“Just as well.”
“Can I give you a bear hug instead?”
She rolled her eyes. “Let's just hurry,” she said as she led the way to a small building a few paces off the red brick walkway.
“This seems like a great way for a nonskier to spend an enjoyable afternoon,” Mallory observed as she passed through the door Gordon held open for her.
“Any option that involves food is bound to be good,” he agreed.
They stepped into a small shop that was crammed with everything a gourmet chef, or even an aspiring one, could possibly hope for. Display tables were covered with colorful enamel pots and pans from France, hand-painted casserole dishes from Italy, and bright copper kettles like those immortalized in song. Kitchen gadgets that did everything from chop to scrape were lined up on racks. Packed onto the shelves that lined one entire wall were the ingredients necessary to make a foodie's dreams come true: raspberry vinegar; cocktail onions swimming in vermouth; barbecue sauces with overly cute names, most of which emphasized their ability to make steam come out of people's ears.
Jutting off the main room was a demonstration kitchen outfitted with a tremendous refrigerator, an even bigger freezer, and a restaurant-size stove. Other wannabe chefs were already clustered inside, giggling like schoolchildren as they donned aprons and arranged crisp white toques on each other's heads.
“Looks like we're right on time,” Gordon observed. “Grab an apron and let's get cookin’.”
“Welcome, everybody,” their instructor began, breaking into the din. He was about thirty, with dark hair and handsome features. “I'm Miguel, your instructor for today's workshop, From Soup to Nuts. First we're going to prepare a five-course meal. Then we'll learn which wines to pair with each course. Afterward, we'll all sit down together to enjoy the results. Today's menu features a pear and gorgonzola salad, seared wild salmon, and a fabulously rich chocolate dessert that looks complicated but is actually deceptively easy to prepare. Now, does everyone have an apron—and have you all washed your hands?”
Somehow, Mallory felt as if she'd time-traveled back to the third grade. Then again, that tended to happen whenever she was learning something new.
She was pondering whether that was a good point to make in her article when Gordon leaned over and whispered, “Today, we weel be making zee… how you say in Eenglish, zee hot dog? Of course, in French, we say le chien chaud, wheech of course means zee hot dog but sounds so much better en français….”
“Sh-h-h,” Mallory warned, even though she was unable to keep from laughing. “You're going to get both of us tossed out of here!”
“Moi? Never-r-r!” Gordon insisted, throwing his arms up in the air. “Sacre bleu!”
“Is there a question over there?” Miguel asked politely.
Gordon raised a finger into the air. “I have zee question—”
“No, we're fine,” Mallory insisted, poking him in the ribs.
Miguel cast them both an odd look. “In that case, we will start by preparing the salad…”
Fortunately, Miguel kept them all so busy over the next two hours that Gordon had little time to make jokes—and Mallory had equally few opportunities to take notes. Like the other workshop participants, she was too busy learning how to make a perfect roux by mixing together just the right amounts of butter and flour, how to test for perfect pasta, and how to crack open an egg with one hand.
By the time the group sat down at a row of small tables set with white linen and crystal glassware to enjoy the results, she was more than ready. Gordon, however, wasn't as optimistic.
“Do we really have to eat this,” he asked, “knowing it was prepared by a bunch of amateurs—myself included?” Warily he observed the pear and gor-gonzola salad sitting in front of him, so artfully arranged that it looked as if it was posing for the cover of Gourmet magazine.
“Now, now,” Mallory replied soothingly. “Almost everybody washed their hands. And that guy in the yellow polo shirt only sneezed on the pears once or twice.”
Joking aside, she wasn't surprised that the dinner was excellent. The quality of the ingredients they had used was outstanding, and Miguel had been attentive without being annoying.
As he finished the last morsel of salmon on his plate, Gordon turned to her. “You're right. It was fabulous.” Sighing, he added, “A nice break, too—from the nightmare we've all been living in for the past couple of days.”
Somberly Mallory put down her fork. She was embarrassed to admit that she'd been having such a good time that she'd forgotten all about Carly's murder—and that she couldn't completely rule out Gordon as a suspect.
“Carly's murder has really thrown Aspen for a loop,” she commented.
“That's for sure,” Gordon agreed. “Especially since the cops seem to be looking at everybody in town. Poor Harriet, of course, even though from the looks of things she was the most loyal and dedicated employee anyone could hope for. Then there's that corporate-type from California who kept bugging Carly about selling the company.” He frowned. “If you ask me, the person they should be trying to track down is Carly's ex.”
Mallory blinked. She realized she'd been so caught up in Carly's present circle of friends and associates that it hadn't even occurred to her to look into Carly's past. “That's right. You mentioned that she'd been married twice before.”
“One ex-husband dead, the other in prison.” Shaking his head slowly, Gordon added, “But most of those guys don't stay locked up forever. Sooner or later they get out—and all too often, once they do they start making trouble all over again.”
Mallory stared at her plate in silence as she contemplated the likelihood that Carly's felonious ex-husband might have had something to do with her death. Now that Gordon had brought him up, she realized it was an obvious possibility.
