Mulled to Death, page 19
“I appreciate your concern, and your help. Really.” I shift, fiddling with the knit on the sleeve of my sweater. “How’d your date go?”
“Good, I think,” he says. “We’re going to see each other again tomorrow.”
“Wow, so soon?” My voice takes on a weird encouraging pitch reminiscent of my mother. “That’s a positive sign.”
“Yeah . . .” Eli trails off.
There’s an awkward silence, made even more awkward by the slight uptick to Reid’s lips that tells me he’s amused. I nudge his shoulder. Reid is too confident to feel anything as petty as jealousy over my friendship with Eli. That doesn’t mean he won’t revel in the fact I chose him over the detective last year.
Eli coughs to clear his throat, melting away any lingering discomfort. “You should get back to your weekend.”
I lace my fingers through Reid’s. “Wonderful idea.”
“And try not to worry about this Hudson Gray. He’s a real estate mogul after an easy payout, but he’s harmless.”
“Right,” I say. “Thanks again.”
I lean back, letting my phone fall into my lap. Why is it the more I’m reassured of something, the less inclined I am to believe it?
* * *
* * *
Eli referred to Hudson as a harmless mogul, but here’s the thing about the word mogul: It has different meanings, depending on the context. On one hand, it could mean a powerhouse tycoon, an industry leader. And on the other, obstacles on a ski trail, bumps to be navigated. I wonder which Hudson really is.
Snow blankets sounds, even indoors, as if the entire world has donned a pair of noise-canceling headphones. Reid and I make our way to the third floor, our footsteps muffled. Outside the windows lining the hallway, snowflakes are large and dense and the ground is coated in a thick layer of white. At this rate, we’ll be lucky to get out of here tomorrow.
I’m quite proud of the way I found out Hudson’s room number. I called the front desk and pretended to be his executive assistant with a financial emergency, acting just snooty enough for it to be believable. The concierge lapped up my story, maybe because this happens often with the spotty reception, and doled out his residence: room number 303.
“Is there a way someone could get from Calgary to Clymen on skis, before Lockdown Pass?” I ask, referencing the run Hudson claimed to have been on when Annmarie fell.
Reid rubs his chin, his gaze unfocused as he pictures the map of Silver Creek stored in his mind. “It’d be tricky, and one helluva ride, but sure. Why? You wanna try it tomorrow?”
“Ha. Maybe next time.”
We arrive at room 303. Reid and I stand side by side before the door, hands clasped. “Ready?”
Down the hallway, there’s a housekeeping cart outside one of the rooms, and beside it, batting at an unraveling roll of toilet paper, is Madeline. She pounces, her ears twitching in consternation as her paws come up empty. That only propels her to try again and again, until she manages to upend the roll from the cart. The sheer innocence of the sight makes me smile, giving me the encouragement I need.
I nod in response to Reid and knock on the sturdy wooden door.
There’s a commotion on the other side of the door and it opens, showing a disheveled Hudson. He’s in the same sleek gray half-zip fleece and slacks from earlier, but his hair is in disarray and his eyes are rimmed with red, one still veined from a burst blood vessel.
He juts his pointy chin at us. “You,” he utters as if he’s discovered a bottle of wine has been subjected to taint. “What do you want?”
Reid’s hand tenses in mine and I sense the anger radiating off him, his eyes gleaming with a challenge. He’d love an excuse to deck this guy.
“To continue our conversation from the lobby,” I answer.
“I have nothing more to say to you.” He’s one step from slamming the door in our faces, and honestly, I can’t blame him. Strangers showing up on his doorstep, demanding information, after I’d already insulted him earlier.
Only, we deserve to know if it was Hudson who locked us out on the rooftop in our swimsuits, Hudson who slid a piece of fiery cardboard into our hotel room.
“We know about the permits you had, your plans to develop the land neighboring Silver Creek.”
“What of it?”
“That’s what you were arguing with Annmarie about, isn’t it?” I plant my feet on the ground, willing them to grow deep roots, somehow sensing matching Hudson toe-to-toe on stubbornness is the only way I’m going to get any information. “She didn’t like what you were selling.”
“You’re way out of line.”
“I wonder if the sheriff would think so . . .” I trail off.
His eyes dart from me to Reid, his thumb tapping the doorframe. Possibly trying to decide if I’m for real, which—spoiler alert—I absolutely am.
“Choose your words carefully,” Reid says, his tone dangerously calm.
The housekeeper rescues the rogue roll of toilet paper and pushes her cart past, eyeing our strained stances curiously. Madeline follows close behind, eager for another stray bit of tissue to play with.
Hudson doesn’t pay them any attention, doesn’t see anything beyond us. Instead, he seems to deflate, any pretense of grandiose evaporating. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. If I were him, I’m not sure I’d want to air my dirty laundry where all can see—or, more important, hear—but he starts speaking, wholly unconcerned.
“Annmarie and I had been in talks to build luxe condos on the backside of the mountain, with the option of accessibility to a private chairlift.”
I don’t even want to know what those would go for. Millions, no doubt, for hardly any square footage. This is eerily similar to the expansion plans at H Basin that Sheriff Jenny mentioned to me. The ones that upset the local community and resulted in a fire that killed two people.
