Fender realized he was in the wrong profession, obviously. He should be blowing smoke up somebody’s ass for a hundred bucks an hour.
He took a deep breath and looked the stupid bitch straight in the eye. “Jimmy doesn’t strike me as a tyrant. In fact, he seems like a really nice guy. He bought you a very expensive diamond because you wanted it. Now you come in here and want to know what it’s worth? He only bought it because you wanted it, and you think he was trying to buy you? I think that’s damn sad.”
Her blond head quivered under all that hair. “Fine.” She picked up the ring and walked out.
Well, now, that was fun. Jimmy is a poor bastard. Fender decided a beer at the Corral was definitely in order—in honor of Jimmy, the husband wedded to the wife from hell.
It was quiet at the Corral. Most normal people didn’t frequent it until they’d consumed a good number of drinks in some other more-respectable establishment. That was one reason Fender came here early. He could rest assured there would be no hipster nonsense or collegiate crap for another couple hours.
He felt kind of bad for avoiding the Rendezvous, but he just didn’t want to see Pop tonight. His father always had to reign supreme over the crowd in there and act like being a regular endeared him to all the customers. Most of the time Fender could deal with Pop’s unrelenting friendliness and hospitality, but tonight he wasn’t in the mood.
He also didn’t want to discuss the dead guy’s ring or girlfriend with Pop. He could talk about it with Sam. He hadn’t seen Sam in a long time, and maybe he could understand why this ring thing bugged him so much. And if Sam didn’t understand, hell—they could just get tanked.
He stepped outside to call him. The phone rang twice before someone answered it.
“What?”
“Hey, Sam, it’s Fender.”
“Oh geez, sorry. Sears Credit’s called nine times in the last two hours, and I’m gettin’ sick of it. I keep telling ’em I’m not paying for a flat screen that was stolen ten months ago, you know?”
“Let it go to voice mail, then.”
“That’s too easy. This is war, my friend.”
Fender loved Sam, if only because his life was more screwed up than his own. Sam actually took satisfaction in defying every logical life lesson he could. After a degree from a culinary school in California, he’d returned home to take on a very prestigious position as a short order cook at the Morning Bird Restaurant. He also tried to smoke more weed than the rest of the town combined and prided himself on living in a house that was on the verge of being condemned.
“Come down and meet me at the Corral.”
“Okay.” The line went dead. The other thing Fender loved about Sam? Never had to twist his arm about going out.
Chapter Six
A DOG IS THE PERFECT COMPANION.
Take Zoë: she always cuddled close on a winter night, and she smiled at things like squeaky rubber newspapers, burned dinners, and toilet seats left up for a drink. She barked at things that went bump in the night. Chased squirrels out of the yard, too.
Zoë also bailed her owner out of potentially embarrassing situations. Zoë’s penchant for impromptu chew toys had saved Ginger from a possible mistake of the century with Bode last month, which probably would’ve made news at every patrol lookout on the mountain before the lifts opened the next day. But because of Zoë, it hadn’t.
Zoë also didn’t look at her owner twice when she ate a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food in one sitting. Didn’t look down her pink nose at the movies Ginger watched on the Hallmark Channel. Didn’t question her commitment to the relationship if she let the laundry pile up, or the house plants die, or one or two—okay, ten—checks bounce at the bank. Zoë was perfectly fine with all of that.
Brad wouldn’t have liked that Zoë sat in bed with Ginger now, watching those movies and eating the ice cream. Hell, Zoë and Ginger even used the same spoon, though not on purpose. But Ginger was disappointed in herself, too. Where were her standards? Did she have no shame? Did she plan on being a poor ski instructor who went home to her dog every night and spent her paltry income on frozen novelty food?
She told herself it was a stage, and she was content to let it run its course. So far, its course had lasted some four months—into January—but that seemed appropriate. Her mom, the on-the-phone advisor, told her it was depression and she needed to see a counselor and experiment with medication. But Ginger believed she was still basically functional. She got up every morning, showered, put her hair in a ponytail, and went to work. Granted, sometimes she sobbed all the way, especially if she heard some song that reminded her of Brad. But by the time she arrived at Blackwolf, she’d pulled herself together. She’d slip on her trusty Oakleys to hide the wet, red eyes, and head out to teach.
