“Do you know where he went?”
“To the Nordic Center. He snowshoes on one of their trails once a week or so. Says it helps him think. In the summer, it’s fly-fishing for trout.”
“When will he return?”
The receptionist glanced at the clock, which showed eleven-fifteen. “Not for a couple of hours.”
“I guess I could call him on his cell phone.”
The receptionist shook her head. “He never takes it with him, doesn’t want to be interrupted while he’s mulling over a case. You might catch him before he heads out on the trail. The note on the board says he left a few minutes ago.”
Claire trotted to her car and drove up winding Ski Hill Road to the Breckenridge Nordic Center, located about a mile below the Peak Eight base area. She parked in the crowded lot shaded by tall lodgepole pine trees and got out.
The center was a gray building with forest green trim, fronted by tall flagpoles bearing flags of a dozen or so skiing countries. Claire recognized Switzerland’s flag, a white cross against a red background. A strong breeze swayed the pines and snapped the flags.
The sun was shining again after yesterday’s storm. Claire walked from the shadow of the trees into the bright clearing in front of the center. Lifting her face to the warm rays, she took a deep breath of the cool, crisp air and looked around. A couple of wooden Adirondack chairs sat in the snow outside the center. Nursing a cup of hot chocolate in one of those sun-soaked chairs sure would feel good.
She shook her head and marched to the door. I don’t have time now for soaking up sun.
Inside, a family sat on wooden benches around a black potbelly stove and munched on sandwiches. Claire’s stomach growled. A woman smiled at her from behind a long counter. The woman wore a yellow fleece vest with some kind of logo on the front.
Claire approached the desk. “I’m looking for Detective Silverstone. Have you seen him?”
The woman nodded. “He left a few minutes ago, heading for the Peaks Trailhead parking lot.”
“Where’s that?”
The woman pulled out a trail map and showed Claire a small parking lot farther up Ski Hill Road that serviced intermediate and advanced cross-country and snowshoe trails. “You going to join him on the trail?”
“I hope to catch him before he leaves.”
“Better hurry.”
Claire ran to her car and drove to the lot. She pulled alongside a sheriff’s car and climbed out. She didn’t see the detective anywhere. She spotted the snowshoe trailhead and ran over. Seeing no one, Claire cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Detective Silverstone?”
She walked a short way down the trail that was already somewhat packed down by morning snowshoers and shouted again. No answer. Damn.
Claire returned to the Nordic Center. This time, she noticed a snack counter off to one side. Having a little lunch by the stove while she waited for him to return seemed like a pleasant proposition.
“Will Detective Silverstone come back here?” she asked the receptionist.
“No. He usually heads out on rounds after he leaves the trail. He’ll phone in sometime this afternoon so we know he made it out. He’s good about checking in and out. But there’s no reason for him to stop at the center. He has his own snowshoes.”
Thoughts of a warm, cozy lunch faded. The prospect of sitting in her car waiting for him at the parking lot didn’t thrill her. Plus, she couldn’t afford a long wait. She and Roger had to deliver the gift basket to the Continos, and Roger wanted to ski that afternoon. It looked like the only way to track down the detective was to follow him on the trail.
Claire pulled out the map the woman had given her. “Okay, which trail did he take?”
“He always takes the same route.” Her finger ran alongside a path marked with an expert black diamond.
“Gluteus Maximus?”
“No, that’s a cross-country ski trail next to the showshoe trail, which is called Engelman. He’ll take that to the Robin’s Nest loop trail, eat his lunch at Hallelujah Hut here, and return.” The woman ran her finger along the shorter side of the loop then studied Claire. “You ever snowshoe before?”
“No, but I need to get some information to Detective Silverstone right away.”
“And he never takes his cell phone with him.” The woman tapped her lips. “You could go up Engleman and the short section of Robin’s Nest and try to meet him at the hut or catch him on the return trip.”
“How long does each part of the trail take?”
