Mulled to Death, page 16
I grip my mug with both hands. “Why were you acting strange after getting off the gondola yesterday morning?”
Paisley gives a small shrug. “Because I was embarrassed.”
I take another swallow of hot chocolate, waiting for her to continue. Sage seems to understand my tactic—she would, from her experience at trial—and remains mum, her foot twitching beneath the table in time to the music playing over the speakers.
“I was hoping to meet Akira at the summit, okay?” Paisley squirms in her seat. “Even though she never responded to my text. I know. Karma, right?”
“You were trying to repair your friendship?” Sage presses.
“I thought she might appreciate a friend on this particular holiday. Last I checked, she was still hung up on Cash—God knows why—and since I’m the reason they’re not together, I wanted to be there for her.”
My eyes widen in shock. With all the hidden connections, Silver Creek is as much of a small town as Boulder. Who knows what other ties exist that I’m not privy to? “Cash was the guy you warned Akira off?”
“She told you about that?”
“Yeah,” I say, my thoughts a jumbled knot of confusion. Cash seems like a decent guy; he’s cute, funny, a talented chef. “Why don’t you like Cash?”
“It’s not that I don’t like him, necessarily, it’s that he has a track record with women.” She drops her napkin onto her untouched scone, pushing the plate away from her. “Around here, he’s earned a nickname: Breakfast-Lunch-Dinner Guy.”
I glance at Sage. She shakes her head, just as flummoxed as I am. “What does that mean?”
“It’s like this. If he’s interested in a girl, he starts by asking her to breakfast, which, for those not in the know, seems like a fun and quirky way to kick off a relationship. If breakfast goes well, he moves on to a lunch date. Then, if they pass whatever sort of test he seems to have, they go to—”
“Dinner,” I supply.
“Exactly.” She flashes me a wry smile. “And really, that’s all fine—weird, for sure—but whatever. It’s that no matter how far a girl makes it in his strange dating progression, he drops her without so much as a goodbye.”
I decide not to point out the irony of this grating on Paisley. “So you warned Akira?”
“She was new in town, fresh chum for the sharks. I figured I’d want to know.”
I reel through every interaction between Cash and Akira. Their familiarity with each other and charged interactions, Akira’s intense distaste of Cash, and his innocuous banter. There’s clearly still chemistry between them, track record or not.
“The dating world is tough,” Sage says. “Yes, his method is untraditional, and verily offensive, but maybe there’s a reason for his behavior.”
The look Paisley shoots Sage is laced with apprehension and disgust.
I hurry to veer us back on course. “That’s why Akira was so excited to play in his poker game.”
Paisley turns her attention back to me. “I think it was payback but also suspect she still feels something for him.”
It makes sense—the heart has a will of its own, even if your head is screaming at you to run in the opposite direction. I give Akira another silent cheer for winning the pot.
“So, that’s it, then?” I ask.
Paisley tugs at the sleeves of her collared shirt, smudged with a pale-pink shimmery eyeshadow I didn’t even know she was wearing. “I guess.”
I get the feeling there’s more she isn’t telling us. Questions rise in my mind like bubbles in champagne. Why the sudden about-face with her friendship? Was it really concern for Akira on this sensitive holiday, or was Paisley losing patience waiting for the prestigious job she desired, certain she’d be first in line with the boss lady out of the picture? And why meet at the summit? It placed her up there at the time of Annmarie’s fall, which is quite the coincidence.
“What about all the snow that was on your boots? It was practically up to your knees.”
Paisley dips her chin, her cheeks flushing such a deep red they rival the crepe paper Cupids dangling from the ceiling. “I fell in a snowbank.”
“While you were waiting for Akira?” I ask.
“Yes. I looked around for her before giving up and returning to base and accidentally stepped in snow that was too deep.”
I wonder if she’s too deep in anything else.
Sage follows my lead as I get to my feet. “Keep reaching out to Akira,” I say. “She’ll come around.”
Paisley just gives me a twisted smile, calling me out on my lie.
Because here’s the thing about female friendships: They can be some of the most fulfilling relationships in your life, full of wisdom, laughter, and support. And chocolate and wine, naturally. But that trust, once broken, is hard to earn back.
With one hand pressed against the door, I glance over my shoulder at Paisley. She’s retreated back into her private musings, staring unseeing out the window, perhaps wading through memories of a time when she didn’t feel so alone. Or perhaps contemplating her next kill. You know, tomayto, tomahto.
* * *
* * *
Lost-and-found tubs are always full of an odd mishmash of belongings. Discarded shoes, which I have to question how someone failed to notice, single gloves, accidentally dropped and forgotten, and then there are the more cherished items. Jewelry, stuffed animals, books, some so worn you know there’s someone missing it dearly.
We scour every inch of the forest-green plastic tub, but unfortunately for Sage, there’s no lightsaber pin.
Nor is there a tennis bracelet or sapphire pendant. Not that I actually expected to stumble across them, but you never know. Once again, I can’t help but speculate about the timing of the thefts and if they could be related to Annmarie. Was she a target, the owner of some precious gem? Was she wearing any jewelry the morning she died? I shake my head, flummoxed.
