by Judith Lucci
"I'm hosting an event at the Country Club next Wednesday and I was hoping you and LauraLea could attend."
Hmm, Spotswood County Club. I must admit the thought of dinner at Spotswood Country Club improved my spirits, especially since I generally eat Weight Watchers dinners on the nights I stay at home. But I hesitated. “I don’t know, Wendell. I’m busy and I’m a bit behind in my writing.”
"Please, Lily. I’d like you to be my guest.” The man practically begged me.
I didn’t respond.
“Are you there, Lily? I've set up one of the meeting rooms with a beverage bar and hors d'oeuvres. I'd be honored if you and LauraLea would join me for dinner."
This was just too much for me. My patience was gone. "I can't say for sure tonight, Wendell. I generally teach an art class on Wednesday afternoons and I'm not available until after 6 o'clock in the evening. I will check with LauraLea and see if she's free that evening." My voice was one millimeter short of rude, but I didn’t care. Unfortunately, it gave the odious man hope.
His voice was bright and he sounded relieved. "Oh, that sounds delightful. Can you text me or call my campaign headquarters, or my office after you speak with LauraLea?" Wendell waited for my reply.
"Yes, yes, I certainly will. But once again, Wendell, I want you to understand that I'm apolitical and never align myself with any candidate running for office." My voice was firm, and I was resolute in my decision.
I heard him laugh and for some reason that angered me. I felt like he was making fun of me. Anger flashed through me. I wish I hadn't agreed to talk with LauraLea.
"I'm not asking you to align yourself with any of my political agenda. I'm simply inviting two lovely ladies for dinner." His voice sounded light and eager, but I think I detected a tinge of sarcasm.
What was wrong with me. Had I become paranoid. I relented. "Okay then, I'll get back with you in a day or so about our availability. Thank you for the invitation," I said stiffly. I used my best Southern manners which would have made my mother proud of me. If she knew what I really thought, she’d turn over in her grave.
Wendell laughed softly. "Good night, Lily. I'll talk with you soon. Pleasant dreams." Wendell signed off and hung up.
I pushed the off button on my phone. My two male dogs must've felt my uncertainty because one licked my hand and the other one stared up at me. What in the world did Wendell Hallet want with me? Was I paranoid? Finally, I gathered all my dogs and we headed to the back of the house and went to bed. Wendell Hallet and Sam Painter stayed on my mind and I had some weird dreams I couldn’t remember the next day.
Chapter 12
I awoke early the next morning, grabbed my coffee and headed to my office to write. I was behind and desperately needed to catch up. I was the worst taskmaster in the world. LauraLea always told me I was the worst boss I could ever have and that I was way too hard on myself.
I took a little break, went into my art room, let the dogs out, and worked on a watercolor painting that was in progress. I also had three or four pieces of art I was actively working on. I watched my dogs play outside and bury their heads in the snow. The snow had turned to frozen slush and they tip-toed as carefully as they could.
I grabbed a glass of orange juice and headed for my recliner. I then picked up my copy of our daily newspaper (which I only allowed myself to read after my word count was done) and was struck, stunned by the op-ed piece written by controversial, investigative reporter Jeremy Futrell. I felt a chill race through my body. Reporter Futrell had suggested the possibility of foul play in Sam Painter’s death. He’d noted Sam’s controversial opinions on development in the Shenandoah Valley and Sam’s aversion to further development on the mountain. He’d used terms such as obstinate, resistant, and stubborn. He’d even referred to Sam as a tree-hugger at one point. My heart raced as I re-read the article several times. The piece was carefully written and balanced, and while no accusations occurred, there was a cloaked question of murder. After my fourth read-through of the article, I was convinced that Jeremy Futrell had an overwhelming respect for Sam and admired most, if not all of Sam’s stances. That soothed my nerves a little. My heart still thudded in my chest as my blood pressure painfully climbed back to normal. A part of me wanted to call Jeremy Futrell and have a conversation.
