Powdered Murder (Bison Creek Mysteries Book 1)

by A. Gardner

  "Your name please," he said, looking at his notepad.

  "It's me, Murray. I've known you since first grade."

  "Come on, Essie." He whined when he talked. "It's procedure."

  "Fine Essie Str--"

  "Your full name," he added.

  "Gwenessa N. Stratter," I replied, narrowing my eyes.

  "What does the N stand for?"

  "None of your business."

  "I'll make note of that on our marriage license," he joked.

  I folded my arms as he wrote down our conversation word for word.

  My middle name is actually Nora. My parents gave it to me after I was adopted. Since the name belonged to my mom's grandmother, it had been their way of bringing me into the family. Though I'd let them know more than once when I was younger that I wouldn't have minded at all if they'd decided to change my name completely. Gwenessa isn't exactly a popular name.

  "And where were you the night of . . .?” Murray recited the question like he had spent the last hour memorizing the manual. "I mean, where were you this afternoon?"

  "I got off work early, went to my apartment, walked around the bookshop, and came straight here to meet Lila for her bridal shower."

  "And do you have witnesses who can confirm your whereabouts?" he asked.

  "Yes." I rolled my eyes and watched him literally write the word yes in his notebook.

  "Who can confirm this?" He looked up and waited for me to answer.

  "Well, besides everyone at the hotel, my landlady Mrs. Tankle."

  "Okay, check." Murray nodded as he turned the page and moved on to the next set of questions. "Please describe to me what you saw tonight at the spa."

  When he paused and waited for me to answer, my mind jumped back to tea with Bebe and Lila. I replayed the whole thing in my head up until the point that Bebe had stood frozen when she noticed Donna's body floating in the pool. A lump formed in my throat. She didn't choke on her cupcake and slam into the water without anyone hearing her. She had to have been murdered. Bison Creek was hosting a killer, and who knows for how long.

  "Are you really writing all this down in a notebook?" I asked. "Shouldn't you be recording our interview?"

  "Voice recorder is broken." He chuckled.

  "Murray--"

  "Officer Williams," he butted in.

  "Officer Williams," I said, a little annoyed. "This is a murder case, not a shoplifting scam or one of old man Simpkins' noise complaints. Let me see that." I leaned forward and grabbed his notebook without any objections. Murray had written a few pages worth of what Bebe had told him. I skimmed through it, stopping when I came to a part about how Donna didn't have dinner with Bebe last night because she'd spent most of her time on the phone with someone. "This part here." I pointed to the notebook. "Did you ask Bebe who Donna was talking to on the phone?"

  "Um."

  "Did you ask her if Donna seemed upset or anxious about something?"

  "Um." Murray scratched his head.

  "Did you at least ask her about what Franco told Lila about Donna and Patrick?"

  "Who is Franco?" Murray wrinkled his nose looking confused.

  I touched my forehead with the palm of my hand and flipped through more pages, stopping at Murray's interview with Misty, the spa receptionist. From what Murray had written down, she'd admitted that she'd spent most of her afternoon shacked up in a storage closet with one of the waiters. No wonder she'd looked cheerier than usual. I scanned a few more sentences, stopping again when the name of the waiter was revealed. It was Eli, the resort's errand boy. Eli was notorious for coaxing other people to do his work for him. It was miraculous that Mr. Kentworth let him get away with so much. They had to be related. Very, very distantly related.

  I dropped Murray's notebook back in his lap. Joy was right. If the resort lost too much business then the whole town would suffer the consequences. If Murray was our best guy we would all be out of jobs before the summer.

  "Okay, I think we're done." I stood up and placed my hands on my hips. "You need to get Doc Henry down here to take a look at the body. I believe he's also our county coroner. And I think you need to get a list of all the guests who stayed here last night. At least your dad is downstairs right now with a camera. That's a start."

  Murray turned the page of his notebook and scribbled furiously.

  "You should think about holding a meeting with all the staff to get their cooperation on this. Oh, and I'll be by the station later to request a background check and an undercover reporter guy who hassled me this morning."

