“I have,” I said. “And I want to do it.”
“Wait—”
I pressed the unmute button. “Oliver? I’ve considered your proposal, and I’ve decided to accept it. When would you like me to arrive?”
A sigh of relief whooshed through the phone. “Thank you so much. I would like to get started as soon as possible. Can you get here by tomorrow?”
Jazmin gave me one last look of worried disapproval as I said, “I sure can.”
Crimson Basin was about a four-hour drive from Jazmin’s apartment, out of the city and into the mountains. I packed for two weeks, unsure of how long I’d be spending at King and Queens Ski Lodge and Resort. My first suitcase was so full of fluffy parkas and heavy sweaters—I tended to run cold—I couldn’t zip it shut, even with Jazmin sitting on top of it. She loaned me a second luggage piece, which I filled with additional layers of woolly socks and long underwear. Since I didn’t have a car of my own, Jazmin took the day off work to drive me into the Basin, her rearview mirror blocked by my multitude of luggage. The farther we drove from the city, the colder it got, and Jazmin’s Land Rover chugged out dry heat from the vents to warm our fingers and toes and parch our nostrils. Frost gathered at the corners of the windows. If I squinted, I could see the crisscrossed intricacies of little snowflakes.
“Thanks again for driving me,” I said to Jazmin for the tenth time as we zigzagged up a winding road through a thick forest. “You didn’t have to. I could have taken a taxi.”
“You know how I feel about taxis,” she said. “Besides, the fare for a four-hour taxi ride would cost you Oliver’s entire ten grand offer.”
“Yeah, but most friends wouldn’t take off work for this kind of thing.” I traced silly faces into the condensation on the window. “Not just for driving me either. You never had to help me with Madame Lucia’s Parlour, but you did anyway. All the filming and set decoration. The tricks we rigged together. You actually have a respectable job, but you spend your free time doing silly crap with me.”
“Why are you making it sound like I don’t enjoy those things?” she asked. “You’re my best friend, Lucia. I like spending time with you. And that ‘respectable job’ makes me sit at a computer in a cubicle all day. It pays, but it’s boring. Madame Lucia’s Parlour is way more fun.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she said. “If I could stay with you this week, I would. Who else is going to be your handy dandy camerawoman?”
“I brought the DSLR and the handheld gimbal. I can record vlogs on my own. I also thought I might do some found footage stuff. Speaking of which—” I reached into the camera bag beneath my feet and tugged out the camera. Switching it on, I recorded a nice shot of the mountains as we drove to higher and higher elevations. Snowflakes drifted through the frame, making for a picture-perfect shot. “This is great stuff for a montage, don’t you think?”
“You have a better eye for that sort of thing than I do,” Jazmin said. “You should be careful with that camera though. Does Oliver know you plan on recording?”
“I asked him for permission to film in the lodge,” I said. “He agreed, so I’m taking that to mean I can shoot whatever I want.”
“And what about Madame Lucia? You’re not dressed for the part.”
“I packed the kimono, but I can’t wear it every day.” I was dressed in jeans, a cozy olive-green, mock neck sweater, and my winter boots. Though I did arrange my hair in Madame Lucia’s mohawk braid so as to not lose the entire effect. “I’ll just tell Oliver my online persona is suited specifically for mediumship sessions. Working with his daughter is a different type of job.”
The road took us across a narrow bridge over a frozen river. Jazmin held the steering wheel at ten and two as the tires navigated the slippery, ice-covered path.
“What do you know about the kid?” she asked. “Anything new?”
“Her name is Riley, she’s twelve years old, and she hears whispers,” I recited. Oliver filled me in on some of the details last night, but he preferred to tell me the rest in person. “According to Oliver, she’s always been strange.”
“And that doesn’t worry you?”
“My mother has called me worse things than strange.”
“Your mother blames you for things that were never your fault,” Jazmin reminded me. “It doesn’t say anything about your character.”
