Mulled to Death, page 8
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“Licorice and strawberries,” Sage surmises after taking a swallow of wine.
“Dried cherries and leather,” Liam offers.
Both have swirled, sniffed, and swished with such savvy that pride warms my heart. To think, last year neither of them knew their way around a tasting room. I hold a hand over my chest.
“And how exactly do you know what leather tastes like?” Sage challenges. She’s in a Sailor Moon hoodie with corduroys tucked into knee-high laced boots.
Liam doesn’t miss a beat before responding, “I really was lost before I met you.”
Akira chuckles as she finishes pouring me a sizable glass of red wine. The ruby liquid is translucent when held to the light, with thin legs trickling down the sides of the crystal bowl. Familiar aromas of summer berries, vanilla, and tobacco ease the knot in my stomach.
I’m perched next to Reid, who’s dapper in a black sweater and forest-green khakis, his hair the perfect kind of disheveled—the kind that makes me want to run my hands through it. I refrain, barely.
“I’ll be in touch when the spending freeze is lifted and we know more about the new ownership,” Akira says, setting the diminished bottle in the center of the table.
“Or you could suck it up and ask Paisley,” Cash says, suddenly appearing beside Akira.
His eyes sparkle playfully as he takes in Akira. The black curls atop his head are fashionably gelled, giving way to the faded sides and the single earring dangling from one lobe. He’s in a chef’s coat and slacks, a platter with steam rising from it balanced on one hand.
A frown tugs at Akira’s lips, her cheeks taking on a rosy hue. “Why would I do that? It’s not like she knows more than us.”
“For starters, whether we like it or not, she’s probably going to take over.” He tilts his head and shrugs, but the grim expression on his face betrays his attempt at nonchalance. “For another, don’t you think she knows more than you about the business side of things?”
“She likes to think she does,” Akira mumbles under her breath.
Cash either doesn’t hear her or chooses not to respond, depositing the platter in the center of the table with a flourish.
Liam’s and Sage’s befuddled expressions mirror my own, keenly aware we didn’t order anything, our dinner destination being elsewhere.
“What do we have here?” Reid asks.
“A little something from our family dinner tonight,” Cash explains, referencing the meal kitchen staff traditionally prepare prior to evening service. It’s usually more free-form, experimental, often resulting in deliciously creative dishes. “Flatbread with roasted root vegetables, winter greens, chèvre, and topped with candied hazelnuts.”
“Careful, or the other guests are going to want to order this,” Reid says.
Sage shushes him from across the table. “Don’t mind my friend here.” She flashes Cash a winning smile that has my brother rolling his eyes, already helping herself to a slice. “What he meant to say was, thank you.”
No one comes between Sage and free food.
I help myself to a slice of flatbread, savoring the hearty root vegetables, creamy cheese, freshness of the greens, and little pops of sweetness from the hazelnuts. I chase it with a sip of wine, the luscious fruity notes and hint of smoke pairing perfectly.
Through my munching, it doesn’t escape my notice that Akira is shooting metaphorical daggers at Cash, and her arms are crossed in a way that tells me she’s feeling defensive.
Reid takes a bite, his gaze distant as he chews. “Exceptional. I hope you’ll put it on the menu.”
“That’s the plan.” Cash winks, flashing us a half smile. Then he blanches, his voice laced with sarcasm as he continues, “I still can’t believe you’re abandoning us for Tourist Village.”
“Give me more credit than that.” Reid brings a hand to his chest in mock pain. “We’re going to Cheeky’s.”
Reid picked the restaurant we’re going to tonight, apparently the best dive in town, renowned for their street-style tacos so hot they’ll melt you into a puddle of goo. Perfect after a day playing in the snow and ice.
“I take it back.” Cash nods in approval. “Wish I could tag along.”
“Likewise,” Akira says.
“Can we circle back for a minute?” I interject, running my fingertip along the rim of my glass. “You think Paisley is going to take over running Silver Creek?”
I try to picture the sullen-faced woman in charge. She already seems so out of her element, like a toddler given access to her mother’s closet. Either my observational skills aren’t up to snuff or the future of Silver Creek is even more dire than I realized.
Sage and Reid lean back in their chairs awaiting a response, clearly as curious as I am. But Liam just shakes his head at me, snagging another slice of flatbread.
“She already does whenever Annmarie is away on business,” Cash says. “Plus, she’s been gunning for a promotion for ages.”
“No matter the cost to herself or others,” Akira adds.
Cash squeezes her shoulder but Akira shrugs him off, a silent message passing between them. It’s clear Akira is one of the “others” Paisley has used as a stepping-stone. Akira’s frustration speaks volumes, especially given how little Annmarie’s micromanaging seemed to bother her.
She lets out a shuddering breath. “How was the snow this morning?”
As far as segues go, that was a pitiful attempt. I decide to let her off the hook about Paisley, redirecting my needling, but Liam beats me to the punch.
“It was ideal,” he says, shooting me a warning look to back off. “I’ll have to get some shots tomorrow.” Liam pats his camera bag, stashed at his feet.
