by Skylar Finn
The steady whir of moving mechanics drew my attention to the ski lift. The sleek metal contraption with its hypnotizing rhythmic rotation was oddly pleasing to the eye. There was no one on it and no one in line, so the operator—a young man about Trey’s age with golden-blond hair like a lion’s mane—sat lazily behind the controls booth. He had a book, Aristotle’s Poetics, perched against the booth’s glass window with its binding broken, but it went unread, as he was ensconced in a discussion with Detective Hawkins. When I walked by, the kid perked up, and he cut the detective off mid-sentence.
“Miss Star, right?” he said as Detective Hawkins rolled his eyes but said nothing. “I’m Liam. Would you like to head up? The ski lift was cleared for safety. It’s ready to go.”
I wondered how many times I’d have to explain my lack of coordination for skiing or any other sport offered on the mountain. “That’s okay, Liam. I’m just having a look around for now.”
In truth, curiosity about Oliver’s wife, Thelma, drew me to the lift. The cables and chairs grew smaller as they trundled up the mountain and disappeared into the clouds and snow. How far up did Thelma make it before the structure she trusted her entire life to dumped her to the ground and crushed her? Then there was Riley. We hadn’t met yet, but I already nursed a comprehensive understanding of her situation. I shuddered at the thought of her finding her mother trapped beneath the metal chair as she bled out in the snow. No wonder the kid was having trouble.
Detective Hawkins hemmed, a forced politeness to his tone as he said, “Sorry, ma’am, but if you’re not riding the lift, could you move along? Mr. Lavi was answering a few confidential questions for me.”
“I thought you left,” I said to him. Unlike Oliver, Hawkins soared over me like a raptor in flight above its prey. “And I sure hope Mr. Lavi agreed to answering those questions for you.”
“I didn’t,” Liam said.
“He’s an adult,” Hawkins said. “He doesn’t have to consent to an impromptu interview if he doesn’t want to.”
“That’s not the impression you gave me ten minutes ago,” Liam replied grumpily. “You said you’d take me down to the station.”
“I’m covering all my bases,” Hawkins said. “You were the last one to see Mrs. Watson alive, and you were in charge of operating the ski lift during her accident.”
“I already told you I didn’t notice anything wrong with the lift before Thelma—Mrs. Watson—went up,” Liam said, fists trembling. “I called the police when I did because her chair came back without a freaking chair.”
I patted Liam’s arm through his thick red ski jacket. The resort’s logo—a large royal crown flanked by two small, dainty ones—was embroidered on either sleeve. “Take a break, Detective Hawkins,” I said. “It’s cold out here, and you’re distracting Liam from his job, and his book, I believe.”
“Who are you again?” Hawkins said, narrowing his eyes at me. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met.”
I ushered Liam into the controls booth while Hawkins was distracted. He mouthed a grateful “thank you” and returned to Poetics. Linking my arm through Hawkins’s, I drew the detective away from the chair lift.
“Madame Lucia Star,” I said. “If you’d bothered to apologize after bumping into me earlier, we would already be acquainted.”
To his credit, he locked his arm around mine and guided me over the snow-laden sidewalks as we headed to the nearby garden for a stroll. “I was hasty, I’ll admit. ‘Madame?’”
“I’m a psychic,” I declared. “A spiritualist, if you will. Mr. Watson hired me to investigate the paranormal forces surrounding his daughter after her mother’s death.”
Hawkins laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Laughing in the face of the spirits is often a defense mechanism for nonbelievers,” I informed him. “I imagine you’ve encountered otherworldly energies in the past, but you’re prone to credit them to other things.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a few encounters,” he said. “And you know what I credit them to? Science. Cold, hard fact. There’s an explanation for everything, Madame Lucia, and it sure as hell ain’t ghosts.”
I tugged him beneath a trellis. Dead vines snaked around the lattice work, dotted with browned and dried roses. Flashes of color decorated the snow as winter-blooming flowers craned toward the sunlight. In a month or two, when the snow wasn’t so deep, the garden would be the perfect venue for an outdoor wedding. Detective Hawkins glared up at the trellis and took an extra-large step to pass under it as quickly as possible.
