Acts of Malice

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  ‘‘So what’s the cockamamie story Jimmy told you about the shirt?’’ Sandy asked Nina.

  ‘‘He seemed to be as shocked about the fibers as I was. After he thought about it, Jim said that everybody in town wears those shirts. They’re from Miller’s Outpost down at the Y. He reminded me that the Tecnicas were in his father’s truck and asked if they could have come into contact with a shirt there. He also said someone must be trying to frame him.’’

  ‘‘Quick thinking,’’ Sandy said dryly. ‘‘So, after stomping Alex to death, the killer lifted some fibers off the dead man, found the boots in the car and planted evidence to frame Jim. I think a coo-coo bird got in here.’’

  Tony said, ‘‘Look. Let’s get real.’’ He was a local and a friend of Sandy’s with a P.I. license, shrewd and honest even if, at sixty-seven, he was a bit over the hill for the more physical aspects of his work.

  ‘‘We just don’t know enough yet,’’ Nina said. ‘‘Philip Strong was on the mountain that day. So was Marianne Strong. They both knew the area where the brothers were skiing.’’ Nina told them about Marianne’s continuing interest in Jim.

  ‘‘I happened to get a look at Alex’s will at the house. He left everything to Marianne, but it’s what he left that I found interesting. The will stated that he was leaving his interest in a one-sixth share of Paradise to Marianne, and also the additional one-sixth share recently purchased from his sister Kelly. Jim holds one sixth, and their father holds the remaining one half. So Marianne now owns one third of the stock. That’s a lot of stock.’’

  ‘‘How much is it worth?’’

  ‘‘Jim thinks his share is worth half a million dollars, so hers is worth a million now. Tony, we have to look closely at this woman.’’

  ‘‘Maybe she has her own ideas on how to use the money,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘I could think of a few.’’

  ‘‘She sounds good. How about Heidi?’’ Wish asked. ‘‘Was she skiing too?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Nina said. ‘‘And she’s an expert skier too. All of them are experts. A mountainful of athletes in ski boots.’’

  ‘‘Expert skiers,’’ Tony said with a snort. ‘‘Arrogant punks with money to play all day and party all night. Bet your client’s real surprised to find himself knocked off his skis like this. Probably never had anything happen to him worse than a stubbed toe.’’

  ‘‘I would like to mention that Philip Strong hands the Women’s Shelter a big check every Christmas,’’ said Sandy. ‘‘Not everyone with a little money in his pocket is an unproductive slacker.’’

  She and Tony exchanged a sideways look, and Nina wondered where Tony fit into Sandy’s life. Just about everyone she recommended was a member of her extended family.

  Tony moved back to the question of whether someone else could have killed Alex.

  ‘‘Even if other parties were hanging around with nefarious intentions, there was only a ten-minute window, assuming the client is telling the truth. Otherwise, the client would have seen somebody do something,’’ he said.

  ‘‘It’s early yet,’’ Nina said, stressing the words. ‘‘And we are assuming he is telling the truth. We’re his support. His family seems to have abandoned him. I’ve just heard his father left town. He was really grief stricken when I talked to him.’’

  ‘‘Judging from the fact that I’m sitting here, I figured the client wasn’t planning to plead out,’’ said Tony.

  ‘‘He swears he didn’t do it,’’ Nina said.

  Nobody said anything.

  ‘‘So I’ll see what I can find out about Marianne Strong,’’ Tony finally said. ‘‘And I’ll check out the father. Any idea where he was the day of the accident?’’ They were still calling it an accident.

  Nina said, ‘‘He was at Paradise, maybe on the mountain, maybe at the lodge. Try to firm that up, Tony. But, honestly, I don’t think Mr. Strong could kill his son. He’s taking some time off, and according to Jim, he’s staying with his daughter on the North Shore. Talk to Jessica Sweet, an employee there. She wants to help. Wish will be glad to help you. I’m going to have a look at the place where Alex died this afternoon. I may ask you to go up there tomorrow and take photos.

  ‘‘Which brings us back to Heidi,’’ Nina went on. ‘‘Marianne Strong claims that Heidi confessed to her that she was having an affair. But she wouldn’t say with whom.’’

  ‘‘I sincerely hope it wasn’t with Alex,’’ said Ginger.

