by Becky Clark
Feeling more confident, but still a tad jumpy, I made my way through the archway toward the ticket office. Hanging above the window was a carved wooden sign that read “Lost Valley Station.”
My heart clutched a bit. If this was Lost Valley, maybe I could check out the resort and see if Lapaglia did wind up there. It was a long shot, but it made a certain kind of sense. As much sense as anything did these days.
On the other side of the ticket window, a man rested his legs on a desk, blue jeans and cowboy boots crossed comfortably. He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced behind his head. I softly cleared my throat but he didn’t move. I tapped my fingernail on the counter. Unsure, I struck the silver bell.
The poor man jumped and almost fell from his chair. “Dang! Where’d you come from?”
“I’m sorry. I was on the train that just came in.”
He stood, brushed off his embarrassment, and straightened his chair before coming to the window.
“Can I get a cab out to the resort?”
“Why don’t you just take their shuttle?” He pointed out the sign. “It’s the only thing out here.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Why didn’t you get on the shuttle with that nice family going out there?”
“It was full.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
I blushed at my stupid lie when I already had a stupid truth at the ready. “It left when I was in the restroom.”
Now it was his turn to blush. He reached for the phone and mumbled, “I’ll call out there and tell him he’s got another passenger. Shouldn’t be too long.”
I thanked him and walked to the front of the station to wait, but was driven inside after about five minutes by extreme heat and aggressive flies. Flies with no understanding or concern for my personal space. Autonomous gangsters bent on the total destruction of my unflappable serenity. Flies so committed to my discomfort they had surely raised their tiny fists and swore an oath.
After many minutes of contemplating the probable futility of investigating the Lost Valley Resort, and a near-decision to simply take the next train back to Denver, the door to the station whooshed open. A pale, well-groomed man who looked like he just stepped out of the pages of Newly-Transplanted Cowboy Monthly called out a greeting to the train agent, then walked toward me with his hand outstretched. In his other hand he carried a small paper bag with the Lost Valley Resort logo printed on it.
“Alan Fraser, owner of Lost Valley Resort. Hear you need a ride.”
“I’m Charlee Russo and I do. I’m sorry to drag you all the way back here.”
He handed me the bag. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles.”
Confused, I opened the bag. Inside was an assortment of over-the-counter remedies, Pepto-Bismol, Imodium, Midol, ibuprofin. Heat crept up my neck and settled in my face. The train agent must have told him I was in the restroom for an inordinately long time. I couldn’t very well explain I was hiding, so I swallowed my humiliation and simply said, “Thanks.”
He followed me toward the exit but said, “Let me just grab your luggage.”
“I don’t have any.” Seeing the bewilderment on his face I added, “I like to travel light.”
“We have a gift shop at the resort, in case you find you traveled a bit too light.” A smile played on his lips, almost hidden by his reddish goatee and mustache. “Shall we?” He swept an arm toward the door.
“Can I ask you something first?” I said, digging in my bag. I pulled out the picture of Lapaglia. “Do you know this man? Would he happen to be staying at your resort?”
He didn’t even look at the photo. “I can’t divulge my guest list. We have a very strict privacy policy. I’m sure you understand.”
“Sure. I get it.” Don’t like it, but I get it.
He walked a step-and-a-half ahead of me so I was able to study him without being rudely obvious. The population of the world would be completely self-conscious if they knew how many writers studied them for traits for our character files.
Alan Fraser was not what I expected in an owner of a rustic western resort. Red thinning hair, first of all. I couldn’t name one ginger cowboy. No cowboy hat. Jeans with a razor-sharp crease right down the center of each leg. How do you even do that? Ornate western-style shirt with too many sequins, probably mail-order from someplace in Thailand instead of the iconic Rockmount Ranch Wear store in Larimer Square in Denver. And worse yet, two-toned wingtips instead of boots.
As if he could read my mind, at the van he motioned me up the stairs and said, “I’m from Manhattan.”
