by Todd Borg
“Once a month. The last one was a few days after Rell fell from the deck. Do you think this could have something to do with Rell?”
“I don’t know. How does she feel about the resort proposal?”
“She’s against it. She thinks we have enough ski areas, a point I agree with. But I don’t think that’s germane to whether or not the developers should be allowed to build the Stevens Peak Resort. I think it’s an issue of law, of development rights. Not the personal preferences of Rell, me, or anyone else.”
“So both Rell and Manuel were against. And both of them could potentially influence you.”
“People may think that,” Joe said. “But I pride myself on making my own decisions based on my own research and information. Do you really think that someone might try to kill Rell and Manuel to prevent them from influencing me?!”
“I don’t know. But Manuel’s wife Lucy said the same thing that you did. She can’t believe Manuel’s death was an accident. If Manuel was murdered, there must be some reason why.”
EIGHTEEN
When I was back in town and had cell reception, I dialed the number for Jillian Oleska, the event planner who had met Rell in a book club.
It rang several times, then was answered by a breathless, husky, female voice talking loud over background noise.
“Hello, this is Jillian.”
I introduced myself and explained that, at Joe Rorvik’s request, I was looking into Rell’s fall. “I’m wondering if we can talk.”
“Uh, yes, of course. Hold on a sec, will you?”
I heard clattering and voices and what sounded like someone blowing air into her phone. Then the phone went silent.
“Sorry about that,” Jillian said. “I’m walking through the Fresno airport. This place is really crowded. Fresno. Who would have thought? Okay, now I’m in a quieter place. Yes, I’d like to talk to you about Rell. I’ve been very uncomfortable about her fall. I can’t stand the idea of her lying in a hospital, in a coma. I want to visit her, but I don’t want to invade Joe’s space.”
“He’d probably welcome it,” I said. “Is there a time I could come to meet you when you’re back in town?”
“Let me pull up my calendar. I’m doing an on-snow event tomorrow at Northstar, and I’m buried the next three days. Wait. Here’s an idea. Why don’t you meet me on the mountain during lunch? I’ll be doing recon, but you can come with me, and we can talk on the chairlift.”
“Tell me where you’d like to meet, and I’ll be there,” I said, wondering what recon was. Probably event-planner speak.
“Top of the gondola, one o’clock. My ski suit is a pink Descente with white trim, and my hat is pink.”
“I’ll be the tall guy in black, suit and hat. See you tomorrow.”
NINETEEN
When I got home, I called Diamond at the Douglas County Sheriff’s office and got his voicemail.
“Hey sarge, gimme a buzz,” I said at the tone.
My phone rang five minutes later.
I told Diamond about Nedham Theodore Cavett. “Ned lives on the California side in Sierra Tract, so he’s Mallory’s problem in the main, but my little altercation was on the Nevada side of the state line, so he’s your problem now and then.”
“Sounds like instead of running away from an obvious threat, you busted him up pretty good. Almost like that vigilante justice stuff we got laws against.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It could probably be read that way.”
“Good,” Diamond said. “But don’t quote me on that.”
“Hey, you’re just looking out to conserve precious county resources.”
“Let me guess why you didn’t want me to bring him in,” Diamond said. “He’d get someone to bail him out, and then he’d be that much more likely to beat on the girl.”
“My thought, exactly. This way he’s been put on notice. Maybe he’ll think twice before he grabs her again. Not that I’m confident about it. Also, he’ll be in too much pain to do anything for awhile.”
“He will hit her again, though,” Diamond said. “Again and again. It never stops. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. But I’m hoping to come up with an idea for how to get her out of there.”
“She doesn’t want to go?”
“Wants to, no doubt, but is afraid to. Same old situation. You get a thought on it, let me know. In the meantime, I confiscated his weapons. Thought I should turn them in to the proper authority.”
“I’m up at the lake, and my shift goes ’til midnight. You want me to stop by?”
“That’d be great.”
“Proper authority,” Diamond said. “Never been called that before.” He hung up.
I was in the rocker, the wood stove fired up on high, when Spot lifted his head, looked at the door and thumped his tail on his bed.
“Come in,” I said before Street knocked.
The door opened. Street walked in. Spot jumped up and trotted over to her, his tail on high speed. “Did you know it was me?” she said.
I nodded.
“How? I was silent.”
“I have a special delectable-woman detector.”
Street leaned over and hugged Spot. “I bet you’re his special detector, huh, largeness?”
Spot wagged.
I was going to say something, but Street was wearing tight jeans tucked into tallish black boots, and when she bent to hug Spot, my brain went blank.
“At least Spot gets up to say hi to me,” Street said.
“Sorry. But I’m in therapy for a sore back.”
“Thus the heat?” she said. She looked at the wood stove, then waved her hand in front of her face as if to cool off.
“Yup.”
“You take anything for pain?”
I held up my Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.
“What’s wrong with your back?”
I told her about Ned Cavett the abuser and the diminutive woman named Simone Bonnaire, who bore the brunt of his abuse. “He must have been watching her. I went to the casinos to talk to Simone. He ran out and jumped me, and I responded, and it gave me a sore back. As soon as my medicine takes effect, my muscles will loosen up.”
