Murder, She Slopes

by Rachael Stapleton

  Murder, She Slopes

  A Penning Trouble Mystery

  Bohemian Lake Series 3

  Dedicated to my son, Travis, who reads all of my books with the childlike gusto with which I attempt to write them.

  Rachael Stapleton

  ______________________________

  Copyright © 2017 Rachael Stapleton

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places or events is coincidental.

  Bohemian Lake Series by Rachael Stapleton:

  The Bohemian Lake cozy mystery series is a world comprised of three sets. Each set focuses on a different Bohemian resident(s), although all of the books intersect.

  A Penning Trouble Mystery

  Haunted House Flippers Inc.

  Bohemian Murder Manor Mysteries

  Recommended Reading Order :

  A Penning Trouble Mystery: Murder, She Floats

  Haunted House Flippers Inc. Cookies, Corpses & the Deadly Haunt

  A Penning Trouble Mystery: Murder, She Slopes

  Haunted House Flippers Inc. Candy Canes, Corpses & the Gothic Haunt

  Bohemian Murder Manor Mysteries: Gypsies, Traps & Missing Thieves

  Bohemian Murder Manor Mysteries: Make-Believes & Lost Memories

  Haunted House Flippers Inc. Crumb Cake, Corpses & the Run-of-the-Mill

  A Penning Trouble Mystery: Murder, Ye Bones

  Read all about Rachael Stapleton and her books at RachaelStapleton.com

  Prologue

  _____________

  The snow sparkled under the lamplight and felt good beneath Holly’s cross-country skis. Today’s sun had melted the surface just enough to give grip, and she quickly found her rhythm. She spread her arms and opened her chest to the slope of the trail, savoring the blissful swish of each turn. Night skiing was such an adrenalin rush. She pumped her arms, propelling her body forward with her ski poles as she lengthened her stride, gliding past the foot of the first of the three slopes, where the gradient leveled a little. She stopped and looked back to admire her tracks and saw the section of the chalet under construction. White twinkling lights illuminated the seemingly endless rows of snow dusted evergreens. These trails were the only good part of this lousy resort, she thought. They could have gone to the finest resort in Whistler or—better yet—Switzerland for Christmas. Private hot tubs, room service, gourmet cuisine. Swish. Swish. No luxury accommodations here—only putrid outhouses and tiny boxes in trees with rock-hard mattresses. What the hell was merry about cooking on a propane stovetop?

  As she neared the final trail—the one that would take her back to her tree house—she saw a solitary figure lurking. What do you know—one of the other poor souls trapped in this icebox. Swish. Swish. A hand waved to her, beckoning. No way she was getting sucked into yet another social hour. Swish. Swish.

  Time to turn in, she decided, and then she felt the sharp and sudden pain in her shins. Her body lurched, and she was thrown forward on her skis and slammed to the ground. Get up! she told herself. But her legs were tangled. Move! she commanded. The pain was excruciating. She stabbed her ski pole into the ground and tried to stand, to no avail. So, she clawed, loosening the rope from around her legs. She was almost free when she felt something hard hit her in the head.

  Icy cold darkness.

  One

  _____________

  I ’d just settled into the corner of my friend Rebel’s cozy couch with a peppermint candy cane protein bar and a glass of wine when my cellphone buzzed. Nice try, reality, but you’re not welcome here. It was December 21st, and I was officially on holidays. I took my first sip and flipped through the Christmas movies on the Netflix menu, blissfully ignoring the outside world. Was it me or did this wine taste better than usual? I took another sip. I mean, it was the expensive bottle that I’d saved for a ‘special occasion’ and if eight pm on a Thursday night didn’t qualify as a special occasion what in the hell did?

  My phone buzzed again. I wished whoever it was would buzz off. I glanced at the display—my ex-boyfriend, Lucas Vallerand. The display actually read jerk face, but that was just a lovable nickname. Or, was it? It buzzed again. Oh lord, what did he want now?

  Did you get my messages?