  "Right." Murray cleared his throat. "Who do I talk to about the guest list thingy?"

  "You've got to be kidding," I muttered.

  * * *

  Doc Henry came immediately to examine Donna's body. While he made his assessments, I had a window of time to pay my sister’s ex a little visit. But first, I needed some leverage. Wade wasn't going to help me unless I helped him. It was the way his mind worked. He was always looking out for number one. Himself.

  I pulled up to my apartment to look for a bargaining chip but nothing came to mind. A huge wad of cash would surely loosen his lips. I had a few twenties in my nightstand. As I stepped out of my car, I noticed a figure leaning against the wall of The Painted Deer Bookshop. He was tall and lean, and really needed to pull the price sticker off of his brand new beanie. I took a deep breath, my calf muscles flexing. The man slowly approached me. I didn't know John. I didn't know the real reason he had travelled here from sunny California, and I couldn't trust him even if he never stopped smiling.

  "Hi." He walked towards me and I stopped. I avoided looking upstairs and giving away where I lived.

  "John, right?"

  "That's right."

  "I'm sorry, but the answer is still no. I can't help you."

  "If you would just hear me out," he continued. "This isn't the kind of thing you think it is. My sources--"

  "Whatever your sources told you it isn't true," I replied. "Bison Creek is nothing but a quiet little ski town with the smoothest powder in all the Rockies. If you're looking for a big story of sorts, next week is our town Waffle Fest. Some of the townies get really into it."

  "That's not exactly the kind of thing I'm looking for." He took a step forward. As soon as he did, I took a step back. He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at his snow boots, a little confused. "Well, is there anyone around here I can talk to?"

  "You can try the Grizzly?" I suggested. "The local bar."

  "Okay, I'll do that. I was already headed there anyway."

  My muscles became less and less tense as he turned and walked away. The regulars over at the Grizzly would keep him occupied for the next couple of days. If he didn't leave town just to get away from Booney and his infamous question game he played with tourists, I would've been shocked. Booney likes to one up any story he's told. Most of the time he circles back to stories about how he lost his pinky finger in the army. The story usually changes with every tourist.

  John went walking down the street, glancing up at the setting sun. I had to make it to Wade's place before I lost all daylight. It was impossible to drive on the road leading towards his cabin at night, and I was definitely not planning on spending the night. I prepared myself for the journey by warming up my car and scraping off every last centimeter of ice.

  They say that love makes people do crazy things.

  Well, death makes people do even crazier things.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I drove down a dirt trail just outside of town. It gave the phrase “off the beaten path” a run for its money. I could barely drive five miles per hour because the road was embedded with rocks that could have blown my tires at any second. Wade put extra rocks there on purpose to keep wanderers away. When I was close enough to his house, I parked the car and got out to walk.

  I zipped my ski coat all the way up and wrapped my scarf around my nose as a harsh breeze blasted across my face. The sun was going down and I could see a lantern light
ing Wade's front porch. Wade's house was a one-bedroom mountain lodge with a smoking chimney and a pile of chopped firewood outside the door. Next to the lodge was a shed large enough to shelter his baby. A 1967 Camaro.

  Wade was outside gathering wood when he saw me coming. With his hiking boots and mud-stained jeans, he looked like a typical mountain man. His face was always scruffy and his light brown hair was long enough to put back in a ponytail. He smirked when he saw me.

  “Essie," he chuckled.

  "Wade," I greeted him.

  "The last time I saw you was right after your sister threatened to cut off my family jewels and throw them at my head." He picked up a bundle of wood like it was nothing but a pile of toothpicks bundled together with dental floss. "Come on in."

  I followed him inside. I'd been to Wade's place plenty of times. I even remembered when he started building it ten years ago. The floors were a dark wood and the furniture was plain and simple. The walls were still painted a sage green from when my sister used to live here.

  "I see nothing has changed much," I said.

  "The house or me?" he asked.

