The Most Slippery Crime of the Year: Death On The Slopes: A Massanutten Tale (The Artzy Chicks Book 4)

by Judith Lucci

  I nodded. Even though I’d known Sam, I’d known his parents, Sarah and Lowell Painter, for years. We'd met shortly after I’d returned from New Orleans. Sarah and Lowell were a bit older than me, but we've gone to the same church. Sarah, a nurse practitioner, had taken graduate classes with me when I taught at JMU. They were top-notch folks. My heart hurt for them.

  It pained me to speak. "Will they be home soon? What are they gonna do about the dairy farm?" I looked around the table at my grief-stricken friends. “It can’t run by itself. Those cows need attention.”

  Kenzie nodded. "Yeah. I know. They've a hired hand, and he’s taking care of the cattle for now. I don't know what they’ll do long-term. I doubt Lowell can manage the farm alone now. He’s getting up there in age."

  "I'll talk to Raymond," LauraLea said. "I know he’ll help them out for a while. He's got a new foreman working for him, so he's got some free time. Raymond thinks of the Painters as his second set of parents." She shook her head. LauraLea knew how sad her husband would be. For a moment she considered calling him but then changed her mind. She didn’t want him to hear it on the news — but decided he’d be in the car at this time.

  My eyes searched LauraLea’s face. "Raymond's gonna be upset. They’ve been friend for years. What time does he get home tonight?"

  LauraLea sighed. "He'll get home late this evening. I'll be home by then and I'll tell him personally. I just don’t want him to hear it on the news." She reached for her wine glass. I signaled for the waitress for a refill. I decided to have a glass of plum wine. I was shaken by the news. Maybe a little rocket-fuel would keep me on point.

  Angie, who'd been quiet finally spoke, a note of pain in her voice. "I'm just so surprised about this, Kenzie. Sam Painter was probably one of the best skiers on the entire East Coast. He’d ostensibly skied the world when he was on the US Olympic team fifteen or so years ago. The slopes at Massanutten Mountain are almost child's play for him.”

  Kenzie watched Angie as she wiped a tear from her eyes. “Yeah. No question. He’s was a great skier.”

  Angie continued, “Even the most difficult, the Diamond Jim, the one he was on, at the highest elevation with the difficult runs, would hardly have been difficult for Sam. Everything on Massanutten was easy for him. He just liked to ski here because it was ‘mindless’, and he loved the wind in his hair and the outdoors.” Angie shook her head. Her dark curls danced in the firelight. “I just don’t get it. It doesn’t add up.”

  Kenzie nodded. "I know. His skill level as a skier far surpassed what Massanutten offers.” She flashed a dark look at Angie. “And, yeah, I’m concerned about it.” She scowled and shook her head. “I’m not sure I understand yet. I’m putting it together.”

  “What time did he ski today? Was it early?” I knew Sam was an early riser.

  “He hit the slopes early, very early. As a VIP skier, he had full access to the slopes, at least the advanced slopes, before they opened. I'm not sure what time he died because of weather conditions." Kenzie paused and gripped her teacup with her hand. “Suffice it to say that he’d been dead a while when we found him.

  “Weather conditions? What weather conditions?” I was stumped.

  “The cold. It was cold this morning. It was about fifteen degrees. He was very cold, frozen, when he was found, so other parameters are hard to determine.” Kenzie looked down into her teacup.

  "But... well... did you find anything seriously out of order when you investigated his death? Did everything appear normal?" I held my breath as I waited for her response.

  Kenzie shrugged her shoulders and picked up her teacup. "I guess as normal as it can be when you’ve got an expert skier on a mediocre slope." She took a deep breath and shook her head. "Benson is on his way home from North Carolina and we’re getting together as soon as he gets home. There are a few things I want him to check out. I do have a few questions in my mind." Anger danced across Kenzie’s lovely face.

  I looked over at Angie whose eyes were enormous. We heard the implication in Kenzie's voice. I lowered my voice. "What I hear you saying is that you're not sure Sam's death was accidental. Is that right?"

  Kenzie placed her teacup on the table. "Let's just say that I'm not ready to rule accidental death at this point in time, but I’ll certainly know after I get all of my labs back and the evidence cataloged."