“You say you responded. Does that mean Ned has a sore back, too?”
“Probably. And a sore jaw.”
“You hit him on the jaw? That can break hand bones, you know.” Street’s tone wasn’t exactly scolding, but it wasn’t far from it.
“The parking lot hit him.”
Street frowned. Spot turned back toward the door. Diamond walked in. He looked at us.
“Am I interrupting?” he said.
“No,” I said. “We’re just discussing medical treatment breakthroughs for wounded warriors.”
“Self-medicating again, are you?” Diamond stepped over to Street, gave her a kiss on the cheek, then saw the throwing knives on the little kitchen table. He walked over and pulled one out of the holster, turned it over, felt its weight and balance. “Nasty,” he said as he slid the knife back into the holder.
“You can have the belt, too, if you want.”
Diamond picked it up, held it around his waist. “Looks like it would fit. This Ned guy is built just like me?”
“Exactly, except he does have an extra forty pounds or so of hard beef on his frame.”
Diamond made the smallest of smiles. “After I talked to you, I called Sergeant Bains over at El Dorado County. He told me Ned coulda been a contender in the movie star world but for a missing charisma gene.”
“Missing charisma,” I said. “My first thought.”
“Keep in touch,” Diamond said. He gave Spot a pat, and left with the knives.
“Did you learn anything more about Manuel?” Street asked.
I told her that Lucy didn’t think his death was an accident and that her words mimicked Joe’s skeptical words about both Rell and Manuel. I also explained about the proposed ski resort for Steven’s Peak, as well as Joe’s position on an advisory commission that the Fore
st Service put together to study it.
“You think that the ski resort commission could have something to do with Rell and Manuel?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“What’s next besides going easy on your back?” Street asked.
“I have a ski appointment tomorrow with another woman who knows Rell. An event planner named Jillian Oleska. She’s got something going on at Northstar. She says she’s doing recon on her lunch break, and we can talk on the chairlifts.”
“Recon?”
“I’ll find out tomorrow. In the meantime, I have ribeye steaks and a Bogle Petite Sirah. Can I talk you into dinner?”
“Are you okay cooking with a sore back? Your oven is down low. You’d have to bend.”
“Actually, I would need to loosen it up before I start bending over to work the broiler. Maybe we start with the wine, then do a little gentle exercise. That should do the trick.”
“Gentle exercise? I didn’t bring any exercise clothes,” Street said.
“Exactly what I was hoping for,” I said.
TWENTY
The next morning when I struggled out of bed, I could barely bend to put on my socks. Street already had the coffee brewed. She didn’t stay long because she had a mentoring appointment with a young female student at the Environmental Center at Sierra Nevada College in Incline Village.
“You’re going to teach this girl about bugs?” I said.
“Yeah. It’s so rare that a woman pursues entomology, that I feel an obligation.”
We said goodbye. I was sad to see her go.
I spent some time doing stretches, trying to get my body back to pre-clown-toss condition. When I could once again bend a bit, I ate, gathered my skis and boots and poles, walked Spot, and, after telling him to be good, left.
The drive up the East Shore, through Incline, and on to Kings Beach was spectacular. There was just enough breeze to build a color-intensifying chop on the water. Waves make the lake such a deep blue that tourists have a hard time convincing their friends back home that their photos aren’t Photoshopped. In the winter, the blue contrasts with the snow-capped mountains to make every glance at the landscape a postcard view.
The high temps had stayed under freezing for the last ten days – a serious cold spell by Tahoe standards – so the snow everywhere had the micro sparkles that come from individual flakes. And most nights produced another inch or three. The skiing was probably amazing.
In Kings Beach, I turned north on 267 and climbed up to Brockway Summit. Of the seven routes in and out of the Tahoe Basin, Brockway Summit is the steepest. The snow in the night meant they would have put on chain-up requirements, so the truckers along with the unfortunate tourists who’d rented two-wheel-drive cars were forced to put on chains and crawl at slow speed up the steep highway. We locals, most of whom have all-wheel-drive, were allowed to proceed without chains.
Partway down the north side of the pass, I turned off toward Northstar. It was a weekday before the holiday tourist rush had started, so the resort was uncrowded. I parked in the lower lot, walked up to the pedestrian village, bought a ticket, and got on the gondola.
The trip up to the day lodge at mid-mountain is a gentle ride, floating through the tree tops. The snow was heavy on the conifer branches. I was in a gondola cabin with a family, two parents and three boys from Orange County. They had a condo at Northstar and were familiar with the routine.
At the gondola top station, we got out. I said goodbye to my fellow passengers and pulled my skis from the gondola rack. I carried them out onto the snow, tossed them down, and clicked into my bindings. I looked around for Jillian. There were several women in pink ski suits, and a couple of them had pink hats. One stood out over by the Arrow Express Quad chairlift. She was scanning the crowd. I raised my hand to see if she would notice. She did and waved.
I pushed off with my poles and skated over to her.
“Owen McKenna,” she said.
“Jillian Oleska,” I replied.
“You skate well on those boards,” she said.
