi incident was dangerous enough, but the fire . . . that was downright deadly, and reeks of desperation. Had I stumbled onto something in talking with Paisley, Akira, or Hudson, gotten too close to some buried truth?
I flex my calf muscle, turning Sage and myself gently around the edge of the rink.
My gaze lingers on the tree line, and my thoughts wander to the missing arsonist. How did they manage to escape and, moreover, how have they evaded notice in the small interconnected world of mountain towns? Because if they were willing to endanger lives to protect open space, the land obviously meant a great deal to them. So much so that my bet is they didn’t go far. That they’re somewhere nearby, keeping an eye on things.
I shiver, and not from the cold.
Chapter Thirteen
“You know what I need now?” Sage asks, not even waiting a beat before continuing, “Hot chocolate.”
We’re strolling along the salt-covered sidewalk through the village, snow still falling at such a remarkable rate there’s accumulation building up on the cobblestones, despite constant shoveling.
“Now that is a fabulous idea.” I mean, really, when have I ever turned down chocolate?
We make our way to Chloe’s, the cute café responsible for keeping me in caffeine this weekend. The windows are fogged from steam from espresso machines and milk frothers. Earthy aromas of coffee and fresh-baked bread greet us as we walk in.
There’s a decent line leading to the counter with an old-school cash register, where the same bubbly barista dishes out equal helpings of espresso and small talk. I pull my gloves off, studying the handwritten menu pinned to an easel. The featured drinks and dishes are festive: cherry mocha, rose tea, and red-velvet cupcakes.
A display case full of delectable sweets, savory quiches, and an assortment of sandwiches makes my mouth water. An idea comes to me as I admire the chocolate-covered strawberries, drizzled with a glossy-white frosting. It takes shape in my mind, a tiny flake that snowballs, until I have it. What I’m going to do for Reid. If I can pull it off, that is.
After Sage and I order our hot chocolates from the barista, we scope out a table in the snug space. The café is crowded with people taking breaks from skiing, shopping, or ice-skating, watching the snow fall with a cup of something warm, or, evidently, wallowing in self-pity, as seems to be the case with Paisley Moore.
Paisley is at a table cramped in the corner. Her hair is in a limp ponytail and her blazer hangs from the back of her chair. Her collared shirt is as ill fitting and outdated as her pantsuit, blocky and beige. She’s gazing unseeing into space. Her mug is full and her scone only has one tiny nibble taken out of it.
“Follow me,” I tell Sage, and she falls in line behind me as we dodge and weave among tables and chairs. “Hey, Paisley.”
Paisley’s eyes refocus and she blinks. I wonder what she was thinking about that took her so far away.
“Hi.” Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. “I’m on a break, but I’m sure someone else at the resort can help in the interim.”
“It’s nothing like that,” I say. “The tables are all full, mind if we join you?”
Sage prods me in the back, probably trying to point me in the direction of an actual free table, but I hold my ground.
“I guess.” Paisley moves her mug and plate as if they were as weighty and cumbersome as a bushel of grapes.
“Thanks,” I say. We make ourselves comfortable, shedding our coats and scarves. “So, how is everything? Has the dust settled after the announcement about Boone and Silver Creek?”
Paisley reaches for her bag. “The table’s all yours.”
“No, wait,” I say, hurriedly. “Don’t go, please.”
Sage must sense my urgency because she jumps in. “Ignore Parker. She means well, I promise.”
“Thanks for the ringing endorsement,” I respond.
“Anytime, friend.” Sage clinks her mug with mine.
When I turn my attention back to Paisley, she’s loosened her grip on the strap of her purse. She’s frozen in place, glancing between Sage and me with a pained expression on her face.
Before I even realize what’s happening, tears pool in her eyes and her lip quivers. Then Paisley Moore, the morose and seemingly apathetic manager of Silver Creek, completely breaks down.
* * *
* * *
There are different kinds of criers. The delicate criers who make you long to console them, the controlled criers who never allow more than a few tears to escape, and then there are the ugly criers, of which I am most certainly, as is Paisley.
Her face is pinched and red, her nose running, and a sob chokes out of her throat. Her tears humanize her, make her more beautifully flawed. It’s as if her entire being softens and, despite her prior criticisms and lukewarm attitude, I feel a pang of pity for her.
“I’m sorry if something I said upset you.” I pass her a napkin from the holder, leaning across the table. “Can I get you anything? Anyone?”
My questions result in louder sobs. Although, through her blubbering, she manages to shake her head. She dabs at her eyes and nose with the napkin and I can tell the worst has passed.
“You two are clearly good friends,” she eventually says with a sniffle.
“We’ve had our ups and downs,” I say. “Like the time I ate one of Sage’s yogurts during finals week without asking.”
Sage chimes in, “Or that time I dragged you to the theater for a Lord of the Rings marathon without warning.”
“Extended editions,” I add with a wince. “Despite all that, yeah, we’re close.”
I sip my hot chocolate. It’s dark and bitter with a hint of sweetness. The undertones of cinnamon and chili pepper give it depth, and don’t even get me started on the homemade whipped-cream topping.
“Don’t take each other for granted,” Paisley says, letting out a shuddering breath.
“Is that what happened with Akira?” I venture, recalling how Paisley ghosted her friend without any explanation. Maybe there’s more to the story.
Stunned, Paisley slumps back in her chair with such force it squeaks against the floor. “I have a lot of regrets.” With mascara smudged beneath her eyes, she looks exhausted and, from the way her shoulders droop, defeated. “Letting go of my friendship with Akira is one of them.”
“Why did you, then?”
“It all started with a performance review last fall. I asked Annmarie what I needed to do to be promoted.” Her voice takes on an edge like a sharpened knife, and it doesn’t escape my notice that she crumples her napkin into a fist so tight her knuckles turn white. “She told me I needed to toughen up.”
“That sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Sage interjects, her whipped-cream mustache contrasting with the seriousness of her tone.
“I’m paraphrasing,” Paisley says. “But the meaning was clear. I was too quiet, too much of a pushover.”
That’s not how I would describe the Paisley I’ve come to know. She clearly changed, and not necessarily for the better.
She continues, “After that, I quit skiing, quit talking to Akira—or anyone, really—to focus on my career.”
Paisley’s story isn’t uncommon: a girl assumes she has to become someone else to get the job she wants. It’s upsetting, nonetheless. And Annmarie, as a woman in a position of power, should have been more careful with the advice she was doling out.
I’d be jaded if I were in Paisley’s pumps. But is it possible her animosity for her boss went past the point of jaded? Did her obsession with being promoted, her resentment at having to change so much, lead her to take matters into her own hands?
