“Interesting man. Pino Daeni was an Italian artist who came to America and did book covers. He was one of the highest-paid cover illustrators in the world. He did many of Danielle Steel’s book covers.
“Near the end of his career he grew weary of the publishers’ deadlines and turned his attention to fine art, such as these. These two paintings are from his kitchen collections.”
“Are they prints?” I asked.
He hesitated for just a moment, then said, “Between us, never to be shared, no. They are originals. We do not want people to know this because of their value.” He turned back to the wall. “There is an especially interesting story behind these two paintings. Many years ago, a friend of the inn’s owner had purchased a box of assorted wallpaper at a garage sale. She had them in her basement for nearly ten years when her daughter began rummaging through them. When she unraveled one of the rolls of wallpaper she found these two paintings rolled up inside of them.”
“You hear stories like that,” I said. “It’s never happened to me.”
“Don’t give up yet. There is a lot of hidden treasure in this world,” he replied. “Much of it human.”
I nodded. “I agree with you. In a way, that’s what brought me here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Someone?”
“A woman.”
“Aren’t we all,” he said. “Let me tell you, you could do worse than Midway. There aren’t many available women, but the ones I know are the salt of the earth.”
“I’m looking for a specific woman.”
He looked at me with intrigue. “Oh? Perhaps I could help you in your quest. What is her name?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know her name.”
He grinned. “That will definitely complicate things.”
“All I know are her initials. LBH.”
He rubbed his chin. “Very interesting. And how did you come to know this LBH?”
“I would say that I met her on the Internet, except we haven’t really met. She writes a blog, and I just kind of fell for her.” I thought he might think me crazy, but instead he looked at me as if with newfound admiration.
“My friend, I already thought you were an interesting fellow, but I was low in my estimation. You are a true romantic. I will do anything I can to help you find this woman. Where will you begin?”
“She wrote that she lived close to where the Swiss Days festival is held.”
“That’s the community center, the large Alpine building on Main Street. There’s a park behind it.”
“I was hoping to find some kind of registry of residents’ names. Does Midway have a city hall?”
“Yes, the city offices are near the community center. I’ll write the address down for you. Neither is far from here.” He smiled. “It’s a small town, nothing in Midway is far from here.” He retrieved a colorful tourist map of Midway and penciled out the route to the city offices. As he handed it to me he said, “Just tell them Herr Niederhauser sent you.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure. May you find your woman.”
CHAPTER
Fifteen
Our tour had taken more than an hour. It was nearly noon when I walked out of the inn. The cold air was exhilarating. My breath clouded in front of me, billowing like a tailpipe.
As I walked to my car I was again astounded by the beauty and serenity of my snow-covered surroundings. Across the street from the inn was a golf course, covered with a large, crystalline blanket, sparkling with the high sun.
I got into my car, the cold vinyl stiff against my weight. I turned the heater on high, then looked down at my map. The route to the Midway city offices seemed simple enough.
Initially I mistakenly pulled up to the Midway community center. The building looked like a city hall. It was large and had the traditional Swiss-Alpine decoration with gingerbread eaves and a large clock. The door was locked and it was dark inside. It must have been noon because, as I walked back to my car, the clock began to ring. Then Swiss music with yodelers began playing. I looked up to see wooden figurines in Swiss lederhosen dancing around, like a massive cuckoo clock. I watched until the clock completed its show, then got back into my car and, consulting Ray’s map again, drove to the city offices.
The city office building looked a little like a church, with a gabled roof and a large clock tower in the middle of the structure. A man was walking down the sidewalk in front of the building with what looked like a fertilizer or seed spreader. He was twisting the handle and something was flying out.
I parked my car and got out. “Getting an early start on fertilizing the lawn?”
He looked at me like I was an idiot. “It’s rock salt. I’m salting. So you don’t slip and fall and sue the city.”
“You’re onto me,” I said.
He just walked on.
The sidewalk forked when it reached the building. On a sign in the middle of the fork was an arrow pointing left, to City Recorder, the other pointed right, to Mayor.
I walked to the recorder’s office. Hanging on the doorknob was a sign, Will Return At . . . with a little clock dial turned to four o’clock.
I retraced my steps to the other side of the building. I stomped the snow off my feet on the mat outside. As I opened the door I was greeted by a rush of warm air. At a desk near the middle of the room a fortysomething woman with bright red hair glanced up at me from a Mary Higgins Clark novel.
“Good afternoon,” she said, looking a little annoyed that I had disturbed her reading. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I need some help locating someone. I was wondering if you could help me.”
She set down her book. “Locating who?”
I suddenly felt the awkwardness of my task. “She’s someone who lives in Midway. She’s a blogger.”
