Too Rich and Too Dead

by Cynthia Baxter

  Her statuesque form included breasts of the variety that were frequently described as “perky.” Mallory wished the lighting was brighter so she could see if there were any scars indicating that at least some of her perfection was the result of a skilled surgeon's knife. Still, Mallory's conclusion was that like so much of Colorado, Astrid Norland was one hundred percent natural.

  “I'm actually using you as an excuse,” Astrid said with a conspiratorial smile. “I knew you had an appointment here at the spa, so I told everyone in the office that I had to act as your tour guide this morning. But the truth is, I just needed to relax.” As she lowered herself into the icy water in the plunge pool without even flinching, she let out a deep sigh. “This has been such a trying week.”

  It's been trying for a lot of us, Mallory thought ruefully. Especially Carly Berman.

  “The police actually made me go down to the station to answer questions,” Astrid went on, her tone as cold as the water she was immersed in. “I have never been more humiliated in my life.”

  “That must have been awful,” Mallory said, trying to sound sympathetic.

  “You can't imagine.” Astrid shook her head, which by this point was the only part of her that wasn't underwater. “The police acted as if they didn't believe that Brett and I had a perfectly sound alibi for the entire night before Carly's murder. As if we would lie about being together, when admitting it was bound to cause a scandal!”

  As if putting up with a little gossip isn't a whole lot better than being charged with murder, Mallory thought. While she was pretty much convinced that Astrid's perfect breasts were genuine, she couldn't say the same for the alibi the PR pro had concocted on the spot.

  “And as if that wasn't bad enough,” Astrid went on, “I've been playing nursemaid to Brett. As you can imagine, he's extremely traumatized.”

  “I've been wondering how poor Brett was doing,” Mallory said, deciding not to mention their recent conversation. “Is he holding up okay?”

  “The man is strong beyond belief,” Astrid replied firmly. “Even in the face of something this shocking.”

  Strong enough to make critical decisions about linen versus worsted wool, Mallory thought dryly.

  “But Carly and Brett's marriage must have been troubled,” Mallory commented, trying to sound casual. “For him to look elsewhere for… emotional fulfillment.”

  “Their marriage has been a total disaster for years!” Astrid exclaimed. “That woman was driven. She gave new meaning to the term workaholic. She was also a control freak. Everything had to be her way. And once she hit the big time, she made the mistake of believing what she read about herself.

  “But on top of all that, she was an absolute shrew. The way she treated poor Brett was deplorable. And he's such a wonderful person. He deserves so much more!”

  Funny, Mallory thought. From what I observed, Carly seemed to adore him. Then again, Aspen is famous for its actors.

  “How did you and Brett meet?” Mallory asked.

  Ordinarily, she wouldn't have had the nerve to ask a woman who was having an affair with a married man—a woman she barely knew, no less—how the whole sordid relationship had started. But there was something about two people both being immersed in water, half naked—or in Astrid's case, completely naked—that created an air of instant intimacy.

  “A couple of years ago, Carly decided to hire a public relations firm,” Astrid replied. “At that time, I was working for a small PR company here in Aspen. I went over to the spa with a couple of other people from the firm to make our pitch. Carly and Brett were both there.

  “It was like a scene in a movie,” she continued. A faraway look had come into her eyes. “Brett and I just looked at each other across the conference table, and it was like a lightning bolt shot through both of us. I can't tell you what a hard time I had getting through that business meeting. When I handed my business card to them both at the end, Brett looked me in the eyes and said, ‘No matter what we decide, I'll definitely be in touch.’”

  “Did your firm get the account?” Mallory was almost sorry to interrupt Astrid's dreamy mood.

  “No.” Astrid laughed. “But I got something so much better: Brett.”

  Debatable, Mallory thought. But she just nodded.

  “It's not really any of my business,” she commented, “but if Brett wasn't in love with his wife anymore, why didn't he just leave her?”

  “Because he's too nice,” Astrid replied bitterly.

