Black Diamond Death

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  Black Diamond Death

  By

  Cheryl Bradshaw

  Kindle Edition Copyright © 2011 by Cheryl Bradshaw

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and should be recognized as such.

  First edition eBook March 2011

  Cover Photo Copyright 2008 © barsik at bigstock.com

  Cover Design Copyright 2011 © Julie Ortolon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means whatsoever (electronic, mechanical, or otherwise) without the prior written permission and consent of the author. www.cherylbradshaw.com

  To Justin for believing I can do anything

  And to Kylie for the miracle that you are in my life

  And to Grandpa Butch––I miss you

  You can fool all the people some of the time,

  and some of the people all the time,

  but you cannot fool all the people all the time.

  ––ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  PROLOGUE

  The air was calm, but I was restless. I had a decision to make so I did what I always do when push comes to shove––I shoved back, but not in the way one might think. Skiing had always been my release. There was something about being surrounded by fresh powder in the clean, open air that reminded me what it felt like to be alive. I could stand on a mountaintop with a world of trouble on my mind, and it didn’t matter. Every care I had dissolved just like the snow soon would and the mountain would be reduced to tiny patches of white, mere remnants of a ski slope that once provided the town’s entertainment for the season.

  In a few minutes I’d get together with Audrey for lunch and do something that didn’t come easy––tell her the truth. It wasn’t that I lied to her; I was a master in the fine art of keeping things to myself. I always thought it was better that way. But I was wrong to allow her limited access to my life, and I wanted to change that. So I’d explain it all to her, and once I finished I would reveal my plan and hope she’d understand. She just had to.

  I rounded the last narrow pass on the slope and traveled downhill through the trees. My tongue had gone numb over the past couple hours and every time my teeth hit against it I felt nothing, like it wasn’t even there, and my throat felt like a strand of lit matches were pressed hard against it. I wondered if I was getting sick. That would explain the unrest in my stomach. The flu had made its way around town so it made sense that it would make it to me, but if it was the flu, why had I lost all the feeling in my face?

  I ran my gloved hand across my goggles, but it didn’t help––even when I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again the trail in front of me was a blur. With what little force I had left, I jammed my poles into the snow and tried to stop, but the slope was too steep and I couldn’t bend my hands or even move them for that matter. My fingers felt like long shards of ice and in one simultaneous motion they launched a mass of frozen liquid throughout my body.

  What was happening to me?

  In a panic I gasped for air, but there wasn’t any. I tried to cry out, but I was alone, and in my hysteria it hit me. I had felt a similar feeling before––like my body was giving out on me, and I knew what it meant.

  I was dying.

  15 MINUTES LATER

  CHAPTER 1

  The car skidded across the road making an rrrt sound, the kind of sound that propels people from their chairs and to the window to catch a glimpse of the train wreck taking place outside. Only I was on a lonely stretch of road with nothing but the spinning of pine trees as they swirled around me. In desperation I struggled to remember the words my grandfather told me: Don’t slam on the brake, tap it. Don’t turn the wheel in the direction of the skid, rotate away from it. Or was it to turn into the skid, and why couldn’t I remember?

  The wheels gripped the road in an attempt to regain traction. I tapped the brake and fought off the urge to slam both heels into the pedal. The car lurched from side to side and then steadied and then it was all over. I regained control of the wheel and continued to wind around the tortuous road. A minute later I glimpsed the wrought iron entrance to the resort and breathed a sigh of relief.

  A boy outfitted in padded black trousers, a black and white ski jacket, and gloves waved me over when I drove in.

  “Hello ma’am,” he said. “Welcome to Wildwood. Valet?”

  I nodded.

  He lifted his gloved hand and pointed toward the resort.

  “Drive around this corner to the round-a-bout and give your keys to Phil at the front. He’ll take good care of you.”

  Wildwood, Park City’s newest ski resort, attracted a diverse group of guests from locals to celebrities. I entered through distressed cedar doors with hand forged pinecone door pulls into a marbled foyer. A chandelier cascaded over my head that mimicked the style of the door pulls. I glanced around the room and felt a sense of familiarity to the place. Sepia tone photographs adorned the walls of the Daily Mining Company circa 1890 and Historic Main Street before the fire scintillated in 1897 and destroyed over 200 businesses and homes. In other towns, a fire of that magnitude left a ghost town in its wake, but not here. Parkites were strong and proud, and they remained to build the city back up again.

  In the corner of the room a fire beguiled me to absorb its warmth. I removed my gloves and stuck both hands inside. Across the room groups of skiers hustled back and forth through the hallway eager to reach the lift and soar to their destinations. I allowed time for my fingers to thaw and then fell in line at the front desk. After a short wait, a girl held up two fingers and summoned me. She wore a fitted red suit coat accented with little bronze buttons to match her little bronze nametag. Her not-so-natural bleach blond locks were pulled back into a tight bun and fastened with silver hairclips. She looked like the female version of a nutcracker. A couple bright pink circles painted on her pale cheeks were all she needed to complete the look.