The woman just looked at me. “Does she have a name?”
“Her initials are LBH.”
“You don’t know this person’s name?”
“No. I was hoping you’d have some kind of a list of residents.”
“No,” she said flatly.
“Is there someone else who could help me? Is your boss here?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m the mayor.”
“I’m sorry.”
Having worked with city officials for the last decade, I deduced that I had just killed any chance for governmental assistance. To my surprise she said, “Perhaps you should talk to our city treasurer and recorder.”
“Thank you. How would I reach them?”
“Them are the same person. Just a moment.” She rooted around her desk for a moment, then walked over to me holding a business card. “Brad isn’t in right now. You should be able to find him at home.”
I took the card. “It’s okay to go to his home?”
“Yes,” she said, as if she were talking to a three-year-old. “That’s why I gave you his home address.”
“Right. Thank you.”
“Please shut the door on the way out. It’s cold.”
I’m sure that I was as glad to leave the mayor’s office as she was to see the back of me. I got in my car and input the address into my phone’s GPS system. To my dismay, it couldn’t find the address. After a few more minutes of trying, I walked back into the mayor’s office.
“Back so soon,” she said snarkily.
“Sorry. Could you help me find this address? My phone’s GPS can’t find it.”
“Come here.”
I walked over to her desk and she took out a piece of paper and started drawing lines on it. “This is Main Street. We are here. Go down a quarter mile to Holstein Way and turn left. Brad’s the third or fourth house on the left. It’s a two-story chalet-looking thing, but everything here’s a chalet-looking thing, so just loo
k for the gargantuan RV, one of those Death Star–size Winnebagos.” She handed me the paper. “You can’t miss it. Unless you don’t know what a Winnebago is.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s your name, anyway?”
“Alex Bartlett.”
“Like the pear?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Bartlett?”
“Daytona Beach, Florida.”
She lifted her phone and took a picture of me.
“You wanted my picture?” I said.
“You came all this way to find someone you don’t know. I can only hope your motives are not homicidal. If they are, I now have your picture. That should, at least, give you pause.”
For a moment I just looked at her. “I wasn’t planning on killing anyone while I’m in town. Have a nice day.”
It wasn’t hard to find the recorder-treasurer’s house. The home was, as the mayor had informed me, constructed in the Alpine style, with the characteristic wood shutters with tulips cut into them. On the front of the house there was both an American and a Swiss flag. And there was the Winnebago. I could see why the mayor had used the RV as a landmark—the thing was massive.
I parked my car in his driveway because the snowbank in front of the house was nearly as tall as my car and protruded well out into the street.
After I rang the doorbell, it took a few minutes before someone answered, a woman in her midforties, wearing a sweat suit, leg warmers, and a headband, like a 1980s aerobics throwback. Or a Richard Simmons impersonator. She was red-faced and slightly huffing and I assumed that I had just interrupted her Jane Fonda workout.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Brad Wilcox.”
“Brad’s in the shower.”
She just stood there. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with that. I finally said, “I’ll come back.”
“What is the nature of your visit? Is this governmental?”
“You could say that.”
“Come inside. He’s not one to leave a constituent out in the cold.”
“Thank you.”
I stepped inside the house and she quickly shut the door behind me. “Wipe your feet or take your shoes off.”
“I’ll take them off,” I said, slipping the loafers from my feet.
“You can sit on the sofa there. Would you like a hot cider?”
“Thank you, no.”
“All right. He shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
An hour?
She walked downstairs and a moment later I heard music start up. Eighties music: Wham!, Dire Straits, Supertramp, Duran Duran, Tears for Fears, a-ha.
After about half an hour the music stopped. Still, no one came up or out.
About ten minutes after the music stopped, a man, bald and wearing a robe, walked out into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, took out a glass bottle of milk (when was the last time I’d seen a glass bottle of milk?), drank from it, then turned around. He was startled to see me.
“Who are you?”
I stood. “My name is Alex Bartlett.”
“Bartlett. Like the pear?”
“Yes.”
“You related to the Bartletts in Lehi?”
“Where?”
“Lehi. Traverse Mountain area.”
“Uh, no. I’m not from here. Are you Brad Wilcox?”
“You should know that. You’re in my home.”
“Your wife told me to wait here for you.”
“My sister,” he said. “I’m not married.” He put the milk back into the fridge, then came to the edge of the room where I was sitting and asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Are you a private investigator or a bounty hunter?”
“Neither. It’s personal.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“I don’t know her name. Just her initials.”
Just then his sister walked up the stairs and into the kitchen. She had large patches of sweat under her arms.
