Mulled to Death, page 6
I lean my head on his shoulder. “Ugh, I hate it when you’re right.”
“I know.” He presses his lips to my forehead.
Shadows linger in the lines of his face, in his eyes, which are usually sparking with mischief. It’s clear he’s as haunted as I am by what befell Annmarie. And yet, he’s the one comforting me—here for me.
“I’ll wait with you,” he continues. “However long it takes.”
The least I can do is be there for him. I take his hand in mine and give it a squeeze. “That’s not necessary. Why don’t you take care of yourself while I talk to the sheriff? We’ll meet up later.”
The relief that washes over his face lets me know I made the right call. “If you’re sure, I’ll go find Cash. Someone should make sure he and the kitchen staff know.”
I give him a peck. “I’m sure.”
Reid’s absence leaves me chilled and hollow. I give in to my emotions, letting myself replay everything—Annmarie expertly maneuvering moguls, her disappearing into the woods, the horror when I realized something was wrong, and my inability to get there fast enough to help. I wallow in the shock and sadness until my mouth fills with bile. Then I turn my focus to the base of the mountain, watching for the paramedics, the sheriff, anyone really, to emerge.
While I’m keeping my vigil, I see two people I recognize.
One is Hudson Gray, whom I haven’t seen since he and Annmarie were locked in their battle of wills at the top of the Clymen. He’s about twenty feet in front of me, still in his skis, although he seems completely unaware of his surroundings or that he’s being observed. He’s staring at the mountain with reverence, and though I only get a look at his profile, I can tell from the glistening around his eyes that tears are streaming down his face.
A realization dawns on me—I didn’t see him anywhere near Annmarie when she was going down her run. He’d been hard pressed to let her out of his sight before that; is there a chance he opted for a different trail back to base? Or was he MIA for a more malevolent reason?
The other person is, surprisingly, Paisley Moore, resort manager and resident sourpuss. She disembarks from the gondola, which has just returned from the summit with a group of people.
Once she’s free of the crowd, Paisley straightens her navy peacoat, buttoned all the way to her neck, and stomps snow from her laced boots. A great deal of snow, actually. Far more than a trip to the summit by gondola warrants. Her mousy hair hangs limp around her face, and there’s something strange in her expression. She casts her gaze about furtively, arms crossed over her chest, almost as if she doesn’t want to be seen.
I frown, shifting slightly on the hard, limestone bench.
Paisley catches me watching and, pretending not to have seen me, pivots on her heels and books it to the lodge.
I hardly have a chance to puzzle over her or Hudson’s behavior. The rumble of a snowmobile reverberates through the air as the sheriff returns to base.
* * *
* * *
I’ve dealt with my fair share of law enforcement officials. In fact, my favorite climbing buddy happens to be a detective with the Boulder PD. And yet a jolt of nerves surges through my body and sucks my mouth dry faster than a tannic cabernet sauvignon.
Sheriff Scott has since parked her snowmobile and is speaking with officers. She directs them to where the paramedics move the rescue sled to the back of a waiting ambulance, a sheet covering Annmarie’s body.
A shiver snakes down my spine, radiating outward to my fingertips. From the cold, shock, and the feeling of eyes boring into me, a disconcerting combination.
I approach the sheriff with a wobbliness rivaling that of a baby deer standing for the first time. Wringing my gloves in my hand, I go with the brilliant conversation starter of clearing my throat. When that doesn’t get her attention, I try actual words, “Um, excuse me, Sheriff Scott.”
Removing aviator sunglasses, she turns to me. “Jenny, please,” she says.
Her light-brown hair is pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, wisps escaping and blowing across her face. With faint lines in her freckled skin and inquisitive hazel eyes, she poses a striking figure. I would call her lovely, but she doesn’t seem like the type to put weight in such things.
“Did you need something?” she prods, radiating an unapologetic assertiveness.
I peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “I was on the run next to Annmarie’s when she had her accident, and I saw and heard something. Just before.”
Jenny shouts over her shoulder. “Sullivan, get the evidence logged. Mark, find out when the postmortem will be.”
The officers hop to and I can’t help but feel a surge of admiration at her leadership savvy. Then I remember that sheriff is an elected position; she must be popular in the community to have been voted in. Especially as a woman in a small mountain town.
She takes a notepad from her jacket pocket and takes down my name and contact information. “Okay, shoot.”
My toes are frozen in my ski boots as I shift, snow crunching beneath them. “There was a shadow in the trees—”
“What kind of shadow?”
“Something large, an animal maybe. It was there one second and gone the next.”
Jenny jots something down, and I see the ghosts of other cases—other deaths—flicker across her features, a tangled web of connections. “And the noise?”
“It was loud, a shout.”
“Was it coming from where you observed the shadow?”
“Hard to say,” I answer. “Sound travels differently on the mountain.”
Her eyes snap to mine, but she doesn’t ask me to elaborate. Truth is, in Colorado, we’re well versed in temperature swings and how it can manipulate the senses. Sounds travel farther through the thin mountain air, clinging to curves and echoing off trees.
“Were you paying especially close attention to Annmarie?”