  ‘‘Big nail in Jim’s coffin,’’ Sandy agreed.

  ‘‘I’ll see what I can dredge up,’’ Tony said. ‘‘All right, let’s review the alternative killers.’’

  ‘‘His father?’’ Wish said.

  ‘‘Would a father kill his son like that, and try to hang it on his other son? What the hell?’’ Tony said.

  ‘‘Yeah? What the hell?’’ Wish said, his eyes wide as he pondered this.

  ‘‘Watch your mouth,’’ Sandy told her son. ‘‘How about Marianne? If she killed her husband, she’d have a crack at Jim, if she also could get Heidi out of the picture. Which she did.’’

  ‘‘But how could Marianne get Jim’s Tecnicas and the turtleneck shirt together?’’ Wish asked. ‘‘I’ve got a shirt just like that. No wrinkles and they don’t show the dirt. Everybody wears them because they’re like sweats but kinda formal. Black is the best.’’ He nodded approvingly at Ginger.

  ‘‘Where did you get your shirt?’’ asked Ginger.

  ‘‘At Miller’s Outpost. Just like Jim said. Everybody wears them.’’

  ‘‘Hmm. Now there’s a tantalizing notion, dude,’’ said Ginger. ‘‘I’m thinking I’ll stop there on my way out of town and buy a few black turtlenecks.’’

  ‘‘And compare the fibers, right?’’ Wish said, excited.

  Ginger said, deadpan, ‘‘No, I’m gonna give ’em to the gamblers on the road out of town who lost their shirts.’’

  ‘‘Oh, wow,’’ said Wish, nodding.

  At home, Nina dug out slightly mildewed ski bibs and fresh wool socks. In this weather, nineteen degrees and dropping, she wasn’t looking forward to doing what she had to do next.

  Jim waited at the door to Paradise Lodge. It was barely one o’clock, still snowing slightly, the top of the mountain bearded in cloud, but windless and bitterly cold.

  ‘‘Back home safely?’’ Nina said. ‘‘No trouble with the bail?’’

  ‘‘Smooth as silk. Anything new?’’ Rose-tinted goggles covered half his face. He looked right at home in his blue ski suit, arms and legs straining at the material as if he were an action hero in a kid’s TV program.

  ‘‘No. Lots of things in progress,’’ she answered. That about exhausted the conversation. Very likely he also dreaded this morbid field trip.

  For a few minutes, they occupied themselves with the skis. Nina had trouble with the bindings, and Jim knelt at her feet to adjust them.

  Outside again, they made their way over to the lifts. Not many skiers had come out to brave the white sky, so they had the big quad lift to themselves. As the ground slipped away under them, then became invisible, Nina clutched at the camera in her jacket. Still there, but what would be the use? Even if they found the spot where Alex had died the weather made good photos unlikely. Even with Jim along to help her find the way, could she ski well enough to track the path of an expert skier? The cold slithering into her bibs made her bones feel brittle, fragile.

  From the top of the quad lift, at eighty-three hundred feet above sea level, they took another lift. On a clear day the lake would be shining below. Today, she could barely see Jim. The snow sped past lightly, stinging her face, small dry flakes that meant great weekend skiing.

  ‘‘Maybe we should come back,’’ she finally said as he helped her up after she spilled off the lift, losing a ski. ‘‘I’m not an expert—the weather makes it hard to take pictures and—’’

  ‘‘Let’s get it over with. You’re with an expert. I won’t let anything happen to you. You have t
o see them

  —the rocks and the cliff. We’re suited up now. I don’t care if we can’t get any pictures.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘I’ll carry you on my back if I have to. Just take it easy. The fresh snow will give us more traction—otherwise it might be too icy for you to manage.’’

  She followed him carefully along a ridge which took them above a misty ridge and canyon, skiing glumly behind him on the narrow trail, her wool hat pulled low.

  They went over the mountain, like the proverbial bear, but all that they could see was near whiteout. The tourists no doubt were down in the warm casinos, drinking Bloody Marys and watching their money disappear like magic.

  ‘‘Wait a minute,’’ Nina said. ‘‘I don’t remember seeing this run on my map.’’

  ‘‘It’s not. We’re off-piste.’’