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s why I’m reserving judgement for Riley until I meet her. For all I know, she’s a normal kid about to go through puberty. Everyone gets weird when the hormones hit.”
“I suppose you’re right—whoa.”
“What?”
“Look.”
As the Land Rover emerged from the forest, the land opened up in front of us. Crimson Basin was an enormous white blanket embroidered with a fine stitching of trees, chair lifts, and intricate lines carved through the snow by skiers and snowboarders. The mountain was divided into two halves. King and Queens Ski Lodge and Resort was nestled in the snow at the base of the left side. The gray stones and gabled octagonal roof of the main building lent the lodge a distinct historical vibe, boasting earlier origins and a “we were here first” entitlement to the slopes. In comparison, the resort on the right side of the mountain was all modern angles and glass windows perfect for scoping out the day’s skiing conditions without setting foot outside. Each resort had their own chairlift to tote tourists up the mountain. They ran parallel to each other, as if the mechanisms raced to reach the top first, but the King and Queens lift wasn’t running that morning, and the left side of the mountain was barren of skiers and snowboarders.
“Are you getting weird vibes from this place?” Jazmin asked as she signaled her intention to get into the left lane at the fork in the road. It was peak skiing season, and the traffic to the mountain was brutal, but the Land Rover was the only car that turned toward King and Queens instead of the other resort. We whizzed by the stagnant line of cars waiting to turn right and got a glimpse of the modern resort’s welcome sign.
“White Oak Ski and Spa Resort,” I read off. “It looks brand new. Maybe they were offering a special to get people to stay there.”
“If you say so. God, does this place look bigger up close?”
We cruised into the empty lot of King and Queens and parked in the shadow of the main building. The stone entryway loomed over everything, turning the white snow dark. The resort stretched so far in each direction that I couldn’t see either end of the building. A single cop car was parked out front with the words “Crimson Basin Police Department: to honor, protect, and serve” printed in blocky blue letters on its side. Other than a King and Queens courtesy shuttle and a couple of cheap sedans in the employee lot, the Land Rover was alone. The place was deserted.
“Is it closed?” I wondered as we stepped out of the car. I kept the camera on, holding the gimbal in one hand as I shouldered one of my bags with the other. Jazmin unloaded the trunk and rolled both suitcases behind her as we approached the front door. When it opened by itself, we faltered. Jazmin bumped into me from behind. I stepped to the side and gestured for her to walk in first, but she shook her head.
“Are you ladies coming in?” A concierge emerged. He was nineteen or twenty, probably a college student working part-time over his winter break. His collared shirt ran too large on his shoulders, and his swoopy bangs were in need of a trim. His gold name tag said Trey. Clearly, he’d been the one to open the door in the first place. “I can help you with your luggage.”
“That’d be great,” Jazmin said, recovering first from our bout of silliness.
Trey hurried out, his loafers slipping across the icy sidewalk, and took my suitcases from Jazmin. He looked straight into the camera as we followed him inside. “You must be Madame Lucia,” he said, unfazed as I swung the camera around the vast lobby. Kids these days were accustomed to having every facet of their lives examined by a lens. “I can check you in.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You can call me Lucia.”
As he babbled on about the luxury details of my stay, I panned the camera across the lobby. Double staircases framed a massive, wood-burning fireplace, in front of which were several regal leather armchairs for guests to warm up in after a day on the slopes. A trio of glass elevators waited in the center of the lobby, though all three were motionless at the moment. The stairs led into the octagonal portion of the building. From what I could see, that area was a restaurant and lounge. On one side, a mezzanine overlooked the tables and chairs. On the other, a floor-to-ceiling window afforded diners an unobstructed view of the mountain.
“Here’s your key card,” Trey said, nudging me with the square of plastic to get my attention. “And a spare for your friend.”
“I’m not staying,” Jazmin said. “I have to get back to work.”
