by Leslie Caine
Sullivan and I pushed off. Gentleman that he was, he allowed me to go first. Remarkably, I felt completely in balance as my skis flew along the snow. Chiffon was right! Apparently my body had decided it was sick and tired of falling down. I could ski! I was able to turn, and roughly a third of the way down the course, I even managed to come to a nice crisp stop.
Sullivan beamed at me as he came to an effortless stop right beside me. “Damn! You’ve been holding out on me! Were both you and Chiffon in the Junior Olympics?”
“As it turns out, skiing must be a little like getting the feel for riding a bike.”
“Awesome, dude,” Steve joked, parodying the typical ski bum. “So let’s take advantage of it and get on down the slope. Follow me!”
I pushed off with both poles and stayed right behind Steve. After a minute or two, it felt as if I was going a tad too fast. To slow myself, I made a sharp turn and dug in with my edges. To my horror, the heel on my right boot seemed to jerk free from my ski.
My binding had failed! Urging myself not to panic, I tried to shift my weight to my left—good—ski. My tips crossed. A split second later, I was crashing into the slope, falling head over heels, utterly out of control. My right binding released immediately, and I couldn’t have hung onto my poles if I’d tried. Yet my second ski wasn’t releasing, causing all the more stress on that knee. My helmeted head cracked against the ground.
It felt as though I was helplessly careening down a roller coaster—without the car. My teeth were hitting together so hard, they were sure to shatter.
I regained just enough control to dig the edge of my lone ski into the side of a mogul, and my bone-jarring tumble finally came to a stop. I lay still, sprawled out for several seconds, just breathing and collecting my wits. I heard Steve yelling my name from below me, and I lifted a hand to let him know that I was still conscious.
I sat up and saw Steve running up the incline toward me as fast as he could in his clunky boots. I’d struggled to my feet by the time he arrived at my side.
“Erin.” He was panting. “Are you okay?”
“I think so. Amazingly.”
“Thank God! That was one of the worst wipeouts I’ve ever seen!”
“It looked even worse from my vantage point.”
I turned. My poles were above me. Nearby, skiers had slowed, no doubt to avoid colliding with me. One of them called down that he would bring me my poles. My one loose ski had navigated itself a considerable distance away, however.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Steve asked.
“I’m sore, is all … bruised up. But I didn’t break any bones or anything.”
A snowmobile roared up the mountain toward me. A man from the ski patrol, wearing a signature red suit and white plus sign, disembarked. “You all right, miss? We saw you fall.”
“I was lucky, though. I’m okay.”
A second patrolman on skis had headed down to collect my prodigal ski. He grabbed it and did a remarkably rapid herringbone to return. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. The binding on one of my skis released while I was making a turn.”
“Who the hell set these bindings for you?” the patrolman asked as he examined the ski in his hand.
“A guy at the ski store in Crestview. Two months ago.”
“You didn’t try to reset them yourself? Or get anyone else to work on ’em?”
“No. Why?”
“Look for yourself. The screws on this one are all sheared off. In all my ten-plus years of ski patrol, I’ve never seen something like that happen on impact.”
“So … somebody tampered with my skis? Deliberately?”
He shrugged. “Sure looks that way to me.”
Steve and I stared at each other in shock. “This thing is just never going to end, is it?” I murmured. I wasn’t expecting an answer, and he didn’t give me one.
Chapter 21
The patrolman gave me a ride down to the lodge on the snowmobile, while Steve skied down after us. At the lodge, Steve took off his skis; he told me he’d lost all enthusiasm for skiing today.
We walked into the lodge, Steve insisting upon buying me a cup of hot chocolate. My body was already aching so badly that I just wanted a hot bath, but I lacked the energy to argue with him. When we’d gotten through the line at the register, Steve said, “Look who’s here,” and pointed with his chin at Wendell Barton. We tromped across the room toward him in our awkward boots. He greeted us warmly, but did a double take at my face, which confirmed my suspicions that I looked as bad as I felt.