  ‘‘Off what?’’ She was pissed off all right, pissed that she’d agreed to do this, pissed to be so cold, pissed at the snow melting between her bibs and gloves, pissed at her mood, so unlike her, so apprehensive.

  ‘‘Off-trail. Out of bounds,’’ Jim said.

  Nina remembered. Marianne had used the same term.

  ‘‘Alex always liked to say he owned this mountain. We ski wherever we want, and this is where we skied that day. C’mon,’’ he said. ‘‘The first part’s easy.’’ He disappeared over the edge.

  ‘‘Oh, sure.’’ Inching toward the edge, she saw a treeless slope and no trail, but not much of an angle. She bit her lip and stopped briefly to give herself a mental pep talk. Pushing off, she made her way cautiously down to the ledge where Jim was waiting. Now the slope was becoming much steeper.

  ‘‘I’d love to show you how I really ski this, another time,’’ Jim said. ‘‘But for now—see that tree off to the right about a hundred yards? Go there, as slowly as you can. I’ll be right beside you.’’ He stayed with her and she managed it, thrashing about like a small clumsy elephant next to his elegant antelope.

  ‘‘Your turns need work,’’ Jim said as she came to a stop, breathless with anxiety.

  ‘‘No kidding.’’

  ‘‘So. Now follow me very carefully down this snowfield. At the bottom is the cliff. You don’t want to go off like—’’

  ‘‘Okay, okay. Just go slow.’’

  ‘‘I’ve got you.’’ He went ahead, walking sideways on the mountain in a herringbone pattern, in perfect control.

  Go slow, she ordered herself. With exquisite caution she inched out onto the snowfield. Unexpectedly, the skis pushed down into the snow just enough to hold her, but not enough to trip her, which gave her the courage to continue. Down she went, imagining herself, a tiny dark speck in the white scheme of things.

  When they were about twenty feet from the edge, Jim motioned to her to turn toward the right, where she could see that the slope resumed. Unfortunately, just as she turned, the skis chose to turn a slightly different way.

  And she was off, sliding toward the cliff.

  ‘‘Sit down!’’ Jim yelled, but the movement had its own life, and it was taking her along with it. Flashes of panic alternated with exhilaration—she had never skied so smoothly, so fast, sliding down this glassy slope into oblivion. She tried to turn toward the trees, but she was going to go off Alex’s cliff, join him—

  A hard body bowled her over backwards, falling onto her.

  ‘‘Don’t move,’’ Jim said. She lay on her back, panting, looking up into his goggles. Her hat had fallen off. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. She lay there, panting, his weight still on her.

  She became aware that he wasn’t moving, and made a tentative motion with her body, which only dug her deeper into the snow.

  ‘‘Nina?’’ Jim said. ‘‘You feel good. Under me like this.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ she said. ‘‘What did you say?’’ She started to push him off, but he didn’t move.

  ‘‘Don’t worry. You weren’t in any danger. There was plenty of time to take you down.’’

  ‘‘I’m going back up. I’ve had enough.’’ She pushed at him again, succeeding only in digging herself farther into the snow.

  ‘‘Too steep,’’ Jim said. ‘‘Better to traverse this stretch and go down the side. It gets easier from here.’’

  ‘‘Get off me!’’

  He rolled away and she tried to get up, but she couldn’t. ‘‘Here,’’ he said, and held out a hand. He kept holding her arm as they moved carefully to the right side. As he had said, the slope became more gentle. ‘‘Here’s the tree I nearly hit,’’ he said. He pointed to a small fir with low-hanging branches. ‘‘Would have impaled me,’’ he went on.

  He seemed unaware that he’d just acted like a complete asshole. For a moment, he had made her feel helpless and frightened. She kept well away from him now. Had he really said what she thought she’d heard?

  He had also quite possibly saved her life. Should she thank him or verbally lambaste him?

  She really, really wanted this to be over soon.

  ‘‘I don’t appreciate the way you spoke to me just now,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Yeah, I was way out of line. Sorry. It just popped out. Stress, you know?’’

  ‘‘Don’t do it again.’’

  ‘‘Right.’’

  A pause, and then Nina said, ‘‘But thanks for stopping me.’’

  ‘‘Least I could do. Are we okay, then?’’