Not one to be deterred, I plow forward, staunchly ignoring my brother. “Wouldn’t it be up to whoever inherits Silver Creek—Annmarie’s family—to decide who would be running the resort?”
If this was some fanciful mystery novel, an estranged family member would emerge, claiming the right to her assets. But this isn’t a mystery novel. This is real life. And I’m curious to hear more about Annmarie’s history.
“It would be if she had any,” Akira says, clinging to the new conversation topic like legs to a wineglass. “Her parents died in a plane crash, a fluke, when she was a girl, and she doesn’t have any siblings that I know of.”
The tragic story comes back to me through the foggy veil of time. The media had been obsessed with it during the Winter Olympics Annmarie took part in. They showed childhood photos and repeated the tale as a lead-in to every one of Annmarie’s appearances, marveling at her bravery and perseverance. Despite all the attention, she never made any comments on her parents’ death.
She’d been brought up by her kind, aging grandmother, who followed the one wish of Annmarie’s parents: that she continue skiing.
Cash interrupts my waltz down memory lane. “There’s only Boone.”
“Boone?” Reid asks, sitting forward, dropping his arm from the back of his chair to his lap. “As in head liftie and grizzly bear?”
“Yeah, he and Annmarie were like this.” Cash crosses his fingers to elaborate his point.
Akira jumps in to explain, “I always figured Annmarie saw him as a sort of father figure.”
Cash snorts, shaking his head.
“What?” she admonishes. “He’s a good listener, and authentic, which she probably needed.”
I file that piece of information away for later, pivoting our conversation again. “What about Hudson Gray? Do either of you know him?”
Reid shoots me a questioning glance and I squeeze his hand beneath the table, my way to communicate, I’ll tell you later. I take a sip of wine to camouflage my heightened interest.
“He’s been here a few times in the last couple months,” Akira says. “But I couldn’t tell you more than that.”
“Anyone interested in a poker game?” Cash asks.
“Is that really appropriate?” Akira challenges, moving her hands to her hips. “I mean, I know your weekly game is basically a physical law in your universe but under the circumstances, maybe it should move to tomorrow night.”
Hurt dances in Cash’s eyes, in the way they turn down at the corners from his frown. “Some of us cope best by being around others, by talking and mourning together.” He stands up straighter, dusting a nonexistent speck from his sleeve. “So, the offer stands: Hold’em, twenty-five-dollar buy-in.”
“As much as I’d like to take your money, I’m gonna have to pass,” Reid says, lifting our clasped hands and bringing them to his lips for a kiss. “I’ve got other plans.”
My face warms.
“We’ll pass, too,” Sage says. “We’ve got a season of Doctor Who to finish.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Liam jokes, causing Sage’s cheeks to flush the same shade as her hair.
A fire alights in Akira’s eyes as she says, “Count me in.”
The grin slides from Cash’s face, leaving him looking stunned and slightly frightened. Can’t say I blame him. Although there’s far more to fear at this resort than a poker game.
Chapter Seven
The village looks like something out of a snow globe—rooftops gleam against strands of twinkling lights, giant ice sculptures in the shape of hearts line cobblestone walkways, and interspersed fire pits glow with warmth, their flames licking the moon and stars overhead.
Reid and I stroll with arms linked down the salted sidewalk. We’ve just finished an exemplary dinner at Cheeky’s. It was standing room only in the dive when we first got there, but Reid, having an in with the owner, immediately got us a table.
After sampling nearly every taco on their menu, from carne asada to spicy corn with cotija to shrimp with a citrusy cabbage slaw, the walk is welcome for both my stomach and scorched mouth. Reid wasn’t kidding when he said Cheeky’s was known for their heat.
“Does it involve chocolate?” I guess. I’ve been badgering Reid about what his surprise is since we parted ways with Sage and Liam.
“No,” Reid says through a low chuckle. His coat is zipped and he’s wearing his hat, gloves, and a dapper scarf. He seems so at ease here, navigating between the locals and tourists as if they weren’t completely different worlds. “Shocking as it might be, the surprise does not involve food.”
A large group coming from the opposite direction makes us scoot closer together. We pass beneath an archway that spills into a roundabout. Behind the snowbank and bordering trees, spotlights shine down on the frozen lake where ice skaters glide in circles, their laughter ringing through the air.
“Are we going ice-skating?” I venture.
He just shakes his head, a smirk playing on his lips.
I grip his arm tighter. See, I tell myself, you can do this. Be romantic—be normal.
We turn and suddenly I stop in my tracks, a sharp exhale of breath sending swirls of fog around my face. Because parked curbside is a horse-drawn carriage.
The sleigh is deep maroon with four rows and a perch for the driver. The other passengers—mostly couples, with one family—are already cozy in their seats beneath plaid, fleece blankets. Two massive chestnut Clydesdales shift in their bridles.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” He leans in and deposits a light kiss on my cheek, whispering in my ear, “But there’s more.”
He greets the driver and nary a minute later, we’re tucked into the last seats in the carriage and off at a brisk pace. The clopping of hooves and jingle of bridle bells serenade us as we cruise along a narrow snow-packed frontage road. It runs parallel to the skating rink before zigzagging up the mountain. The temperature drops the higher we climb, making me pull the fleece blanket up to my chin and snuggle close to Reid. Dense pine trees line either side of the road and there are so many twists and turns, it’s impossible to tell where we’re going.