  I set my wine aside and typed back. Yes, of course I did—I’m ignoring them. Stop making this weird.

  Oh, how rude of me. I’d forgotten to be pleasant.

  P.s. Merry Christmas.

  After the shopping, the gift wrapping, and the article that I’d written today, the last thing I wanted to do was deal with him. I mean, we’d broken up in July and the guy had gotten married less than a month later. If there was an award for fastest emotional recovery post-breakup, hands down he’d win. He hardly deserved my attention during the holidays, let alone my Netflix and chill hour. Time to turn that busy brain off.

  The sudden piercing ring of Rebel’s home telephone put a swift end to that idea. Just who in the hell was trying to get a hold of me now? Only my dad and the magazine I worked for—and the spy network of Bohemian Lake—had this number. I sprinted to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “Hello. This had better be Santa.”

  “Pen, is that you?” asked a familiar voice. Jerk face—ahem… I mean Lucas.

  I closed my eyes and felt my shoulders sag as I reached for the holiday baking tin. Rebel and I had attended a cookie exchange before she left for her family Christmas. Thankfully she forgot them. “Of course it’s me,” I replied, picking up a reindeer shortbread cookie with sprinkles. “The butler is obviously much too busy blocking your texts to answer the phone.”

  Lucas didn’t laugh at my joke, which was odd enough, but when he also didn’t slam me back with a witty retort, I began to worry. The only sound that came over the phone line was his raspy breathing. My dog—well, technically, our dog that I currently had custody of—licked my hand and nudged it as if to say she knew who was calling.

  “What’s up?” I asked impatiently. Guinness nudged me again with her head. I patted it. Then I heard what sounded like a muffled sob over the line. Good God! I had never heard Lucas cry, not even when we’d ended our four-year relationship. What was wrong with him? Did he regret his impulsive Vegas wedding after all? I sure as hell hoped so—not that I’d take him back.

  “Lucas?” I prompted anxiously.

  “My wife,” he said. He drew a deep, ragged breath.

  “Actually I’m your ex-girlfriend—wrong woman, buddy. Don’t drink and dial.”

  I was about to hang up when he cried out. “No, Pen, listen—my wife… she’s dead, my God, she’s dead.”

  My mind flip-flopped over the news. I sat down on the kitchen bench. “Holly?” I asked stupidly as if he collected wives. Guinness attempted to place her gigantic paws on my lap. I fed her the last bite of my cookie and shooed her back.

  Holly Biltch was an up-and-coming actress, almost as outdoorsy as Lucas. She was beautiful: tall, with flowing blond hair. She also happened to be the man-eater who’d stolen him away from me. I could see through her phony little act but she’d blinded Lucas.

  “They think I did it!” He wasn’t holding back now. His sobs were deep and guttural.

  “Did what?” I asked in my calmest voice; meanwhile, my stomach tightened with dread. “Where in the heck are you?”

  “A resort located in the Laurentian Mountains. I’m about a 35-
minute drive from Mont-Tremblant.”

  “Was there an accident?”

  “You could say that. They searched my room, took my clothes for lab tests. They even took my fingerprints. I was told to stay here at the resort! Please say you’ll come. I need you.”

  “Holy silent night. It’s the week before Christmas. What do you need me for? Call my dad—he’s the private investigator. I’m a journalist now, remember?”

  “C’mon, Pen. You know your dad hates me.”

  I smiled to myself. I couldn’t help it. My dad always had my back. Then I took another sip of my wine. “Listen, Lucas, baby, I wish I could help but, frankly, I’m on holidays and I also hate you right now, so good luck, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and how about I’ll talk to you never?” I hung up the phone and felt a sort of peace and satisfaction that I hadn’t felt since the eighth grade when I’d punched a school bully in the jaw. Sure, it was petty and not my finest moment but, damn, it felt good to release some of that pent-up anger. Of course it was useless.

