“You would think that,” Sylvie said, “except for the fact that the company I work for is run by the founder's two grandsons. Even though it's the twenty-first century, somehow they manage to maintain the same world view that their granddaddy probably held.”
“I didn't realize HoliHealth was that old,” Mallory said.
Sylvie nodded. “The company started back in the early 1950s, right after World War Two. It was called Henderson Health and Healing back then. The old guy, Cliff Henderson, was a real health food nut. A big follower of exercise gurus like Jack LaLanne and advocates of vitamin therapy like Adelle Davis. He was from Iowa, but he was attracted to California because he was convinced it was going to become the health food capital of the world.”
“Good move,” Mallory observed.
“Definitely,” Sylvie agreed. “He started selling vitamins to health food stores—at least the few that were already in business back in those days. Cliff Henderson just muddled along for a decade or so. But then the sixties came along, and all of a sudden HH and H took off. In addition to vitamins, the company started selling protein powder, exercise equipment, books—you name it. By the 1970s, Cliff Henderson's son, Cliff Junior, was old enough to come into the business. The third generation took over in the late eighties. They hired some marketing firm to update the company. Flax and Bulgar, the grandsons, are also the ones who came up with the new name, HoliHealth.”
“Flax and Bulgar?” Mallory repeated. “You're kidding!”
“Nope. I'm afraid not.”
“I guess it's better than naming your kids Bran and Wheat Germ,” Mallory mused. “But it sounds as if despite their names, Flax and Bulgar aren't exactly the most open-minded people in the world,” she prompted.
Sylvie snorted. “Hardly. The two of them must be the most conservative guys in the entire state. They actually wear suits and ties and wingtip shoes to work every day.” Glancing down at her own conservative outfit, she added, “That's the only reason I dress like this. I have to, since it's part of our corporate culture.
“And speaking of corporate culture, Flax and Bulgar treat their products as if they were widgets,” she went on, her tone growing even more bitter. “I mean, it doesn't matter that they're selling health and vitality. For them, it's all about the bottom line. They could be selling socks or cars or… or machine guns. I swear that the only reason they hired me is because they thought having an African-American woman in a high-powered position would make them look good.”
With a tired sigh, Sylvie added, “I tell you, working with these guys day in and day out is a real strain. I feel as if I'm constantly beating my head against a wall, trying to get them to accept my ideas.”
“Then why not just move on?” Mallory asked, sincerely curious about a woman like Sylvie, one who was clearly quite capable, would stay in a job that caused her so much resentment.
“Because I'm not a quitter.” Sylvie stood up straighter, her dark brown eyes narrowing. “Four years at Princeton and another two at Harvard getting my MBA taught me to work hard and to face any challenge I meet head-on.”
Even if all that head-banging leads to a chronic headache? Mallory wondered.
“I really believed this deal was going to make the difference,” Sylvie continued, sounding as if she was talking more to herself than to Mallory. “I thought that this time, I'd show them.”
“Then you must be terribly disappointed that it's not likely to go through after all. Now that Carly's gone, I imagine that things will be in a state of chaos for some time.”
Sylvie looked startled by Mallory's observation. She opened her mouth to speak, then quickly snapped it shut. “That's exactly right,” she said simply.
Before Mallory had a chance to explore Sylvie's feelings about the possible acquisition of Rejuva-Juice any further, their conversation was interrupted by the sound of knuckles rapping loudly on the door.
“What now?” Sylvie muttered.
As soon as Sylvie opened the door and Mallory spotted the two men standing in the hallway, she knew the answer to that question.
“Ms. Snowdon? I'm Detective Lieutenant Derbas. Homicide.”
“Is something wrong?” Sylvie asked, her voice thick.
“We'd like to ask you a few questions.” The detective glanced around the hotel room, his eyes lighting on the suitcase on the bed. “In fact, if you're thinking of leaving town, you'd better think again. I'm afraid we'll need you to stick around until we get this whole thing sorted out.”