“Scratch any cynic, and you will find a disappointed idealist,” I said. “What happened to your idealism, Detective Hawkins?”
“My ex-wife got it in the divorce,” he replied. “Before you ask, I’ve also already lost the little boy in me. And George Carlin? Are all spiritualists fans of stand-up comedy?”
“I find humor to be an excellent method of connecting with the departed,” I said. “After all, what is there to do but laugh in the face of death? Don’t you find the concept laughable?”
“Yes, your profession is laughable.”
I pretended to trip over a cobblestone and yanked Detective Hawkins into a deep snow bank. His leg sank, drenching his jeans up to the knee. He plucked himself free and shook off the snow like a wet dog.
“Jesus, I hate the cold,” he muttered.
“I meant that death is laughable,” I said in a frosty tone. “We all spend too much time fearing the inevitable end of everything, but if everyone shut up and looked around and appreciated the things we have now, maybe this ridiculous world wouldn’t be so horrible.”
Detective Hawkins grinned. It was lopsided, like he’d also lost half of his smile in his divorce. “Do I detect a hint of cynicism in your opinion, Madame Lucia?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I thought that was your name.”
“It is, but you say it as a joke,” I said. “My clients respect my title, and I’m asking you to do the same.”
He bowed his head, taking gentle hold of my gloved hand to help me beyond the garden path as we returned to the café area. “You’re right. My apologies. It’s not my place to judge you.”
“No, it isn’t.” But he’d ridiculed me nonetheless, and I didn’t respond well to ridicule. “You should be careful.”
He eyed Liam as we passed the ski lift, distracted from our conversation. “Why’s that?”
“Angry spirits take to angry people.” I detached myself from his arm and drifted toward the café. The frigid afternoon warranted a hot coffee and a warm pastry. “You may not notice it at first, but there are signs. Like the bead of sweat on your temple or the unwarranted chill across the back of your neck in a warm room. It’s the stab of fear or rage that sweeps over you unprecedented. You’ll wonder where it came from, why it washed across you when your mind was somewhere else entirely. Perhaps you’ll understand it the next time it happens to you, but I doubt it. Cynics never do.” I fixed him with a knowing smile. “They just laugh.”
In the moment before I turned my back on him, I caught a glimpse of his expression. It wasn’t, as I expected, one of skepticism. He didn’t roll his eyes or purse his lips. He stood in the middle of the snow, his dark clothing and hair stark against the brilliant landscape, lips parted as if poised to reply, the corners of his fiercely focused eyes crinkling like fine parchment. He was as still as a full-length portrait, and the picture of him almost knocked me off balance. I hopped over my own feet to get them under me, and when I pushed through the café door, I breathed an unwarranted sigh of relief for the separation between me and Detective Hawkins.
The café was empty of customers except for a table in the far corner by the door that connected to the rental shop. By the looks of it, the two girls and one boy who sat there also worked at King and Queens. They wore snow pants and boots, and their official King and Queens ski jackets were draped over their chairs. The café barista sat at their table too, and the four of them bent
their heads together in quiet discussion. When I entered, they all went quiet and looked up in tandem, as if they were controlled by the same godlike puppet master from above.
“Yeah?” The barista—a stocky girl with golden hair the exact same shade as Liam’s—stood up. “Can I get you something?”
“Just coffee and the biggest pastry you have, please.”
The girl, whose name tag said Ari, rang me up at the counter. “You’re that psychic, aren’t you?”
“Lucia,” I said, handing over my credit card since I’d left the cash in my room. “Word travels fast around here. I guess everyone knows about me and Riley.”
“Mr. Watson’s daughter?” she said. “What’s she got to do with it? No, I meant I’ve seen your show on YouTube.” She shook her head and laughed. “Man, that last episode was priceless. Did you stage that? I mean, your whole gig is fake, right? Whatever, it was hilarious.”
