Too Rich and Too Dead

by Cynthia Baxter

  Mallory's indignation over her boss's surprise appearance had already melted. “Trevor, I appreciate your concern,” she said, reaching over and lightly touching his shoulder. “But right now I happen to be exhausted. As you can imagine, I had a very long day. One that began with some pretty devastating news.”

  She decided not to mention that the day in question also happened to have ended with a dinner date that left her feeling like a sixteen-year-old girl, one whose hormones were just beginning to demonstrate the kinds of tricks they were capable of playing.

  “But I thought you'd find it helpful to have someone to talk to,” he protested.

  “Absolutely,” she agreed. “But right now, the only thing I want to do is get some rest.” Peering at him more closely, she gently added, “You look as if you could use some rest, too. But drink a lot of water before you get into bed. It's one of the best ways of combating jet lag. And the word around here is that it's a good idea to avoid alcohol until your body's had a chance to get used to the altitude.”

  “All good advice.” Trevor's shoulders slumped. “It is one A.M. my time, after all.”

  “Why don't we meet for breakfast tomorrow morning after we've both had a good night's sleep?” Mallory suggested.

  “Fine,” he replied. “How about right here in the hotel? I managed to get a room.”

  Mallory nodded. “Just tell me when and where.”

  She was willing to agree to anything, since at the moment, tomorrow seemed a long way off. Besides, now that she'd recovered from her astonishment over finding her boss in the lobby of her hotel, she was eager to get back to her original plan: drifting upstairs to her room to enjoy what she expected would be a night filled with sweet dreams.

  “Travelers never think that they are the foreigners.”

  —Mason Cooley

  Trevor looked considerably better over breakfast. In fact, as Mallory appraised the man sitting opposite her at the hotel's restaurant, she realized that even though she'd sat in a room with him three or four times since he'd hired her, she'd never really taken a good look at him before. That is, one in which she viewed him as a man, rather than merely her boss.

  Yet in the dawn's early light—or at least seven o'clock, since they were both enjoying the ease of rising early thanks to still being on East Coast time—she noticed that he was actually quite handsome.

  Of course, she'd noticed before that he had a nice face with a thin-lipped mouth that easily broke into a slightly lopsided smile, a straight, unobtrusive nose, and hazel eyes edged by those crinkled laugh lines she found so attractive. But she'd never quite responded to his good looks this way before.

  She was as surprised by how good he looked to her as she was by her strong reaction to him.

  Get a grip, girlfriend, she scolded herself. Just because you're in the Wild West doesn't mean you have to turn into a wild woman.

  Mallory figured her sudden compulsion to assess every member of the male gender in terms of his physical attributes was merely a spillover effect from having been wined and dined by Gordon the night before—even if she had technically been the one doing both the wining and the dining. Either that or it was merely the fact that the two of them were huddled together over coffee in a cozy hotel dining room instead of discussing the magazine's circulation and demographics in a sterile, impersonal office setting.

  “So what is it about you,” Trevor drawled, wrapping his fingers around his coffee mug, “that leads to someone being murdered practically every time you travel to a new destination?”

  Mallory opened her mouth to protest even before she'd decided whether to be amused or offended. But she quickly snapped it shut. Even she had to admit that he had a point.

  Still, this was no joking matter. Carly Berman's murder had hit her hard. Not only did the two of them share a history. She had also spent the evening before Carly was killed in her company.

  “You really don't have to worry about me, Trevor,” she insisted. “I know I've had a few bad experiences since I started this job. But that doesn't mean I can't handle it.”

  “I know you can handle it, Mallory.” Trevor pushed his coffee mug away, folded his hands on the table, and gazed at her intently. “But I have a magazine to put out. If your story about Aspen falls apart, I don't have a lot of time to find a way to fill those pages.”

  “I'll just have to shift gears,” Mallory said thoughtfully. “Instead of focusing on what attracts entrepreneurs like Carly to Aspen, I'll stick to your original concept: activities for nonskiers.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” His voice softening, he added, “Actually, there's another reason why I came. I thought you might need someone to talk to. About how the murder of an old friend of yours is affecting you, I mean.”

  “I feel terrible about it, Trevor,” she told him sincerely. “True, I hadn't seen Carly in decades. And we were never close. We were never more than acquaintances, in fact, if you could even call it that. We just happened to know each other because we were in the same grade at school.”

  She picked up a packet of sugar and began to fiddle with it. “But the idea that someone you know can just disappear like that, someone you've just spoken to and laughed with—even if it's just because you had the same gym teacher thirty years ago… Well, it brought up all kinds of feelings that remind me of how I felt—how I still feel, in fact—about losing my husband.”

  “And how is that?” Trevor asked, his tone gentle.

  “As if going through life is like living in an earthquake zone,” she replied, methodically folding over each corner of the sugar packet. “At any moment, the ground beneath you can just fall away, swallowing up things you just assumed would be there forever. But I finally realized that if you're left behind to deal with the rubble, you owe it to those who are gone to pick up the pieces and set things right again.”