  Sixteen hours later, I’d rearranged my schedule, cancelled my holiday plans for that weekend and was sitting in first class on the Via Rail train approaching Montreal. My head was as clouded as the sky outside my window. Now, let’s get one thing straight, I’m no pushover. I’m a Taurus and we’re stubborn by nature, so his well-placed sobs had not, in fact, convinced me to get involved. In my opinion, he’d made his bed and he could cry himself to sleep in it—like we all do. Ba-dum-ching. Unfortunately, we Taurus folk are also fiercely loyal and all it took was one hysterical call from his teary-eyed mother and I was packing my wool socks, shortbread cookies and earmuffs. I mean, what am I, heartless? She lives around the corner from me in the Bohemian Retirement Community and couldn’t go to her son for obvious reasons. It had been a low blow for Lucas to involve her but what else was new?

  The balding, chubby man who sat across from me cracked his knuckles for the third time. He looked nervous, and he checked his phone every twenty seconds.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked. He had a suitcase and a sack full of what looked to be presents.

  “Oh yes, I’m just hoping to get home for the holidays before the snowstorm hits,” he said.

  “Storm? I didn’t realize they were calling for one.” I pulled out my own phone to check the weather network app.

  “It should be here by tomorrow. I’m just nervous it will show up early. I’ve been away on business for a month and I have a long drive ahead of me. I really just want to be at home right now.” The man smiled kindly at me.

  I nodded. Me too, buddy. Me too. But I needed to find a killer first. Guess I wouldn’t be jogging outdoors this week.

  The ride was four hours long and there was still two hours to go, so I leaned back on my parka and thought about ways to train without my punching bag. At least my neck would get a rest; I’d strained it three times already this month. Man, I couldn’t believe I’d allowed myself to get talked into this. It hadn’t been easy to tell Detective Cody Lumos, the new guy I’d just started dating two weeks ago, that I was running off to the Laurentian Mountains the weekend before Christmas to investigate at my ex-boyfriend’s beck and call—especially since I’d refused him for the last three months on the grounds I was getting over this jerk. Luckily, he was an understanding guy. Since Rebel was away at her family’s place, he even agreed to feed my dog and water her plants. Running out of things to pout over, I pulled up the resort’s website on my phone to pass the time. The resort boasted adult-sized tree houses that were dispersed throughout a breath-taking forest—each with a sunny terrace, comfortable bed and a propane stovetop for cooking. It touted that it was a nature-loving thrill-seeker’s ideal adventure spot—sounded like my ex’s cup of tea, or rather can of beer; he wasn’t a big tea drinker. Personally, I hated the frigid temperatures of winter unless I was fireside, looking out at the dazzling snowflakes from the comfort of a cozy warm blanket. That was one of the main reasons Lucas and I hadn’t worked—well that and the bugs. I also hated mosquitos, blood-sucking pests that they were, which brought me back to the thought of Holly. After much hysterics, he’d finally told me that he’d found her frozen in the snow. She’d been iced in more ways than one. That was about as much as I knew. I accepted my lunch from the smiling steward—wine and smoked meat with a pickle on a pretzel bun. If Lucas was paying, then I might as well have some fun.

  Lucas was waiting for me on the platform of the Montreal train station when I arrived. He was tall, over six feet, with dark hair and dark eyes, cute in a way that would have been hot if it weren’t for his jagged teeth. They made him more guy next door, which unfortunately, I preferred. In small-town tradition, he and I had dated in high school, as had most of our friends. Musical chairs. We’d only gotten serious after having both moved away for years and returned. In that time I had become a police officer (who quit in the first year) and he had travelled the world hanging from cliffs and jumping from mountains. You could say we were like fire and ice but they probably had more in common.

  His lean, handsome face no longer looked lean and handsome. It looked gaunt under dark stubble. His large brown puppy-dog eyes were bleary, red and swollen. His broad shoulders were hunched inward—a far cry from the adventurous man who scaled mountains and navigated rapids on a regular basis.

  “She’s dead, Pen,” were the words he greeted me with. He held out a hand for my suitcase, ever courteous, even in his disheveled grief.