The only real side effect of her current lifestyle was the white and black dog hair liberally covering every piece of clothing she wore. And that her ski pants were tighter than they should be.
But there were days in this life that were good. As she drove to the ski hill today in her little car, for instance, it felt like this might be one of those days.
In midwinter, the sun rose later in the morning. As she made one of the last turns before the road slipped into the trees, the orange ball popped up over the pavement. She squinted, turned the visor down, and watched as the snow crystallized and shone.
On January days like this, by the time she got to the parking lot, the sky was a stiff bright blue, sometimes with bits of cloud edging the bowl of mountains. She parked in the upper lot. The area was quiet yet. On weekdays, the lifts started running at ten, and she made it in time for the nine fifteen meeting.
As she walked down to the ski school building, it was nearly silent. In the bright sunshine, she squinted hard to find her footing down the slope from the parking lot. The reader board mounted above the lodge made clicking noises like the shuffling of cards.
“Ginger! Ginger!”
She’d made her way down to the flats and turned to see two women behind her. She’d forgotten it was Wednesday. This was the day a group of older skiers descended upon the mountain. The Silver Skiers group had only one membership requirement: sixty years of age, minimum. And Rose and Miriam were two of them. The loudest two.
“Hi, ladies. How are you?”
Rose always spoke first. She had faintly blue hair that today peeked out from under a cap with a huge pom-pom on the top. She was at least seventy, as she’d been skiing with the Silver Skiers for more than ten years. “We’re ready to cut up some powder, my dear. And we’ve rented you for the day. Just us gals. Are you ready?” Miriam wore a purple jumpsuit, which accentuated all the strange bumps and lumps a woman past sixty begins to acquire.
Ginger smiled. These two were supposed to ski with the rest of the older women, but they always bought an all-day lesson and “ditched the slow girls,” to quote Miriam.
Miriam spoke to Rose. “I love the way you say ‘rented.’ You make it sound trashy.” The ladies giggled, and Rose gave Ginger a big wink.
“I need to check in with my supervisor and get my gear on. After that, I’m all yours. Meet me at the bottom of Chair Two?” Ginger turned toward the ski school room to boot up.
“We’ll get in some warm-up runs on Lulu. Wouldn’t want to get cold before we get to the backside!”
At the Corral last night, Fender had told Sam his story, and Sam came up with a fabulous plan: Fender was going skiing. If this mystery girlfriend had a Blackwolf parka, Sam surmised, she was an employee. It couldn’t be too hard to track her down.
He’d also advised that Fender rid himself of the ring and the whole mess and move on. Sam, never big on guilt or conscience, suggested handing her the ring with a one-sentence accompaniment like, “Your boyfriend wanted you to have this,” and scooting off, never to be seen again. End of discussion.
With more than a few tequilas under his belt, Fender had decided this was a good idea. But now, the next morning, driving up an icy, narrow r
oad, he wasn’t so sure. He’d left a note on the shop door: Gone Skiing, instead of Gone Fishing, so at least they’d know where to look for his body when he didn’t turn up the next day.
In high school, he’d been up to the resort once, on a field trip. He’d taken one lesson. He knew how to stop, using the “pizza wedge.” The wedge, or snow plow, involved turning the two planks on his feet in toward each other in a V-shape that looked like, as the bouncy instructor told him that high school day, “a piece of pizza, ’kay?” That was all he’d learned from perky ski girl.
On that trip, it had served him just fine. His friends dragged him up the rope tow and across some terrain to a stand of trees. They’d spent the rest of the day smoking pot while hidden from view. Then he’d wedged down the slope and stumbled out of his skis and onto a bus for the ride home. That’s about all he remembered.
As he parked the car, he realized the first thing he’d forgotten: it is cold in a place that has snow. His attire probably wasn’t going to cut it. There was a light breeze, and it sneaked through the sweater he’d put on, chilling his skin.
But all he had to do was spot this girl and dispose of the ring. The ring. Damn it. He’d left it on his dresser in its place of infamy. Well, what the hell was the point of his trip up here, then? He started back to the car. Of course, he could do reconnaissance. He’d screwed this all up already. Maybe some careful spying could improve his position and finish the mess more quickly. So, like any good intelligence man, he turned and pressed on.