I wrote for a couple of hours and realized it was time to let my dogs out again. Three of them were in their beds in front of the fireplace and the fourth one, Sheera, was curled up next to them. I called for my dogs and walked out into my art room, opened the door and let the dogs out to play once again in the snow. I watched them as they burrowed their faces in the snow and dug holes to dig out the jerky treats I’d tossed them. A half an hour later, I mopped up the snow they’d tracked in, grabbed a cup of tea and returned to my recliner. This time, all four of my dogs were asleep in front of the fireplace.
Perhaps a little rest was what I needed to finish my book. I decided to nap for a while and then drive to the gallery after lunch to see what was going on. I knew LauraLea was supposed to teach an acrylic pour class to a bunch of folks staying at the resort. I figured she could use some help.
I fell asleep in my recliner and was awakened when I heard a knock at my back door. As usual, my four dogs went berserk and ran through the kitchen. I hadn't slept well during the night, my mind continually on Sam’s death. I picked up a book to edit on my computer and had fallen asleep. My cold coffee and dirty bran flakes bowl set next to me on the glass table.
The doorbell rang again, and I hurried through the kitchen and opened the back door. Benson, Kenzie, and Solomon, his tail wagging a thousand times a minute, stood in my garage. I was glad to see them but a little nervous as well. Generally, when they dropped by unexpectedly, it suggested that something bad or at least unplanned had occurred.
I smiled as I stood in the doorframe. A cold blast of wind almost knocked me down. "Hey, y'all. This is a surprise. Come on in. I've got a pot of vegetable soup I made last night. Have you had lunch?"
Benson, Kenzie’s dark, handsome chief investigator was in his mid-forties and as good a guy as you’d ever want to meet. He gave me a kiss on my cheek. "Lily, every time I come here you’re cooking something and it always smells and tastes so good!"
I laughed at the handsome six-foot-tall former cop from Asheville, North Carolina. "I learned a long time ago that the best way to a man's heart was through his stomach! Plus, I make soup, at least one pot every week in the winter."
"Yum! It smells divine in here. And, Lily, you are truly the Soup Queen!” Kenzie walked into the kitchen and was surrounded by dogs. My dog Sam couldn't wait to get outside and play with Solomon. They were great friends. "I’m surrounded! I love it!" Kenzie laughed as she sat on my tile floor and accepted kisses from all four of my furry children. Benson and I laughed. It was a great moment and for a few minutes, all of us forgot about Sam Painter’s unfortunate and questionable death. There’s nothing like a dog hug or kiss to fight pain.
"See if you can get all of them or as many as you can outside on the deck. I'll make us lunch, tuna sandwiches and homemade vegetable soup – that is, if y’all have time." My mind raced as I prepared a quick, make-do meal. “I may even have some left-over potato salad,” I offered with a grin.
“I’ll never turn down a meal here, Lily,” Kenzie smiled as she hugged me.
Benson’s hug followed. "We always have time to eat, Miss Lily. You know that!"
Ten minutes later the three of us sat at my kitchen table with bowls of homemade vegetable soup, tuna sandwiches, potato salad, and Diet Pepsi. It was delicious, even if I have to say so myself. The dogs remained outside and played.
Kenzie blew on her soup spoon. "Man, this smells wonderful, Lily. I've never met a pot of soup from this house that I didn't love."
"I'll have to agree with that," Benson added. "Although, everything I've ever had to eat here is pretty tasty."
We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments and then I asked, "Anything else new on
Sam's death?"
Kenzie shook her head. "Nope. Not yet, but I expect my lab findings this afternoon."
“What about the autopsy? Did you get that done?”
Kenzie lay down her sandwich. “Oh, yes. Broken neck. I think Sam died as soon as he hit the ground.”
I nodded, shook my head and turned to Benson. "What do you make of this, Benson? Do you suspect foul play, an accident, or murder on the ski slope?" I knew Benson was a frequent skier and had lots of knowledge in this area.
Benson took a sip of his drink. He shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. We haven’t analyzed his equipment. Lots of times accidents occur by not having the appropriate equipment. As you probably know, poorly functioning or improperly adjusted equipment is a frequent cause of injuries and can cause death."