  She paused, then thoughtfully added, “You owe it to yourself, too, since the whole point of life is to keep living.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Trevor said softly. “I felt the same way when I got divorced. The thing about the earthquakes, I mean.”

  Mallory hesitated for a few seconds before saying, “You've never told me anything about your divorce.”

  With a sad smile, “I've never had a chance. Unfortunately, it's taken something this extreme for the two of us to sit down together and have a real conversation.”

  “I'd like to listen,” she said softly, “if you'd like to tell me.”

  Staring into the depths of his coffee mug, Trevor said, “Admitting that our marriage wasn't working, and that it hadn't been for some time, was one of the most difficult things I'd ever done. Making the decision to end it was at least as difficult. And even though losing a connection by getting divorced is different from losing a spouse through death, it was still incredibly painful.

  “I thought I had it all under control,” he continued. “For the first couple of months, I acted as if nothing in my life had changed. I got up, went to work, spent a couple of hours at the gym, kept myself busy with errands on weekends… I was the picture of efficiency. No one at work could believe how well I was handling things.

  “But then I crashed. I went into a deep depression. Nothing seemed right. I walked around like a zombie. I even felt uncomfortable living in my own body.” He spoke as if he was in a daze, his voice so soft Mallory could barely hear him. “I slept too much. Hardly ate anything. Didn't exercise at all. It was as if all the normal human feelings, even the basic ones like hunger, were beyond me. It was at that point that somebody at work suggested that it might not be a bad idea for me to get some help.”

  Trevor sighed. “It was the best advice I ever got in my life. I found myself a shrink and started talking about everything. My marriage, its failure… I even dredged up stuff from a long, long time ago. After a few months, I started to feel like my old self again. I realized that my life wasn't over; it had just started a new phase. And that deep down I had the strength to adjust to my
new circumstances. I began to look forward to what was ahead instead of simply mourning what I'd lost.”

  He stopped abruptly, glancing up at her shyly. “End of sob story,” he said with forced joviality “I'll shut up now.”

  They were both silent for a long time, each of them acting as if the simple act of sipping coffee was such an intense experience that it required all their concentration.

  “I really appreciate your being so open with me,” Mallory finally said. “And if for some reason you ever regret it, I'm willing to pretend this conversation never happened.”

  Trevor didn't respond, so she had no way of knowing if he was already sorry. But she knew that from her own perspective, she had no remorse over having been honest with him.

  “So what happens now?” she asked lightly. “I mean, are you planning to stay in Aspen or go back to New York…?”

  “I think I'll stay for another day or two,” he replied, without looking at her. “Maybe I didn't come to Aspen under the best of circumstances. But now that I'm here, I'm thinking it wouldn't be such a bad idea for me to spend a couple of days away from the office. It's been too long since I've taken a trip of my own. I could probably benefit from a break.”

  “Are you sure you're not just checking up on me?” Mallory teased. “Making sure I'm doing my job?”

  “Maybe I am,” he replied. Without looking at her directly, he added, “Or maybe I just want to make sure nothing bad happens to you.”

  Given how worried Trevor seemed to be, Mallory decided not to mention that she was doing more here in Aspen than writing a magazine article. When he announced after breakfast that he was going to take a walk around town to get his bearings, leaving Mallory to get some work done, she decided it was a good time to pay Sylvie a visit.

  She had thought the HoliHealth executive was worth looking at from the beginning. But the fact that it was Sylvie, and not Mallory, that Harriet had chosen to rendezvous with immediately after the police had released her had catapulted Sylvie to a top spot on Mallory's list of suspects.

  She rifled through her suitcase until she found a silk scarf she'd tossed in at the last minute. It was one she'd never been all that attached to anyway, so she figured that if she lost it while she was traveling, leaving it behind in a restaurant or failing to notice that it had slipped off her shoulders, she wouldn't care.

  Clutching it in her hand, she went back down to the lobby. She stood half hidden by a large potted plant, scoping out the area until she spotted the youngest, most gullible-looking bellman around. The sandy blond stubble that covered his head and his round rosy cheeks made him look as if not long before, he'd been driving a tractor instead of pushing a luggage cart.

  “Excuse me,” she said after making a beeline in his direction, “I'm Mallory Marlowe. I'm a guest at the hotel. A friend of mine left this in my car last night. She's staying here, too, but I don't know her room number. Do you think you could deliver it to her?”

  His eyes traveled nervously between Mallory and the scarf she was waving in front of him. “I'm on luggage duty today. We've got a big crowd coming in. But you could call the front desk and I'm sure they'd put you through to her room.”

  Mallory did her best to look like a damsel in distress. “I would, but I know for a fact that she's not in her room right now. She's, uh, out somewhere having breakfast.”

  “In that case, you could still call her room and leave her a message—”

  “Please,” she interrupted, wondering when farm boys had gotten so feisty, “I'm on my way out to an important meeting and I really don't have much time. Do you think you could just find out what room she's in and drop this off?”

  When he still hesitated, she decided to try the New York way of doing things. She reached into her wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, shoving it at him as if it was clear she wasn't about to take no for an answer. “I really appreciate your doing this.”