  “Well hi there,” she said. “Welcome to Wildwood Resort. What can I do for you today?”

  “I’m here to see Marty Langston.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  I nodded.

  She batted her false eyelashes at me and smiled.

  “What’s the name?”

  “Sloane.”

  “And the last name?”

  “Monroe.”

  She picked up the phone receiver and pressed a few buttons and waited.

  “Mr. Langston? There’s a woman at the front desk to see you by the name of Sloane Monroe. What’s that––oh, sure. I’ll tell her.”

  “He’ll be right with you,” she said. “He’s in a meeting and said for you to sit tight. He won’t be more than a minute or two.”

  I sat in an oversized leather chair and waited.

  Marty emerged from a corner office a minute later dressed in a fitted suit and a loosened necktie. His rimless glasses matched his squared off jaw line. He extended his arms and pulled me close.

  “Sloane my dear, it’s good to see you,” he said.

  I reached for his tie and straightened it.

  “How’s the new CEO?”

  “On about two hours of sleep a night and all the coffee I can stand.” He ran his hand through his hair and turned his head back and forth a few times. “How do you like that? It’s more salt than pepper every day.”

  “It looks great on you,” I said.

  His eyes angled downward.

  “You’ve got a coat on large enough to stow a small army in, but flip-flops, on a day
like this?”

  “Shoes are overrated,” I said.

  He extended his hands out to both sides.

  “So what do you think? Have you checked the place out at all since you got here?”

  I shook my head.

  “What about lunch, are you hungry?”

  “I’ll take some tea if you got it,” I said.

  “Let’s grab a couple drinks and I’ll show you around.”

  The resort café included three sections: a quaint bar area, a much larger open dining section with tables and chairs in varied sizes, and a more intimate section with arched windows that was lined with tables for two. On the opposite side from where I stood were some angled windows that overlooked part of a ski run. From my vantage point I watched a skier schuss her way downhill.

  “Black tea if memory serves?” he said.

  I nodded.

  He handed me an empty cup and signaled the waiter and then glanced out the window.

  “Spectacular view isn’t it?” he said.

  “Fantastic,” I said.

  “So how about it?”

  “How about what?”

  With his finger he indicated in the direction of a group of people outside who appeared to be on skis for the first time.

  “Say the word and I’ll make it happen.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m much more of a beach bunny than a snow bunny,” I said.

  “It’s never too late to change.”

  The bunny slope wasn’t my idea of a good time. It made no sense to me why anyone subjected themselves to zero-degree temperatures when they could appreciate the mounds of white from indoors while they nestled by the glow of a stoked fire. Cold was my kryptonite and yet I liked it here. Hell, I loved it even. From the moment my feet brushed the soil seventeen years earlier something inside me changed. It was like I had been transported to another place in time where I could leave the past behind and bask in the tranquility the ski town offered me.

  The café was deserted except for one other person, a woman seated in the open dining section. She had long blond hair and knockers the size of grapefruits, my guess DD. Her shirt was tight enough to bounce a quarter off of it.

  The waiter returned with our drinks.

  “How’s Kate?”

  “Don’t think for a minute I can’t see what you’re doing,” he said.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Deflecting.”

  A few more skiers whizzed by and I drank my tea and deflected in silence.

  “Kate’s good,” he said. “I don’t get up there to see her much, but I try to give her a jingle now and then.”

  “You’re still my favorite client, you know.”

  “And why’s that, my rugged good looks?”

  I laughed.

  “You were my first,” I said.

  He smiled.

  “Indeed, and for that I am forever grateful.”

  Marty was adopted at birth. When he aspired to and later became mayor he experienced a sudden urge to dig up his roots and find his birth mother. That’s when he contacted me. It took me almost six months to find Kathryn which was the equivalent of two years in detective time.

  “How goes the PI business these days?”

  “I haven’t found a case I can sink my teeth into at the moment,” I said. “But I can’t complain.”

  He shot me a wink.

  “No one threaten your life this week, eh? How boring.”

  “The week’s not over yet,” I said.

  “Can’t convince you to go back to basics even if I wanted you to, right?”

  “And risk the thrill of the chase, never.”

  DD glanced at her watch and rapped her manicured nails in sequence on the table. A waiter approached her and paused a moment to say something. She shook her head and he walked away.

  Marty polished off the last of his coffee and rose from his chair.

  “Ready for the grand tour?” he said.

  I intertwined my arm in his.

  “You bet.”