“Wendell,” Steve said, “Erin and I need transportation back to the inn.”
Wendell glanced again at me, then returned his attention to Steve. “So soon? What’s wrong?”
“I took a nasty spill, and my skis are wrecked,” I explained.
“After someone tampered with her bindings,” Steve growled.
“You’re kidding, I hope,” Wendell replied.
“No, and I’m going to wring the neck of whoever did this to her.”
Wendell put his hand on my arm. “Erin, I’ll go talk to one of my salesmen, and you can go pick out a new pair of skis and bindings for yourself from the ski shop. All right?”
“Thanks, but fancy skis are wasted on me. I’ve skied my final run for the season, if not for all time.”
He held my gaze with what appeared to be genuine concern. “At the very least, give me your damaged skis and let me get my repair people to fix them for you.”
“We first have to take her one ski to the police. It’s evidence,” Steve interjected.
“I guess that’s true, come to think of it.” Wendell shook his head in disgust. “This is an outrage! I can’t believe my people are being victimized like this! Right under my nose!”
Wendell considers me one of his “people.” Ugh.
He patted me on the back—a marginal improvement over patting me on the head like a poodle. “Well, the least I can do is take you both home myself.”
“Thanks.” I still didn’t trust Wendell; in fact, I considered him the prime suspect. But surely it was safe to accept a ride with him; after all, what could he do? Shove us both out of his BMW and then run over us? “Where’s Audrey?”
“She, Mikara, and Ben are on the slopes,” Wendell replied. “Ironically, I don’t ski myself. Audrey and I are hooking up again in an hour, and I’ll be sure to tell her what happened to you then. Don’t worry.” He gestured for us to follow as he strode toward the exit.
As we reached the parking lot, Wendell plucked his cell phone out of its special compartment in his parka and dialed. Moments later, he said into it: “Sheriff Mackey, this is Wendell Barton. Erin Gilbert’s skis were tampered with and she took a nasty spill. It had to have been done while the skis were on my property at the inn. Meet her there, pronto.” He hung up.
I glanced at Steve to share my dismay, then said to Wendell, “Wasn’t that rather abrupt?”
“Yeah, but I don’t suffer fools gladly.” He held the door for us.
About thirty minutes later, Steve and I were standing in the mudroom, watching as Sheriff Mackey eyed the marks on my ski bindings. “This isn’t real good proof,” Mackey finally announced. “You could have done this yourself, for all I know.”
“That’s idiotic!” I cried, instantly losing my temper. “Are you seriously telling me that you think I hacked through the supports on my own binding, cranked up the setting on the other ski’s binding, and then took to the slopes? Knowing that I was going to have a hellacious accident as a result? Why on earth would I want to do such a thing?”
“Some people will go to great lengths, including risking life and limb, to shift the blame off themselves.”
“I don’t believe this,” Sullivan muttered.
“Who all would have had the opportunity to fiddle with your skis?” Mackey asked me.
“Anyone with access to the inn. They’ve been in the mudroom closet the past two weeks.”
Macke
y eyed Sullivan. “Did you do this?”
“No! Of course not!”
“Sheriff, have you made any progress whatsoever on the murder investigations?” I asked, not bothering to mask my contempt.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” he fired back, “but I don’t discuss evidence with my suspects!” He pivoted and stormed toward the door.
“Speaking of evidence,” I cried, “don’t you want to take my skis?”
He turned back and glared at me. “What good would that do? Fingerprints are useless. You just got through telling me the skis have been sitting out, unused, for two weeks. Anybody could have touched them. Might as well take this doorknob as evidence.” He opened the door, then slammed it shut behind him.