I nodded. "I know that bindings that are too loose can help you break a leg and that helmets can certainly prevent head injuries." I turned to Kenzie. "Did Sam wear a helmet when he skied?"
Kenzie nodded. "Yeah. He had on a helmet. Sam was a safe skier. He knew what he was doing, and he knew brain injury was a leading cause of death of skiing accidents. He knew a head injury could cause permanent disability and brain damage. He still had on his helmet when we found him."
I nodded. "From what I can remember, very few people die on ski slopes every year. Is that still correct?"
Benson nodded and reached for his Diet Pepsi. "That's true, Lily. You're more likely to drown in your kayak than die on the ski slope."
"That's true, and I agree, but there are tons of injuries on the ski slope every year and ironically most of those come from skiers who are experienced and have been skiing for years like Sam," Kenzie added.
I was confused. "Help me understand that. Why are experienced skiers more likely to crash and die on the slopes?"
Benson stood. "Mainly because the skiers don't consider the dangers. Oftentimes they don't use protective equipment such as helmets wrist guards, or kneepads. This can sometimes cause accidents and death, particularly spinal cord injuries," Benson concluded as he walked over and filled his soup bowl.
"Even more than that, experienced skiers become overconfident and don't consider the dangers. We also need to remember that most skiers average five to seven ski days per season. It's reasonable to assume that the more days you ski the more likely you are to have an injury or permanent accident. The odds of injury increase with the number of days you ski each season," Kenzie speculated as she held her bowl for Benson to refill. “This is great soup, Lily. Perfect for a cold day.”
I nodded my thanks. I understood the odds and understood the injuries. "What position was Sam in when you discovered his body. Did he have on the protective gear he needed?" I couldn't imagine Sam skiing and being careless about it.
"Yeah, he was well outfitted and had on every protective piece of clothing available, at least in my opinion." Kenzie put down her fork, reached for her phone and searched her iPhone for pictures.
I waited quietly as I considered making a pot of coffee. I already wanted to jump out of my skin and believed coffee was soothing in times of crisis. “Who’s up for coffee and pie?” I asked as I rose and headed towards my coffee pot.
Kenzie raised her hand and Benson offered me a grateful smile. We talked more about Sam’s death as the coffee dripped thru the filter. It smelled divine. My heart rate settled a bit.
"Lily, can I fill your cup?" Benson offered as he stood and moved towards the counter. He stood next to my chair and looked down at me. I loved the little crinkle “happy” lines around his blue eyes.
“Sure, the cups are right above the pot,” I replied. “And the cream’s in the fridge.”
Benson beamed at me. “I know that, Lily! How many cups of coffee have I had in this kitchen?”
“Yeah. I guess you do.” I held my cup out to him along with Kenzie.
"Here, Lily, look at this." Kenzie handed me her phone. The picture showed Sam laying on his left side, his legs sprawled in the snow. Half of his face was visible. One of his ski poles, the left pole, was a couple of feet from his body. The right ski pole was close to his right arm. A tree was about six inches from his body. It looked as though Sam’s head rested against something. His head was at a funny angle.
"He, he doesn't look like he's on the ski run. Was he off the slope?" Now I was really confused.
Kenzie nodded. "Yeah. We found him off the ski run a little ways into the woods. From the looks of the tracks in the snow, Sam had tried to slow down, to stop his skis, but he couldn’t." Kenzie had a lump in her throat. I patted her hand. I knew this was hard for her.
I studied the pictures. “It looks like he had a collision with the ground, at least based on these pictures," I said as I continued to flip through Kenzie’s phone.
Benson nodded. "That's my opinion. I think he was trying to slow down but couldn't, no matter how hard he tried."
"Sam was a safe skier. He wouldn't push the boundaries and generally, the skiers that have accidents are those skiing too fast for the terrain and too close to the tree line because they want to get where the powder is. They ski towards the side, off the groomed slope." Kenzie took the phone back from me. “He’d just rounded a tight hairpin curve, but that shouldn’t have made a difference. Sam had skied the Diamond hundreds of times.” Kenzie shook her head. “I just don’t get it.”
