Too Rich and Too Dead

by Cynthia Baxter

  Mallory checked the directory just inside the entry, which was framed in the same type of wood as the staircases. The D.A. and probation office were on the first floor, and the courts and the reporting area for jury duty were on the top floor.

  The police and sheriff's offices were in the basement. Of course, this being Aspen, the basement was referred to as the Garden Level.

  Mallory took a deep breath, then went downstairs to the lower level. Instead of the dungeon she expected, she found herself at the end of a corridor that was surprisingly pleasant. One of its long walls was made entirely of red brick, while a large section of the other was made of craggy gray stone. The floor was tiled in red terra-cotta. A water cooler dispensed water to anyone who wanted it, a considerate touch.

  She stopped in front of the door marked Investigations. Through the glass window, she could see Harriet, sitting slumped in an uncomfortable-looking metal chair with her floppy oversized purse on the floor beside her. Her clothes were wrinkled and her wavy hair hung in her face. But even through the disheveled strands, Mallory could see that her eyes were rimmed in red.

  As soon as Mallory turned the doorknob, Harriet jumped up.

  “Thank you so much for coming!” Harriet cried, rushing over to give her a quick hug. “Did you have any luck getting hold of a lawyer?”

  “I've got good news,” Mallory reported. “I called the Colorado Bar Association right after we spoke. They gave me the name and number of someone they swore was the best defense attorney in the area. He should be here any minute.”

  “Thank you!” Harriet exclaimed.

  Mallory glanced around the stark, unfriendly room. “What happens now?” she asked.

  Harriet sighed, then sank back into her chair. “I guess I wait until the lawyer gets here. The police want to question me, but I knew enough not to say anything until I had a lawyer present.”

  “That's very smart,” Mallory said, nodding. “Harriet, you still haven't told me why the police sus—why they even wanted to question you in the first place.”

  “I'm telling you, Mallory, it's all nothing but a silly misunderstanding! It seems the police found some stupid note I wrote in Carly's purse.”

  “A note?” Mallory repeated, frowning. “What did it say?”

  “I don't remember, exactly,” Harriet replied morosely. “Something like ‘It's urgent that we meet. We really have to clear this up once and for all.’”

  Mallory was silent for a few seconds as she digested the message Harriet had written. She could certainly understand why it could raise some questions—questions important enough that the police would be curious about exactly what it was that needed clearing up.

  Mallory, too.

  “I see,” she said. Gently, she added, “And what was all that about?”

  “To tell you the truth, I have no idea.” Harriet bit her lip. “I can't even remember when I wrote it. It could have been months ago. And it could have referred to anything from what color the labels should be on Rejuva-Juice's new Mountain Berry flavor to whether the spa was going to start offering manicures!”

  “In that case,” Mallory said, “if you just explain to the police that it didn't mean anything at all, maybe that will make them realize that you had nothing to do with—with what happened.”

  “I think I'll leave that up to my lawyer,” Harriet said. “Mallory I can't tell you how grateful I am that you found someone for me.”

  “I was happy to do whatever I could to help,” Mallory replied. “Speaking of which, you mentioned on the phone that there was something else you needed me to do.”

  Mallory expected Harriet to ask for her help with some other logistical concern that had cropped up when Harriet suddenly and unexpectedly found herself in police custody. Something along the lines of feeding her cat, locking her house, or canceling some appointments.

  So she nearly fell over when Harriet calmly said, “Mallory, I want you to find out who really killed Carly.”

  “Me?” Mallory squawked.

  “That's right,” Harriet replied, still sounding matter-of-fact. “You told me yourself you had experience with that kind of thing. When you were in Orlando. You said somebody there was murdered and you solved the crime.”

  “But—but that's not what I said, Harriet!”

  She certainly hadn't intended to give Harriet the impression that she was Nancy Drew with laugh lines. The last thing she wanted was for her new friend to hand her the responsibility of getting her off the hook by finding a murderer—especially in a town she'd been in for less than twenty-four hours.

  As well as a town she expected to leave in just a few days.

  “Harriet,” Mallory said firmly, “I don't see how I, of all people, could possibly—”

  “You've got to help me!” Harriet insisted. “The fact that Carly was rich and successful and—and famous means there's a ton of pressure on the police to solve this crime—and to solve it fast. At first, they focused on Brett, probably because as her husband, he was the most obvious suspect. But now that he has an alibi, they're in a hurry to find someone else to pin it on. They need somebody who was close to Carly—as I was—and they need a piece of evidence that ties that person to the crime. That also points to me. At least it does now that they found that stupid note! According to them, that makes me the next most likely suspect. And now that they've set their sights on me, they don't have much of a reason to look too hard for the real murderer.”

  “I understand all that,” Mallory said, sounding as frustrated as she felt. “But honestly, Harriet, if you're counting on me to get you out of this mess, I really think you're making a mistake.”

  “Don't you get it, Mallory?” Harriet cried, choking on her words. “I don't have anyone else!”