  "Both." I unzipped my coat and carefully sat down next to the pile of woodworking magazines that were stacked on the couch like it was a bookshelf.

  Wade is a pretty reasonable guy, except when he's around my sister. Unfortunately, they are just one of those couples that bring out the worst in each other. The only reason they got together in the first place was because they hadn't lived together yet, and all that heated energy was being spun into sexual tension instead.

  "Does Joy know you're here?" He smirked when he said her name as if the thought of her going insane because we were having a conversation gave him pleasure.

  "Believe me, I would not have come if it wasn't urgent."

  "This is about golden boy, isn't it?" He set the wood next to his fireplace and began feeding the small flame that was flickering inside it.

  "How did you know Patrick was back?" I asked

  Wade shrugged.

  "The same way I know Sheriff Williams stopped by the gas station for an extra pack of brews last night. Word gets around when you work the mines." He nodded looking pleased with himself. I'd always found it comical that he referred to himself as a miner. A long time ago that might have been true since the majority of people in this town had ancestors who moved here to work in the silver mines. But the silver mine in Pinecliffe Mountain had been dead for years. Wade worked as a tour guide slash maintenance guy. To get to Bison Creek you had to exit the highway and drive past the silver mines' main entrance and gift shop, as well as the historic Bison Creek Railroad Station. The steam engine train was another one of the town's tourist attractions. Wade saw it all and, because he had the tendency to eavesdrop on tourists who came into town, he heard it all, too. If anyone knew the specifics of this John Slagger guy and when he'd arrived, Wade did.

  "You're a tour guide," I reminded him.

  "I go inside the mines for work." He brushed the wood shavings from his hands. "That still counts, sweetheart."

  "Let me make this easy for you," I started. "I'm going to ask you if you've seen or heard anything about a nosey tourist who calls himself John, and you are going to nod if the answer is yes."

  "I thought you'd be wanting to hear more about that Lila Clemton woman," he responded. "When I heard Patrick wanted to keep his visit hush hush, I knew that famous chick must be here too." He stopped to study my expression. "I'm right, aren't I? She is here." His eyes widened as he put the pieces together. "Which means . . . do I hear wedding bells?"

  "Yes, okay," I said impatiently. "You're so clever. Now, do you know anything that can help me?"

  "Something must have happened," he guessed. "Let me guess, the paparazzi caught wind of it already?"

  "Maybe." As I watched him try to analyze every word that came out of my mouth, I was reminded of why Joy loathed him so much. Why he drove her crazy with his questions and guessing games. "Have you seen any reporters snooping around lately?"

  "This John guy," he answered. "Is he tall? Skinny? Wears a brand spanking new ski coat?"

  "That's him." I eagerly leaned forward, hoping he was about to tell me that John was at the resort at the time Donna was murdered.

  "Yeah, I heard he hit on Ada down at the bakery. Apparently, he's ordered enough blueberry streusel to feed the entire town."

  "When was he at the bakery?"

  "I don't know. Right before they closed, I think. So sometime this afternoon," he replied.

  "Darn," I muttered to myself. I took a deep breath and glanced out the window at the rocky trail leading back to my car. Soft snowflakes had already covered my tracks to the cabin. It was funny how the snow had a way of giving everything a clean slate.

  "What's the matter? Did this guy stand you up for a date or something?" Wade had a smug look on his face. He liked to push my buttons the same he did with Joy, but I had a cooler temper. Since working at the resort, I'd learned to be patient with people. It was the only way I was able to teach them. And it was the only way I could bear training Martha Millbreck all these years. She was a high-paying client, but not many people got along with her.

  "Something like that," I lied, turning to leave.

  "Wait," Wade blurted out. He ran his fingers through his hair and scratched the patch of scruff on his chin. "There's something else."

  I stopped to listen.

  "What?"

  "If I tell you…" He paused. "You have to promise me something."

  Where's my bargaining chip?

  "Just tell me, Wade."

  "First, swear that you'll tell Joy I'm seeing someone," he said. "Someone out of my league."

  I rolled my eyes.

