Holly and Homicide (20 page)

“You can be as unguarded as you want, Erin.” Steve’s voice was steady, although I could see the pain in his eyes.
“You don’t have to worry about my feelings. They aren’t going to change, no matter what. I’m in love with you.”

“That’s wonderful to hear, Steve. It is. And I’m sorry, I truly am. But …I can’t be with you right now. I need to be alone. I need to think about the past.”

“Okay. You know how to find me. Take care.” He kissed me on the forehead and walked away.

I went back inside the house, reclaimed my seat, and started to cry. Hildi, the sweet little kitty that she was, promptly dropped her finicky behavior and hopped onto my lap once more. An hour or so later, we were both in the kitchen and in better spirits when the doorbell rang a second time. I assumed it was Steve and weighed deserting my quest for private time, but it was Linda Delgardio.

“You’ve been crying,” she said the instant I opened the door. “You’re grieving over the second murder in Snowcap Village?”

I nodded.

She pulled me into a hug, and I realized then that I’d really come to Crestview and spurned Steve because I needed not
alone
time, but rather
girlfriend
time. Although not without considerable guilt, I asked Linda if she could stay for a while. She wound up staying for hours, discussing the murders and the fool in charge of the investigation, but also my grief for poor Cameron. It was wonderfully cathartic, and afterwards, I was able to call Steve and talk freely about my feelings.

The next morning, my cell phone rang at six-thirty. My
heart started pounding when I saw that it was Audrey. She immediately asked: “Erin, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“No reason. It’s not an emergency. But Wendell’s calling a meeting of everyone associated with the inn at nine this morning.”

“That’s a relief. I’m glad that’s all it is. I’ve gotten so I panic when the phone rings at an odd hour.”

“Is Steve with you?”

“No, he spent the night at his house.”

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I
told
him not to drive down after you, but he wouldn’t listen. I knew things would get strained between you two. Cameron’s death is so … horrible and heartbreaking.”

“We’re okay, Audrey. I called Steve last night and spoke to him at length. He said all the right things.”

“In that case, could you see if he can possibly get up here by nine? I’m assuming you’ll want to stay put, and it’s not a problem if neither of you makes it back up today, but Wendell wants to speak with each of us. He’s concerned about everyone giving up on the inn.”

“So we’re supposed to vow our allegiance to the inn? The day after finding Cameron’s body in the front yard?”

Audrey clicked her tongue. “He’s also worried about morale. He means well, Erin.”

“But, Audrey … what if he
doesn’t?
What if he’s behind the killings?”

“I’m sure he isn’t, Erin. Call Steve for me, would you?”

She hung up without waiting for a reply.

Steve wanted me to stay in Crestview (as did Linda and
Detective O’Reilly), but Sheriff Mackey was probably already on the verge of issuing an APB for my arrest. Besides, finishing our job at the inn was growing into an obsession with me.

Steve and I caravanned back to the inn and arrived at about ten minutes after nine. By then, everyone—Ben, Mikara, Audrey, Chiffon, Henry, and Wendell—was gathered around the kitchen table, making small talk. As soon as we grabbed the last two chairs at the table, Wendell said, “Let’s get this thing under way. Folks, we’ve had big shocks in the last couple of weeks. It’s inconceivable that two such fine young people have been murdered here on the grounds.”

“You can say that again,” Mikara muttered.

“Even so, we can’t allow ourselves to fall apart,” Wendell continued. “Personally, I suspect that there’s someone in town who’s responsible for these murders and who is trying to frame us. I’m cooperating fully with Sheriff Mackey, and I’ve hired my own investigative team to get to the bottom of these murders.”

“You have?” I blurted out. “Who?”

Wendell ignored me. “In the meantime, we all deserve and
need
a break from the routine. I’ve hired a van to take us and our equipment to the resort, and the driver has your all-day passes for each of you. I want everyone to breathe in some fresh air, get some exercise, and take a holiday from the tragedies that we’ve been forced to endure.”

This was utterly tasteless and shallow! Taking a group
ski day to recuperate from a murder? Everyone else was looking around, gauging reactions. Chiffon broke the silence. “I think Cam and Angie would want us to quit moping around the house. Excellent suggestion, Wendell. Thank you for being so generous.”

“I don’t actually own skis,” Ben said quietly.

“I made out a few passes for free rentals, for just that very reason,” Wendell countered.

Feeling a bit like a little child shoved out the door to “go have fun” despite terrible weather, I rose, as did Steve, and we went with the flow.

“Oh, look, Erin!” Chiffon said as she and I schussed
our way toward the first ski lift at the base of the lodge. “You and I have identical skis! How funny!”

I glanced at her feet. She was right. “They might be the same skis and bindings, but I have no doubt that they look better on you,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Actually, you look right at home.”

“That’s only because we’re on level ground.”

Steve grinned at me. The four of us—Chiffon, Henry, Steve, and I—had been able to head straight for the lifts. Mikara and Ben were renting equipment, and Wendell was taking Audrey on a tour of the lodge itself.

She smiled. “Maybe so, but you’re looking pretty comfortable. The real rookies can’t even manage that much.”

Henry and Chiffon were ahead of us in line and shared a chairlift; Steve and I got onto the next one. The view from the lift was magnificent. As I quietly said to Steve,
much as I hated to admit it, Wendell was right. This fresh, nippy air and the glorious scenery were lifting my spirits in spite of myself.