“Oh well,” Sage says. “It was worth a shot.”
“It may still turn up.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and steer her through the bustling hotel lobby, hoping a distraction will take her mind off her missing nerd-canon. “Come on, there’s someone else we need to talk to.”
We dodge and weave among groups of people, laughter ricocheting off the walls. It’s only the afternoon and there’s already a charged energy in the air, an unrestrained rowdiness as if anything could happen.
We find Akira at the hotel bar, a taster of red wine before her—something aged and jammy if the legs dripping down the crystal bowl are any indication. With a journal open before her, she alternates between sniffing, swirling, and holding the liquid to the light. She takes a dainty sip, breathing in and gurgling to help aerate the wine, and then finally swallows.
“And the verdict?” I ask.
“Needs to breathe, but it should pair well with the bison tonight.” She makes a note in her journal and closes it. “Care for a glass?”
“Maybe later,” I answer, eyeing the label with undisguised curiosity.
“I heard about the fire,” Akira says, her voice laced with concern. “Are you all right?”
Of course, rumors of my brush with death would circulate the resort like CO2 in fermenting must. I play for nonchalance, waving it off. “It succeeded in warming me up after a cold morning on the slopes.” I shift on my feet, wrapping my arms across my chest. “Does stuff like that happen often around here?”
“Definitely not,” Akira says. “This weekend is cursed.”
“Can’t disagree, there,” I grumble. Seriously, I knew this weekend might be tough for me to swallow, but I never expected murder, theft, and multiple attacks on my person. This is as good a segue as any. “We bumped into Paisley a little bit ago.”
“Oh?” Akira busies herself below the counter, emerging with another bottle of red. This one is a merlot with a simple cream label, the font a classic typeface.
Wine labels are like people. Intriguing artistry may convince a consumer to take a closer gander, but sometimes it’s the basic designs that contain a truly special vintage. In other words, what you see isn’t always what you get.
“She said she reached out to you about meeting at the summit yesterday morning,” I say. “Is that true?”
She fumbles with the opener, accidentally pricking her finger. She sucks in a breath, pressing a rag to where blood pools on her thumb. “She sent me a text, but I never responded, barely even read it.”
“You don’t forgive her?” I ask.
“Would you?”
“Probably not,” I acquiesce, although really, we can’t have too many friends in this world.
“Not based on just a text,” Sage says, removing her hat and teasing her locks of hair. “Ice cream should be involved and, at the very least, groveling.”
Akira comes around the side of the bar, her hand wrapped in the towel. “The thing you have to understand about Paisley is that she doesn’t even know who she is.” Her eyes are locked on mine from behind her octagonal glasses, willing me to understand. “Before she started working here, Paisley was apparently super into art history, then, after she landed a job as Annmarie’s administrative assistant, she took up skiing.” The words pour out, an avalanche that’s been building for ages. “When I met her, a few years after that, she was well on her way to becoming a ski bum. And now look at her, parading around in those ridiculous suits.”
This view of Paisley is alarming, a chameleon who sheds her skin, morphing into different personalities to satisfy her whims.
“It makes it impossible to know what to trust,” Sage says. She gives an ironic smile, the freckles across her nose extra prominent from snowboarding, the ultraviolet amplified by the reflective ice. “I’m familiar with the model.”
Sage doesn’t like discussing her mom, who, in addition to being a sorry excuse for a parent, essentially becomes an extension of everyone she dates. Honestly, I’m surprised Sage shared this much.
Sage’s phone rings, the first few bars of the Star Wars theme song blaring from her pocket. She checks the screen, lines appearing on her brow. “I should take this.” She points at me as she backs away. “I’ll be right over there. Wait for me.”
I give her a salute and then turn back to Akira. “Would Paisley have had any reason to harm Annmarie?”
“Of course.” Akira says this as if it were entirely obvious. “Paisley blamed Annmarie for everything. Not giving her more responsibility—more money.”
Passive. That’s what Annmarie had called Paisley. Which meant the Olympian saw through her act.
“That fire you heard about, it wasn’t an accident.” I shudder, licking my lips. “It was intentional, meant for me. Any idea why I’d suddenly have a target on my back?”
Akira shakes her head, baffled. “You seem nice enough to me.”
I smile gratefully; I’ve been called worse in my day. “Any idea where I might find Micah?”
“The liftie? What do you want with him?”
“To ask a few questions.”
“You could try the kitchen,” she offers. “He sometimes hangs out there begging for scraps of food from Cash when he’s not working or boarding.”
At Cash’s name, there’s the slightest inflection in her voice, just the opening I need. “So, you and Cash, huh?”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Paisley may have mentioned something,” I confess. “About you two, and his reputation.”
“Breakfast-Lunch-Dinner Guy.” She shakes her head, her entire face flushing a deep burgundy. “Can you imagine going out with a guy and then learning that was his nickname? It was mortifying.”
“Did you guys hit it off?”
“Well, sure, but what does it matter? I was just one in a long line of conquests to him.”