  Or maybe because he liked being Mr. Carly Berman too much, Mallory thought. Especially since his wife was so willing to pay the bills. A lot of people would put up with a little crankiness if it meant having their favorite lobster flown in from the Caribbean every week.

  Besides, if Brett was getting both the physical and emotional love he needed from a tall, adoring blonde with legs as long as the cable for the Silver Queen Gondola ski lift, why not keep a good thing going?

  But while Mallory could understand Brett's reasons for staying in an unsatisfying marriage, her waterlogged conversation with Astrid was also helping her see things from the perspective of the Other Woman. Which was also giving her a very good idea of why Astrid would have wanted Carly out of the picture.

  In fact, the scenario was so classic it had become a cliché. It was a love triangle, one in which the wife would have wanted the mistress out of the picture and the mistress would have wanted the wife to disappear.

  Of course, the third person in the triangle, Brett, could also have wanted to simplify the situation. Not only did taking Carly out of the picture free him up to be with Astrid—it also gave him full control of the Rejuva-Juice empire.

  Mallory was trying to come up with a way of asking Astrid for her take on Brett's potential as a businessman when the woman who had greeted her poked her head in.

  “Ms. Marlowe?” she said in a soft, gentle voice. “It's time for your massage.”

  Just what the doctor ordered, Mallory thought as she reluctantly dragged herself out of the hot tub. But given the tangle of relationships and emotions that I'm determined to unravel, this massage therapist is going to have to have magic hands if she's ever going to get these muscles to relax.

  Even though the massage therapist actually managed to loosen up every one of Mallory's muscles, as soon as she left the spa they returned to the same rigid state that as of late had become the norm. Then she checked her watch and realized that if she didn't tense up her leg muscles even more, she was going to be late for her rendezvous with Dusty Raines.

  As she hurried along Durant Avenue toward their meeting place, she fretted over the possibility that he would have forgotten all about their lunch date. Somehow, Dusty impressed her as someone who was much better at maneuvering his way around a ski slope than through life—even if he did own a Rolex to help him keep track of the time.

  But as she neared their meeting point, she spotted him standing near the ticket booth at the base of Aspen Mountain, just as they'd planned. He was wearing the same jeans he'd had on the day before. Either that, or he owned more than one pair with shredded knees. He also wore a dark ski jacket and a pair of sneakers that was an even brighter shade of yellow than his hair. As usual, it looked as if combing his wild mane hadn't made it to his To Do list.

  “Hey!” he greeted her, his blue eyes lighting up.

  “You're right on time,” Mallory noted as she caught up with him.

  “Nothing like food to get me motivated,” he joked. “In fact, that's the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning.”

  No doubt getting you out is a lot harder than getting you in, Mallory thought. But she simply said, “I'm glad you could join me.”

  “So where are we going?” Dusty asked with the eagerness of an eight-year-old boy.

  “I thought we'd aim high.”

  “Huh?”

  She smiled. “Let's take the gondola up Aspen Mountain and have lunch at the Sundeck.”

  “Suh-we-e-et,” he replied, somehow m
anaging to squeeze several extra syllables out of what was normally a one-syllable word.

  Both the Silver Queen Gondola and the Sundeck Lodge at the top remained open year round. Since ski season was over, the line for the gondola was mercifully short. Mallory could only imagine how crowded it got at the height of the season. Coping with crowds in addition to lugging heavy fiberglass skis while wearing equally heavy plastic boots held absolutely no appeal for her. Especially since hauling all that equipment around simply to get it up the mountain was undoubtedly the easy part.

  She and Dusty were silent as they rode up, traveling at an alarmingly brisk pace for the entire two-mile trip. Mallory wondered what the other occupants of the cable car—the size of a Buick—thought of their unlikely pairing. But they seemed too busy to notice as they stared out the windows that encircled the entire car, oohing and aahing as the buildings and trees below shrank before their very eyes.