  "I'm not going to tell her that," I answered. "She has enough to deal with right now as it is. Tell me, and I won't tell her what we talked about tonight." Wade raised his eyebrows. "It'll drive her just as crazy. I promise."

  Wade chuckled and nodded his head.

  "Okay, somebody else came into town early this afternoon," he explained. "Another out-of-towner. Drives a black BMW with tinted windows."

  "What did he look like?" My heart pounded as I imagined the killer stepping out of the vehicle in a trench coat and sunglasses. "Or was it a she?"

  "I don't know. I can't see through tinted windows, but I'll ask around."

  "Well, did you at least see where the car was headed?"

  “Definitely," he replied. “The resort.”

  * * *

  When I drove back into town, the sun had gone down. I pulled up in front of The Painted Deer Bookshop and eagerly jogged to my apartment door. I lit a fire as soon as I got inside and rubbed my cold hands together for warmth. It was nights like this that I would usually dig through my box of bargain books that Mrs. Tankle let me borrow, and find a good read to go along with my before bedtime tea. Joy called it my teacap because an herbal tea before bed was my way of winding down. And it went along well with my stimulant-free new year's resolution.

  My “no coffee” rule was the hardest one to swallow. I'd made it my new year's goal to cut the caffeine. I drank it so much that my first week going cold turkey consisted of daily headaches and mood swings worse than Joy's. I must have been more dependent on the stuff than I realized, but I was able to cure some of my cravings with a Green Ginger Pick-Me-Up smoothie – a smoothie of my own creation consisting of green vegetables, pineapple, and fresh ginger root for a zest of energy.

  My fingers brushed across a few books, but I couldn’t concentrate. It was too late to go wandering around town. Joy wasn't home yet, and her room usually remained untouched. She was most likely still at work trying to clean up the mess from tonight.

  Like the majority of my nights, I was on my own for a late dinner. I put a kettle on the stove and started making a mental checklist of everything I needed to do tomorrow, including visiting Doc Henry to ask about Donna's body and paying another visit to Murray at the station. I chose a bag of pumpkin spice t
ea that Mom had given me last winter. I'd used the tea sparingly since I would have to drive to another county just to buy more.

  My mind wouldn't relax, even when I took a giant whiff of the cinnamon and spice that was swirling around in my mug. My brain was on overload and I couldn't figure out a way to force it to power down. I retreated to my living room. It was next to my kitchen and had two tall windows that overlooked Canyon Street. The wooden floors creaked and droplets of water always dripped in the sink, sometimes waking me up at night. But I loved this place.

  I sat down on my sofa and inhaled the steam rising from my mug. I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind. My heartbeat gradually slowed down until there was a light knock on the door. My heart jumped and my muscles froze. It couldn’t be Joy. She had a key.

  I slowly stood up and tiptoed towards the peephole just as another light knock hit the door. I peered through the peephole and gulped at a face I wasn't expecting to see. I quickly straightened my hair and adjusted my top before answering. I opened the door to Patrick who was waiting on the other side with a hopeful look on his face. He seemed relieved when I answered the door, anxiously stepping inside and looking from side to side to see if I was alone.

  "Patrick," I gasped. "What are you doing here?"

  "I went to your old house but . . . you moved."

  "Yeah," I responded. "I've been here above the bookshop for quite a while now."

  "Oh." He cleared his throat and glanced at the sofa. His cheeks were rosy and his hunter green ski coat had flakes of snow on the shoulders.

  "Do you want to sit down?"

  "Yes, thanks." He hesitated at first, but finally tried to make himself comfortable as I walked towards the kitchen.

  "Can I get you something?" I asked. "Coffee? Tea? The Scotch that Joy has been hiding under the sink?"

  Patrick chuckled.

  "No, I'm okay."

  My hands trembled as I joined him on the sofa, casually sitting so that our knees were inches away from each other. I gripped the handle of my mug tight as I took a sip of my tea, hoping that the warm liquid would calm me down or at least distract me from saying something stupid.