I can see why Akira feels that way, but I’m not so convinced. You see, I have a soft spot for guys who aren’t as suave at navigating relationships as they are pickup lines. Heck, I’m dating one. Although, to be fair, Reid’s proven far more apt at that than I have lately.
“What comes after dinner?” I ask, fiddling with my scarf. My grape necklace, the usual subject of my fidgeting, is tucked below too many layers of outerwear for me to reach.
“No one ever told me.”
“Hmm.” Perhaps no one made it that far, or perhaps the gossip mill has been too hard on Cash. Either way, I’ve badgered her enough with questions, and Sage has finished her call.
I flash Akira a wink, “Can’t wait to see what wine you recommend at dinner.”
Chapter Fourteen
The rec room is composed of two pool tables, a glass-enclosed music area complete with complimentary instruments, televisions mounted at each corner tuned to a local sports channel, and tucked along one side, a bouldering wall.
“If I’d known this was here, I would’ve checked it out sooner,” I say, dancing my fingers along the slate-gray wall, routes designated by different-colored grips. Thin mats line the floor beneath, even though there’s never far to fall with bouldering.
I suspect this climbing wall is more for decoration, that the hotel staff didn’t actually expect guests to use it with the plethora of alfresco offerings. That’s not about to stop me.
Sage’s work call turned into a legal emergency—a precedent to research, a subpoena or some such to file—so I met up with Reid and Liam.
They’re finishing a game of pool, which Reid is handily winning. He points at the corner pocket with his cue and then confidently sends the eight ball rolling into it.
Liam lets out what almost sounds like a whimper. “Thank God that’s over. What a bloodbath.” From the number of striped balls left on the table, bloodbath is an accurate description.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Reid says with a nod at the wall.
“You don’t need to tell me twice.” I peel off my coat and boots, placing them carefully on a chair off to the side. I don’t have chalk, climbing shoes, or flexible clothing, but that fits with what this sport is all about—getting from one point to the next with only what you have on your back.
I pull myself onto the royal purple route. My biceps flex and strain, and I have to press down harder with my sock-clad feet to make purchase. Endorphins course through my body at the mental and physical exercise, an internal sigh after the stress of the day.
The next maneuver will require balance and patience, toe first and then fingers, which will barely reach the grip, followed by the rest of my body. Before apprehension can settle in, I go for it. My toe nestles into the foothold no problem, but my fingers slip, barely managing to hang on. I steady myself and prep for the next maneuver.
Reid whistles and claps while Liam taunts, “You call that climbing?”
Even with an audience, I find myself able to escape into something akin to a runner’s high. My body taut like the string of a perfectly tuned guitar, my subconscious meandering where it will, all sense of time suspended.
I think about knots. The figure eights when I go climbing, the cinnamon twists sold at the Laughing Rooster, and the gnarled shoots of grapevines.
When left to their own devices, grapevines will grow tangled along the ground, hindering the yield. However, when they’re clipped and tied, neatly guided vertically, they produce more fruit.
If only I could figure out how to unravel the knots of Silver Creek—make sense of what happened to Annmarie, and why I’m now involved.
Faces flash in my mind: Paisley, Hudson, Akira, Cash, Boone, and a shadowed silhouette of the mysterious Micah.
That’s when I slip.
My right foot dangles and my palms grow sweaty, making it impossible for my fingers to hang on. I fall backward, arms flailing, a shout of warning wrenched from my throat. And I bang smack into Reid, who tried to rush to my aid.
We both go down onto the mat in a mess of limbs. We try to pull ourselves together, but that results in me accidentally elbowing him and Reid nearly toppling me over with his long legs.
We descend into a fit of laughter at our awkwardness and lack of coordination. I’m still chuckling as Liam lends each of us a hand and pulls us to our feet.
“I thought we were trying to keep you safe,” Liam scoffs, a patronizing edge to his voice.
“Right,” I say, barely refraining from rolling my eyes as I dust myself off. “Speaking of, I need your help with something.”
Liam lets out a sigh. “Guess it was too much to hope I’d get out of babysitting you.”
“You should count yourself lucky.” In a show of peak maturity, I stick my tongue out at him. “But seriously, I’d like some shots for my website and the mountains are a great backdrop.” This is a blatant lie, the purpose being to get rid of Reid so I can get to work on my surprise.
“You got it, sis.”
“In that case, I’ll go get cleaned up for our evening,” Reid says. He wraps his arms around my waist and lightly brushes his lips against mine.
The kiss leaves me craving more, which was exactly the point. I lean my forehead against his. “I’ll catch up with you soon.”
* * *
* * *
“Where would you like the shots?” Liam says, his camera bag slung over one shoulder. He follows me out of the elevator and down the hallway.
“Oh, that,” I say with a wave. “Nowhere.”
Liam comes to a full stop. “This better not be about the investigation.”
I spin around, widening my eyes and holding a hand over my chest in mock offense. “It isn’t,” I say. “This is about a surprise for Reid, and your taking photos was a convenient excuse so I can actually pull it off.”
Liam narrows his eyes at me, wary and full of suspicion “Where exactly are we going, then?”