After a bit of rest and a lengthy soak in the tub, not to mention a dose of acetaminophen on top of three ibuprofen, I felt better. The shipments of decorations for days one through five had arrived. There was nothing better than accessorizing rooms to lift my spirits after taking a nasty fall. The partridge in a pear tree design was absolutely stunning. Mikara’s bedroom had definitely gotten the short shrift with the cross-stitched turtledove pillows. My four calling birds in the den made up for the understated pillows, however, and Steve’s three French hens looked stunning.
Unfortunately, two of Steve’s five wreaths were decidedly silver instead of gold. Sullivan was soon verbally sparring over the phone with the company that had sent them. He then left for UPS—or one of their competitors—taking the two silver rings with him.
Left alone, my thoughts turned to the turtledoves. Maybe I could do something with the lighting in Mikara’s room to draw attention to the pillows. I gave a cursory knock on her door, surprised to hear a “Who is it?” She’d been so quiet, I’d assumed she wasn’t home.
“It’s Erin. I have the two pillows for your room for the inn’s Christmas theme.”
“Come in,” she called. I entered. She was sitting in the middle of her neatly made bed. She’d been crying.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize—”
“Don’t mind me. I’m getting it back together. I just …” She let her voice fade.
“You’re back from skiing early,” I said. “You didn’t hurt yourself, too, did you?”
“No. Ben and I both felt we had too much left undone to take a full day off. We came back after lunch. I’m sorry to hear about your accident, though. It’s lucky you didn’t break a leg.”
“I was really lucky, all right. Thanks.” Feeling more than a little embarrassed, I lifted the pillows in my hands. “I’m so sorry to have barged in on you. You’re obviously upset. I really just wanted to drop off these pillows, and I’d thought your room was empty.”
“That’s okay.” Mikara dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Every now and then the grief just overtakes me. When I’m least expecting it. Now poor Cameron is dead, too. I just … I can’t believe this is happening, that everything is falling apart. It’s like the Goodwin estate is suddenly at the epicenter of an earthquake. I’m missing my sister horribly. It’s all so strange.”
“Strange?” That isn’t the word I’d use; “cruel” or “evil” or “horrifying” would be more appropriate.
She glanced at me, then quickly averted her gaze. “Erin, I’m glad you’re here. I … need to talk to someone. I just can’t keep trying to hide this. And now there’s a second victim.” She sank her head into her hands. “Maybe I’m responsible.”
“What are you talking about?” I waited for a few seconds. Mikara rocked herself slightly and said nothing. “Responsible for what?”
She finally collected herself enough to meet my gaze. “Last week, I found an envelope addressed to Angie hidden in the post of the handrail.”
“What handrail?”
“The one for the bridge over the creek. Right where Angie was killed.”
“I don’t understand. How could you find—”
“Henry had a hidden compartment built into the side of the left post. He used to keep a spare key to the back door in there. It was a secret place. When we were dating, he and I used it to pass little love notes back and forth. I was feeling … sad and nostalgic, and so I opened it up a couple of days after Angie died.” Mikara reached behind her into the top drawer of her nightstand. “That’s where I found this.”
She handed me a business-size envelope. Angie’s name was written on the front in block letters. I opened it and stared at its contents. “Money.”
“Quite a lot of it, at least by Angie’s and my standards. That’s twenty fifty-dollar bills.”
“Does anyone other than Henry know about your old hiding place?”
“Angie did, for one. She watched me open the compartment in the post dozens of times.”
“You’re thinking it’s a bribe? A payment from Henry so that she would give the inn a passing grade?”
She pursed her lips. “It’s not like there’s a ton of other explanations. The string of Christmas lights you hung would have wrapped right around that particular post. It’s disguised to look like a solid six-by-six, but it’s actually separate boards. You can lift up the top and then pry off the front part of the post. Angie might have been out there, unwrapping the lights so she could open the secret compartment when the killer stumbled upon her.”
“Maybe so,” I said, my mind racing. “Who built that bridge? Do you know?”
“Ben Orlin. About twelve years ago.”
“So he knew about the hiding place, too.”