She wondered if the cops had looked at him. She also wondered what he'd been incarcerated for, as well as whether he'd gotten out of prison.
Most of all, she wondered if he harbored any hard feelings toward his ex.
The delicious meal she'd just devoured sat in her stomach like a bowling ball. The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. After all, there was something to be said for the “once a bad guy, always a bad guy” line of reasoning. Especially where ex-husbands were concerned.
She couldn't forget what Harriet had told her about Gordon's thwarted plans for a movie about Carly's life. Was it possible he was going out of his way to cast suspicion on someone else as a means of diverting attention away from himself, just as she suspected Harriet had?
“Do you know anything about the man?” Mallory asked lightly. “His name, what he was in prison for…?”
Gordon shook his head. “Every time he came up in conversation—which wasn't very often—Carly made it clear that her ex was one topic she didn't want to discuss. All I know is that at least part of the time they were together, they were in Philadelphia.”
“I didn't know she'd lived there.”
“The only reason I know it is that once I mentioned The Philadelphia Story. You know, the old Katharine Hepburn movie?”
Mallory nodded.
“We were talking about classic movies, I believe. Anyway, Carly kind of shuddered and said something like, ‘Don't even mention Philadelphia to me, since that's where my creep of a husband and I were living when everything fell apart. For all I know, that's the place he went back to after they released him from jail, if they were ever dumb enough to let that jerk go free.’”
“Gordon,” Mallory asked thoughtfully, “do you happen to know the years that Carly was married to him?”
Grinning, Gordon teased, “Don't tell me you're playing Nancy Drew.”
She could feel her cheeks burning. “Not at all. I'm just curious.”
“My impression is that it was pretty soon after she dropped out of college.”
Mallory's eyebrows shot up. “I had no idea she'd dropped out. Then again, I don't know anything about what happened to h
er after high school.”
“That was another piece of her past she happened to mention in passing,” Gordon said. “I seem to recall that her parents shipped her off to some women's college. Somewhere in New England, I think. They felt she'd be much more likely to do well academically in a place like that. One where there were no men around, I mean. I take it Carly wasn't exactly class valedictorian back in high school.”
“Not unless they were giving out A's for cheer-leading and being elected Homecoming Queen,” Mallory replied. “When she was voted Most Likely to Succeed, it was because of her good looks and her outgoing personality, not because of her grade point average.”
With a little laugh, Gordon said, “Not a bad call, since she seems to have done pretty well for herself.” Almost to himself, he added, “She could have done pretty well for a lot of us if she'd only been a little more flexible.”
Mallory drew in her breath sharply. When Gordon glanced over in surprise, she said, “Wow, that meal was really heavy. I'm starting to wish we'd made Alka-Seltzer for dessert instead of chocolate lava cake.”
“Tell you what,” he suggested. “How about taking a stroll around town? We can work some of it off.”
When they stepped through the door of the cooking school, Mallory was surprised to find that it had grown dark. There was also a chill in the air she hadn't noticed earlier. A heaviness, too, as if some mischievous weather system had started acting up while they were busy dicing and slicing.
“Let's do a little window-shopping,” Gordon suggested. “It's not the best exercise in the world, but at least we won't pull any muscles. Rack up any credit card bills, either, since most of the stores are closed by now.”
It was true that most of the shops had shut down, leaving only a few dim lights shining in their windows to combat the darkness. The two of them were the only ones around as they strolled back to the main walkway, then stopped in front of a jewelry store.
But as she admired the baubles and beads in the window, Mallory felt a prickling behind her neck. She thought someone was tickling her until she realized that whatever she felt flicking against her skin was ice-cold.
“It's snowing!” she cried.
“So it is,” Gordon agreed.
“But it's April!”
“I ordered it especially for you, my dear,” he said with a teasing smile. “I wanted to make sure you had the total Aspen experience.”
As more and more fat white flakes floated down from the sky, he tucked her arm under his. “Let's duck under that awning.”
Mallory had just begun walking with him when she unexpectedly encountered a slippery spot. As her feet slid out from under her, instinctively she grabbed onto his coat, meanwhile hurtling her body against his to keep from falling.
“Whoa!” she exclaimed once she'd regained her footing. “Sorry about that!”
“I'm not,” he replied, grinning. “In fact, that's the best thing that happened to me all day.”
He turned to face her, then gently pulled her closer. “At least so far.”
And then he leaned forward and kissed her.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was kissing him back. For a few moments, all she was aware of was the delicious feeling of his lips melting against hers.
And then a warning voice inside her head broke in.
Don't do it! it warned. It's dangerous. He's dangerous.
You don't know that, she thought stubbornly. Just because Harriet planted the idea in your head that he might have…
But as she stood in the cold night air, surrounded by a lovely dusting of snow that had been custom-ordered for her by the man who held her in his arms, she found it impossible to believe she'd misjudged him so badly. Once before, she'd doubted her own instincts, letting her fears about someone special get in her way.
She didn't want to let that happen again.
Of course it made sense to play it safe. But the simple fact was that she just didn't want to. Not when kissing Gordon—and being kissed by him—felt so good.