I was silent for a couple of minutes as I considered the pictures and what I'd seen. I didn't understand why Sam was off the slope. Why had he veered to the left? I looked up at Kenzie. "Did you find anything in the autopsy that would suggest he’d lost control?"
Kenzie smiled grimly. "That was my first thought as well. I thought perhaps he’d suffered a heart attack or a stroke or that an aneurysm had burst, and he’d become confused and had lost his way on the Diamond. But all of that was negative, at least anatomically — there was nothing on autopsy that would account for Sam’s loss of control."
"So, you found nothing physiologically that could account for the skiing accident?" I shook my head and searched my brain for a reason for the accident.
Kenzie shook her head. "Nope. His shoulder that he landed on was shattered and his arm and wrist were broken on the left. He’d also fractured his pelvis. But I'd expect that based on his impact with the ground." She paused and continued, “Of course, his neck was broken at C1 and C2 which immediately wiped out his respiratory status and life.
My shoulder’s sagged. I was clueless. "Was he taking any medicines? Do you have anything that could've made him dizzy? I just don't understand why he lost control," I stammered, unable to put the scene together in my mind. It just didn’t fit. Pieces of this puzzle were missing.
Kenzie shrugged her shoulders. "Not that I know of. I do have a call in to his family doctor. But, I haven't heard back yet."
Benson put his coffee cup down and looked at Kenzie. "I'd be surprised if Sam took many medications," Benson's voice was skeptical. "He led a pretty healthy life from what I could tell."
“I’ve never known Sam to drink or do drugs. I don’t think that’s a part of this equation. I’d be shocked if anything like that showed up on the toxicology reports,” Kenzie murmured as my phone rang.
I shook my head. "Don't worry about it. I'm not expecting any calls so whoever it is can leave a message. I'll call them back."
"Anyway, that's about it with regard to what I found on autopsy," Kenzie continued. "However, I did find something else." She flashed her eyes over to Benson who nodded encouragement.
Kenzie took a deep breath. "I did find a large rock, almost a boulder in the middle of the advanced run."
"What? A rock? Do you mean like a stone? Perhaps a piece of bluestone?" I was surprised and figured my face probably showed it. I couldn't imagine a big rock being on a downward slope.
"I think the word boulder better describes what we found. People generally think of rocks as small," Benson interjected. "It was about this big," he said as he spread his hands about two feet.
My heart skipped a beat and almost stopped beating. I went cold all over. My blue eyes locked with Kenzie's brown ones. "Why would there be a large boulder in the middle of the advanced slope, the Diamond Jim, at Massanutten Resort? Those slopes are immaculate. They’re groomed several times a day.” My brain raced. A rock in the middle of a ski slope! Why? Who’d put a rock in the path of a ski slope. Perhaps Jeremy Futrell was correct. Perhaps it was murder.
Kenzie’s eyes were glued to me as she watched as uncertainty flashed over my face. "That's the question I need to answer, or at least we need to answer. It shouldn't have been there. The resort says there's never been a boulder on the Diamond Jim."
I nodded but remained quiet.
The thing about the boulder that’s most significant is its placement," Benson said softly. "An experienced skier could have missed the boulder as he rounded the curve and started down the sharpest and quickest part of the run. He paused as his words sank in. “Sam would have seen the boulder and skied around it.” Benson paused. “Not only that, I don’t believe this boulder is usually here. No ski facility would have a large rock like this on their run. It invites an accident.”
Cold chilled my bones. "So, you all think someone deliberately placed the boulder there so Sam would have an accident and die on the slope. Is that right?"
Kenzie nodded. “Yeah. I’ve skied the Diamond Jim hundreds of times. I’ve never seen the boulder so that's exactly what I think. The ski director swears there are no rocks on the Diamond Jim or any other slope ever. They couldn’t groom the slopes appropriately if a big rock was in the way."