  “I understand this runs all year-round,” Mallory commented to Dusty, wanting to break the uncomfortable silence. “It's great that even people who don't ski can go to the top of the mountain. It's not every day someone gets a chance to see the planet from eleven thousand feet above sea level.”

  “It's totally awesome,” he agreed, nodding ferociously.

  Mallory wondered how she was ever going to manage to eat an entire meal with this man.

  When they reached the top and climbed out of the gondola, they were rewarded with the most spectacular view so far. Simply standing at the top of the mountain was an exhilarating experience.

  Okay, so maybe skiers aren't completely nuts, she decided.

  Still, she found the sight of the treacherous-looking slope below intimidating enough that she wasn't about to waver on the issue of joining them.

  While the view easily made the trip up the mountain worthwhile, she couldn't say the same for the restaurant. The Sundeck Lodge did, indeed, possess a sundeck, one that happened to be crowded with outdoor diners enjoying the sun. But the indoor area was about as appealing as a high school cafeteria, albeit a high school cafeteria located somewhere in the Alps.

  “This is actually kind of a disappointment,” Mallory commented. She surveyed the large, angular space that consisted of nothing but a short cafeteria line and nondescript tables and chairs packed together.

  “It's pretty typical for ski resorts,” Dusty replied. “But this one has better food. They have the usual burgers and pizza, but they also have stir-fried veggies and Tandoori chicken.”

  Mallory hoped he wasn't going to try to slip either of those into his pocket.

  “Besides,” he went on, “for people who are into something fancier, there's a private club right next door.” He pointed at a terrace that they could see through the window, one that jutted out from another section of the building. “The Aspen Mountain Club. That place is really sick.”

  Thanks to her son, Mallory knew that these days, “sick” was a good thing. Perhaps even better than “sweet.”

  “It costs fifty thousand dollars to join,” Dusty added. “But it's totally awesome. The best part is the dining room. There's this ceiling that's, like, a dome, but it's got windows in it, and a big sun painted on it, with this huge chandelier-thing hanging down—”

  “You've been inside?” Mallory asked, surprised.

  An odd look crossed his face. “Somebody told me about it once. Uh, a friend of mine who belongs.”

  “Carly?” Quickly she fibbed, “I seem to remember her mentioning that she was a member.”

  A stricken look immediately crossed Dusty's face.

  “Uh, no, not Carly,” he said, without looking her in the eye. “It was somebody else I know here in Aspen.”

  Mallory wondered if that “somebody else” was another one of Dusty's lady friends. Or gentleman friends. Unfortunately, she couldn't think of a diplomatic way to ask.

  Once they'd gotten their food—the Tandoori chicken for Mallory, a cheeseburger for Dusty with a pile of fries nearly as high as the mountain they were sitting on—they put their trays down on a table near the window.

  “Wow, I can't believe they have the curly fries,” Dusty exclaimed as he slid into the seat opposite Mallory's.

  He's such a kid, Mallory thought. Granted, a good-looking kid, but one who still acts like he's in high school. I realize the stimulation Carly was seeking wasn't exactly of the intellectual variety. Still, I would have expected her to go for someone more suave.

  She wondered if Juanita could have possibly been wrong about the nature of Carly's relationship with Dusty. Then again, Juanita impressed her as someone who didn't miss much, at least in terms of what went on in the Berman household—even behind closed doors.

  Mallory stuck her fork into a chunk of chicken, hoping that the only requirement for becoming a chef at this establishment wasn't the ability to function in a low-oxygen environment. “It's funny,” she said conversationally, “I don't remember Carly mentioning anything about you.”

  Dusty's eyes narrowed, just a fraction of a millimeter. “I thought you said you and Carly hadn't really stayed in touch since high school.”

  He remembered that? Mallory thought, surprised. Maybe he's smarter than he looks.

  Flashing him a smile, she added, “What I meant was that we weren't really that close. At least, not the way we were in high school. But that doesn't mean we didn't send each other Christmas cards, photos, e-mails… We e-mailed each other all the time.”