Trey, like any other twenty-year-old boy in Jazmin’s goddess-like presence, gave a goofy grin as he looked her up and down. “That’s a shame.”
“Trey, where is everyone?” I asked, gazing around the empty lobby. “This place is deserted.”
Trey sorted through the other rooms’ keycards. “Uh, it’s been kind of slow here lately—”
“Why?”
“Well—”
Two men burst out of an office behind the front desk. The first was a guy in his early forties with electric blue eyes and slicked back salt-and-pepper hair. He wore black jeans and a long-sleeved cobalt thermal that made his eyes even more intense. A leather holster crisscrossed his broad shoulders, tucking a gun and a pair of handcuffs almost out of sight. On his belt was a shiny gold badge. He carried a leather jacket over one arm, but when he tried to swing it around to pull it on, the second man grasped the sleeves and yanked it from his grip.
“Mr. Hawkins, this conversation isn’t over,” said the second man. “I’m not satisfied with the police’s investigation. I’m not afraid to open up a court case. If you leave—”
“It’s Detective Hawkins,” said the first man. He snatched his jacket from the other man and strode across the lobby toward the exit. “And this conversation is over, Mr. Watson.”
Mr. Watson—Oliver—rushed after him. He was a short man, a few inches below Jazmin, with beefy hands and feet too big for his body. His faded dress shirt was too wide in the shoulders and too narrow in the waist, as if he’d bought it years ago before he lost the motivation to work out. The buttons strained against the fabric to hold his belly in. His wiry neck and forearms indicated a previous athleticism, like he was an avid skier before he took full responsibility of King and Queens, at which point his active hobby went by the wayside.
“Detective Hawkins, please,” Oliver said, cutting off the taller man on his way to the door. “It’s my wife. How would you feel in my shoes?”
Detective Hawkins rested his hands on his hips as he looked down at Oliver, fingers brushing the gun at his side. “Mr. Watson, I’m very sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine how terrible it must be to have lost your wife and the mother of your children. I understand all of this is very fresh for you.” He patted Oliver on his shoulder. “But her death was a result of the chair lift’s faulty mechanism. There was no foul play here.”
“My ski lift went through the regulatory safety checks at the beginning of the season,” said Oliver. “It was in perfect condition. Don’t you see? Someone sabotaged it!”
“There’s no evidence of that,” Hawkins said, his exasperation blatant in the flat tone of his voice. They’d been through this circle of reasoning before. “This is the third time you’ve called me out here this week to investigate something that doesn’t warrant investigation. Please don’t contact the station again unless you have a real emergency.” Hawkins stepped around Oliver and bumped into me. “Pardon me.”
As the detective took his leave, Oliver approached the front desk, attempting to turn his forlorn expression into a customer service smile. “Can I help you ladies? Did you book a reservation with us?”
I lowered the camera, confused. “I’m Madame Lucia,” I said in my normal voice. It felt stupid to do the accent in the middle of the resort lobby. It would echo. “You invited me here.”
“Ah, yes, of course!” Oliver said. “You look different without all the—” He flipped an imaginary kimono from side to side. “You know what I mean. Welcome to King and Queens! Who’s your lovely friend?”
“Jazmin,” she said, shaking Oliver’s hand. “But I’m not staying. I should go if I want to get home in time to finish up some work.” She turned to me. “You sure you’re going to be okay out here on your own?”
“I’ll be fine,” I promised. “Drive safe.”
She hugged me and kissed my cheek. “Call me every day.”
“I will.”
Then she was gone, leaving me alone with Oliver and Trey in the vast resort lobby. Oliver clapped his hands together and tried for a grin, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. After his argument with Detective Hawkins, he wasn’t in the mood to be hospitable. Bless his heart though, he tried.
“How about a tour?” he asked.
“That would be great,” I said. “Do you mind if I film it?”
“Not at all. Trey, would you mind taking Madame Lucia’s things up to her room?”