  ‘‘I guess so,’’ Nina said, but her uneasiness lingered.

  She took her camera out and took a few pictures of Jim standing against the tree, showing where he had nearly hit it, at the same moment he heard Alex strike the rocks below. They were probably going to be useless because she couldn’t get any perspective into the scene.

  ‘‘Did Marianne snowboard this run or is it too steep?’’

  ‘‘Looking for suspects? Nothing’s too steep for Marianne. I don’t know about that day. She could have been on either side. I just don’t know.’’

  Nina remembered Marianne denying that she ever skied the Cliff. ‘‘Heidi?’’

  ‘‘She’s fantastic on skis. A ballerina of the slopes.’’

  ‘‘Did she know about this run?’’

  ‘‘Come on. Heidi kill Alex? Why?’’

  ‘‘And your father?’’

  ‘‘Ah, yes. My father. He was here within five minutes after I got down and told Jerry, the guy who runs the Ogre lift, to radio the lodge. So he was close by.’’

  ‘‘Somebody must have seen something,’’ Nina said.

  Jim said nothing.

  In spite of everything, she knew that she had been right to make the effort to come here. She could almost see Alex now, flying toward the cliff, the two of them laughing madly, see Jim pivot away just in time to hit that tree, see Alex gone in an instant and hear the sickening thud. She had needed to see this place, inaccessible as it was.

  ‘‘Ready for the last bit?’’ Jim said.

  ‘‘As I’ll ever be.’’ They picked their way cautiously down the side slope to the rocks below the cliff. It took at least twenty minutes.

  They were in an almost flat place. The rocks on the left stuck up as much as five feet from the snow cover, but most of the rest consisted of a sort of sloping shelf with a variation of only two or three inches from place to place, swept clear of snow by wind. She looked up. The cliff above this island of granite couldn’t be more than twenty feet high. It was a rock wall, practically vertical, with a snowy unstable-looking overhang at the top. At the bottom of the wall ice and piles of snow were evidence that bits of the cornice must shear off from time to time.

  She had narrowly avoided going over that thing. Alex hadn’t been so lucky.

  The wind was coming up. Sitting down on the broad granite shelf, Nina removed her skis, plunging them into the snow at the foot of the rocks so they couldn’t slide away.

  Torn police tape still fluttered here and there. Off in the bushes an empty Pepsi can lay crushed. T
he island of upthrust rocks was about thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep. On either side, clean snow had already covered the tracks of the emergency personnel and the police.

  ‘‘Show me,’’ she said. Jim skied up and stopped a few feet away. He took his skis and goggles off, too, and sat down beside her on the rocky ledge. She began taking photos.

  ‘‘We’re here. The visibility was better, and the wind stayed down that day,’’ he said. ‘‘I found him right here.’’ His hand caressed a flat area next to the sharp upthrust. ‘‘There was blood on these sharp rocks. I don’t see it now. That’s where he must have fallen first, then slipped to here. He was on his back, his leg twisted under him when I found him.’’ In the absolute stillness, his voice sounded amplified.

  ‘‘Did you see any other tracks? Before the rescue people arrived?’’

  ‘‘No. I was trying to help Alex. I wasn’t looking.’’ She felt that if they shouted they would be heard miles away. ‘‘Were his eyes open?’’

  ‘‘No! But he was—moaning. I hate to think about it. I told you, he was still alive.’’

  ‘‘How far is it to the bottom?’’

  ‘‘A few hundred feet. The paramedics climbed up. Harder that way, if you ask me. The Ski Patrol had no trouble skiing down like we did.’’

  ‘‘So he was lying there, face up, moaning.’’

  ‘‘He was bleeding. Here, now I can see it.’’ Brownish stains—she saw them now. ‘‘Where were the skis?’’

  ‘‘One still on. The other farther down the hill. I carried them down for him as we left. And the poles.’’

  ‘‘What was the first thing you did?’’

  ‘‘I said, ‘Hey, buddy . . .’ He didn’t answer. He was in shock. I—I was afraid to move him. You have to worry about a broken neck. I’ve had ski emergency training. I should have left him just like that and skied down the rest of the hill for help, but when I was actually in the situation, I couldn’t just leave him. I was talking to him the whole time.’’