“For an experienced snowshoer like the detective, that section of Engleman takes about thirty minutes, and the long side of Robin’s Nest about forty-five minutes. He spends about fifteen minutes eating lunch at the shelter, and forty-five heading back on the short side of Robin’s Nest and Engelman.”
Claire did the math. Hopefully, after less than an hour, she’d be at Hallelujah Hut and she could talk to the detective on the way back. “I suppose my own gluteus maximus could use a workout.”
The woman cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, it’ll get one all right. You haven’t come from sea level, have you?”
“No, from Colorado Springs, and I work out and downhill ski.”
“I still don’t recommend it, but I guess you’ll survive.”
Fifteen minutes later, Claire had rented snowshoes and hiking poles and gotten a lesson from the woman on how to put on the shoes and use them. She had also purchased a day pass, a couple of PowerBars, and a bottle of water. She returned to the Peaks Trailhead parking lot. As she strapped on the shoes, she wondered if she was crazy.
You’re not an old dog, Claire. Look at it as a chance to learn new tricks. She took a step forward, wobbled and fell sideways in the snow. Yeah, right.
She pushed herself up using her poles and swiped the snow from her clothes. She tried to remember what the woman at the Nordic Center had said. Walk gently, take short strides, don’t lunge. Claire took a few tentative steps, shorter this time. Feeling more confident, she was soon actually enjoying herself. Striding across the snow, she puffed out her chest. Being alone on the trail made her feel as if she were an early explorer, setting out to conquer the wilderness.
A squirrel chittered at her from a tree. Claire looked up. She promptly stepped on the back of her forward snowshoe and did a face plant in a deep snowbank.
Pride goeth before a fall.
Laughing at herself, Claire sat up and spit out snow. Since she was already down, she took a swig of water from her bottle and unwrapped a PowerBar. She bit into the chocolate and peanut butter concoction. Not bad. She pushed herself onto her feet. The squirrel chittered again, but Claire refused to look.
You’re not fooling me again, you conniving bugger.
After a few minutes, the trail sloped uphill. Soon, Claire was huffing and puffing, and her calves were screaming. She checked her watch. Thirty minutes had passed, and she hadn’t reached the Robin’s Nest trail marker yet.
Claire gritted her teeth and drove her head forward. She counted steps in a marching cadence. Concentrating so hard on her steps, she almost missed the marker. Ahead to the right the trail flattened then rose again. At the top of the hill, Claire glimpsed a wooden structure. The hut? She pushed forward with renewed purpose. Too soon, the flat section ran out, and she was huffing her way uphill again.
When her throbbing legs refused to take another step, she stopped to unzip her jacket. Sweat poured down the middle of her back and between her breasts. But this wasn’t a hot flash. She gulped huge breaths, her sore body crying for oxygen. Around her, stately evergreens swayed in the breeze, rocky crags jutted out behind them, and marshmallow clouds moved slowly across the brilliant blue sky.
Another glance at her watch said forty-five minutes had passed and she still wasn’t to Hallelujah Hut. At this rate, she would be out here for well over two hours. Idiot. You should have waited in the car.
Plodding on with robotic determination, she drifted into a pain-induced haze, focusing only
on putting one increasingly heavy foot in front of the other. Finally, she spied the wooden shelter ahead. On a bench on the deck out front, the detective sat and stared out over the valley.
She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Detective Silverstone!”
He turned and stood. “Mrs. Hanover. What are you doing out here?”
She slogged her way to the bench and collapsed on it. After a few deep breaths, she found her voice again. “Looking for you.”
He lowered himself to the bench. “You look bushed. Have some water.” He held out his water bottle.
Clare waved him off, took out her own, and drank heavily. “Give me a minute.”
She rested her hands on her thighs and looked over the town of Breckenridge nestled in the valley below. “Great view.”
“Yes, indeed.” Silverstone’s gaze followed hers, while he rubbed an object in his palm.
“What’s that in your hand? You had it in the office, too, didn’t you?”