  Mallory's head was buzzing as, five minutes later, she slowly climbed down the front steps of the courthouse. All kinds of reasons for her not to get involved in Carly Berman's murder were careening around inside her brain like a swarm of angry bees.

  But it was too late.

  Somehow, the sight of Carly's former employee, sitting alone in a police station with her red eyes, scraggly hair, and stained pocketbook, had brought up visions of her own children. And how terrified they would feel if they ever had the bad luck to find themselves in a similar situation.

  I've been there myself, she thought, remembering her horrifying experience on the last press trip in which someone had ended up dead.

  So despite the gnawing in the pit of her stomach, and despite the feeling she already had that she might come to regret this moment, Mallory had found herself saying, “All right, Harriet. I'll do whatever I can to help prove that you're innocent.”

  What have I done? Mallory wondered as she walked back toward town. How can I possibly be of help to poor Harriet?

  But she was already committed. She'd told her she would help, and now she had no choice but to make good on her promise.

  Yet despite the low level feeling of panic that still engulfed her, one part of her brain was already clicking away.

  Even though she'd only gotten to Aspen the day before, she'd already learned a little about the place—and a lot about the murder victim. One of the most intriguing things was her housekeeper's claim that she'd been having an affair with someone named Mr. Dusty—or, more likely, Dusty.

  If Mallory was going to investigate Carly's murder, talking to the man who had been the deceased's paramour struck her as a very good place to start.

  Of course, she had very little to go on. She didn't even know the gentleman's full name.

  Still, she figured there couldn't be many people in a small town like this one who were named Dusty.

  Even if that town happened to be Aspen.

  “There are only two emotions in a plane:

  boredom and terror.”

  —Orson Welles

  The best way to track down a local, Mallory reasoned, was through another local.

  With that plan in mind, as soon as she left
the courthouse she headed straight to a small bookshop that was on the same block as her hotel. She had noticed the sign reading EXPLORE BOOKSELLERS AND BISTRO during all her comings and goings and wondered if she'd find time to stop in.

  Now, it struck her as more than a place to track down something interesting to read. She hoped it would help her track down the man who according to the Bermans’ nosy housekeeper had been Carly's lover.

  As soon as she stepped inside the chocolate brown Victorian, she was enveloped with the warm, inviting feeling she usually got in bookstores. The countless volumes lined up on the shelves packed into the compact space seemed to beckon to her, crying, “Read me!”

  She zeroed in on a display in front that featured books with an Aspen theme. She'd just picked up a large picture book chock-full of awe-inspiring photographs of the Rockies when a clerk wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sauntered over.

  “Anything I can help you with?” he asked cheer-fully.

  “I'm just browsing,” she told him. “I'm from out of town, but I ran into someone who mentioned that this was a great bookstore.” She paused. “I think he said his name was Dusty.”

  “Dusty Raines?” the clerk said, sounding surprised. “The guy who works over at the Rogue River Ski Shop? The place on Durant, over by the mountain?”

  A skier, Mallory thought. Good muscle tone, great hand-eye coordination… That could well be the Dusty in question.

  “Unless you know anybody else in town with that name,” she said casually.

  “He's the only one I know of,” the clerk replied.

  “Then it must be him.”

  “Funny,” he mused. “I wouldn't have pegged him as much of a reader.”

  Mallory spent a few more minutes perusing the shelves, wanting to give the impression that she'd come into the store to shop rather than to do some undercover work. She even found a guidebook written by a local and published by a small press in Colorado that she hoped might give her some extra information for her article.

  Once she was back on the sidewalk, she pulled out her map of Aspen to look for a street named Durant. But she quickly put it back. The clerk had mentioned that the shop was over by the mountain, and here in Aspen, where it was impossible to lose sight of the beautiful giant looming over the town, a map wasn't necessary.

  Sure enough, she found a small ski and snowboard shop a few paces away from the lift ticket booth. Hanging in the window was a huge sign advertising an end of the season blowout sale.

  As she went in, she realized she'd never actually been inside a store that sold ski equipment before. Even though this one was small, it was packed with merchandise. Skis of all sizes were lined up along one wall, some stretching nearly to the ceiling, some not much longer than yardsticks that were no doubt for the pint-sized crowd. Lined up alongside them were snowboards, which were much more colorful and in most cases imprinted with some sort of weird design like orange and black op-art swirls or tree branches or zany cartoon faces. She decided that based on design alone, if she ever ventured onto a mountain, it would be on a snowboard, not boring old skis.

  The display of serious-looking helmets pushed that fantasy out of her mind almost as fast as it had entered. And while she loved to shop, even she was overwhelmed by all the accessories that were apparently required simply to slide down a mountain slope. She surveyed a display of hats of all kinds, ranging from head-hugging caps made of every color of Polarfleece imaginable to a considerably less practical model that was shaped like a giant beer mug. Next to them was a shelf piled high with long underwear with the ironic name Hot Chillys.

  But basic clothing was just the beginning. The small shop was overflowing with tinted goggles, waterproof pants that she suspected would make anyone look ten pounds heavier, foot warmers, hand warmers, padded gloves to put over the hand warmers, silk gloves to put under the gloves but over the hand warmers…

  If it's that cold and that wet out there, Mallory thought, why not just stay inside by the fire?