  “So you said,” I replied. I hadn’t expected his blushing bride to make a miraculous recovery since we last spoke but I kept that barbarous little retort to myself, lest my bitterness show. Instead I gave his outstretched hand a squeeze before letting him take my suitcase. The crowd surged around us as I stared at him, questions swirling.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said finally.

  Lucas stared down at the train station parking lot. “Somebody killed her,” he said softly, as if he still didn’t believe it.

  “I realize that,” I said. “I meant how?”

  Lucas raised his red-rimmed eyes to mine.

  “I don’t really know. I mean, I found her, Penelope. She was…” He dropped his eyes again and then reached out and touched my boob.

  “Whoa, buddy. What are you doing? This is not how we console each other… anymore.” As a matter of fact, he hadn’t tried this move since he was fourteen.

  “Sorry,” he said and inched back. “You have something…”

  I looked down and removed the tiniest piece of pickle from the sweater beneath my coat. Ugh, I was a hot mess. “You mentioned face down in the snow?” I asked again, unable to keep the impatience out of my tone.

  “I just don’t know!” Curious faces turned our way. Damn. He brought his head back up, but his eyes weren’t seeing me. They were looking through me.

  “Did you call the police?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “The woman who runs the resort did,” he answered quietly. “Marie-Angelique—she’s the one who invited me to the resort on business. Holly hated the look of the place but she decided to tag along, anyway.” He looked at me and then looked down sheepishly. “We hadn’t had a proper honeymoon.”

  “Aw, poor you guys.” I said, with a sigh. “And then what?”

  “And then I found her last night,” he began. He took a breath and continued, his voice a little stronger. “When I found her body, I ran back to the main chalet and one of the owners was still up.” Lucas’ face paled beneath its stubble. “They called the local Police Department.” His eyes focused on mine suddenly. “Penelope, they think I did it.”

  “The owners think you killed Holly?” I prodded.

  “No.” Lucas swallowed. His eyes went wild again. “The detective in charge questioned me for hours!”

  “And they took your fingerprints?”

  He nodded.

  “Did they take anyone else’s?”

  His eyes refocused. “I think so.”

  “So, they’re not just
targeting you then, Lucas. Calm down. Did they search everyone’s room?”

  “No, just mine, but one of the guests asked the cops if they had a search warrant.”

  “Are the police still at the resort?”

  “They left right before I drove out to pick you up. They’d been at the resort since I found Holly last night, just before eleven—asking questions, searching.” Panic was seeping into his voice again. He picked up speed. “Detective Bumble said he’d be back to see me later. He practically dangled his cuffs at me when he said it.”

  I stopped walking, which forced him to turn to look at me. Then I cleared my throat and looked straight into his frightened eyes. “Why are you so panicked? You didn’t kill her, did you?”

  “No!” he yelped. The intensity of his answer turned the heads of the last of the disembarking passengers. “Of course not,” he said in a deeper, modulated tone. He closed his eyes for a few heartbeats. When he opened them again, they were clear of panic. Then he straightened his shoulders. “Penelope,” he said in a nearly steady voice. “I made a mistake leaving you. I was a jerk to you but I swear that I did not kill Holly. Please, say you believe me.”

  I looked into his sincere red eyes and believed him completely. Well, almost completely. “Then, who did?” I asked.

  He began to crumble again, shoulders first. “I don’t know. I don’t know! I can’t even believe it happened. She was just face down in the snow.” His voice was leaping in pitch.

  “We’ll figure out who did this together,” I promised rashly. I would say anything at this point to alleviate his mounting hysteria. “But I’ll need your cooperation. Let’s get on the road and you can fill me in on the way.”

  He opened my door for me and swept his arm out to gesture me inside his truck. I sat back, opened the weather app on my phone and scrolled through the many warnings and alerts about the snow currently pounding Quebec City. “They’re saying we should start seeing serious snow by tonight.” I set my phone aside