  Dusty nodded, which Mallory was beginning to realize was pretty much his response to everything. “I guess I'm not surprised she never mentioned me,” he said. “I mean, we were buds too, but it's not like we were that close or anything.” He hesitated before adding, “I've got a girlfriend, so don't start thinking it was anything like that.”

  “I wasn't thinking that at all,” Mallory insisted.

  Not reacting to that simple statement required a great deal of self-control. To hide her shock, she stabbed another piece of chicken. At least the chef turned out to have more going for him than good lungs. “Tell me about your girlfriend. What's her name?”

  “Autumn.”

  Dusty and Autumn, she thought. Why am I not surprised?

  “Does she work in the ski industry, too?”

  “No way.”

  “Really? What does she do?”

  He was silent for a few seconds, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to share a detail as intimate as his girlfriend's profession. “Yoga. She teaches it, I mean.”

  Dusty's reluctance to talk about the woman who had reportedly stolen his heart piqued Mallory's curiosity. But she didn't feel the need to press him for more details. She had a feeling that it wouldn't be that difficult to locate a yoga instructor named Autumn in a town this size.

  Beside, it was Carly she'd come here to talk about.

  “I'm curious, Dusty,” she said casually. “How did someone like you happen to meet Carly Berman?”

  “You're sure asking a lot of questions,” Dusty replied, studying her warily over his mound of curly fries. “I thought you wanted to talk about her, not me.”

  “I do want to talk about her,” Mallory replied evenly. “I'm really anxious to learn everything I can about what her life her in Aspen was like. And that includes getting to know her friends.”

  “Then you're taking the wrong dude to lunch,” he replied, impatience creeping into his tone. “Like I said, me and Carly weren't close. We just knew each other because Aspen's a pretty small place.”

  So is Carly's bedroom, Mallory thought. Which is why I'm trying to find out how you came to spend so much time in there—behind closed doors.

  “If you want to know more about your friend's social life,” Dusty added, “I'd talk to her husband.”

  “Brett?”

  “That's right. Carly was crazy about the guy.”

  “Really.” It was true that she'd made the same observation, based on the small amount of time she'd spent with the Bermans. But if that was really the case, what was
she doing with Dusty?

  She had hoped he'd be able to help her clarify that point. Not that he was likely to come right out and admit that he and Carly were having an affair. Still, he seemed strangely sincere in his insistence that Mr. Huggy-Poo really was the love of her life.

  Maybe Dusty was jealous of Carly's feelings for her husband, she thought. He could have insisted that she leave Brett, then flown into a rage when she refused…

  But if she loved her husband so much, she asked herself again what was she doing with Dusty in the first place?

  Instead of clarifying things, Mallory's interrogation in the sky was only confusing her even more.

  Still, there was suddenly someone new in the picture, someone who just might be able to cast a little more light on the puzzling subject of Carly Berman's love life.

  Besides, adding “take a yoga class” to her list of Aspen's activities for nonskiers struck her as an excellent idea.

  “Like all great travelers, I have seen more than I

  remember, and remember more than I have seen.”

  —Benjamin Disraeli

  Rather than attempting to locate Dusty Raines's yoga instructor girlfriend by asking around town, iMallory decided to try the high-tech method. Immediately after saying good-bye to Dusty, she made a beeline for her hotel room, where she turned on her laptop and Googled “Autumn Aspen Yoga.”

  While she got a few links to Web sites that referred to local yoga studios with programs that changed with each season, she did stumble upon one that treated Autumn as a proper noun. Eagerly she clicked on the link.

  “Autumn Drake, Yoga Instructor,” the headline said. Underneath was a photograph of a pretty young woman who Mallory estimated was about Amanda's age. She had the same long, straight hair as her daughter, too, except hers was pale blond. Wispy, too. Its color and texture, combined with her heavy-lidded green eyes, tiny nose, gaunt cheeks, and narrow shoulders that indicated a willowy frame, gave her fragile, slightly spaced-out look.