Not sure what the correct response was, I decided no response was probably best. Anything I said would come out judgmental, perhaps even rude, even though that wouldn’t be my intent. If he were a character in a book, I’d appreciate the juxtaposition and wonder if the author was planting some sort of foreshadowing image in my head, or drawing subtle attention to something dubious about him, or maybe just messing with me. Good thing he wasn’t a character in a book, I guess.
I stepped into the van and took a seat in the second row.
Alan Fraser had the radio turned low to a twangy country station. The way he hummed along and quietly sang incorrect words out of sync perfectly illustrated his Manhattan-ness. He seemed to be trying on this cowboy persona and it didn’t fit very well. It reminded me of when I used to stagger and scuff around in my mom’s high heels as a child.
He turned from a paved road to a rutted dirt road. We bumped along and I watched the silvery-green rabbitbrush, the low-slung sumac with their orange-red berries, and the occasional purple flowering sage pass by. He shifted gears and the van struggled as the terrain rose in elevation. Before long, we rounded a bend and the semi-arid landscape morphed into something more befitting the Colorado mountains. Stands of pine trees and aspen stretched in a patchwork panorama before us.
As we traveled, we chatted politely. He told me about falling in love with Colorado and trying his hand at innkeeping. I told him I wrote mysteries. I hoped he would slip up and say, “What a small world! I have Rodolfo Lapaglia staying here, too,” but no such luck. All he said was, “I enjoy a good mystery” without mentioning any of mine.
He slowed the van as we came upon a driveway to the left. He turned and we passed under a huge ranch sign spanning the entrance. A massive log was anchored across the top of two equally massive logs set deep into the ground on either side. The words “Lost Valley Ranch” cut from shiny black metal dangled from chains.
It looked decidedly more western and rustic than Alan Fraser ever could. We drove another half-mile or so and he pointed out the horseshoe pits to the right and beyond that, a chuckwagon heading across the prairie. It was the most bucolic thing I’d seen since we left the Lost Valley station twenty minutes or so earlier.
“Chuckwagon supper tonight. Barbecue, beans, cornbread, a nice pinot noir, the works. Sign up and they’ll find you a nice horse to ride out there.” He turned to look at me. “You ride?”
I hadn’t been on a horse since I plodded around in a circle on the back of a sad swayback at the Renaissance Festival. Her ennui had seeped upward through the saddle and settled in my eight-year-old bones. By the time we’d made the requisite six laps, I had nodded off twice. “Not really.”
“We also have a hayride that goes out there.”
That sounded worse. I never understood the allure of a hayride. Hay is uncomfortable, pokey and itchy, full of dust and pollen and possibly hantavirus. Its only purpose around humans was to make them sneeze. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He was only trying to be helpful to his guest. “Maybe. I just sign up?”
“Yes’m. At the front desk.”
That yes’m sounded like something he’d been practicing.
He parked the shuttle van under the portico in front of the resort which, up close, looked much more stylish than rustic. We remained outside, walking to the end of the main building, and he pointed in the direction of the cabins while he listed the amenities—all electric, wi
fi-enabled, air conditioning, room service—the patio area with outdoor kitchen and propane grills if I wanted to cook any of the fish I caught, and the huge, very inviting kidney-shaped pool with hot tub.
When he finished, he escorted me to the front desk, introduced me to Maggie, the clerk, then clicked his wingtips together, doffing the nonexistent hat on his head. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Enjoy your stay.”
I watched him go with a bemused smile then turned to Maggie. “Wingtips?”
Eighteen
She laughed. “Yep, wingtips every day. Says boots hurt his feet. But he’s the nicest guy I’ve ever worked for.”
“Probably because his feet don’t hurt.”
“Ha! Probably.” She brightened up her efficient hospitality face and started clicking her computer keyboard. “So ... checking in?”
“Um ... not really. I don’t have a reserva—”
“Oh, please don’t worry about that. It’s the middle of the week. We have cabins available.”
“No, I mean, I’m not expecting to stay.” I placed my bag of pharmaceuticals on the counter.
“Then ... why are you ... here?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
She nodded, knowingly, but she couldn’t possibly know.