“You put in enough hours on the slopes, even a klutz like me gets the hang of it,” I said.
“Okay if we ride up here?” she asked. “Then we could catch the Comstock Express to the top of the mountain.”
I nodded. I pushed with my poles, made a quick turn to face the same way as she was facing, and followed her into the lift line, sliding alongside on her left. The line moved fast. We merged with two guys coming in from our right, and we four pushed forward onto the loading ramp and were ready when the chair came up behind us. We all sat in unison as the chair moved slowly forward. At the end of the loading ramp, the chair accelerated and then locked onto the cable. Our skis separated from the snow as we lifted off into the air and glided at high speed up the mountain, our path well up in the trees, and our skis dangling 50 feet above the ground.
Jillian had a small fanny pack that she pulled around from her back to her lap. “Lunch on the go,” she said. She took off her gloves, tucked them and her poles under her thigh and reached into the pack. “I have cheese and crackers and Heinekens. Want some?”
“Sure,” I said. I slid my poles under my leg to free up my hands.
Jillian handed me two beers. Then she pulled out a pack of crackers and a pack of cheese. “Dig in,” she said, setting them between us. “We’ve got a touch over three minutes before we land.”
I popped the tops on the beers and handed one to her.
She took it and drank while I piled cheese on crackers and stuffed them into my mouth.
“On the phone, you said that you were here doing recon,” I said as I ate. “What’s that mean?”
“It’s about the Stevies. I don’t think it’s sufficient to just send them out onto the mountain. They should know where to go, how to gauge their impact, what approach provides the most exposure. I’m doing mountain traffic studies to better assess where they should spend the majority of their time.” Jillian put a cracker and piece of cheese into her mouth.
“Back up, please. What are the Stevies?”
“Oh, I thought you knew.” Jillian chewed and swallowed. “Sorry. The Stevies are a concept I created for the new Steven’s Peak Resort proposal. They’ve gotten quite a bit of press, so I stupidly assume that everybody knows about it.” She drank some beer. “The whole reason that the Stevens Peak Resort people contacted me was that they wanted to seed the local resort communities with information about their development. They especially wanted skiers and boarders to know that there was going to be a new, awesome resort coming. It will take at least three years before the resort is ready for its first customers, but they want their future customers to know all about it, to be anticipating. So when they hired me for the early PR, I dreamed up the Stevies. What they are is a small army of excellent skiers and boarders. They ski and ride all of the Tahoe resorts. They wear the Stevies outfit of blue and gold, and they talk up the future of the Steven’s Peak Resort. They also hand out save-the-date invites to Youtube resort-launch videos. They let people know about the website and the early options on timeshares, condos, and vacation home investment opportunities. The Steven’s Peak Resort has a data assessment group that is already reporting huge early engagement.”
“You mean data mining?” I said.
“Well, yeah, data mining is another way to describe it.”
“You talk about this like the resort is a foregone conclusion.”
Jillian ate more crackers and cheese and smiled as she chewed. “Well, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I were putting out the qualifier that the resort isn’t a done deal. So I approach this with a positive attitude about it coming to fruition.” Jillian looked up the mountain. “Ten seconds,” she said. She zipped the crackers and cheese back into her little pack and picked up her gloves and poles. I did the same.
Our chair rushed up to the offload ramp, slowed dramatically as it disengaged from the cable, and, with each of us holding our beer in one hand and our p
oles in the other, we skied off, along with the other two riders.
Jillian took the lead, skating, without using poles, toward the next lift while she still held her beer. I followed, impressed with her skill. She was obviously a pro.
We were in line at the Comstock Express in a few moments, and up on the lift shortly after that.
The breeze in our faces was bracingly cold as we gained elevation. But veteran skiers all appreciate colder temperatures for the way they preserve the powder snow.
Jillian once again pulled out the crackers and cheese, and we continued our lunch.
She suddenly pointed up the mountain. “Look, here come the Stevies. They work in pairs. That’s Jason and Lena. This is why I’m doing recon. They should only be skiing the lift line when it is over an open trail where there are lots of skiers. But where the lift goes through the trees, like where they’re catching those bumps right now, they should leave the line and head over to the open trail.”
“At least a lot of chairlift riders will see them,” I said as I ate.
“Yeah, but no one will be able to talk to them. And chairlift riders rarely twist around on the chair because of the risk of falling off, so they won’t see the Steven’s Peak logo on the back of the jackets.”
I nodded. We ate and drank as Jason and Lena got closer. As always, when good skiers ski the lift line, the chairlift riders are riveted. It is a close-up view unlike any other. First, you see them from below as they drop down the mountain above you. Then, you rush up above them as they race past and plummet below you.
Jason and Lena looked like professional models who were also expert skiers, their upper bodies flowing smoothly while their legs pumped, absorbing moguls, making little jumps, alternating between quick, skidded, windshield-wiper turns and longer, carved turns. As they got closer, their faces came into view. With tousled golden hair and happy, white-teeth smiles, they were a picture of beautiful people having a great time cruising the mountain. Jason was in the lead, showing off, but no doubt aware that Lena was close behind and matching him turn for showy turn. We could hear them breathing hard as we watched their infectious grins.