We skied off the chairlifts. Feeling hesitant to reveal my lack of skills on skis to the others, I hung back at the top of the slope. Sullivan waited with me while Henry and Chiffon took off, zigzagging expertly down the trail. The sky was crystal clear, and I could see the inn from where I was standing, visible below the still-natural portion of the mountain. Till now, I hadn’t realized how close the inn was to the unused half of the mountain, where no trails were located. Many large sections of land in Colorado were owned by the state parks and national forests and could not be built upon, so maybe Wendell didn’t own that property.

Sullivan and I pushed off. Gentleman that he was, he allowed me to go first. Remarkably, I felt completely in balance as my skis flew along the snow. Chiffon was right! Apparently my body had decided it was sick and tired of falling down. I could ski! I was able to turn, and roughly a third of the way down the course, I even managed to come to a nice crisp stop.

Sullivan beamed at me as he came to an effortless stop right beside me. “Damn! You’ve been holding out on me! Were
both
you and Chiffon in the Junior Olympics?”

“As it turns out, skiing must be a little like getting the feel for riding a bike.”

“Awesome, dude,” Steve joked, parodying the typical ski bum. “So let’s take advantage of it and get on down the slope. Follow me!”

I pushed off with both poles and stayed right behind
Steve. After a minute or two, it felt as if I was going a tad too fast. To slow myself, I made a sharp turn and dug in with my edges. To my horror, the heel on my right boot seemed to jerk free from my ski.

My binding had failed! Urging myself not to panic, I tried to shift my weight to my left—good—ski. My tips crossed. A split second later, I was crashing into the slope, falling head over heels, utterly out of control. My right binding released immediately, and I couldn’t have hung onto my poles if I’d tried. Yet my second ski wasn’t releasing, causing all the more stress on that knee. My helmeted head cracked against the ground.

It felt as though I was helplessly careening down a roller coaster—without the car. My teeth were hitting together so hard, they were sure to shatter.

I regained just enough control to dig the edge of my lone ski into the side of a mogul, and my bone-jarring tumble finally came to a stop. I lay still, sprawled out for several seconds, just breathing and collecting my wits. I heard Steve yelling my name from below me, and I lifted a hand to let him know that I was still conscious.

I sat up and saw Steve running up the incline toward me as fast as he could in his clunky boots. I’d struggled to my feet by the time he arrived at my side.

“Erin.” He was panting. “Are you okay?”

“I think so. Amazingly.”

“Thank God! That was one of the worst wipeouts I’ve ever seen!”

“It looked even worse from my vantage point.”

I turned. My poles were above me. Nearby, skiers had slowed, no doubt to avoid colliding with me. One of them
called down that he would bring me my poles. My one loose ski had navigated itself a considerable distance away, however.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Steve asked.

“I’m sore, is all … bruised up. But I didn’t break any bones or anything.”

A snowmobile roared up the mountain toward me. A man from the ski patrol, wearing a signature red suit and white plus sign, disembarked. “You all right, miss? We saw you fall.”

“I was lucky, though. I’m okay.”

A second patrolman on skis had headed down to collect my prodigal ski. He grabbed it and did a remarkably rapid herringbone to return. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure. The binding on one of my skis released while I was making a turn.”

“Who the hell set these bindings for you?” the patrolman asked as he examined the ski in his hand.

“A guy at the ski store in Crestview. Two months ago.”

“You didn’t try to reset them yourself? Or get anyone else to work on ’em?”

“No. Why?”

“Look for yourself. The screws on this one are all sheared off. In all my ten-plus years of ski patrol, I’ve never seen something like that happen on impact.”

“So … somebody tampered with my skis? Deliberately?”

He shrugged. “Sure looks that way to me.”

Steve and I stared at each other in shock. “This thing is just never going to end, is it?” I murmured. I wasn’t expecting an answer, and he didn’t give me one.

T
he patrolman gave me a ride down to the lodge on the snowmobile, while Steve skied down after us. At the lodge, Steve took off his skis; he told me he’d lost all enthusiasm for skiing today.

We walked into the lodge, Steve insisting upon buying me a cup of hot chocolate. My body was already aching so badly that I just wanted a hot
bath
, but I lacked the energy to argue with him. When we’d gotten through the line at the register, Steve said, “Look who’s here,” and pointed with his chin at Wendell Barton. We tromped across the
room toward him in our awkward boots. He greeted us warmly, but did a double take at my face, which confirmed my suspicions that I looked as bad as I felt.

“Wendell,” Steve said, “Erin and I need transportation back to the inn.”

Wendell glanced again at me, then returned his attention to Steve. “So soon? What’s wrong?”

“I took a nasty spill, and my skis are wrecked,” I explained.

“After someone tampered with her bindings,” Steve growled.

“You’re kidding, I hope,” Wendell replied.

“No, and I’m going to wring the neck of whoever did this to her.”

Wendell put his hand on my arm. “Erin, I’ll go talk to one of my salesmen, and you can go pick out a new pair of skis and bindings for yourself from the ski shop. All right?”

“Thanks, but fancy skis are wasted on me. I’ve skied my final run for the season, if not for all time.”

He held my gaze with what appeared to be genuine concern. “At the very least, give me your damaged skis and let me get my repair people to fix them for you.”