My entire face and neck flushed as Ari poured my coffee and popped a cinnamon bun into a microwave. Thankfully, she didn’t notice, too busy with her job.
“Here you go,” she said. “Enjoy.”
She didn’t wait for me to thank her, instead abandoning the café counter in favor of her friends’ table. I sat at the opposite end of the room in a chair by the windows, took off my gloves, and warmed my hands around the mug. As I blew cool air across the steaming surface of the coffee, the group’s conversation floated across the room in hushed whispers.
“This sucks,” the boy was saying. “It’s been an entire week, and no one’s turned up for lessons. Why are we even here?”
“Because Mr. Watson’s a jackass,” one of the girls said. Her legs were so long that her snow pants didn’t tuck into her boots. She’d pulled tube socks over the hems instead. “Either that or he’s delusional. Does he really think this place is going to fill up after what happened to his wife?”
“I’m leaning toward jackass,” Ari added. “He’s suffering, so he wants the rest of us to suffer too. Why else wouldn’t he let us go home?”
“At least we’re getting paid,” the boy said.
“Yeah, to do nothing,” said the long-legged girl. “I’m bored out of my skull. I’d rather deal with the bratty kids on the bunny slope than sit around here for another day.”
“You say that now, Imani,” the other girl chimed in, “but last week, you threatened to push a ten-year-old off the chair lift.”
“He wouldn’t get off!” Imani said. “They gotta learn somehow.”
“You know what I miss?” the boy said. “Tips.”
The second girl scoffed. “Yeah, if you got ‘em. You know what I don’t understand? Why rich people are so damn cheap.”
“That’s how they stay rich,” Ari said.
Imani groaned and stretched her legs under the table, bumping the boy’s knees. “I’m sick of this place. The least Mr. Watson could do is give us free lift passes. This ten percent discount for employees is crap.”
“We’re not allowed to board on the same days we work, remember?” said the other girl. “It ‘confuses the guests.’”
“Not a problem since there are no guests to confuse,” Imani replied. “Have you guys noticed that Mr. Watson’s gotten worse since his wife died? The other day he gave me a demerit for tracking snow through the lobby. Like, what the hell am I supposed to do, make it evaporate with my minimum-wage rage?”
Ari snorted out a laugh, but the boy frowned. “Give the guy some credit,” he said. “When my mom died, my dad was weird for months, and he didn’t have to run a resort while pretending like everything is fine.”
“Yeah, but your dad’s cool,” Ari said.
The other girl nodded in agreement. “I bet he’d let us board for free.”
“We could go to Gus’s,” Imani said. “He’s got that big hill behind his house. I know it’s not the Basin, but we rigged a couple ramps last year that worked out pretty well. Where is he anyway? I haven’t heard from him this season.”
“He got a job at White Oak,” the boy said.
The rest of the teenagers let out collective noises of disbelief and jealousy.
“Traitor,” Ari said.
“Lucky,” Imani corrected. “I hear that place is so dope.”
“They have a half pipe, a trick park, and three runs just for snowboarders,” the boy said. “Employees get to rent and ride for free, and they get a fifty percent discount if they want to buy their own gear. The guy who owns the place is supposed to be really cool too.”
“Nick Porter,” Ari said. “I saw him on the news the other day. I’d climb him like a tree.”
Imani smacked Ari out of her daydream. “Gross, he’s old enough to be your dad.”
“A hot dad.”
“Please stop,” said the boy. “No one wants to hear about your hot dad fantasies.”
Ari rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying.”
“So when are we dumping King and Queens for White Oak?” the girl asked, holding her coffee mug up as if in toast to a revolution. “Since we’re all in agreement that this place blows.”
The boy coaxed her mug down before she spilled from it. “Not anytime soon. Gus got the last ski instructor gig.”
“Yeah, but do they need baristas?” Ari said, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Whoa, hold up.” Imani captured Ari by the straps of her green café apron and pulled tight. “You don’t get to leave unless the rest of us do. Whatever happened to solidarity?”
Ari dry-hacked in Imani’s face. “You’re choking me.”