I didn’t want to tell her I was looking for Lapaglia, because if he was here, I’d want to catch him by surprise. “I actually just kinda got stuck on the train and ended up at the Lost Valley station. I didn’t know where else to go, so I was maybe going to hang out here and wait for my boyfriend to come pick me up? But he won’t even be off work for hours, and then to drive up here might take ….?”
“From Denver? Couple hours. More with traffic.”
I sighed. I wasn’t even sure Ozzi could get away, what with his integration problems and load testing. Either way, he wasn’t going to be happy with me, especially if I tried to confront Lapaglia on my own.
“Well, if you decide later you want a cabin, you just let me know and I’ll set you up right nice.”
“Would it be possible to get a sandwich or something out by the pool? It looks gorgeous out there.” I was hungry, but I also had a half-baked scheme maybe I could order food with Lapaglia’s name and they’d confirm he was here someplace. Or not. Regardless, I was still going to order something. I was starving. And if Lapaglia was here, he could sure as heck pay for my meal. He owed me that, at the very least.
“Absolutely.” She reached under the counter and handed me a menu. “Just take this out there and call whenever you’re ready. The number’s on the back.”
I traipsed down a long hallway, past the restaurant, past the bar, past the coffee kiosk, past the gift shop, head on a swivel watching for Lapaglia the entire time, but there was nobody around. Maggie was right. It was dead here.
When I exited at the far end of the building, I found myself on a wide concrete sidewalk that meandered through the trees, huge hundred-year-old pines, stately blue spruce, and stands of tall, skinny aspen with their peeling white bark and leaves shimmering and quaking despite very little breeze. The shady sidewalk led toward the cabins.
Wherever the sidewalk forked, there were wooden signs with the cabin names chiseled into them and an arrow directing guests the right way along a dirt path. The first cabin was just off the sidewalk, but the other three were hidden among the trees.
The first sign I came to listed Lodgepole, Spruce, Bristlecone, and Ponderosa. The sign reading Lodgepole was nailed over the door of the cabin closest to me. It was closed up tight and nobody was around. I followed the arrow down the dirt path toward Spruce. If I didn’t know three more cabins were back here I would never have guessed it.
The Lost Valley Resort was beginning to grow on me. This would be a great place for a writer’s retreat.
I found myself treading lightly, almost tiptoeing along the path. It was so tranquil out here. Suddenly, Spruce cabin loomed in front of me and I heard a woman gasp. I gasped in response.
“Oh my, you scared me!” A middle-aged woman sat on the porch clutching a paperback to her chest.
“I’m sorry!”
At the same time we both said, “It’s so quiet here!” then laughed.
I continued on toward Bristlecone and Ponderosa.
“Step on a twig next time,” she called after me.
“Will do!”
Both cabins seemed empty, so I took the path behind. I was glad I wouldn’t have to pass by Spruce again and disturb that poor woman trying to read. I picked up a twig and carried it, thinking if I needed to, I could warn someone of my presence by snapping it with my hands. I wasn’t sure that would be any less startling, though. Might even be more alarming. I tossed it aside and decided instead to simply swing my bag and the laminated menu in a slightly exaggerated manner. The slap and crinkle of the paper might do the trick. I didn’t want to be responsible for giving anyone a heart attack.
The next fork I came to pointed toward cabins named Penstemon, Lupine, Larkspur, and Columbine. This time, since I was behind the cabin area, Columbine was the most out-of-the-way of this pod. I heard kids playing. As I approached, five kids ranging in age from toddler to pre-teen, all completely covered in joyful vacation dirt, ran right up to me.
“Wanna buy a mud pie?” a boy around six asked.
“Or a moothie?” the toddler asked.
“Ssssmoothie,” a pre-teen girl corrected, elongating the missing sound.
“A mud pie and a smoothie,” I said. “Sounds delicious, but I don’t think so.” I patted my belly like I was Santa.
“Why not?” A little girl with half a front tooth sprouting put her hands on her hips and stared at me.
I knew her type. Bossy. Demanding. Awkward. She reminded me of me.
“Because I have work to do.”
“What work?” she asked.
I couldn’t very well tell her I was stalking someone so I said, “I’m a writer.”
“For books?”
“Yes, for books.”
“I like books. But only books with pictures. Do you draw pictures in your books?”