Despite my initial reservations, excitement and curiosity course through me. I haven’t thought about Annmarie, murder, or the loss of Aunt Laura and our bygone traditions. Only, I totally just did. Ugh.
I refocus on Reid, determined to be the Valentine he deserves. “You know, this is going to wreck your bad-boy reputation.”
He adjusts his knit cap and wraps an arm around me. “Eh, it was on its way out anyway.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Really? So what was with the tattoo you got last month?”
“Had to commemorate the occasion.”
The “occasion” he’s referring to is the wild success of his restaurant, Spoons, which he honored with a tiny image of a ladle—identical to the ones used as handles to the doors of his establishment—on the inside of his wrist.
He continues, “Besides, I thought you liked my tattoos.”
“Oh, you know I have no qualms with your ink.” I pat his forearm where, among oven-burn scars, are impressive designs celebrating his passions for cooking and music.
Honestly, I’ve considered getting a tattoo myself. Something small and tasteful and of the feline variety, probably on the outside of my ankle, where Zin likes to trip me up. But I haven’t taken the plunge yet.
The carriage slows to a stop in the middle of nowhere and the driver glances meaningfully at Reid.
Reid nods, hops off, and offers me his hand. In the middle of nowhere.
I look from side to side, gripping the blanket with white knuckles. “Um, I don’t think we’re there yet.”
The other passengers eye us curiously, a couple muttering under their breath.
“Come on, Parks, where’s your sense of adventure?” Reid asks, flashing me a roguish wink.
And despite my apprehension, frozen fingertips, and the fact that there’s a killer at large, I take his outstretched hand and follow him into the unknown.
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The snow is so deep it reaches the tops of my boots. I follow in Reid’s footprints, prancing like a very awkward deer through the pine trees, their branches skeletal in the pale moonlight. I’d hate to think how complete the darkness would be if the moon weren’t full. Sounds of the wilderness surround us: wood creaking, snow tumbling from foliage, and a howling on the wind.
A shiver snakes up my spine, making my teeth chatter. It’d be enough to set anyone on edge.
“How much farther?” I ask, my voice shaky.
“Having a hard time keeping up?” Reid goads.
Damn my pride, and Reid’s intimate knowledge of it.
“Hardly.” I press forward, keeping my complaints—and worries—mum as we march through the forest.
Gotta hand it to Reid, his surprise is proving to be an adventure, much like life with him. An adventure I’m keen to continue.
The cold closes in around me, even more chilling after the warmth of the blanket. We fall into a steady rhythm, our footfalls keeping to the same inaudible beat. There are layers to the snow, a crust on top that yields to powder beneath, much like cracking into a ramekin of crème brûlée. Only this metaphorical custard will freeze rather than sustain.
My thoughts drift to Annmarie in her final moments. Did she feel a stab of fear before she died or was she lulled into contentment, the snow and fragrance of pine and frost like home to her? Did she get a look at who killed her? Recognize the individual who betrayed her? I recall the way her eye twitched during our brief meeting, an unmistakable sign of stress and exhaustion; is it possible she felt threatened, suspected she was in danger?
The shadow I’d seen and the shout I’d heard reel through my mind until I find myself glancing over my shoulder.
That had to have been the killer. They’d been so close, and yet I’d observed so little. How did they do it? Take down an Olympian at her pièce de résistance? With so many eyes watching, to boot?
Reid navigates around a tree trunk and I do the same, gripping the rough tree bark for balance, my lungs aching from the frigid air.
It was the turn—Lockdown Pass, an eerily apt name. Annmarie had been out of sight for a split second, just long enough for the murderer to make their move. They had to have known which specific run she would be on, and the exact spot to take her down.
That thought alone, so primal and brutal, is enough to make my blood run cold.
I let Reid’s silhouette, the sound of our boots squelching in the snow, and the scents of pine trees and sap ground me.
Voices reach my ears, high-pitched cries that make me worry my subconscious has manifested into a full-fledged nightmare.
That is, until Reid says, “Almost there.” He snags a tree branch and pulls it aside for me, almost like a gentleman holding a door open. “After you.”
I nod at him in thanks and traipse through, a nervous laugh bubbling out of me. I stumble out of the underbrush and come to a stop at the top of a hill, stunned. I’m not sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.
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Night tubing. That’s the surprise.
I can’t contain the grin that spreads across my face. The mountainside below us is doused with pinks, turquoises, and violets, like luminescent tie-dye from spotlights overhead. Grooved trenches are etched into the mountainside, creating distinct lanes for sledding. The voices I heard were nothing but the cheers and hollers of merry sledders.
Reid glances at me, his expression unusually vulnerable as he tilts his head to the side. “Since this is an experience, I figured it doesn’t technically count as a gift.” He closes the distance between us, his footing uneven among the piles of snow.
“That’s some loophole.” I lift my chin to look at him. The cosmic lighting casts us in a surreal glow, accentuating Reid’s sculpted cheekbones and faint stubble.