The first building he came to, he entered. He thought his search for this girl should be systematic. That, and he was just cold. Going inside is good.
His first sensation was a stink. An odor. Oh, God, it was bad. Feet, and probably—judging from the horde of people—hundreds of pairs of feet, stinking together in perfect harmony. A young bearded boy thwarted Fender’s retreat, taking him by the arm to a table in the corner.
“Fill this out. Sign at the bottom on the reverse, and don’t leave out your shoe size or weight.” The bearded boy stuck a pen in his hand and moved to the next victim.
Fender could’ve struggled. Yet the cloud of odor had penetrated his mind, and in this foot fog, he completed the form. He walked toward the counter. The girl might work in here. Keep your eyes open, he told himself.
In looking for the girl, he was carried along an involuntary current of efficiency. He found himself putting his feet into a pair of the reeky ski boots. Bearded boy had materialized again and now buckled the buckles and Velcroed the Velcro of the boots.
“There. Now, next time you come up, even if it’s sunny, I wouldn’t wear jeans. See how hard it is to even get the cuffs over the boot? It’ll feel a little uncomfortable with your jeans pushed up around your shins, too. And try not to spend much time down on the snow, or you’ll get wet.”
Fender realized this wave of activity was going to culminate in a pair of skis on his feet. This was not good. He had to put a stop to it now. Vigilance has its limits.
Bearded boy hadn’t paused for comment from Fender, who now found himself in the back room, waiting for another scruffy-looking boy to hand over a pair of skis. There were hundreds, thousands of pairs, suspended behind the teen. He would summarily take the form out of each customer’s hand. Looking at the paper, he’d scrunch up his features in thought, jot something at the bottom of the form, and turn and reach for a pair of hanging sticks. Every pair was red with yellow lettering. The word Rossignol was screened on the thick plastic in a slant and made the skis look fast.
Fender imagined all these skis hung up when they were new, and it probably looked quite advanced and technical. But the thing was, these skis were rentals. They’d seen their fair share of abuse. Most of the skis had large scratches, and some had chunks of their metal edges missing.
The little skis the scruffy man brought down for the young girl in front of Fender looked rough. These tiny, shrunken versions of the bigger skis hanging in front of him had come from farther down the aisle of swaying skis. Now he realized what the hanging skis reminded him of: sides of beef. Like the ones Rocky punched while training in the slaughterhouse. Or was it a meat locker? He couldn’t remember.
The little girl stepped into the skis, and everyone around her clucked and shook their heads and scurried around to take them off of her feet. A woman, probably her mother, patted her hand and said, “No, silly, you put them on outside. Now just carry them, honey. You can’t walk around inside with them on. What a silly goose!” She led the girl out the door and cast an apologetic, even sheepish, smile to the young man behind the ski counter.
All Fender could think was that he was glad the little girl did it before he had the chance to screw up. And he needed to see was where the ski return was, so he could get these god-awful things away from him before someone was killed. Just take the skis, walk out the door, walk to the return, and dump them. He could handle that. That way no one would be maimed.
The guy was saying something about his binding setting and ski number, but Fender just nodded, grabbed the skis, and headed for the same door through which the little girl had escaped.
He was blinded. He literally could see nothing but piercing white light. Something was wrong with his legs. He couldn’t flex his ankles. Oh my God, I’m going to fall down a flight of stairs, in ski boots, and knock myself unconscious. He stumbled and tripped, skis in hand.
It was two or three steps. His hip landed on cold, hard ground. And then he felt wet: snow. Oh joy.
He stood up, found his sunglasses on his head, and put them over his eyes. First, he looked around to see who’d witnessed his plunge. Few seemed to have noticed. Then he picked up the skis. Their sharp edges hurt the skin of his palms. His hip and his butt were wet, and his jeans had a big, navy blue wet spot spreading around to the front of the pant legs. He was cold again. Ditch the skis. Ditch the ski boots. Escape! Fender felt an urge to run screaming to the car.
“Hey, my friend, need some help?”