“This?” Looking a little sheepish, he opened his palm to reveal a carved shape in brown-tinted onyx. “It’s a Zuni fetish. Focuses my thinking when I rub it.”
Claire smiled. “Is it some kind of animal?”
“A badger. It stands for the ability to reach a desired goal, being single-minded and in control.”
“Appropriate, I guess, for a detective.” And me on this hellacious trek. “You have American Indian ancestry?”
“My mother was Navajo.”
“But you’re so tall.”
“From my father—a Swede.” He stowed the fetish in his pocket. “Now what was so important that it brought you all the way out here?”
“First, I need to give you this.” She dug Boyd’s drawing of the black-garbed skier out of her pocket and handed it to the detective. “It’s the drawing Boyd made of the skier who crashed into Stephanie Contino.”
Silverstone frowned and spoke sternly. “Why didn’t you give this to me yesterday?”
“I didn’t have it then. I found it today.”
“Where?”
“Boyd’s trailer, in his trash can.”
“Wait a minute—”
She held up her hand, palm out. “I wasn’t breaking in. Pete, Boyd’s roommate, gave me permission to look for this.”
“So you knew where the drawing was and didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t know where it was until I talked to Pete yesterday. He told me Boyd had thrown it out.” Claire felt a flash of guilt. “Sorry. I should have called you then and told you.”
Silverstone raised a quizzical brow. “Now you’ve really got my curiosity piqued. How did you meet Pete, Mrs. Hanover?”
“Call me Claire, please.”
He put out his hand. “Owen.”
She pulled off her sweaty gloves and shook his hand. “Owen. Along with meeting Pete, I saw the killer this morning at the trailer, and his jacket matched the one in Boyd’s drawing.” She tapped the drawing.
Owen sat back and stared at her.
“He wore brown loafers. They’re a common type of shoe, I know, but not really up here. I didn’t get a look at his face, though.” She noted Owen’s confused expression. “But let me start at the beginning.”
She told him everything she could remember about her meeting with Pete the day before and her experience at the trailer.
Owen’s eyes grew even wider with the tale. “Do you realize how much danger you were in? You could have been killed.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“You shouldn’t have gone there alone.”
“Look, I thought Pete was going to be there, it was broad daylight, and all I wanted to do was get this drawing from him and give it to you. I didn’t deliberately put myself in danger.”
“I guess not. But from now on, leave the investigating to me.” Owen rubbed his chin. “Looks like at least one of these deaths wasn’t an accident if someone’s looking to cover his tracks. How tall would you say the man was?”
So he believes me now. Finally. “About six feet and lean.”
“Hair color?”
Claire shook her head. “He was wearing a cap and a Neoprene face mask. But he’s probably got a couple of good-sized lumps on his head now.”
“Your description could match either of the Contino men. I wonder what their alibis will be for today.”
Claire drew in a sharp intake of breath. So Owen still suspected Nick or Anthony killed Boyd out of revenge for Stephanie’s death. She tried to picture one of them running the young man down, but the image didn’t fit. Then she remembered what Owen had said about alibis. He must have already asked the Contino men what they were doing when Boyd was killed.
“Did Nick and Anthony have an alibi for when Boyd was killed?”
The detective’s brow furrowed as he seemed to consider how much he should tell her.
“Owen, you know my daughter’s dating Nick Contino. I’m concerned about what danger she might be in. If Nick or his father is cold-blooded or crazy enough to kill someone, I don’t want them anywhere near my daughter. You have a daughter. I saw her picture on your desk. Put yourself in my place. Wouldn’t you want to know what your daughter’s getting mixed up in?”
“Yes, I would.” Owen pursed his lips and sighed. “The Continos said that after Nick dropped your daughter at your place, they spent Tuesday night together alone at home, mourning Stephanie. With no visitors, no one outside the family can vouch for them.”
“Did their license plate match the partial Roger saw?”
“Yes.”
“Ohmigod!”