“To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong
about other countries.”
—Aldous Huxley
So I'm not the only one who thinks Sylvie had reason to kill Carly, Mallory thought with satisfaction after the cops hustled her out of Sylvie's hotel room.
But rather than hurrying away, she positioned herself outside the door, wishing she had somehow been blessed with the ears of an Irish wolfhound.
The more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed that Sylvie was the murderer. Sylvie could easily have flown into a rage if Carly had finally announced she was never going to agree to sell the Rejuva-Juice empire to HoliHealth. Not only was it a deal Sylvie'd been working on for two years; pulling off the acquisition of Carly's company would have also been the coup Sylvie needed to show Flax and Bulgar the stuff she was made of.
Even though Mallory was dying to find out what was going on in Sylvie's hotel room, she quickly ascertained that the doors at the Jerome were thick enough to make that impossible. Besides, when she glanced at her watch, she remembered there was someplace she was supposed to be. She'd been so distracted by Trevor's arrival and her determination to squeeze her own personal investigation of Carly's murder into her work schedule that she'd nearly forgotten she had a late morning appointment for a massage at the St. Regis Hotel.
She raced back to her room to grab her jacket. Lying on the bed was the scarf she'd used to find out which room was Sylvie's. Tucked underneath was a handwritten note: “Sorry. Ms. Snowdon said this wasn't hers.”
One of the nice things about Aspen, Mallory thought as she turned onto Dean Street and the hotel came into view, was that everything was packed into just a few compact blocks. That meant that most of the sights, shops, and restaurants were within walking distance, a real plus for nonskiers who might not want to get into a car in order to enjoy the city. And visitors who wanted to venture farther away, especially to the area's other three ski mountains, could avail themselves of the free shuttle buses the town had thoughtfully provided. On Mallory's first day in town, Astrid had pointed out the red brick bus station in the center of town, the Rubey Park Transit Center, overlooking the town's public ice skating rink. Not only did it provide comfortable and convenient transportation, it even had free wi-fi Internet access.
She was making mental notes about Aspen's convenient layout, wondering if it was worth mentioning in her article, when a flash of silver caught her eye. She instinctively turned her head in time to see a Rolls-Royce that looked exactly like the Bermans’ whizzing by.
Brett?
Mallory's heartbeat immediately accelerated to a speed almost as fast as that of the high-priced car zooming off. Without hesitation, she picked up her pace and half walked, half jogged in the same direction as the car.
It made a right turn, and she did the same. Even though she couldn't come close to keeping up, she glued her eyes to it. When the vehicle made another right turn, she noted exactly where it did so she could continue her chase.
But when she turned onto that street, there was no sign of it.
Not quite ready to give up, she walked another block. She reached the next intersection and glanced to the right, then the left.
“Yes!” she cried aloud when she spotted the silver Rolls parked in front of a row of shops.
Mallory adopted a pace that she thought of as ambling in the hopes that her breathing would return to normal. She also patted her hair in place, hoping she didn't look as if she'd
just run the four-hundred-meter.
When she reached the first shop in the strip, she stopped and peered into it through the display window.
No one was inside, aside from two young women behind the counter who obviously worked there. Still, she concluded that the boutique wasn't a likely destination for Brett, since it sold women's shoes.
Frowning, she scanned the row of stores in front of her, deciding to use common sense to figure out where he'd gone.
She immediately zeroed in on a likely candidate: a shop devoted exclusively to men's clothing made by a well-known Italian designer.
Maintaining her casual gait, Mallory strolled over to the shop and glanced into the window. Sure enough: Inside, beyond the well-tailored wool jackets featured in the display, she spotted a familiar-looking head of thick silver hair, each strand neatly combed and gelled into place.
Even from where she stood, she could see how earnestly Brett was studying the beige suit the impeccably dressed salesman held out for his approval.
Here goes, Mallory thought, pulling open the door and stepping inside.
