by Mary Maxwell
Harper frowned. “I’m gonna leave out the part about the shoes, too,” she said. “Connie’s got a serious Jimmy Choo habit. If you mention that lawyer’s fancy heels, you’ll have to listen to her brag all about the new pair of boots she bought in San Francisco last month. They cost twice as much as our monthly rent.”
“I promise,” I said, carefully stacking the boxes of cupcakes. “I won’t ask Connie about her shoes.”
Harper scurried across the room and opened the door. “Good luck,” she said as I gingerly cradled the boxes and headed for my car. “I’ll be here for another half hour or so. But if I don’t see you before I leave, I hope you and Zack have a fun dinner tonight!”
CHAPTER 3
Connie Larson was standing on the front steps at Crescent Creek Lodge when I arrived fifteen minutes behind schedule. I pulled into the circle drive, cut the engine and climbed out from behind the wheel just in time to see her glance at her watch.
“Sorry!” I called. “I had everything timed perfectly, but then someone stopped by out of the blue.”
Connie was a tall woman with prematurely silver hair, rouged cheeks and a heart-shaped face. She was ten years older than me—somewhere around forty or so—and her body was a testament to yoga, Pilates and dietary willpower. She was always stylish and immaculate, dressed from head to toe in designer clothes, tasteful jewelry and fashionable shoes.
“I had every intention to be on time,” I added. “And I have a witness! Harper will testify that—”
“Don’t worry about it, Katie,” she interrupted. “The party isn’t starting on time after all. A couple of flights were delayed because of storms in Atlanta, so two of the bridesmaids won’t even be here until around six-thirty.”
I carefully lifted the white boxes from the backseat, closed the door with my hip and started toward the entrance. Connie held out her arms, offering to help me carry the cupcakes.
“I’m good,” I said. “But you look bushed.”
She rolled her eyes. “Mr. Thornton was here again last night,” she explained. “He got tipsy, went out on the back terrace and started singing Barry Manilow songs around midnight.”
“I don’t think I know Mr. Thornton,” I said. “Is he a regular?”
Connie nodded. “The poor guy lost the love of his life to cancer. They met when they were kids and he comes here to grieve. Care to guess her name?”
It seemed too easy, but I went for the obvious answer. “Mandy?”
“Close,” Connie said, shaking her head. “It was Sandy. But poor Neville Thornton thought another girl called her Mandy, so he started serenading her in front of all the other kids with Manilow’s big hit. I guess that song was one of his mom’s favorites so he heard it all the time.”
“What happened to Mr. Thornton and Sandy?” I asked. “Was it happily ever after once recess ended? Or did she turn on her heel and snub his singing?”
“More the first one,” Connie said. “They actually got married and had a family together, two boys and one girl. But then Sandy got really sick and she…” Her eyes welled with tears. “Sorry, I still get emotional about it. He’s stayed with us every year since we first opened, so I feel like he’s kind of my second father or something.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dried her damp cheeks. “I’m a total sap, Katie! I cry because it’s such a touching story.”
“How is it possible I’ve never heard about them?” I asked. “I may have been in Chicago the past few years, but my mother usually kept me updated on all the local news.”
Connie shook her head. “Neville and Sandy didn’t live in Crescent Creek,” she explained. “Both of their families actually moved to Denver when they were kids. That’s why it seems like fate meant them to be together; they ended up at the same school again the year after they met.”
“Then what’s the Crescent Creek connection?” I asked. “Why does Mr. Thornton come back every year and croon Barry Manilow songs?”
“He’s the most sentimental man I’ve ever met,” Connie answered. “Even though they moved away, he comes back every year to put a bouquet of roses on the place he first saw Sandy.”
“Where’s that?”
“The playground at the elementary school,” Connie said.
I smiled. “That sounds kind of—”
“Sad and cheesy?” Connie opened the front door and waited until I’d stepped into the wide entry hall. “Tacky and weird?”