  She reminded herself she wasn't here to consider whether skiing was the sport for her. Instead of focusing on the doodads and geegaws designed to keep skiers and snowboarders safe, warm, and dry, she zeroed in on the shop's sole employee.

  She had to admit that the man standing at the cash register, animatedly discussing the pros and cons of something called corn snow with a customer, was one of the more attractive representatives of the male gender she'd ever laid eyes on. He was probably about fifty, but like so many Aspenites, he boasted an exceptionally lean, muscular frame. He also had carefully styled hair that didn't have a single gray strand in it, along with the year-round tan that she was learning was an essential requirement around here. In short, he had the rugged good looks that Mallory was beginning to think were as common in this town as ski jackets.

  As his customer headed out of the store, he turned to Mallory.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. As he smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkled in a most attractive way. It was a look that always reminded Mallory of the cowboys in the movies she'd watched growing up.

  “I'm looking for Dusty Raines,” she told him.

  But instead of saying, “You've found your man” or something else befitting a Colorado mountain man, he replied, “He's in back. I'll get him.”

  Turning toward the back of the shop, he yelled, “Dusty? Somebody wants to talk to you.”

  Mallory expected someone with the same demographic profile as this gentleman to emerge from the back. Instead, a young man carrying a brand-new snowboard that was still wrapped in clear plastic sauntered toward her.

  Her mouth dropped open as she found herself face-to-face with the cheese thief from Carly's house.

  “You're Dusty?” she cried.

  “Ye-e-ah,” he replied, looking confused by her confusion.

  And then a look of recognition crossed his face.

  “Hey, I know you!” he announced, his head bobbing up and down. “You were at Carly's house this morning, right?”

  Mallory couldn't stop staring. She knew she was being rude, but she couldn't help herself. She was too blown away by the fact that this ski dude was Dusty Raines—the man who had been Carly's paramour, at least if Juanita had been correct in her assessment of the soap opera going on around her.

  Frankly, she didn't know whether to be impressed or horrified that Carly had had a lover who was literally young enough to be her son.

  “So what can I do for a fine lady like you?” Dusty asked breezily. “Skis or snowboard?”

  As if, Mallory thought, glancing at the treacherous-looking equipment hanging menacingly on the wall.

  “Neither, thanks,” she said quickly. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Carly.”

  “Yeah, what a bummer,” he said, once again bobbing his head up and down so that his blond hair flopped against his forehead. “What about her?”

  Realizing she needed to come up with a good reason for interrogating him, Mallory did some fast thinking. “Carly and I knew each other in high school. We were pretty good friends back then.”

  She hoped her nose wasn't growing longer and longer with each word that came out of her mouth. Every time she referred to Carly as a friend, she couldn't help thinking that somewhere on the planet, the former members of her popular schoolmate's entourage were rolling their eyes and having a good laugh over such a far-fetched version of their shared adolescence.

  “But we didn't exactly stay in close touch over the years,” Mallory went on. “She ended up here in Aspen, while I stayed in New York…”

  “New York, huh?” Dusty's mouth stretched into an appealing grin. “I always wanted to go there. I

  don't mean to sound full of myself or anything, but a couple of people I've met here in Aspen told me that they thought if I moved to New York, I might be able to make it as a model.”

  Mallory could easily picture him on a building-size billboard on Times Square. Especially if he was clad in nothing but a pair of Calvins.
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  She reminded herself that Dusty was also young enough to be her son.

  “Yeah, they tell me there's a lot of money to be made that way,” Dusty went on. “Not that it's about the money, of course. It's about the freedom. You know, having the resources to do the stuff you want.”

  “Like traveling?” Mallory asked, curious about this young man's secret dreams and desires.

  “Definitely traveling,” he agreed. “There are totally cool mountains all over the world. Switzerland, New Zealand, Chile… Hey, I hear there's even good skiing in South America.”

  Ri-i-ight, Mallory thought dryly. The next best thing to flying all the way to Chile.

  “Not that I don't love Aspen,” he continued, “but it sure is an expensive town. I live in an apartment over on Waters Avenue with, like, four other guys. We hardly have any furniture.” Flashing her a million-dollar grin, he added, “And you already know that our food budget isn't exactly humongous.”

  Mallory's eyes automatically traveled down to the Rolex on his wrist. Maybe it's a fake, she told herself.

  She wondered what else about Dusty Raines was fake.

  But this wasn't the best time or place for finding out. Not with other people wandering in and out of the store, perusing merchandise that was guaranteed to make it hard for them to get life insurance.

  On impulse, she blurted out, “Dusty, would you have lunch with me?”

  A startled look crossed his face. “You mean like a date?”

  “I mean like two people who are mourning the loss of someone they knew, spending some time together, just… remembering.” When he still looked uncertain, she added, “Lunch would be on me, of course.”

  From the way his face lit up, she knew she'd said the magic words.