“You forgot to get more milk,” Brad said to her.
“Chill, man. I haven’t been to the store yet. I had to exercise. And this guy came to the door.”
He turned back to me. “You’re looking for someone but you don’t know their name?”
“No, sir.”
“What is the nature of your manhunt?”
“I’ve been following her blog.”
“Her what?”
“He said blog,” his sister said. “It’s when people write on the Internet.”
“Why can’t you get her name from the Internet?”
“She only put her initials.”
“What initials?”
“LBH.”
He squeezed his chin. “Lima Bravo Hotel. Doesn’t ring any bells. Did said female write something offensive?”
“No, sir. Actually, the opposite.”
“You’re a fan of this Internet blog?”
“You might say so.”
“Then you’re one of those stalkers.”
“No.”
“You’re not stalking her?”
“No, I’m just . . . I want to meet her.”
They both just looked at me. Then Brad said, “It would not be prudent for me to be a party to any such affair. We do not have records available to the public.”
“You don’t have any records?”
“I didn’t say that. I said we don’t have records available to the public. I have billing records for utilities and water but I am not at liberty to share that data with John Q. Public, i.e., you. So, unless there’s something else I can help you with, I’ll see you to the door.”
“No,” I said. “That would be it. Thank you.”
I walked back to the door, slipped my shoes back on, and then walked out to my car. These Midway people are interesting.
On Main Street I found a grocery store, where I bought some bottled water and a premade turkey salad. I ate in my car, then drove back to the inn. I lay down on my bed fully intending to think about my next step, but fell asleep instead. I woke around eight and went downstairs for dinner. There were only two other tables occupied in the dining room.
Lita walked up to me holding a menu. “Would you like dinner, Mr. Bartlett?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She led me to a quiet section of the dining room and handed me the menu. “Have a nice dinner.”
A moment later a waiter came out. “What will it be tonight?”
“I’d like the escargots to begin.”
“Very good. And for your main course?”
“I’ll have the salmon.”
“Seared salmon with artichoke and squash. What will you have to drink?”
“A glass of your pinot noir, please.”
“A very good choice.” He took my menu and walked away.
There was a local newspaper on a side chair and I picked it up. On the front page was a picture of the mayor talking about the importance of tourism and attracting Park City visitors. All I could think of was how she thought I’d come to kill someone.
My escargots came five minutes later along with my wine.
I had just started to eat when someone said, “Snails; nothing like snails with a fine glass of burgundy.” I looked up to see Ray walking into the dining room.
“You’re working late,” I said.
“Not working, Mr. Bartlett. I came back for my glasses and stopped in Truffle Hollow for a drink. May I join you?”
“Please. Would you like some escargots?”
“I love escargots, but not after Scotch.” He pulled the chair out across from me and looked at my glass. “What are you drinking?”
“Pinot noir.”
“The salmon.”
“You chose well,” he said, lightly nodding. “So how was your day, Mr. Bartlett? Fruitful?”
I think he meant the comment as some kind of pun on my name. “No. The city wasn’t much help.”
“You went to the city offices?”
“Yes. I followed your map.”
“And they weren’t helpful? Surprising.” His bushy eyebrows fell. “You didn’t run into Jan, did you?”
“Is she the mayor?”
“Jan’s the mayor.”
“Yes, I met her.”
He grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
“She wasn’t much help.”
“No. I don’t imagine she would be. I hope you didn’t use my name. I ran against her for mayor some years ago. She still holds a grudge. You probably should have gone to Brad Wilcox. He’s the city recorder. He’ll have all the names.”
“I went to Mr. Wilcox’s house.”
“And he didn’t help you?”
“No. He just said he wasn’t at liberty to share public records.”
“I guess I can understand that. He probably thought you were a serial killer.”
“No, that was the mayor. Wilcox thought I was a crazed stalker.”
Ray grinned. “Well, it’s not like anyone in town is private. I mean, pretty much everyone’s listed in the local phone book.”
I looked at him blankly. “Midway has a phone book?”
“Of course. Doesn’t every city have a phone book?”
I felt stupid for not having thought of that. “A phone book would be helpful.”
“I’m sure we’ve got a few extra lying around. Would you like me to find you one?”
“Yes, please.”
Ray walked up to the front counter. He returned carrying a small directory printed on newsprint. “Here you go, sir. I should have just given you that to begin with. Probably would have saved you some humiliation.”
I took the book from him and examined the cover.
The Park City / Heber Valley phone book
Comprising Summit & Wasatch Counties
The directory was about the size of a trade paperback novel. I thumbed through it, then set it down. “This is just what I need. Thank you.”
The Mistletoe Secret Page 7
