“No, ma’am,” Christopher said. “He’s safe and sound in the walk-in cooler.”
“Fridge or freezer? Tell me it’s not the freezer. You think thawing out a big Christmas turkey takes forever!”
“Fridge,” he said. “He’s on a food trolley. Not like a real food trolley. I mean, it’s a trolley that’s used for food, but we’re not going to eat him. He’s not food.” Christopher’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment, but he couldn’t stop himself from talking. “We know he isn’t food. Sure, we’re trapped up here for heaven knows how long, but we’ve got plenty of food, and even if we didn’t, the Fairchilds are a respectable family, and—”
“Breathe,” she barked. “Count to ten while you breathe in, twenty when you breathe out, and don’t talk again until you reach three hundred.”
While Christopher sat counting and breathing, Peggy and I discussed the case. I tried to find out what she knew, but she declined to comment, saying it was for my protection.
I told Peggy about my trip to the body site with Butch, and then about the disaster that was the wake. She listened with interest, leaning in until her forehead bumped her camera.
“Marie broke her husband’s nose?” Peggy asked. “That woman sounds violent. Steer clear of her.”
“What about the food she makes?”
“Pshaw, y’all are just fine. The mudslide is a good thing, because it’s keeping the killer from being able to eliminate potential witnesses.”
“The killer is on the other side of the mudslide? Are you saying Della did it?”
She waved a hand. “Just pulling your leg. I bet you didn’t know I’m a real prankster.”
She turned and said something to someone offscreen. Then she turned back and started pulling on her jacket. “Stormy and Christopher, I have to go do cop stuff. Keep your eyes open and keep taking notes on everything. Don’t trust your memory. Write everything down.” She held up her hand to wave goodbye, told Christopher it was nice to meet him, and then ended the video call.
“Two hundred ninety-nine,” Christopher said calmly. “Three hundred. I do feel better.”
“I feel better knowing the killer isn’t up here with us.”
“You mean Della? Peggy was just joking around.”
“My father jokes around. Jessica jokes around. You’re not the funniest guy, but you’ve been known to lighten the mood with a quip or two. Officer Peggy Wiggles, however, does not joke around. She doesn’t pull legs and she is not a prankster.”
“Then I guess we’re safe.”
I stepped out to the patio and gazed at the trees and the valley that stretched out for miles, with no other building in sight. Safe? I would feel safe when I got home.
Jeffrey, however, was a happy kitty, even in his harness. He’d found a dark-colored boulder at the edge of the patio to sun himself on.
“Move over,” I said. He gave me a sleepy look, and—just like every other time I’d requested he move over—he ignored me. I found another rock that was almost as good, and draped myself forward over it.
Jessica came out and joined me, lying on her back on a smaller, flatter boulder.
“This is surprisingly good,” she said. “The stone really radiates the sun’s heat, so you feel like you’re in the middle of a sun sandwich.”
“When the resort opens for business, they should put this on the brochure. They could give it a snazzy name, like the Human Lizard Feature.”
“Or how about the Solar-Powered Deep Tissue Release? People would pay good money to cuddle up to a rock!”
I rolled myself over to warm my back. “We should be writing these ideas down to…” A dark object whizzed through the sky at the periphery of my vision. “Jess, did you see that?”
“See what? I hear something, a buzzing, like a giant dragonfly.”
The flying object circled back. “Look, the ranger is spying on us.”
Jessica waved at the hovering drone, which was the size of a remote control helicopter, but strangely silent.
“The ranger probably does regular patrols using that thing,” Jessica said. “It would make her job a lot easier.”
“This might sound crazy, but what if the drone caught some evidence on its camera? I would love to get my hands on whatever footage it’s accumulated over the last forty-eight hours.”
“That’s not crazy,” Jessica said. “Not crazy at all.”
“We just need a giant butterfly net.”
She laughed. “Or we could ask nicely.”
Jessica made the call to the ranger, who said she would look into the footage. The drone didn’t capture video or audio, but it did snap aerial photographs along its programmed route.
We hadn’t heard back by dinner time, but the ranger had said she would need clearance from her supervisor. There were some legal and privacy issues regarding the photographs, since the laws were often a few steps behind technology.
The lodge telephone in our room rang, and Butch informed us that dinner would be served at six o’clock.
I asked how things were going with his wife, and he told me, “Mind your own business.”
Dinner on Tuesday night at the Flying Squirrel Lodge promised to have a level of tension I hadn’t experienced since the night I met Christopher’s parents, and showed up to the Fairchild mansion looking like—in his words—a ragamuffin.
Tonight, at least I wouldn’t be wearing a tie-dyed dress paired with combat boots.
I chose a flattering A-line denim skirt with a floral-print tunic—both new items that the staff at Blue Enchantment had set aside for me when their first spring shipment arrived.
Jessica wore a favorite pink dress that showed off her figure, yet was also demure.
Christopher wore his usual Vans sneakers, along with dark jeans, a non-wrinkle dress shirt, and blazer.