Hudson continues, “We were set to pull the trigger. I came here this weekend to get her signature on the final paperwork to execute, but for some reason, Annmarie backed out.”
“Any idea why?”
“Wish I knew,” he said. “I tried to ask her—”
“And to convince her otherwise,” I add pointedly.
“Wouldn’t you?” he challenges. “Everything was lined up, ready to go. Do you know how much time and money I’ve poured into this deal, and Annmarie, on one of her whims, decides at the last minute she wants to protect that precious sliver of the mountain.” Sarcasm and animosity are dripping from his voice.
“Is that why you decided to seek revenge?” I ask.
Hudson’s face flushes a deep red and he clamps his mouth shut, breathing rather loudly through his nose.
I sense rather than see Reid move his foot so it’s positioned in the path of the door, ready to keep Hudson from shutting us out.
“Of course not,” he says, his voice breaking. “I’d almost had her convinced to go through with it again. Leave the tree-saving for someone else.” He grows emotional, his chest heaving and, shockingly, a tear slides down his cheek. “I would never.”
“Why not?” Reid asks. “Make us believe you.”
“I already told you, I was on a different run than Annmarie. I was nowhere near her.”
“That’s not enough,” I say, shaking my head. “Just because you started on Calgary doesn’t mean you couldn’t have gotten to Annmarie at Lockdown Pass.”
Hudson grimaces. He heaves a deep breath and answers, his tone sharp, “I would never because, despite all logic and reason, I loved Annmarie.”
Here’s the thing about love and hate: They’re two sides of the same coin. Both such all-consuming emotions that can twist your thoughts and bend your will, and can turn from one to the other if pressure is applied in the right place. Like breaking an agreement and ending the only contact that remained between them.
* * *
* * *
Hudson turns his back on us, his hand trembling, and disappears into his hotel room.
I have definite misgivings about following a stranger into close quarters with a killer on the loose. But if we want to learn more, apparently it’s a risk we’ll have to take.
I cock an eyebrow at Reid and he sighs and gives a shrug like Why not?
We venture inside. It’s dark, the only light being what’s naturally coming through the window, and so cold it feels as if the thermostat has all but given up.
Hudson’s room is similar to ours, rustic log cabin meets modern luxury, decorated with wildlife photographs and an impressive pair of elk antlers. Although his is missing the view of the mountain, instead overlooking a parking lot and the rooftop of a neighboring building.
There’s an overnight bag on the dresser, ski equipment piled in the corner, and on the nightstand, the wrapper to a Clif Bar. His meager belongings hint at a life as lonely as Annmarie’s, especially given it’s Valentine’s weekend. Although maybe that’s why he chose to visit now. To add a spark of romance to their business proceedings.
Hudson is sitting on the bed, his head in his hands, silver-streaked hair askew.
I lean against the mahogany dresser, blowing warmth into my hands, while Reid hovers near the door.
“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” he says.
“How what was supposed to go?” I ask.
“Anything.”
“Preaching to the choir,” Reid grumbles.
I shoot Reid an apologetic glance, tempted to hug him—to do whatever I can to turn this disaster of a vacation around. God knows, it certainly hasn’t been the getaway we were anticipating.
I refocus on Hudson. “Let me guess, you were going to swoop in and dazzle Annmarie with your brilliant business plan, effectively sweeping her off her feet.” I stop, worried I’ve overstepped. “Am I close?”
He pierces me with his gaze. “That’s the gist, but it oversimplifies our relationship, neglects our history.”
“What happened between you two?”
“Look, I know your impression of me and frankly, I can’t blame you for jumping to the conclusions you did. But you should know Annmarie wasn’t completely innocent, either.” Hudson rubs his neck while we wait for him to continue, his shoulders hunching forward as if he were carrying a physical burden.
There’s something he’s dying to get off his chest. I can feel it, like a champagne cork ready to pop.
“She hurt you,” I state.
He snorts, the sound loosely resembling a sob. “That’s an understatement.” His voice cracks. “She made my adolescence hell. Do you know how hard it is to drum up the courage to tell a girl you love her?”
“I’ve got some idea,” Reid says quietly, a throwback to that hurdle in our relationship, one we’re thankfully past. “It’s harder than steel.”
This comparison understandably seems to perplex Hudson, although I know it to be the material Reid’s prized chef’s knife is made of. “Sure,” Hudson says, continuing, “Well, Annmarie was the first girl I ever told—the first one I felt that way about.”
I suspect Annmarie is the only girl Hudson has ever felt that way about but remain silent, anxious to hear the rest of the story.
“You want to know how she repaid me? By joking about it with the entire girls’ ski squad.”
I furrow my brow in pity. “Ouch.”
“She couldn’t just let me down gently, in private. No, she had to use it as leverage to benefit her image.” He hangs his head again, hands at his temples. “Despite all that, I continued to love her like a dog nipping at her heels. Love her still.”
“No one deserves to be treated like that.” Not even an arrogant, fortune-chasing jerk like you, I want to add.