But there were other factors to consider. Other emotions. Specifically, the ones that popped up whenever she even entertained the idea of letting a man other than her husband David into her life. It hadn't even been two years since he had died, and she still wasn't sure she completely grasped the idea that he was really gone.
She was the one who broke off the kiss.
“I should really get back to the hotel,” she said, reluctantly stepping back.
Gordon reached up and stroked her cheek. “How about if I come with you?”
She shook her head. “I can't.”
He hesitated for a few seconds before saying, “Okay. Not that I'm not disappointed. It's just that I know better than to push people too hard.” With a little shrug, he added, “They used to say that was one of the things that made me a good director. Back in the day, that is.”
She stiffened at his mention of his past success as a movie director. It served as a harsh reminder of his recent attempts at regaining the status he had once enjoyed—which in turn led to the accusations Harriet had made.
“I think I'll call it a night,” she said, aware of the awkwardness that had suddenly sprung up between them.
“At least let me walk you back,” he insisted.
“Thanks, but I'll be fine alone. I… I want to do some thinking. Good night, Gordon.”
Before he had a chance to respond, she turned and walked away, taking care not to slide on any invisible patches of ice. Since her initial slip, she'd done her best to keep her balance.
And that was something that she didn't want to change.
Despite the chill in the air, Mallory was in no hurry to get back to her empty hotel room. And it wasn't only because the wintry night was so beautiful. She was also trying desperately to sort through the confusing assortment of emotions whirling around inside her head.
Here she had thought being chased by a faceless killer in a pickup truck had shaken her. But it turned out that the feeling of being out of control that that episode had elicited was nothing compared to her reaction to kissing Gordon Swig.
Do I feel something for this man? she wondered as she scuffed through the half inch of snow that had already drifted onto the sidewalks. Should I feel something for this man?
Answering questions that should have been simple was beyond her.
When she neared Main Street and realized that the Jerome was only a few hundred yards away, she purposefully headed in the opposite direction. She'd been meaning to visit the John Denver Sanctuary, and the novelty of checking it out at night struck her as something that might add a nice touch to her article. The snow had stopped, and a pale round moon had put in an appearance, glowing dimly in the otherwise dark sky.
Mallory decided to forget all about Gordon and Carly and everything else that was troubling and instead, at least for a few minutes, to think like a travel writer. Shortly after she passed a sign that said RIO GRANDE PARK she spotted a tremendous skate park. It was made up of perfectly smooth concrete bowls that no doubt constituted heaven for young people who could conceive of nothing more thrilling than having wheels attached to their feet.
Seeing it brought her back to Jordan's skateboarding phase. It also made her remember all the times he'd been chased out of parking lots and schoolyards in his ongoing search to find a place to enjoy his hobby. She was pleased that the town of Aspen had recognized the need for such a facility. Then again, given the town's dedication to enabling people to take advantage of gravity in the name of having fun, she supposed it wasn't all that surprising.
She made her way along a path that meandered along a shallow creek edged with white stones. Even in the darkness, she could see that it had a wild look that she decided captured the Colorado spirit. As she walked a little farther, she noticed that jutting up ahead were granite stones with rounded tops. The configuration looked like a pint-sized version of Stonehenge, minus the symmetry.
Once she got close, she saw that th
e collection of rocks included several that were engraved with the lyrics of Denver's songs: “Rocky Mountain High,” “Sunshine On My Shoulders,” “Annie's Song,” and half a dozen others. But the most prominent one looked chillingly like a headstone. It was engraved with some lyrics from one of his songs that included the phrase. “I sing with all my heart.”
She brushed away the light coating of fluffy white snow to read the rest. Centered below were the words:
JOHN DENVER
Composer, Musician, Father,
Son, Brother, Friend
Underneath were the dates of his birth and death. Born 1943, died 1997… Mallory did a quick calculation and realized he'd lived only fifty-three years.
She knew from her research that John Denver had not only lived in Aspen, he had been one of its greatest admirers. And every October, fans continued to gather in this spot to celebrate him. In 2007, the tenth anniversary of his death, the event had gone on for five days, with tributes, films, and concerts. That same year, Denver's song, “Rocky Mountain High,” had been chosen as Colorado's state song.
Mallory found the simplicity and naturalness of the sanctuary moving. Curious about where he had actually been born and raised, she opened her guidebook, holding it up to her nose as she tried to find the section that described the sanctuary. But she couldn't make out the tiny print on the page, given the small amount of light afforded by the starless sky.
As she closed the book with a sigh, she also noticed how dreadfully cold it had gotten. Shrugging under her jacket and pulling it tighter, she glanced around and realized she was the only person foolish enough to be wandering around a cold, dimly lit park this late at night.
But instead of finding her solitude comforting, it occurred to her that walking alone in a deserted place like this might not be such a good idea. In fact, the looming rocks suddenly struck her as threatening, and the silence that surrounded her seemed menacing instead of tranquil.
She jumped when she heard what sounded like a footstep—then told herself she was merely a victim of her own overactive imagination.
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