The three of us looked like three normal people who might be going to a very normal dinner at a mountain resort. The only thing abnormal would be us signaling each other about sleeping pills in the food, or people accusing each other of murder, and juicier secrets coming out.
Dinner promised to be memorable.
Chapter 33
We all sat together at one communal table, in the same arrangement as the first night, minus Franco and Della.
To my relief, the food was served family style, with everyone taking helpings from larger serving dishes.
After the fallout at the wake, everyone was cautious and slow to speak. Christopher, being accustomed to tense Fairchild family events, led the conversation with ease.
Soon, we were talking like normal people at a mountain resort, making small talk about the changing seasons, how good the food was, and whether it would be possible to have a full menu using only local foods. The rest of America wasn’t as interested in the slow food movement as people in Oregon, but it could be a talking point in various eco-minded publications, which would result in free publicity for the lodge.
Nobody came out and said it, but everyone knew the lodge would need positive publicity to offset reports of the lodge owners storing a corpse in the walk-in cooler.
As for the food, it was good enough, but I barely tasted anything, because I was focused on observing the others.
Butch’s swollen eye transformed his whole look, making his forearm tattoos look thuggish.
Marie wouldn’t look at him, but doted on Benji, asking how he liked each part of the meal.
Benji was quiet, doing little more than nod at Marie’s constant questions while chewing his food slowly. Marie and Dion had been taking turns keeping him company during the day, so he didn’t hurt himself. I couldn’t tell if he was actually crazy, or just pretending, laying the groundwork for a future insanity defense.
Dion tried to flirt with Jessica, but when she responded coolly to his advances, he quickly gave up.
Christopher kept talking about marketing plans, and a rosy future for the lodge. He didn’t seem to care that the owners weren’t listening, but I appreciated the d
istraction, and encouraged him to keep going. I even offered some ideas of my own, based on the promotions I’d tried with the gift shop. There were ways to reach the budget-conscious consumer without devaluing the prestige to the top-end consumer by visibly discounting.
We were eating dessert—a raspberry custard served from a communal bowl—when a thunderous crack rang through the dining room.
Everyone froze. The noise was similar to the one we’d heard before, when the glass door had broken.
Benji yelled, “They’re coming for me!”
Christopher threw his napkin on the table and stood. “We need to secure the building.”
Butch stood next. “You might just be a Boy Scout after all.” He pointed to me then Jessica. “We’ll form groups. You two come with us, and we’ll take the north-east end, with the guest rooms. Marie, you’re on the lobby, the spa, and the mechanical, with your buddies.” He frowned at Benji, who looked as if he might be wetting his pants. “Unless you’d rather take me, instead.”
Marie turned to Dion, her nose high in the air. “Tell my future ex-husband that I don’t need him.”
Dion, who remained seated, said to Butch, “Sure, we’ll take care of that end, but what are we dealing with? Is someone breaking more of the patio doors? Or was that a gun?”
All eyes went to Butch.
“A gun?” Butch crossed his arms. “Why’s everyone looking at me? How did I get to be the expert on gunshots?”
Dion hiccuped over his empty wineglass. “Because you’re the one who did a stint in prison.” He refilled his glass, dribbling from the bottle.
Coldly, Butch said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dion waved his wine glass drunkenly. “Marie told us all about it after the wake. The group of us friends decided we’re not going to keep any more secrets from each other.”
Butch started to tremble, as though he were a volcano about to erupt. He shook his finger at Marie. “That wasn’t your secret to share! Not even my family knows about that.” He turned and shook his finger at Christopher. “This conversation didn’t happen.”
They were interrupted by Benji sputtering, “G-g-guys?” He pointed at the picture window. The sun had set, and there was nothing to see except the muddy grounds and the dark outline of the mountains against a midnight blue sky.
Marie said, “Benji, get a hold of yourself. What is it?”
“S-s-something’s out-t-t there,” Benji said. “With glowing eyes.”
Dion hiccuped again, then held his finger in the air. “Waiter, check this man for drugs! If he has any, he has to share with the rest of us.”
Marie laughed, but nobody else did.
Christopher said, with calm authority, “Folks, if something is out there, that’s all the more reason for us to check that all doors and windows are locked. We won’t be impenetrable, but if someone smashes in, at least we’ll have some warning.”
Butch growled, “There’d better not be any more smashing.”
“Let’s take precautions,” Christopher said. “What’s the Boy Scout motto? Something about being prepared?”
After some chaotic grumblings, we were on our way.
Benji got up and tottered after Marie and Dion. Marie had a master set of keys and knowledge of the building.
Butch led our group of four, grim determination on his bruised face. Christopher looked concerned and alert. Jessica looked as if she needed to either throw up or do three flips.
We took the stairs down to the smaller suites, which were at ground level and deemed more vulnerable. Butch used his master set of keys to let us into each of the six guest rooms.
All the patio doors that had been intact that morning were still intact, and the room with the wood covering the broken door looked undisturbed. So far, so good.
Next were the three deluxe suites on the upper floor.
When we reached the door to the honeymoon suite, Butch stopped and wiped his sweating forehead.