“Definitely quality stuff,” Brett was saying to the salesman. “The question is, is it really me?”
“Brett?” Mallory asked, doing her best to sound surprised.
He jerked his head up abruptly. “Mallory!”
A shocked look crossed his face. But the tension in his expression quickly dissipated. In place of the frown was an easy, relaxed smile that revealed his gleaming white teeth. To Mallory, it looked like a smile he'd spent hours practicing in the mirror.
“What brings you here?” he asked, sounding as warm and welcoming if he were receiving her at his home.
“I thought I'd try to find a souvenir for my teenage son,” she answered. She hoped he wouldn't notice how improbable her explanation was. An Aspen T-shirt, maybe. But a silk tie from an Italian designer who had shops all around the world?
“They have some great stuff,” Brett said, nodding approvingly.
The tension suddenly came back into his face, as if he'd just remembered his situation. “I, uh, realized I had to come into town because I didn't have anything appropriate to wear. To the funeral, I mean. And, well, there's bound to be a lot of press buzzing around over the next few days. I figured looking good is a show of respect for Carly.”
“Of course.” Mallory did her best to sound sympathetic, even though she was cynically thinking, What better time to worry about one's appearance than when one's spouse has just been murdered?
Brett seemed to have read her mind. “It's the last thing I want to be thinking about right now, as you can imagine—”
“Sometimes doing something mindless can be the best distraction.” Realizing she might be judging him too quickly, she added, “I know what you must be going through, Brett. I lost my husband not long ago.”
“Perhaps I should leave you two alone,” the salesman said in a thick Italian accent, his dark brown eyes clouding over. “I can see this is a terrible time for you both.”
The two of them were silent as he quickly walked into the back room.
“It was a good idea to close Tavaci Springs for a while,” she commented once they were alone. “It's probably a relief that you don't have to think about the business for a while.”
“I can't let things go for too long,” Brett replied sharply.
A look of surprise crossed his face, as if he hadn't expected to sound so prickly. In a gentler tone, he added, “What I mean is, a lot of people depend on us. Our employees, mainly, but our customers, too. It wouldn't be right to let them down.”
“Still, it's going to be difficult,” Mallory noted. “Without Carly at your side, I mean.”
Nodding, Brett said, “It will be quite a challenge to run the business on a day-to-day basis. Carly always took care of most of that. I tried to get more involved, but it was her baby. She was the one who made most of the decisions—not that I blame her.”
He stopped abruptly. “Besides,” he added with a casual shrug, “I'm hoping that throwing myself into my work will help me get over my grief.”
“It sounds as if you've decided to run the company yourself,” Mallory commented.
“Why wouldn't I?” Brett asked. “After all, I've been involved in it right from the get-go.”
“It's just that I've been hearing… rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
Mallory took a deep breath. “I understand that Sylvie Snowdon is interested in buying the company.”
“You're right about that,” Brett said with a scowl. “That obnoxious woman's been working on Carly for months, trying to get her to sell. In fact, she started getting pretty aggressive about it in the past weeks.”
“Really?” Mallory didn't try to hide her surprise. “But she seems so even-tempered. So… professional.”
Brett snorted. “Giving that impression is part of her job. But trust me: beneath that cool, calm, and collected surface lurks a barracuda. And she was determined to acquire Rejuva-Juice. I can't tell you how many times she flew to Aspen to try to talk Carly into selling. And the longer she worked on her, the more persistent she got. Ever hear of the Concorde fallacy?”
“I don't think I have.”
“Remember that airplane, the Concorde? It went twice the speed of sound, meaning it could fly from New York to Europe in under four hours. But tickets cost a fortune, as much as ten thousand bucks.” Snickering, he added, “That's a lot even for me.
“But the thing was that the French and British governments kept pouring tons of money into it even after it became clear it didn't make sense economically,” he continued. “The reason was that they'd put so much cash into it already that they couldn't bring themselves to walk away from their investment.”