  I felt a chill as fear and uncertainty inched up my spine. Why would someone murder one of the Shenandoah Valley's favorite sons on the ski slope? I shook my head. This was preposterous. I felt angry and confused at the same time. I turned to Kenzie, my voice uncertain.

  "But, to commit murder on a ski slope suggests an incredible amount of cunning and imagination." I paused. “It would suggest an incredibly sophisticated killer and a well-planned crime.”

  “Precisely.” Kenzie’s eyes locked with mine.

  I looked around at my friends. "Who would want to murder Sam Painter on a ski slope?" I hugged my arms around my body. I wiped away chill bumps with my polyester napkin. "Sam was an all-around great guy." I felt hot tears behind my eyes but wouldn’t let them flow.

  Kenzie flashed me a dark look. "Even good guys have heinous enemies, Lily. You of all people know that." She drummed her fingers on the table.

  I nodded. I knew the young medical examiner was correct. My brain was full and overcommitted. Ideas and thoughts shot back and forth through my head, but it seemed like cobwebs were in the way. In a nutshell, I couldn't think clearly. I was a mess. I’d just learned someone I was fond of was dead, possibly murdered and it was a bit more than I’d bargained for at dinner.

  Kenzie smiled as the server appeared with the huge tray of steaming food. "Time to eat. Let's keep this to ourselves at this point, but rest assured, ladies, if this is murder, I will prove it.”

  I knew Kenzie would find the killer, so I picked up chopsticks. It may take a little time, but we’d figure out what happened. I knew we’d know more in the morning.

  Chapter 10

  Jeremy Futrell, a young, brilliant and dashing journalist sat across the table from the editor of the local newspaper. that served Harrisonburg and a large portion of the county. Jeremy had a degree in journalism from Virginia Commonwealth University in Richmond and a Masters-degree in political science from the University of Virginia. His credentials, experience, ethics and ideologies were beyond reproach. His editor, Ed Dart stared at him from across the table. “I’ve gotten a lot of response from the Op-Ed piece you published this morning. And that was before we got the official word that Sam Painter was dead...” Ed paused and continued in a low voice, his dark eyes troubled. “Is there something you know, or knew was gonna happen, Jeremy? Because if there is, you need to tell me so I can protect you and the paper.” He gave the young journalist a hard stare.

  Jeremy shook his head. “No, Ed, for heaven’s sake, NO. I had no idea. I just read the writing on the wall. That’s all.” He steepled his fingers as he paused to form his thoughts. “Sam Painter had a lot of enemies – that was clear last week at the Planning Commission meeting when he shut down Wendell Hallet’s expansion plan on the mountain. But, let’s face it, he was controversial. Almost everyone would agree with that.”

  Ed nodded briefly and shifted his post-retirement aged body in his desk chair. “The Op-Ed virtually predicted Sam’s murder, or death, or whatever it was,” Ed’s voice shook. “Can you assure me you knew nothing!”

  Jeremy raised his hands and shook his head. "Honestly, I knew nothing, I know nothing. I filed that piece a couple of days ago and I certainly had no idea that Sam would be killed within a day or so.”

  Ed shrugged his shoulders. “Well, he’s sure enough dead!”

  Jeremy continued, “Yeah. On a ski slope no less. But, I'm convinced someone killed Sam Painter. There's no way on God’s earth that he died in a ski accident." Jeremy's dark eyes pleaded with his editor for understanding. “Sam was an expert skier.”

  His editor, Edward Dart, a sixty-six-year-old conservati
ve newsman saw the logic in Jeremy's argument. He shook his head. "There is no evidence. There's not one shred of evidence that suggests that Sam's death was anything but a skiing accident."

  Jeremy twitched in his chair. "There is no evidence yet, but from what I heard up on the mountain, nobody believes he died in a skiing accident. Don't forget, Ed, Painter was a member of the US Olympic ski team some years ago and a good, all-around athlete."

  Ed searched the eager, pleading eyes of the young investigative reporter. "You may be right, Jeremy, but we can't run anything without evidence and facts to back it."