“Only when I was bored in Poly Sci.”
“What?”
“Nothing. No, I don’t draw pictures in my books.”
“Why not? Lots of people make pictures in their books. Like Mr. Ronny.”
“I don’t know Mr. Ronny.”
“Why not?” She stamped her bossy little foot.
The pre-teen rescued me from the interrogation. “He’s in that cabin over there.” She waved vaguely. “He’s an”—she struggled to come up with the word—“illustrator. That’s what he said it’s called when you draw pictures for kid books. He wanted our opinion on them the other day. Mom let us go.”
“He was a good draw-er,” the toddler said.
“Nuh uh. He was a poopy draw-er,” the bossy snaggle-toothed girl said.
A shy boy stepped around the pre-teen and pulled his finger from his mouth long enough to say, “He brung us ice cream.”
“Oh boy. I bet that was fun,” I said.
“We’re going on another hike today. I’m going to be Line Leader,” Little Miss Bossy said.
“That sounds like fun too.”
They all nodded and we stared at each other for a while, having run out of discussion topics. “Okay, I guess I better let you get back to your pie and smoothie making now.”
They ran back to the mud puddle they’d made and the older girl goosed it with a bit more water from a bucket.
I followed the path from the kids at Columbine to Larkspur, then Lupine, but they both seemed empty. When I got to Penstemon, I greeted a young couple watching me from their porch. A bottle of wine sat on the table between them. They both had their feet on the railing, she was barefoot with a bright red pedicure, he wore flip flops.
“Nice out here, eh?” I said.
“Sure is,” she said.
“We’re on our honeymoon,” he said, puffing out his chest a bit.
“Congratu
lations.” I continued on my way.
When I’d passed them I heard the girl say, “Geez, you don’t have to tell everyone. And would it kill you to wear a shirt sometimes?”
Yeah, that marriage was made in heaven.
Back on the concrete sidewalk, I had a choice to make. I could continue walking around all the cabins in a far-fetched attempt to see if Lapaglia was here, or I could head back toward the pool area and a sandwich. I decided on the sandwich since I didn’t know how many more cabins there were. I might need sustenance. Besides, the notion that Lapaglia decided to vacation here seemed more than a little ridiculous now that I was here. Just my imagination working overtime, and maybe a little wishful thinking.
I followed the sidewalk back toward the main building, where I’d seen some bistro tables earlier. I settled into one and opened my menu, deciding on the cheapest thing on the menu, an $18 Reuben sandwich. I called the number on the back of the menu and they told me it would be about fifteen minutes. I settled in and tried to figure out what I’d say to Ozzi when I called him. I couldn’t put it off much longer. I thought about calling AmyJo instead, even though I was fairly certain she worked tonight. Would she want to drive all the way out here after work? I snorted. Regardless of what she wanted, I knew if I asked, she’d be here. That’s the kind of friend she was. Calling my brother was out of the question, though. Lance would interrogate me and wring every secret from my cold, dead body.
The reunion family from the train came and rearranged several tables and chairs, noisily scraping them on the concrete to form a massive compound worthy of Kennebunkport. The kids all wore swimsuits. The adults had a loud gossipy conversation about family members who hadn’t joined them for this reunion. The kids ran around giggling and bopping each other with pool noodles.
I picked up my things, trying to be inconspicuous and not rude, and moved to the opposite side of the huge patio area. I passed through the section with the three covered gas grills where Alan Fraser told me I could fry up any fish I caught. All the patio enclaves—the bistro tables, the pool, the grills with nearby picnic tables—were strategically designed so no matter where you were on the patio, each outdoor party still had privacy from other guests. It was truly a delightful and majestic space. I was headed for the umbrella-covered tables behind the huge outdoor kitchen, complete with two built-in smokers, a couple of stovetops, and an impressive pizza oven, outfitted for any guests who enjoyed cooking while on vacation. It was a gorgeous amenity, with its intricate brickwork running almost the length of the outdoor area, but I couldn’t imagine any scenario where I would be so inclined to utilize it. I barely cooked at home. And wasn’t the point of a vacation to go someplace where people did things for you?