Owen held up his hand, palm out. “Wait, so do six other black Range Rovers.”
“That’s odd. Why so many?”
“It’s not that odd. Remember your husband only gave us two letters. I’ve got an officer tracking down the owners and their alibis for Tuesday night.” He peered at Claire. “Do you know the Continos well?”
Claire shook her head. “No. Roger and I met Nick Sunday night and his parents Monday morning after Stephanie’s death. Why do you ask?”
“The Contino men’s story for Monday fell through, too. Copper Mountain has no record of them being there—no ski pass sale—and none of the lift operators recognized them from photos I took out there yesterday.”
“Do they have season passes for Copper?”
“If they did, and they used the passes, that would have shown up in Copper’s system. But no dice.”
Claire’s heart started hammering. She and Roger really knew nothing about the Continos and probably couldn’t count on Judy’s judgment. As far as Nick was concerned, her perspective would be biased, and even Judy said she didn’t know Anthony that well.
“Is Anthony your prime suspect for Stephanie’s death now, too?”
Owen nodded.
“I can almost understand how Anthony might go after Boyd, but why Stephanie? She’s his own flesh and blood.”
“Most murder victims are killed by someone they know, many of them family.”
“But what possible reason could he have?”
Owen looked away, down the valley.
“I’ve got to know. What if the reason involves Judy?”
He stared at her, as if measuring her ability to handle what he had to say. “Could be abuse. Or incest.”
Claire stared at Owen, revulsion churning her stomach. “Oh, no, you can’t mean . . .”
Owen gave a solemn nod. “There was a case in Colorado Springs a few years ago. Man killed his nineteen-year-old daughter because she threatened to reveal their incestuous relationship to her mother.”
Claire shuddered. What kind of family has Judy gotten mixed up with? “Do you suspect Anthony of such a thing?”
“He’s the right build and has the right hair color.” He pointed to the drawing. “Now that I have this, I’ll be taking a look at the Contino men’s ski gear and clothes. Their shoes, too.”
Claire gasped as an image of her daughter lying dead in the snow flashed in h
er mind. Oh, God.
Owen frowned and laid his hand on her arm. “If Judy was my daughter, I would limit her interaction with this family until we know what’s going on.”
Claire got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “She’s out buying flower arrangements for Stephanie’s memorial service with Nick right now.”
Nine: Sympathy Basket
After an exhausting, but mostly downhill, trek to her car with Detective Silverstone, Claire drove to the townhouse with her thoughts in turmoil. Anxious to talk to Roger, she called for him as she removed her coat, hat, gloves, and snow boots in the hall.
“Where have you been?” Roger clomped down the stairs. “We’ll be lucky to get in a couple of hours of skiing today.”
Claire collapsed on the sofa. “My legs can’t take any more exercise today. I’ve been snowshoeing for over two hours.”
“Since when did you develop a sudden interest in snowshoeing?”
“Since I found some new evidence at Boyd’s trailer and had to get it to Detective Silverstone. He was out on a snowshoe trail and didn’t have his cell phone with him.”
“Why couldn’t you wait for him to finish?”
“I probably should have, but I was trying to get back here soon enough to deliver the gift basket to the Continos and still have time to go skiing. I thought I could make the round trip on the short side of the trail in an hour and a half, but I was wrong.” Claire rubbed her aching calves. “Could you get the ibuprofen?”
Roger returned with the pill bottle and a glass of water. “What was the new evidence?”
“The drawing of the skier that Boyd mentioned, plus I saw the killer in the flesh.”
Roger’s eyes widened. “What?”
After swallowing the pain relievers, Claire told him the whole story. Well, almost. She left out the part about the guy chasing her and having to whack him with the golf club, and only related her mad dash to the car. She couldn’t lie, especially not to Roger, but she wanted to save that part for later and break it to him gently.
“Holy moley, Claire! What if he’d seen you?”
“I wish I’d been able to see his face or the license plate on his car.”
To Hell in a Handbasket Page 10