“I was thinking more poignant and heartbreaking,” I said. “Do you want the cupcakes in the kitchen?”
“That’ll be perfect. Jasper and his sister Eloise are handling the bachelorette party. They’ve got two large silver platters ready for the sweet treats.”
I followed Connie across the foyer, around a corner and down a long gallery lined with framed pictures from the hotel’s illustrious past. Originally built as a grand mountain retreat for a Denver banker and his family, the rambling house had been converted into a chic hotel by Connie and her husband about ten years earlier. They’d intended to open a low-key bed and breakfast, but the elegant estate had become immensely popular after a video from the hotel’s first wedding reception went viral. Over the years, they’d tripled the number of guest suites and meeting rooms with two sizable additions.
At the end of the gallery, we entered the hotel’s large dining room. It had previously served as the original owner’s library and billiard room, but Connie and Trevor knocked down walls to create an expansive space with picture-perfect views of the mountains through a wall of French doors that opened to a wide terrace. With its white tablecloths, sparkling place settings and stylish décor, the dining room was a favorite destination for local families celebrating special occasions or travelers relaxing after a day spent hiking or skiing in the surrounding area.
“We’re expecting a full house tonight,” Connie said, zigzagging between tables toward the kitchen. “We’ve got tons of reservations for dinner plus the bachelorette party and a pair of birthdays.”
“Sounds like business is booming,” I said.
She chuckled. “Yes, we feel so lucky and blessed. You know, we took a gamble on this place, Katie.”
When we reached the far side of the room, Connie paused to peer through the tiny window in a swinging door. “Let me make sure the coast is clear,” she said. “We had an unfortunate gravy boat accident the other night.” She looked left and right into the kitchen before pushing against the door. “It’s safe,” she said with a lighthearted smile. “There’s no one in here at all.”
I followed her into the kitchen, put the cupcakes on the counter and admired the ornate silver platters that she’d mentioned earlier.
“These are gorgeous, Connie.”
She beamed. “My sister gave those to us for our tenth anniversary last month.”
“Well, they’re stunning.” I gave her a little wink. “And if they’d fit in my purse, I might be tempted to commit my first criminal offense.”
We shared a quick laugh and Connie offered a cup of coffee. “I don’t know about you,” she said, filling two pale green mugs. “But I need a big jolt of java right about now.”
As I sipped my coffee, she went into the pantry and came back with a plate of the hotel’s homemade Ginger Chippers, delicious and chewy gingersnap cookies studded with chocolate chips, dried cranberries and chopped walnuts.
“These are so amazing,” I said after my first bite. “Where’d you get the recipe?”
“My mother made them when we were kids,” Connie answered. “They’re an old family favorite.”
“Well, I’m inspired to recreate them at Sky High,” I said.
Connie laughed. “Or I can just give you the—”
Before she could finish, the side door slammed open and a ruddy-faced man dressed in a white chef’s coat lurched into the room. His name was Jasper Turner. Connie had introduced us when he joined her kitchen staff the previous month.
“There you are!” he gasped. “I’ve been looking al
l over for you!”
Connie quickly put her coffee on the counter. “What’s going on, Jasper?” She took a few steps toward the distressed man. “Is everything okay?”
Jasper leaned against the walk-in cooler, struggling to catch his breath. He was trembling and frazzled; the expression on his face was a blur of fear and shock. Connie walked over and put one hand on his shoulder.
“Jasper?” Despite the sudden turn of events, her voice was calm and steady. “What is it, dear?”
The guy’s face was ashen and his watery blue eyes were wide with fright. “There’s a body,” he stammered in a trembling voice. “Eloise found a body in the gazebo.”
CHAPTER 4
I stared at Jasper for a brief moment, my mind racing with the inexplicable news. Then a massive bolt of adrenaline surged through me, igniting the familiar sensations from my years as a PI. Even though I’d returned to my hometown to run the family business, my mind was hardwired to take action whenever I heard about someone in need.