“Me and everyone else,” I say with a shrug. “It’s not every day you get to see an Olympian perform their sport in person.”
“Ah, another fan,” she says, eyebrows raised. “Yet, no one else reported witnessing a sound or seeing anything in the trees.”
“R-really?” I stutter, sweating beneath all my layers.
Now that I’m off the slope, with my skis tucked away, the veil of time creates a cloud in my mind like bacteria in wine. My confidence wavers. Could it have been a trick of the light? Could I have simply heard another skier or snowboarder? I replay the memory in my mind, goose bumps rising on my arms.
“Really.” Jenny tucks her notepad under one arm, flashing me a side smile. “Which is why I appreciate you bringing this to my attention.”
I sag with relief that she believes me.
Then Jenny continues, “Annmarie’s death was under suspicious circumstances.”
Under suspicious circumstances. That’s code for “murder.” I blink rapidly, taking my hat off to fan my now-overheating face.
Annmarie murdered. It’s as inconceivable as serving wine from a can—far-fetched until it becomes a reality.
I pull my hat back on my head and let out a long exhale, both cheeks puffed out. “Well, you’ll probably find this interesting, then. It wasn’t on the slope, but I overheard an argument between Annmarie and a man, Hudson Gray.”
A gleam enters Jenny’s eyes. Faster than I can pour a taster of vino, she has her pen out again, at the ready. “Any idea what they were arguing about?”
“I didn’t hear much. Just the words profit and development, but he’s over there if you want to ask him.” I gesture toward where Hudson is still standing, staring transfixed at the mountain.
I’m not sure why he’s lingering. No doubt mourning the loss of whatever he’d hoped to gain from Annmarie. Or perhaps he’s wrestling with guilt. He definitely had a motive if he thought she’d unlawfully backed out of a business agreement. Maybe he’d had enough talking and resorted to a more menacing approach.
The gondola draws my attention, depositing another group of tourists at the base. “And then there was the resort manager, Paisley Moore.”
“She was arguing with Annmarie, too?” Jenny’s words are laced with excitement, like she’s unexpectedly struck gold.
Apparently, during my short time at Silver Creek, I’ve compiled quite the dossier on Annmarie.
“Not arguing, per se,” I amend. “But she was acting funny a bit ago. Twitchy. Like she didn’t want anyone to see her.”
“Are you well acquainted with Ms. Moore?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know her behavior was abnormal?”
“I guess I don’t,” I admit, feeling slightly chastised. But Jenny’s shown herself to be a professional, eager to find out who did this, so I try to explain. “It’s just a gut feeling, you know?”
“I put a lot of stock into gut feelings.” She assesses me. “Anything else you noticed?”
“The pattern in the snow. At first I assumed it was the wind, but now I’m not so sure . . .” I think back to the markings, how they’d almost looked natural, curved in a sweeping motion. Almost, if not for the whole murder thing. “And then there were the pine needles around her body.”
“What about the needles?”
“Well, they were reddish brown. The tree she was lying next to was green.”
She tucks her notebook away, appraising me with newfound interest. “If you think of anything else, call the sheriff’s station.”
Jenny returns to her waiting vehicle, rubbing her hands together, whether from cold or excitement, I don’t know.
I tromp toward where my skis are waiting and then on toward the lodge. My feet and fingers might be frozen, but my core burns with hope that maybe there will be justice for Annmarie.
* * *
* * *
My phone rings when I reach the hotel lobby and I have to set all my things down—poles, skis, helmet, hat, gloves—to dig it out of the inside pocket of my coat. The caller ID shows that it’s my mom. I slump into a leather sofa near the central fireplace, startling Madeline, who’s curled up on the adjacent cushion, a smoky ball of fluff. I let her sniff my fingers before scratching behind her ears and she relaxes again, turning on her side and kneading at my snow pants. Maybe she remembers the shrimp I snuck her last night, or maybe she’s used to snuggling up to guests.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, careful to keep my voice light and cheery. My mom is like a master sommelier for my life, able to suss out even the subtlest hints of trouble.
“Just calling between tastings at Vino Valentine,” she says, an excitement in her voice that makes me smile.
It wasn’t long ago that my mom and I were at odds over my choice of profession. But after we both gave an inch, we found common ground: chemistry. My mom is the lead chemist at NIST Laboratories in Boulder and was wowed during the fall harvest by the sheer amount of science involved in winemaking. After that, she volunteered to help in my shop, which worked out well for this little trip.
“How’s it going?”
“Gladys stopped by and she is a hoot!”
I first met Gladys during a last-ditch-effort party to save my business where she intimidated me silly, but since then I’ve learned she’s a marshmallow. A velvet-clad marshmallow who happens to be one of my most enthusiastic supporters.
“How is my favorite customer?” I lean back, reveling in the simplicity of this conversation. I continue stroking Madeline’s silky fur, a low rumble emanating from her throat.
“Feisty. She wanted me to tell you to enjoy your time with your sweetheart and that if she were younger she’d steal him away.”
“That sounds like Gladys.”
I can hear the telltale jingle in the background of a new arrival entering my shop. My mom adds, “I don’t have long but wanted to let you know things are going great here.”