  Jeremy hung his head. His knee jumped involuntarily with frustration. "I know it. I know we can't, but I'll bet you a year's pay that there was foul play involved in Sam’s death. The Massanutten slopes would be child's play for him. It would be like sending Tim Tebow to a junior varsity football game.”

  Ed nodded. He believed the young man but couldn't allow or support a story based on supposition and innuendo. There’re too many huge players that they could offend. "I think you're probably right. It's unlikely Sam would die on the Massanutten slopes, but it is possible.”

  Jeremy vehemently shook his head. “Nah. I’ll never believe that.”

  “What else did you pick up last night when you were up on the mountain? Anymore gossip?" Ed leaned his head in closer to Jeremy to hear better.

  Jeremy shook his head. "Not much more. I talked to the lift operator who said he'd been off the day it happened. He said no one, absolutely no one thought Sam had wrecked. He also verified that none of the ski patrol think Sam crashed on the Diamond Jim. One guy said Sam Painter could ski the Diamond Jim, or any Massanutten advanced slope blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back and no ski poles.” Jeremy paused and shook his head. “Sam was a hero up there. He was a VIP skier and skied a couple of times each week during ski months." He looked out the window at the sunlight on the building across the street. “Sam was a hero up there. People loved him.”

  Ed nodded and reached for the humidor filled with Cuban cigars he kept on his desk. He sniffed the tobacco through the wrapper. It calmed him down. "I gotta say I believe you, Jeremy. It seems unlikely since he was an expert skier, but something could've gone wrong."

  "Wrong! What went wrong is somebody killed him, that's what went wrong," Jeremy burst out, his face red with frustration. “I’m sorry. I’ve gotta say I really liked Sam Painter. He’s was a top-notch guy.” Jeremy turned his head away from Ed and studied a painting on the wall.

  Ed lowered his voice and inspected his cuticles. "There's always the possibility that he could've had a heart attack or something. Something physical could've happened." He paused and watched his possible realization play on Jeremy's face. "It's happened before, you know."

  Jeremy nodded. "Yeah, I know. It is a small possibility, I agree." He paused. “But I think you’re wrong.”

  Ed reared back in his desk chair and put his feet on his desk. "So, who do you think wanted Sam dead?"

  Jeremy's dark eyes lit up with, his voice was eager. “Lots of people. There's a long line of possibilities. Sam was a good man, a great man in many respects, but he had a few enemies. For instance, Wendell Hallet was overheard threatening Sam after the planning board met last week."

  Ed looked out his window at the gray January sky. "Yeah, I heard about that. I also heard he called Sam and apologized."

  Jeremy blinked. He had to hand it to Ed. For an old guy, he got around. He had a pretty good network of informants. He shook his head. "Yeah. He may have said he was sorry, but knowing Wendell Hallet, what he really said was he was sorry someone overheard him saying it. Painter has cost Hallet millions of dollars in the last few years. That, my friend, is called motive." Jeremy locked eyes with Ed for a few moments.

  Ed compressed his lips and continued to gaze out the window. He didn't respond

  "He's also angered his fellow farmers because of his stand on genetically modified seeds. They still haven't gotten over him insisting they build fences and pen up their cattle to keep them out of the Shenandoah River and it’s streams and tributaries."

  Ed nodded and locked eyes with Jeremy. "Yeah, you're right. Anybody not pro-environmental could be construed as Sam's enemy.” He shook his head. “Sam's love of the Shenandoah Valley and his preoccupation with stalling growth and development made him a target in a variety of ways."

  Jeremy drummed his fingers on the desk. "Yeah, it did! You think he was killed too, don't you, Ed? You think someone murdered him just like I do?" Jeremy’s eyes were bright.

  The newspaper editor picked up his pencil and scratched a few words on a Post-it note. “Go see Dr. Kenzie Zimbro. She's the medical examiner and this is her case. From what I can recall, she's also friends with the Painter family. See what you get."

  Jeremy jumped out of his chair and snatched the Post-it note. "I'll be back with the story that's gonna rock the Shenandoah Valley if I learn what I think I will." He hurriedly grabbed his overcoat and computer case and headed for the door. Jeremy reached the door and then turned back. “Oh, I didn’t tell you, Ed, but Wendell Hallet has been up on the mountain the last two days entertaining and politicking. He’s practically lived at the Ski Lodge.”