  We walked out of the café but didn’t make it far before the rapid succession of footsteps approached us from behind. A tall male with a resort name badge tapped Marty on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt. Mr. Langston, there’s an urgent phone call for you,” he said.

  “I’m sure it can wait,” Marty said.

  “You should take it sir.”

  “Why?” he said.

  The man glanced at me and then back at Marty.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “You can speak in front of Miss Monroe,” he said. “She’s like family to me.”

  The man grimaced but realized he had no options.

  “We just got a call from snow patrol. Something’s happened on one of the ski runs and it sounds serious.”

  Marty shifted his gaze from the man to me.

  “I better see what’s going on,” he said. “Can you wait here for a minute––I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  I nodded and Marty followed the man down the hall.

  With nothing left to do, I turned my attention to DD. She twisted her already curly blond hair into perfect spirals around her finger and then looked at her watch and frowned and let out a deep sigh of frustration. She then stood up and slung her Louis Vuitton bag over her shoulder and walked out of the room.

  Marty returned a few minutes later with a stern look on his face.

  “Forgive me my dear, duty calls. Rain check?” he said.

  “Is everything alright?”

  His jaw tightened and he shook his head.

  “There’s been an accident.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I lingered around for a few minutes before leaving Wildwood. Marty left without the slightest hint about the accident and I wanted to know more. I finished my tea and took one last look-see out the window, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Time for me to go.

  I pushed through the entrance door and was met with a forceful tug that launched me forward and brought me up close and personal to a familiar face on the opposite end.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t little miss nosy,” he said. “Let me guess, you just happened to be in the neighborhood at the right time. Sound about right?”

  “Give it a rest Coop.”

  Detective Drake Cooper stood 6’5 and used every inch of his stalwartly physique to browbeat anyone who stood in his way, and that included everyone. He had an oval-shaped head and a jacked up nose that he owed to the various altercations he endured in the line of duty, most a result of his less than agreeable nature. For a man with senior citizen status his body retained a great shape. Even through his sports jacket anyone could see he packed two tickets to the gun show.

  “Look,” I said, “I know about the accident.”

  I figured I was already there, why not do some fishing.

  “And you came by this information how?” he said.

  “Marty told me.”

  He grabbed the door and swung it all the way open.

  “Why don’t you run along now and let the big boys do their job,” he said.

  It looked like the fish weren’t biting today.

  Coop squinched his eyes and waited for me to make my move.

  “Anytime sweetheart,” he said. Only it sounded a lot more like schweetheart.

  To say Coop walked around with a chip on his shoulder was a gross understatement. He had been the thorn in my otherwise lovely side for the past several years. He had an old school mind and practiced old school ways. Change wasn’t part of his vocabulary, and he had zero tolerance for my kind. In his eyes I didn’t deserve the role of detective. I was just some menial PI who nosed around and stood in the way of the real police work. Except this PI had earned the right, and on more than one occasion. I expect this fact made him resent me all the more.

  Three years earlier Coop lost his dream of Park City’s next chief of police to Wade Sheppard, a detective with half the experience. Life dealt
him an unfair hand and everyone else had to pay the price. And they did, in spades.

  I went to my office, returned some calls, and drove home. Lord Berkeley, A.K.A. Boo, spun around when I walked through the door and did his usual welcome dance. Then he stood on his two hind legs with his paws up in an attempt to greet me as civilized people do. I scooped him up and carried him with me to the kitchen.

  “And how’s your day going Boo, hmmm? Miss me?”

  His deep black eyes stared up at me and he tilted his head to the side and wagged his tail.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I said.

  I stroked him a few more times and then set him down. He trotted off to the sofa and then jumped up on it and waited.

  I fished through the dishwasher for my favorite mug. It was white with brown letters on the front that said Man cannot live on chocolate alone, but a woman sure can. I reached for my kettle, filled it with water, and turned on the stove. I couldn’t get the look on Marty’s face out of my mind so I picked up the phone and gave him a call. He didn’t answer. I left a message.

  A few minutes later the teapot let out a familiar whistle. I poured the water and joined Lord Berkeley on the sofa and the two of us sat back and took in the stillness of the lake through the window. In the summer month’s water skiers, boaters, and fisherman filled the lake, but in winter it turned solid white and was ensconced with snow.

  My phone rang to Louis Armstrong’s A kiss to build a dream on.

  “Well good evening Detective Calhoun,” I said.

  “I wanted to say thanks for last night.”

  “It’s me who should thank you,” I said, “for the lovely evening, and the lovelier ending.”

  “While we are on the subject, do you want to talk about it?”

  “I thought we just did,” I said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I sensed the disappointment in his voice and wished I could avoid the subject all together.

  “Come on Sloane, you know how I feel.”

  “And you know how I feel,” I said.