“We need to call 911,” I said, reaching into my purse. “And we need to—”
“I did that already!” Jasper lifted his hand so we could see his phone. “They’re on the way.”
“Okay, perfect. In that case, someone should…”
I turned to Connie, but she was slumped against the counter, mouth open and unblinking eyes fixed on the floor.
“Connie?”
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything.
“I’m going outside to take a look.” I waited until she’d acknowledged my remark with a small nod. “Will you go out front and wait for the police?”
She nodded again.
“And Jasper?” I turned to the man in the chef’s coat. “Where’s Eloise?”
He pointed at the open door. “She’s on a bench out in the gardens. She started walking back with me, but then her legs got really unsteady. I was afraid she was going to faint.”
“Okay,” I said. “Come with me and sit with Eloise until she can get back inside. I’ll go down to the gazebo and have a look.”
“Sure,” he said. “But the guy’s dead. There’s nothing you can do for him.”
I gave Connie’s hand a quick squeeze and hurried out the door. Jasper followed me across the flagstone terrace. With a picturesque view of the mountains and a built-in fire pit, the expansive outdoor space was utilized often when the weather was favorable. Since it was January and winter was upon us, the tables and chairs had been covered with heavy green canvas tarps.
“Were you coming outside to meet Eloise?” I asked Jasper as we descended a flight of stone steps. “Or did she come and—”
“I heard her scream,” he said before I could finish. “I’d stepped outside for a second to cool off.” He gestured to the left when we reached a fork in the path. “We have three events tonight, and I got pretty sweaty hustling in the kitchen. I just thought maybe it would be…” He let the thought fade into a tense silence. Then he said, “I’ve never seen anyone look as terrified as Eloise did just now.”
“Let’s go find her, okay? You can help her get inside and I’ll go on down to the gazebo.”
Jasper nodded silently and lead the way. We walked another twenty feet down the curving path to a long stone bench that was nestled beneath a pergola made of pine and oak. Eloise Turner sat in the chilly air, teeth chattering and fingers working the hem of a white apron. I’d met her a few weeks earlier when I delivered a cake for an anniversary celebration.
“Eloise?” My voice sounded too loud for the quiet setting.
She didn’t acknowledge our arrival in any way. Jasper took a few steps closer before kneeling on the ground and gently shaking her arm.
“Oh!” she gasped. “I’m sorry…” Her eyes quickly moved from Jasper’s face to mine and then back again. “Did you tell Connie?”
“Yes,” Jasper answered. “And the police are on the way.”
“Eloise,” I said. “My name is Kate Reed. I think you—”
“From the pie place, right?”
Her question seemed incongruous to the situation, but I answered with a quick smile. Then I suggested that she return to the hotel with Jasper.
“What for?” Her voice was delicate and low. “I’m okay here.”
I walked under the pergola and sat beside her. “You should probably go inside,” I said slowly. “Maybe someone can fix you a cup of tea.”
She shook her head. “I’m not thirsty.”
I shot a quick look at Jasper, lifting my chin and tilting my head just enough to invite him to intervene.
“Wheezy?” A faint grin crossed her lips at the sound of the nickname. “Come into the kitchen with me, okay?”
When Jasper took her hand and stood up, Eloise followed him without question. Between the fright of finding a body and the ensuing tempest of emotions, she was clearly numb with shock.
“Thanks, Jasper,” I said as they walked away. “I’ll wait out here until the police arrive.”
I watched them for a few seconds longer. There was something sweet and touching about the way he slipped one arm around her waist and she dropped her head onto his shoulder. After they vanished around a tall hedgerow, I turned and quickly walked another thirty feet down the winding gravel path to the gazebo.
Connie and her husband had added the outdoor pavilion to serve as an open-air location for yoga classes, intimate dinners and special events. It was a spacious structure, something around fifteen feet in diameter, built from hand-hewn beams that were reclaimed from an old ski chalet that once stood on nearby land.