With a shrug, he added, “That's how I think it was with Sylvie. She kept banging her head against the wall, trying to get Carly to sell but not making any progress. And the harder she pushed, the more desperate she became.”
Desperate enough to fly into a rage and kill her? Mallory wondered.
It was true that Sylvie appeared to be a woman of great self-control. But she had to agree with Brett that someone's outer appearance didn't mean a thing. Besides, even the police considered her a suspect.
Which meant Mallory had no choice but to look past the well-tailored suits and the icy façade and keep Sylvie Snowdon high on her list of suspects as well.
Mallory was still ruminating about her brief interaction with Brett Berman as she hurried off to her spa appointment.
He certainly sounds as if he has no intention of selling the company, she thought. That's bad news for Sylvie, of course. But it's good news for Harriet, who won't have to worry about keeping her job. That is, assuming he'll keep her on. Still, even he must realize what an asset she is.
When she turned a corner and caught sight of the St. Regis Hotel, Mallory saw that it looked like a castle. The sprawling red brick building was huge by Aspen standards. Not only did it stand four stories high; its edges flanked two long streets almost as far as the eye could see. At the point at which the two sides of the building met was a corner entrance so regal it looked as if should have a moat in front to separate it from the place where the commonfolk lived.
The lobby was just as grand. While it was furnished in the same style as so much of Aspen—lots of wood, fireplaces, and a few rustic touches such as walls made entirely of rough-hewn stones—the floors were covered in thick Oriental carpets. Mallory could only imagine what a couple of ski poles gone awry could do to those.
The Remède Spa was located downstairs. Mallory knew from her research that it was on as tremendous a scale as the rest of the hotel, with fifteen treatment rooms. In addition to steam rooms, saunas, and an oxygen lounge, it also had something called vapor caves. To her, that sounded like a place where Victorian ladies who had misbehaved would have been sent.
“You're the writer, aren't you?” the woman working in the reception area asked when she g
ave her name.
“That's right,” Mallory replied.
“We have a gift bag for you with some of the products we use here,” the clerk said. “I'll hold it until you're ready to leave.”
Such a tough job, Mallory thought.
“And you still have a bit of time before your hematite and basalt stone massage,” the woman added. “In the meantime, you're welcome to help yourself to champagne and truffles in the relaxation room.”
A really tough job.
“You can also use any of the facilities. I suggest you check out the confluence room.”
More punishment for naughty Victorians? Mallory thought. “What's that?”
“It's an area made of natural stone, with several waterfalls that were inspired by Colorado's mineral springs. It also has a hot whirlpool tub and a cold plunge pool. It's pretty amazing.”
While Mallory didn't know what to expect, she had to agree that this part of the spa really was nothing short of amazing. The most spectacular part was the pool set amidst a grotto, with three waterfalls cascading down the stone walls. After luxuriating in the swirling waters for a few minutes, Mallory moved on to the section just beyond, which consisted of a huge round tub surrounded by more stone. Most of it was a hot tub, but a small round section, separated by a below-the-surface wall, was the cold plunge pool. As far as she was concerned, immersing her entire body in icy water was not something she needed to do. Certainly not in the name of research.
She was half sitting, half lying in the hot tub with her eyes closed, feeling the tension in her muscles start to drain away, when she heard a rustling sound that meant someone else had come in. She opened her eyes and found Astrid Norland standing at the edge of the plunge pool.
“Hello, Mallory,” Astrid said in her lilting voice. “I thought you might like some company. Do you mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” Mallory replied, hiding her surprise.
“Great.” As Astrid slid off her fluffy white terrycloth robe, Mallory did her best not to stare. But it was difficult not to, since the woman was not only completely naked; she had the kind of body that was usually associated with Victoria's Secret models. In fact, as she stood perched at the edge of the hot tub, Astrid looked like a twenty-first century version of the Venus de Milo—after she'd given up carbs and started lifting weights.
Too Rich and Too Dead Page 15