“Let’s make a pact,” Imani suggested. “White Oak is only going to get busier as the season goes on. They’re going to open up additional instructor positions eventually. When they do, I say we all apply. If one of us gets in, we’ll refer the others. Nepotism at its finest.”
“I’m down,” said the boy. “Anything to get us out of this creep fest. If I have to ski with Riley Watson one more time, I might heave myself off the lift too. That kid is so weird. Have you guys ever noticed her staring at you? She never blinks.”
“She’s better than Tyler,” the girl said. “Weird is better than crazy.”
The spoon I used to stir cream into my coffee slipped off the saucer and hit the floor with a metallic tinkle. The teenagers whipped their heads around to stare at me as if they’d forgotten I was sitting there at all. I picked up the spoon and wiped it off, avoiding their eyes as I pretended to be absorbed in the view through the window. The teenagers returned to their own business.
“We should go,” Imani said, threading her arms through her ski jacket. “If Mr. Watson does one of his random employee satisfaction checks and finds us hanging out in here, we’re all going to be screwed.”
Ari hung on to Imani’s long arm. “Don’t leave me.”
The taller girl rested her chin on Ari’s head as the other teenagers ambled toward the door, wrapping themselves up in snow gear. “Be strong, my love. Coffee for one and all.”
Ari glanced over at me again. “More like just one.”
Imani looked at me too. “Holy shit, is that Madame Lucia? Cool!”
After posing for a picture with Imani, I returned to my room and changed for dinner since there was no sign of Riley. If I went the entire week without seeing her, would Oliver still pay me the ten thousand dollars? Were it not for the teenaged employees who acknowledged her existence, I’d think Oliver had made the whole story up. I decided to go look for her tomorrow. How hard could it be to find a twelve-year-old in a resort with hundreds of rooms?
For fun, I changed into a long-sleeved, navy-blue dress embroidered with silver accent threads to wear to the Eagle’s View for dinner. It was more from Madame Lucia’s side of the closet than my own, but it was good to keep up appearances. I smoothed the wrinkles in the dress as I rode the elevator to the lobby. The restaurant, like before, was vacant. The mountain was no longer visible through the wall of windows. Instead, there was nothing but darkness. My reflection smirked from the glass, a spiri
t trapped in the black void. Windows in the night time were like portals to other worlds. You couldn’t be sure who might press their face against the glass to stare back at you.
Upon a second glance, there was one other person at the Eagle’s View, sitting at the very end of the bar. I sat on the stool next to Detective Hawkins’s. He cast a sidelong glance at me, his eyes tracking the thigh-high split in my dress.
“Aren’t you cold?” he drawled.
“My laughable professionalism keeps me warm,” I replied, tapping the counter for the bartender’s attention. “What are you still doing here anyway? From the way you were arguing with Oliver earlier, it sounded like you were done with King and Queens.”
He rotated a glass of whiskey around. It was full, the half-melted ice cubes diluting the liquor. “Thought I’d have another look around.”
“And interrogate the staff members?”
“It wasn’t an interrogation,” he said. “I was doing my job. Something doesn’t feel right. It’s an instinct. I can’t explain it.”
“So you’re allowed to act on inexplicable instincts, but I’m not permitted to do the same?” The bartender dropped off a menu. I ordered white wine and perused the list of entrées. I was glad my meals were included with my stay because the menu prices made my palms sweat. “Just because I don’t carry a gun and a badge doesn’t mean I’m not legitimate, Detective Hawkins.”
Detective Hawkins swapped his soaked coaster napkin for a fresh one and mopped up the ring of condensation around his untouched drink. “Not this again. I apologize for insulting you. Can we drop it?”
“Fine, it’s dropped.”
“And since it looks like we might be the only two people around King and Queens for a while, you might as well call me Daniel,” he added.
“Detective Danny?”
“Don’t you dare.”
I thanked the bartender as she returned with my wine and ordered a salmon dish with side dishes I couldn’t pronounce. “Are you eating?” I asked Daniel.