I approached slowly, watching for anything underfoot and pausing at the bottom of a short staircase. With the exception of a single muddy footprint and a few drops of what appeared to be coffee, I didn’t notice anything significant on the stairs. When I reached the top step, I stopped again to take in the scene.
A man dressed in a tuxedo and white shirt was sprawled in the middle of the gazebo. He was on his back with one leg tucked beneath the other at an awkward angle. He looked to be around forty or so, with a scruffy beard, a prominent scar on one cheek and a tattoo on the back of his left hand. There was a contusion on his forehead, a jagged and bloody blemish that appeared to be fresh. His eyes, wide and dark, were fixed on the metal roof. His mouth was open slightly and white foam speckled his lips. The cuffs of his trousers were frayed slightly and his shirt was splattered with reddish-brown drops of dried blood. A white glove covered his right hand and a tuft of bright pink fabric extended from inside the left sleeve of his jacket.
“What were you doing out here?” I whispered, kneeling beside the man. “And how did this happen?”
I carefully pushed up his right sleeve. When I checked for a pulse, there was nothing to discover; his heart had obviously stopped beating and his skin was growing cold. I repositioned the sleeve and leaned in to study the sizeable wound above his left eye. It looked like blunt force trauma; the type of injury sustained when you’re hit by a heavy object or strike your head during a fall. There was something gritty and brown on the wound. After a few moments of speculation about the granular substance, I stood and scanned the interior of the gazebo.
My eyes came to rest on the nearest bench, jutting toward the man at an unusual angle. It was one of six arranged around the edge of the platform. Since the other five were flush with the railing, it seemed reasonable that the man had somehow fallen, struck his head on the bench and then tumbled to the floor. I moved closer and noticed blood on one corner of the seat.
After ten years as a PI in Chicago, I knew that protecting the integrity of a crime scene was paramount. Since I’d confirmed that the man was dead, I decided to go back down the steps and wait on the gravel pathway until the first responders arrived.
As I stood in the silence, I spotted something bright blue a few feet from the edge of the path. It was one of the textured paper sleeves that coffee shops use when serving hot beverages. Since there are only a handful of java joints in Crescent
Creek, I knew instantly that the blue sleeve was from Uncommon Grounds on Westminster Street. I looked around the area, sweeping my gaze left and then right, until my eyes locked on a white paper cup a few feet further down the path.
“There you are,” I said quietly, walking closer to take a quick picture of the cup with my phone.
Whether purposefully thrown or accidentally dropped, the cup had landed just under a juniper bush. It was close enough that I could make out the day’s date and a name written on the side in black marker: Bitsy. There was only one person in town with that name, a woman called Bitsy Sanger. As I wondered why she might have visited the Lodge earlier in the day, I heard the familiar squeal of a walkie-talkie in the distance. A few seconds later, I saw Amanda Crane, an officer with the Crescent Creek PD, scurrying down the gravel path. She was followed by Dina Kincaid, the department’s lead detective, and a pair of EMTs carrying trauma kits.
“Kate?” Amanda said as she approached. “Did you call this in?”
“No,” I answered. “I checked for a pulse and then came down here to wait until you arrived.”
Dina moved closer, peering at the man in the gazebo. “Did you find him?”
I shook my head. “Eloise Turner,” I said, as the EMTs began to examine the man. “She works in the kitchen.”
“So…” Dina’s mouth formed a weary smile. “I’m a little confused here, Kate. We had an anonymous call shortly before Jasper Turner’s. It was a woman reporting someone in distress. She used one of the house phones inside the hotel.”
“I don’t know about that. I was in the kitchen with Connie when Jasper rushed in and told us that Eloise had found this guy.” I nodded at the man in the tuxedo. “Since Jasper had already called 911, I came straightaway to see if I could render aid.”
She nodded. “Okay, so the distress call was—”