“He must have. Maybe he knows that Henry keeps a spare set of keys in there, too.”
“It’s unusual to hide keys so far from a house. Homeowners usually hide them on a front or back porch.”
Mikara shrugged. “The fence post is halfway between the house and the shed. We kept the padlock keys for the shed in there, too.”
“This could have been a setup, Mikara. Maybe the killer wanted you to find the money, in order to make it look like your sister was getting paid under the table.”
Mikara nodded slowly. “That’s possible.”
“You should tell—” I hesitated, wishing I could find an alternative name to suggest. Sheriff Mackey, in my estimation, was a man of huge ego and little brain. “Do you and Angie have a family lawyer?”
“No. Which just leaves Greg Mackey. And he’ll probably find a way to ‘lose’ this cash.” (She’d drawn air quotes around the word “lose.”)
“Even so …”
Mikara shook her head sadly. “The problem is, Erin, it’s not a setup. Angie had been taking bribes.”
“She told you that herself?”
“No. I looked into her financial situation after finding the envelope full of money.”
“You checked her bank balance?”
She nodded. “She’d deposited four thousand dollars just four days before she was killed. Which was, of course, before she flunked the inn’s tap water and front steps.”
I felt a surge of relief; Cameron wasn’t even in town for that first large deposit. “That implies that she was accepting bribes to keep the inn from opening on Christmas Eve,” I said, thinking out loud. “Or else she earned the four thousand from those extra jobs she was taking on.” Although the thousand dollars hidden in a handrail post disproves that theory, I silently argued.
Mikara nodded. “That’s precisely what I kept telling myself. But … then Cameron was murdered, and it grew impossible to keep fooling myself …” Her voice faded. “I get the impression that Sheriff Mackey doesn’t really want to solve my sister’s murder,” she began again. “Or rather, he only wants to solve it if he can pin it on someone from out of town. Or on Henry. As if, just because Henry sold the inn, he’s capable of murdering a former friend in cold blood.”
I gave her back the envelope, and she returned it to her drawer. I mulled her words in silence.
Our gazes met. “I know you’ve had a loss, too, Erin. I don’t mean to sound like Angie’s is the only death that mattered.”
&nb
sp; “Thank you, Mikara. But losing a sister is considerably harder than losing a friend you haven’t seen in a decade. And I share your concerns about the quality of the investigation.”
“About Greg Mackey, you mean?”
I nodded. “Maybe someone at Angie’s bank could verify if the deposit was made in cash, and, if so, in what denominations. Is there anyone at the bank you know well enough to ask for details?”
“Maybe. One of the tellers is a friend.”
“As Angie’s lone family member, you’re probably entitled to ask questions about her account.”
“That may be true, but I don’t really want to raise suspicions about Angie’s activities.”
I glanced at the drawer that held the cash. “So what are you going to do?”
She rose and crossed over to the window. Her view, I remembered, was of the path to the footbridge where Angie had died. “I know I should turn it in as evidence to Sheriff Mackey. But I can’t help but think, if anything, that would only turn me into the next potential victim. What if Mackey himself is in on it? What if there was a ring of townies involved with … I don’t know … cover-ups and bribes at the ski resort? I mean, when you’ve already killed twice, what’s a third murder, compared to keeping your secret safe?”
“You’re going to stay quiet?” I asked. “Keep the money in a drawer?”
She gritted her teeth. “If that’s what it takes to keep myself out of the morgue.”
“What if we both go talk to this teller friend of yours? At least that way, you’ll have a witness.”
She hesitated. “Can we go right this second, Erin? Before I have the chance to change my mind?”
Mikara and I met the teller at the small deli where Mikara assured me the woman always went for lunch at precisely this time. The teller, Susan, was a plump middle-aged woman. We took seats across from her. She and Mikara exchanged some pleasantries, then Mikara jumped in and asked if Angie had been depositing a lot of cash right before she died.