“Yes, sir.”
As Trey lugged my belongings toward the elevator, Oliver looked me up and down. “I have to admit, you’re not quite as exuberant in person as I was expecting.”
“You mean strange?” I said. “I dress for my audience, but I didn’t think all of that was necessary for this job. And you don’t have to call me Madame. Lucia is fine.”
“Lucia then. Shall we begin?”
“Lead the way.”
Oliver guided me across the lobby, his hands folded politely behind his back. He projected his voice as if he were a museum curator speaking to a crowd of illiterate heathens with no appreciation for the arts. “King and Queens Ski Lodge and Resort was built in 1938 and officially opened for business the following year in ‘39,” he said. “It was the first official ski resort to be built in Vermont and one of the first ever ski resorts in the United States. My family, the Watsons, have owned King and Queens since its conception. We’re a small family business, and we pride ourselves on our honesty, loyalty, and passion for the sport. We prioritize our guests’ experience above everything else.”
We climbed one set of the double staircase and arrived at the restaurant. The tables were dressed for lunch, but not one of them was occupied. A full bar ran the length of the enormous window. The bartender sat on the counter, playing on her phone. When she saw us coming up the stairs, she hopped down and pretended to wipe off the glasses.
“This is the Eagle’s View Restaurant and Lounge,” Oliver announced. “We serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all of which is included in your stay. Feel free to eat in or order room service. We also deliver to the outdoor seating area closer to the slopes if you feel like a hot meal after a day in the snow. The chair lift should be operational later today if you’d like to ski.”
“I’m not much of a skier,” I admitted.
“Snowboarding then?”
“To be honest, I don’t do well with anything strapped to my feet.”
Oliver chuckled. “It’s not for everyone.”
The tour went on for a good hour. We visited the indoor swimming pool where steam rose from the heated water; the resort’s state-of-the-art gym complete with cryotherapy booths and enough treadmills to accommodate guests who, like myself, weren’t particularly keen to get out on the slopes; the spa and massage parlor, which offered everything from cupping to hot rocks to mud baths to acupuncture; and the library that boasted yet another p
henomenal view of the mountain but made me worry for the faded covers of the sun-soaked books. According to Oliver, when we circled around and returned to the lobby, we had only covered a small portion of the resort.
“The rest is mostly rooms and smaller versions of our main attractions,” he said. “We have another restaurant in the East wing, but it’s closed right now since business is slow.”
“I couldn’t help but notice that King and Queens is a bit sparse,” I said. “I’m surprised. Isn’t skiing season in full swing? I expected this place to be bursting with tourists.”
Oliver sighed through his nose, producing a high-pitched wheeze that spoke of nasal passages scarred by dry winters. “I suppose you overheard my conversation with Detective Hawkins earlier?”
“Yes.” I scuffed my boot sheepishly against the marble floor. “Sorry about that.”
“No apology necessary,” said Oliver. “It was unprofessional of me to tote my personal business around the lobby like that. Anyway, as you might have gathered, my wife passed away last week.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you,” he said. “We’re dealing with it as best as we can, but the incident unfortunately scared away all of our guests. Thelma—that was her name—was killed when her chair detached from the ski lift. She might have survived the fall, but the chair landed on top of her too.”
I swallowed a horrified gasp. “That’s awful.”
“It was indeed,” Oliver agreed. “The paramedics said it was quick. She didn’t suffer. Anyway, we had to shut down the ski lift, and when the news spread, our guests stampeded out of here. It’s been quiet ever since.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again since I couldn’t think of anything else. “How are you holding up?”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he replied. “It’s Riley. Would you like to see your room now?”
“Sure.”
He pushed the call button for the glass elevators. The center one opened, and we stepped inside. Oliver pressed the button for the twentieth floor, the very top, and the elevator zoomed upward. The lobby shrunk to doll sizes below us.
The Haunting of Riley Watson Page 3