“I don’t feel so good,” he said. “This is how I feel before I have one of my sleeping attacks.” His hand trembled, and he couldn’t quite get the key into the lock.
Christopher took the keys, opened the door, and flicked on the light. His voice thick and low, he said, “Uh, that’s not good.”
The room was the same as when I’d seen it from the outside, from my perch in the tree, except for the bed. The mattress had been shredded, the weapon of its destruction clearly the giant meat cleaver embedded in its heart.
Dryly, I commented, “Marie has been doing some redecorating in here.”
“Or getting out some pent-up aggression,” Jessica added.
Christopher led the way, and the three of us checked the room and the adjoining washroom while Butch waited in the hallway.
“All clear,” Christopher said when we were done. “The patio door’s still locked. You’d better add a king-sized mattress to your shopping list. And a new meat cleaver, too. Looks like she nicked it when she hit the springs.”
Butch nodded, but didn’t comment. Christopher locked the door and we moved on.
The upper floor suites were twice the size of the lower ones, so there were only two more to check. Both were empty of furniture and quick to inspect.
We’d already secured the fire exit in the stairwell, so we returned to the dining room to reconvene with the others.
Their group had found nothing on their inspection, except for more wine. Marie, the cleaver-happy mattress murderer, plunged the corkscrew into one bottle with a zeal that did not go unnoticed by her husband.
“False alarm,” Dion reported. “The bang must have been a loose boulder tumbling down onto the roof. Mountains. Go figure.” He shrugged.
“Mountains,” Butch agreed.
Dion grabbed the bottle of wine Marie was trying to open and finished the job, popping the cork with a flourish.
“Time to continue the wake,” Dion said. “You guys are invited to stay and have a drink. Have a few. No hard feelings, right? We’re all just humans, except for Benji.”
With the wake back underway in the dining room, I quietly slipped away from the group, into the kitchen.
I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but I’d gotten the creepy feeling the loud bang had been Franco, up from his gurney and walking around like a zombie.
I opened the door and relaxed when I saw his boots sticking out from the bottom of the blue tarp. I knelt down to inspect the dusting of flour that would let me know if anyone had been inside the cooler in the last seven hours. There were no tracks through the white powder, but there were some curious brown cubes.
I picked one up and crumbled it in my hand. It was mud, from the sole of Franco’s hiking boots. As I was kneeling and leaning forward, another cube dried and fell down, dropping onto the back of my head, scaring away what little dickens I still had in me.
“Nice one,” I said to the body as I regained my balance. “No, I haven’t had a single drop of wine. This is just how jumpy I am now. How about you? Enjoying a little peace and quiet? Your friends are a rowdy bunch.”
Franco didn’t answer.
I leaned down to look at his boots. I plucked a perfect cube of dirt from between the treads.
“You were walking around out there,” I said softly. “You walked through the mud, and it was after you got to the lodge. The first night, the grounds were covered in snow, but things were melting by the next morning. I know this mud wasn’t from before your trip up here, because nobody with any sense at all would pack a suitcase with mud-crusted boots, and you were some sort of genius.”
I patted the toe of his boot.
“You got yourself outside, on your own two feet, and you died.” I took a deep breath and continued, “I don’t know if the sun was shining down on you when you did, but I hope you went into the light, Franco.”
He didn’t answer me, which was a good thing.
An Irish blessing sprang to mind, so I said it softly as I adjusted the blue tarp, tuck
ing it tightly around him. “May the smile of God light you to glory.”
I hadn’t left the cooler yet when my phone buzzed with an incoming call.
The call showed as a blocked number, but something about the buzz made me think it was Logan. I answered with a syrupy, “Well, hello there.”
The line crackled, and all I caught was, “—Wiggles. I need to warn you”—the sound cut out again—“that bonehead. Whatever you do, don’t—”
The sound cut off again. The call was terminated. Was Peggy trying to warn me about something? Or was I imagining those words due to stress? I had just checked a walk-in cooler to make sure a stiff corpse hadn’t climbed his way off a food trolley.
I stepped out, closed the cooler door, and tried calling Peggy from the kitchen. My call went to voicemail. I tried two more times with the same result.
My next call would have been to the police dispatcher, but I heard people in the dining room saying my name, asking where I was.
I stepped out and waved. “Sorry to wander off. I’m right here.”
They all had grim looks on their faces.
Benji started rocking on his chair, chanting, “They’re coming. It’s them. They’re coming.”
Christopher said to me, “If you weren’t just knocking on the lobby door, that means someone else is up here.”
Somebody was knocking on the lobby door, and I heard it. The knocks were persistent but forceful, like those of someone who didn’t care if they broke the glass.
Jessica, her face bright and hopeful, said, “That must be the road crew here to tell us the mudslides are cleared.”
Her hope was contagious, and soon everyone was happily filing out to see who was at the door.
Christopher held back and brought up the rear with me.
I told him about the troubling phone call I’d just gotten from Peggy.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be out of here soon enough.”
“How about that bombshell about your cousin? Did you know Butch was an ex-con?”
“Not a clue. I guess the truth always wants to come out. What’s that thing you and your father say?”
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