  A shadow passed over Ed’s face. "Humph, so that put him on the mountain when Sam died. He’s essentially at the scene of the crime.”

  “Yep.” Jeremy opened the door. “Yeah, he was and it sure does.”

  “Hold up, young man. Just in case you didn't realize it, your exposé last week on corporate greed rocked a large segment of the Shenandoah Valley. Just be sure to get good info we can validate, and fact-check."

  Jeremy paused at the editor’s door and turned around.

  "What, is there something else?" Ed raised his thick eyebrows.

  Jeremy shook his head. "Nope, I'm gone."

  Ed watched the young man leave and wondered where his own youthful idealism had left him. Jeremy Futrell was an excellent journalist. He wouldn't be surprised if the young man won a Pulitzer this year – probably based on Sam Painter’s death.

  Ed shook his head and fingered his Cuban cigar. It smelled so good.

  Chapter 11

  As I had predicted, four sets of canine eyes gave me their, “where have you been, we’ve gotta pee look,” look as soon as I entered my back door. I quickly hustled my four shih-tzu senior dogs, whom I love more dearly than life itself, into my art room and outside on my large deck. I sat at my art table as I watched them gingerly pick up their feet to avoid the ice and snow.

  I gazed over at the new wolf pastel I was painting with my new Rembrandt pastels. I decided I'd stay home tomorrow, write my daily 4000 words and paint. For a moment, I tried to remember LauraLea’s schedule. Perhaps we could paint together if she didn't need to be at the gallery. Of course, there was always the chance she’d try to snag me to go snake hunting, but I wasn’t leaving home.

  My dogs don’t stay outside long when it’s cold. Ten minutes later we were back in the kitchen and I was making their dinner. Then I searched the freezer for left-over meat for my dogs. We’d been eating the left-over Christmas turkey for almost a month.

  A few minutes later I sat down and opened my computer to answer my emails while I ate my favorite Weight Watchers dessert of double fudge ice cream. My dogs each had a bone and they were chewing contentedly as each jockeyed for place in front of the fire. I quickly turned to the edition of the local news. The commentator reported a ski accident and possible death at Massanutten Resort. He identified the death as that of Sam Painter. He reported the death was under investigation. Disappointed, I picked up the morning paper and the first thing I saw was a huge full-page ad advertising Wendell Hallet for state senate. I dropped the paper like a hot potato. I was not a Wendell fan, no doubt about it, and in truth, I didn't know why. The man had dutifully bought eight books from me earlier in the day, and that usually makes me a friend for life. He also had taken me out for good wine and great snacks. I didn't understand why I
had such negative feelings towards him, but in truth I did.

  Late in the evening my phone rang. I jumped because I usually don't get phone calls that late. My caller ID identified Wendell Hallet as the caller. For some reason, my landline sent the message to my television and his name appeared in large letters in the upper right corner of my TV screen.

  What is this man calling me for? Enough is enough. It certainly could not be a romantic interest. The guy had to be fifteen years younger than me and a romantic interest for me was about as far away or coveted as a trip to the moon. For a moment I considered just letting the phone ring but knew he’d called back. My heart beat harshly in my chest as I picked up the phone.

  "Lily, is that you? This is Wendell Hallet calling. The sound of his voice irritated me.

  I visualized the man’s face in my mind, and it turned my stomach. "Yes, it's me, Wendell.” I purposefully yawned in his face. I hoped he’d get the hint. “How are you this evening?"

  I don't know why I was so polite. I really did not want to talk to the man. But I was brought up Southern and I guess it is my southern manners. Being “mannerly” had been instilled in me since the day I was born.

  "I'm fine, absolutely fine. I had a great day and I've made lots of contacts for my political run." Wendell’s voice was happy. He sounded pumped and energetic. I longed by my nightgown, a handful of dog treats and a glass of chocolate milk. My bedtime routine. I didn't respond because I had no idea what was coming next.

  Wendell continued to chatter, and I continued to pay almost no attention. I was still upset about Sam’s death and didn’t feel like listening to a man late at night that I didn’t even really like. If Wendell picked up on my hesitancy, he didn't mention it.