I can just picture it—the oak-barrel tables, wine-bottle lanterns, pillar candles (unscented so as not to interfere with the aromas of the wine), and vases of fresh flowers. My heart squeezes. This will be the longest I’ve been away from my winery since it opened last May and, to be honest, I hardly know who I am without Vino Valentine.
“Thanks for checking in,” I say. “I appreciate all your help. And Dad’s. I hope Zin isn’t giving him too much trouble. Or William, for that matter.”
“Your dad’s enjoying spoiling the little furballs, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be,” she says, meaning every word. “What about your big meeting? Did you get the deal?”
I freeze midpat on Madeline’s head, a lump forming in my throat. For it’s dawning on me that my deal may not go through. There was nothing official, no contracts signed. All I had were Annmarie’s verbal agreement and Akira’s promise to put an order in today. And I know this is the last thing I should be worrying about. A woman died, for chrissake. But it’s an insult added to injury, like cork debris floating in a vinegary glass of wine.
I force myself to swallow and answer, “It went well.” Even I can tell the cheeriness in my voice is forced. Best to get off the phone stat. “I’ll let you go. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Be sure to have some fun.”
“I’ll try.” I hang up before I say something I’ll regret.
Movement off to the side attracts my attention. It’s Paisley, standing at the end of the wooden desk and warily talking with a fellow guest. The lodger is an older woman who looks like she’s here for the shopping more than the skiing, based on her cashmere turtleneck, leggings, fashionable boots, and collection of retail bags at her feet.
Paisley is swimming in her blazer, this one a tweed chartreuse that clashes with her skin tone. Her hair hangs around her face, the layers reminiscent of a nineties sitcom, and there’s a sour expression on her face. Absently, I notice she’s changed out of her boots and into pumps, though clumps of melting snow still cling to her slacks. She’s poised, the twitchiness I observed earlier gone.
The guest speaks to Paisley with a Southern accent that becomes stronger as her voice rises. “I don’t know what to tell you, but it was in my room this morning and now it’s gone.”
“Ma’am, like I said, you can check the lost and found, or, if you wish, file a complaint.”
“I want to speak with your manager.”
No wonder Paisley always looks like she’s just bitten into a lemon. I mean, I’ve certainly had my fair share of persnickety customers, but this is verging on nightmare behavior. Madeline and I look at each other in companionable shock. She twitches her ears as if to communicate, See what I have to put up with all day? We both turn back to the desk.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Paisley answers. The cool way she says this makes me wonder if she knows about Annmarie, and if so, who would have told her.
“I want my necklace back,” the woman says, gesturing wildly with both arms. “The sapphire pendant belonged to my grandmother. Someone must pay for this.”
Gotta hand it to Paisley. She doesn’t give an inch. Ice enters her voice as she replies, “I’ll call you if it turns up, Mrs. Landry.”
Fumes practically pour from the woman’s ears as she tosses her bleach-blond locks over one shoulder and threatens, “You haven’t heard the last from me. Wait until I tell my husband the way I’ve been treated.”
“Of course, we’re always open to feedback.” Paisley gives what can only be described as a self-satisfied smirk. Maybe she doesn’t detest her job as much as she lets on.
The lady storms out of the lobby.
First a murder, and now a missing precious necklace . . . while one crime is clearly more serious than the other, it makes me wonder: What sort of place is this?
Chapter Six
The hotel room Reid and I share is a mixture of rustic decor and modern comfort. Log paneling with accents of pine green, large canvas prints of nature stills, and a luxurious bed with clean white linens the color of snow. In the corner, a granite fireplace gives off glorious radiant heat. But above all, we have an enviable view.
Our private balcony overlooks the village and giant ice-skating rink below, and beyond that the snow-topped peaks and expansive blue sky. The majestic surroundings bring me a moment of peace, a drop of calm in the tumultuous sea.
After I trade in my clunky ski boots for thick wool socks and strip down to the leggings that serve as long underwear, I find Reid on the balcony. He’s resting his forearms on the railing and taking in the sights as if they were giving him life, as they did for me. The sun is at just such an angle to bask our small space in warming light.
At the sound of the sliding glass door opening, he turns to me, dazzling me with a smile. He’s in worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that’s just the right amount of tight. “There you are.”
“Here I am.”
He gestures for me to sit down in one of the Adirondack chairs and passes me a sandwich wrapped in paper and a bottle of water. My mouth waters and my stomach rumbles at the savory aromas wafting from the food.
“I can’t take credit, it was all Liam and Sage,” Reid says. “Sage said to text her or”—he pauses to sit down in the other chair—“she’ll come hunt you down.”
And she will. I make a mental note to text her after I get sustenance. I didn’t realize it until I sat down, but after skiing and, well, everything else this morning, I’m famished.
I peel the wrapper away and find a toasted sub, still warm, with oozing mozzarella, peppery arugula, roasted bell peppers, and creamy hummus. There are even briny olives dotted in the ciabatta. I take a bite, leaning my head back as I let out a tiny moan.
“Want me to leave you two alone?” Reid asks, gesturing with his finger between me and my sandwich.
“Not necessary,” I say. “Did you eat already?”