“Truth is, her ruthlessness was something I always appreciated about Annmarie.” He gets to his feet in one swift motion that puts both Reid and me on edge and strides to the dresser, where a bottle is perched at the far end. He takes a big swallow of who knows what, the plastic camouflaging the contents within. “I tried tapping into her empathy. I told her she owed me for what she put me through as a kid. But if she had any compassion, it was buried too deep.”
That must have been what Hudson meant when he’d hissed You owe me during that first fight I overheard, right before my mulled wine tasting.
Annmarie had seemed suave and unaffected during our meeting. Then I remember the way her eye twitched, hinting at some underlying stress. Perhaps it was a remnant of her interaction with Hudson, a sign she wasn’t as callous as she would have had everyone believe.
“Where do you think her ruthlessness came from?” I ask.
Hudson slouches into an armchair, his profile reflected in the darkening window behind him. “Our old coach was . . .” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Elite. Produced some of the best skiers in the world, but not without restitution.”
“Meaning?” Reid asks. He leans against the wall, legs and arms crossed casually.
Hudson takes another swallow from his mystery bottle and winces, which convinces me it contains something far stronger than Gatorade. “Pat demanded perfection, was impossible to please. You developed thick skin or you would burn out.” He looks at me, and I’m unsettled by his eyes, such an unusual shade of blue they gleam in the darkness.
“I take it Annmarie developed thick skin,” Reid says.
Hudson nods solemnly. “Pat was especially hard on Annmarie. He was very vocal, used to taunt her by calling her Hangmarie for how she would hang on to the mountainside with her pole, failing to make a choice going into a turn.”
“Hangmarie?” I ask, the nickname niggling in my mind.
“It could have broken her, that name constantly thrown at her—roared at her in front of her peers—when she had no one to console her at home. But it only made her stronger.” He shakes his head, his lips twisted in an ironic grin. “No wonder she wouldn’t take any crap from me.”
“Hangmarie,” I mumble again. I tap my lips with my fingers, willing my brain to churn faster, sifting through conversations and observations, even the most seemingly insignificant details.
That’s when it hits me—what’s bothering me about her coach’s malicious nickname. The shout I heard before her accident was similar to Annmarie’s name but wasn’t quite a perfect fit.
It was Hangmarie, I realize with 100 percent certainty. Thrown into the wind right before the treacherous Lockdown Pass.
“Who would know that’s what her coach used to call her?”
“What does it matter?”
I cock my head to the side. “Because unless you can tell us, you’re the most likely suspect.”
Hudson’s skin turns ashen and he answers quickly, “Our coach, old teammates, maybe a very talented journalist.” He pauses, the scent of hard liquor discernible on his breath, even from six feet away. “Annmarie hated being called it, resented it. She wouldn’t have told many people. At least not willingly.”
I push myself off the dresser, clicking my tongue, ready to be out of this dreary, cold room and away from this dreary, gray person.
“Thank you for talking with us,” I say. “And I’m sorry for your loss.” Although, even now, I can’t tell—not really—whether Hudson is more broken up over his financial upset or the loss of Annmarie, the supposed love of his life.
Chapter Seventeen
In vino veritas is Latin for “in wine there is truth.”
Now, there are a couple ways to interpret this. The most straightforward being that those under the influence of alcohol are more likely to be honest, sometimes brutally so. But I like to think there’s a more romantic meaning as well. That when put through the fermentation process, the flavors of grapes are manipulated, exposing hidden nuances that would otherwise be undetectable.
What sort of truth is there in this case? Who am I to believe?
All I have is my intuition. And Reid, of course.
We’re back in our hotel room with the heat cranked, both of us chilled. The snow outside falls relentlessly and the sun dips behind surrounding mountain peaks. Dusk is a tricky time, obscuring what was clear moments before while promising to shroud things further. Village shops glow warmly and the strands of lights twinkle above the cobblestone sidewalks. None of it is enough to cut through the impending darkness.
I throw myself onto our bed, my raven hair splayed behind me and my eyes fixed on the ceiling, not really seeing anything. Hudson’s burn out comment rings in my ears, causing my chest to clench and my stomach to churn. If his intent was to rattle me, it worked.
I chew the inside of my cheek, focusing on what I do know. Certainties bubble to the surface.
Hangmarie. The nickname that haunted Annmarie since her childhood was what eventually killed her. I replay it in my mind, this time from the perspective of Annmarie.
She’d been skiing down the slope, basking in the notoriety of her former glory and masterfully navigating the moguls, nearing the difficult turn. She’d approached Lockdown Pass at breakneck speed, the turn infamous for its sharpness. There was a shout, her old nickname bellowed from the camouflaged thicket of trees. Precisely timed.
She hesitated, flooded with memories, emotions, and, above all, pain. Reminders of the hurt and abuse her childhood coach exacted on her. It would be enough to distract anyone.
The scare tactic worked, distracting Annmarie as she swayed near the trees. For just long enough that the murderer was able to surprise her, hitting her over the head with a hefty branch, hard enough to kill.
Was Annmarie alive when her killer moved her, repositioned her near the tree to make it appear like she had an unfortunate accident? Did her murderer watch her last breath leave her body? And who would—could—do such a thing?