Fender turned around. Sam. The bastard. He’d remembered their Corral conversation and come up to revel in Fender’s failings.
“Sam, Jesus Christ. They made me get this stuff. Help me return it, huh? I want to leave.”
“They made you rent. Wow, I had no idea they forced people to ski. Wow.” Sam took Fender by the arm and straightened him up. “Look at you, you’re a regular ski bunny! Oh, I knew I had to come up today. I knew this was going to be good.” Sam chuckled, and his double chin bobbed over his neck scarf.
In fact, Fender had to laugh too as he admired Sam from head to toe. A cigarette hung from his lips. He wore a black polar fleece scarf paired with an old grease-smeared pair of Carhartt coveralls. Sam was fat, and the flannel-lined, tan work suit made him thicker than ever. The beauty of it was, Sam didn’t care.
“Jesus, Fender—” he coughed through his cigarette “—were you planning on wearing that to ski?”
“I wasn’t planning on skiing, Sam. I was just going to look for the girl and leave. Now, I just want to leave. I’m wet.”
Sam shook his head. “You’re a sad sonofabitch. A sweater will not keep you dry. Jeans will not keep you dry. Plus, you can’t bend in jeans, and you can’t keep the family jewels warm in jeans. Why didn’t you call me this morning? I could’ve lent you my other Carhartts.”
“Sam, you don’t get the point, do you? I’m leaving now. Now. Going away.”
But then Fender saw something. Somebody. The girl. The sad girl at the cemetery. The girl under the drooping sycamore in the deepening dusk. It was her. It had to be her. And she was circling around the end of a line of people, following a pair of old ladies. Heading to a chair lift. Getting away.
He popped Sam on the arm. “Hey, that’s her—over there—that’s the girl!”
Sam swiveled on his skis. “Who, her?” He pointed at her with a gloved hand lengthened by a very long ski pole.
“Stop it! She’s going to see you pointing at her. That’s her, and she’s going
to that thing, the lift.” Fender realized he sounded frantic.
“Okay. Stay calm. I’m going to follow her. She’s going up Chair Two. Chances are she’ll come down a trail that leads her back to here. You, go to the ticket office. Get a ticket. And ask for a garbage bag.”
“Garbage bag?”
“Don’t ask me now; she’s getting away! She’s getting away, remember? I must pursue your mystery girl! Farewell, I follow her!” He turned with a flourish and skated off to the lift, Olympic-figure-skater style. He looked like an elephant in a tutu.
Fender obeyed Sam’s command and dragged himself and the two skis to a ticket office window.
“I need a ticket to ride that lift and a garbage bag.” He stared into the glass in front of him. The girl behind the glass arched an eyebrow at his request. She set her paperback down and stared at him.
“You can’t buy a ticket to ride just one lift. It’ll be forty-two dollars.”
“Excuse me?” Fender dug into his wallet and mumbled several inappropriate expletives. He slid the money under the glass partition and out came a ticket on backing, a wire mini-coat hanger, and a big, black, glossy garbage bag.
He scraped the tails of the skis along the brick patio and found a bench. Plunking down, he looked around for Sam.
As he waited, he peeled the ticket off and stuck it to his sweater. He had no idea what the little wire thing was for, so he tossed that on the ground. He put the skis on the ground in front of him and realized he was actually thinking of skiing. How stupid. But if he could get close to the girl, talk to her…About what? He didn’t have the ring with him, so Sam’s idea of dumping the ring and escaping was useless. Plus, how was he going to “scoot off” if he had a pair of giant Popsicle sticks on his feet?
“Fender.”
He turned around. “Yeah?” It was Sam. He was wheezing, and his face glowed with sweat.
“Oh, what did you do with the ticket? That’s not how you wear it. You look like you’re marked down for quick sale.” Sam leaned over Fender and peeled the ticket off his sweater. Picking the lint off the back of the ticket, he took the wire on the ground and slid it through a belt loop on Fender’s jeans. Then he folded the ticket over the ends of the wire. “This is a wicket. You put the ticket on it like this. Gimme the garbage bag.” Fender complied. Sam punched a hole at the top and two on the sides.
The Jeweler Page 4