  “I'll get on it right away,” he assured her, his eyes widening and his rosy cheeks growing even rosier as he stared at the bill in his hand.

  Glad to know ten bucks still buys something in this town, Mallory thought wryly as she told him Sylvie's name, then watched him walk away.

  After he got Sylvie's room number from the clerk at the front desk, he headed toward the pair of elevators that served the front section of the hotel. Mallory was relieved that Sylvie's room was in the original building. It was only three stories high, which would make it easier to track him.

  As soon as the elevator doors had closed, she rushed toward the fire stairs and raced up them. When she reached the second floor, she opened the door and peered down the hallway. No one was there, and there was no pinging sound to tell her that the elevator was stopping there. She ducked back into the stairwell and emerged on the third floor, where she stuck her head out the door even more carefully than before. Sure enough, she could see the bellman standing in the hallway a few doors down.

  “I'm really sorry about the mistake,” he was saying to whoever was standing opposite him as he tucked the scarf into his pocket. “She told me this belonged to you, but I guess she was confused.”

  Confused… like a fox, Mallory thought.

  She retreated back into the stairwell one more time, closing the fire door and waiting until she heard the pings that told her the elevator was whisking her emissary away. Once she knew she was safe, she ventured out again, checked to make sure the coast was clear, and then headed straight for the same door at which she'd seen him standing.

  She rapped on the door loudly, doing her best to sound authoritative.

  “Goodness, what is it now?” a female voice muttered from inside room 312.

  When the woman flung open the door, she looked surprised, as if she'd just assumed she'd find the same bellman standing there. Mallory took advantage of having caught her off guard by sticking her foot in the doorway just far enough that Sylvie couldn't close it and leave her out in the hallway.

  “Do I know you?” Sylvie asked curtly. Almost immediately, her expression softened. “I do, don't I? You and I spoke at the Bermans’ house yesterday morning.”

  “That's right.” Mallory shook her head. “Isn't it the saddest thing? I've been so upset ever since I heard the news…” Rubbing her forehead, she added, “Do you think I could sit down? I keep getting lightheaded. I don't know if it's the altitude or just being so freaked out about poor Carly…”

  The threat of having the limp body of someone who had just fainted cluttering up her doorway was clearly too much for the woman. Sylvie quickly moved aside. “Of course. Come in. Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

  “Water would be great.”

  Mallory plopped into the nearest chair while Sylvie disappeared into the bathroom. As she listened to the water running, she glanced around, surprised by what she saw.

  A large open suitcase sat on one end of the king-sized bed, piled high with neatly folded clothes. A large leather tote bag, its mouth gaping open, sat on the floor nearby. From where Mallory sat, she could see that stuffed into it was a laptop computer and a stack of manila file folders.

  “Thanks,” she said when Sylvie came out of the bathroom with a glass of water, wearing a concerned expression.

  After taking a few gulps and doing her best to look perkier, Mallory observed, “I see you're on the way out. I don't mean to keep you.”

  “That's okay. My flight isn't until two o'clock. I wanted to leave earlier, but when I called to change my flight, this was the first one I could get.”

  Aha, Mallory thought. So Sylvie's decided to get out of Dodge.

  Still, it was possible that the only reason she was suddenly in such a hurry to get out was that her business here in Aspen was done. With no Carly to negotiate with, what would be the point of staying?

  The point, she quickly realized, could be trying to work out a deal with the husband of the deceased. Especially since a good businesswoman woul
d know that negotiating with someone who was under great stress could well yield an even better deal than usual.

  Of course, it was possible that Brett Berman simply refused to deal with her right now. Whatever the explanation for Sylvie's hurried departure may have been, Mallory intended to do her best to find out precisely what it was.

  “I understand you and Carly had a business relationship,” she said, “which means you two weren't friends, the way she and I were.” Once again, she was nearly certain that her cavalier use of the word friends was making her nose grow longer. “The two of you were just business associates, weren't you?”

  “Not yet,” Sylvie replied, her voice tinged with bitterness. “What I mean is, that's what I was hoping for. But I wasn't able to make that happen before she got—before all this happened.”

  From her tone, it sounded as if she was annoyed that Carly's murder had gotten in the way of her business plan.

  “I've been working on this deal for nearly two years,” Sylvie went on resentfully. “And I have nothing to show for it. Nothing! I can just imagine the laugh they're having back at headquarters.”

  “Even these days, it must be tough, being a woman executive,” Mallory commented, trying to sound sympathetic.

  “Hah!” Sylvie snapped. “Try being an African-American woman in a company full of white men! It's the pits.”

  “And you'd think a company that specializes in health-related products would be a bit more progressive,” Mallory added, trying to fuel the fire that was obviously lurking not far below the surface, even though it was covered up by a button-down shirt and a tailored jacket.

  If Sylvie wondered how Mallory came to know so much about her business, she didn't show it. Like most people, she probably just assumed that everyone she came across traveled in the same sphere she did and that they all shared the same outlook, not to mention similar experiences.