by Cassie Miles
“It’s my first homicide,” he admitted.
“My first time being a suspect.” She tried to smile but failed. “That’s right, isn’t it? I’m on the list.”
“You’re the only person I’m sure is innocent. We were together the whole time.”
“What about the others?”
“It’s possible there was someone else.” But not likely. “Does the castle have surveillance cameras?”
“It does.” She turned to face him. “There must have been a reason you brought me into this room. Why?”
“I need for you to wrangle the guests and employees. Make sure nobody leaves. When my deputies get here, point them in this direction.”
“I can handle that.”
Somehow, he’d known that he could count on her. “For now, I’ll stay here in the bedroom to make sure nobody disturbs the scene.”
“Shouldn’t be hard.” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the door. “That’s the only way in or out.”
And that door had been locked.
COLD CASE COLORADO
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Cassie Miles
Cassie Miles, a USA TODAY bestselling author, lives in Colorado. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Harlequin Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanic Gardens near her high-rise home.
Books by Cassie Miles
Harlequin Intrigue
Mountain Midwife
Sovereign Sheriff
Baby Battalion
Unforgettable
Midwife Cover
Mommy Midwife
Montana Midwife
Hostage Midwife
Mountain Heiress
Snowed In
Snow Blind
Mountain Retreat
Colorado Wildfire
Mountain Bodyguard
Mountain Shelter
Mountain Blizzard
Frozen Memories
The Girl Who Wouldn’t Stay Dead
The Girl Who Couldn’t Forget
The Final Secret
Witness on the Run
Cold Case Colorado
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Vanessa Whitman—Broke, unemployed and homeless after her father’s death, she retreats to the Whitman Castle in the mountains after being harassed by a stalker. She discovers a new career as a ghostwriter.
Ty Coleman—After years on the Aspen Ski Patrol and Mountain Search and Rescue, Ty is elected sheriff of a small county near Aspen. The murder at Whitman Castle is his first homicide.
Simon Markham—Twelve years ago, Simon, a celebrity chef, lost his wife, Dorothy—Vanessa’s aunt—under mysterious circumstances. Simon inherited the castle.
Dorothy Whitman Markham—Twelve years ago, she was declared dead by suicide. But not everyone believes Dorothy took her own life.
Keith Gable—Simon’s partner developed his gourmet restaurant into a fast-food franchise and made a boatload of money.
Bethany Whitman Burke—Died from blunt force trauma in Simon’s bedroom suite.
Lowell Burke—The husband of the murder victim is a lawyer.
To Rick and fond memories of driving through the mountains looking for castles.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from Hunting a Killer by Nicole Helm
Chapter One
Clouds shifted across the moonlit sky, creating ghostly shadows. Vanessa Whitman faced the graveyard, unafraid. She welcomed the spirits from her past, including her father who had been cremated only six days ago. When it came to sorting out her family heritage, she’d take all the help she could get, be it messages from the dead or a lawyer’s brief.
She slipped through a narrow break in the border hedge at the far side of the 165-acre cemetery on the west side of Denver. The tall wrought iron gates at the front entrance had been locked an hour ago. After dark, visitors were supposed to check in, but that was a rule she had to break.
Frozen in place, she scanned the irregular rows of tombstones, grave markers and statues of guardian angels. Nobody else was here. Spring lilacs in full bloom scented the crisp night air. A breeze rustled the new leaves on poplars and aspens.
Clouds parted, and a shaft of moonlight pointed the way. She trod carefully across the carpet of grass. In her hands, she carried a Mason jar half-filled with a portion of her father’s ashes that she’d taken from his urn. Her intention was to scatter Dad at the side-by-side plots he’d purchased when Mom passed away fifteen years ago.
The cemetery caretakers would most certainly not approve of her plan, but Vanessa couldn’t afford to follow protocol. There was an internment fee, and she didn’t have enough ready cash to pay right now. Sure, she could wait or make other arrangements or borrow the money, but she wanted to honor Dad’s last request. And she wanted to do it now, right now.
For the past four years, he’d been dying from colon cancer and the many agonizing complications that went along with the disease, which meant that he and Vanessa had had plenty of time to discuss the final question: What to do with his remains? He’d wanted to leave a trace of himself in the far-flung corners of the Earth from the peak of Mount Everest to the lowest depth of the Mariana Trench. She’d convinced him to accept a more doable plan, scattering some of his ashes in the mountains where he grew up, some in the ocean to symbolize his many journeys and another portion here at the gravesite of his soul mate.
She halted in front of her mother’s marker—a bronze plaque planted flat in the earth. A memory of her mother filled her mind. Vanessa always wished she looked more like Mom, with her delicate features and dark hair. Instead, she took after Dad, with his unruly honey-colored hair, his broad smile and freckles.
Her mother’s plaque read Margaret Whitman, beloved wife and mother, followed by her birth date and the date—fifteen years ago—when she passed away. When Vanessa had the money, she’d have her father’s matching plaque inscribed John Joseph Whitman, husband, father, traveler and poet, followed by the dates.
A car door slammed.
Startled, she shot a glance toward the entrance and saw no one coming through. Nor did she see vehicles on the narrow roads that meandered through the cemetery. The car must have stopped beyond the hedge. Nobody here. And yet a shudder rattled down her spine. Not scared but apprehensive, she sensed the presence of a watcher. Could it be the creep who had been following her for days? She waited for him to show himself. Nothing. He wasn’t here.
She knelt in the grass before Mom’s marker. Earlier today at a small memorial in the university chapel, she’d recited Dad’s favorite Dylan Thomas poem. He would have been proud of the way she’d maintained her composure. That was then. And now
? Tears sloshed behind her eyelids and spilled down her cheeks.
She set the Mason jar on the ground, kissed her fingertips and touched the bronze plaque as though she could reassure Mom. These tears were about more than sadness. She was also glad that her father’s suffering was over. Sorrow, anger and... tension. She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her future was as bleak as a moonscape. She’d quit her job teaching high school English to care for Dad and had made no plans for future employment. Every penny of her savings and Dad’s as well was spent. The flood of medical bills had wiped out everything. Their properties were repossessed. All their assets were gone. Mom would have said it was impossible for her to be broke because the Whitmans had always been a superrich family.
A thread of anger wove through her fears. Her charming father had been wildly irresponsible. To finance his travels, he’d sold off artwork and property. She should have monitored his spending, grounded him, refused to pay for one last trip to Bali to watch the purple sunset behind the tiered pagodas and swaying palm trees. But she couldn’t deny him.
John Joseph Whitman had died with a smile on his face and that meant the world to her. She unscrewed the lid on the Mason jar and poured a few ounces of Dad’s remains into her palm. The ashes and tiny fragments of bone seemed to burn. Quickly, she sprinkled them around her mother’s grave.
When she heard what sounded like someone walking on gravel, her gaze swiveled. This part of the cemetery was relatively new with more plaques in the ground than upright tombstones. For thirty feet in all directions, her view was uninterrupted. She saw nobody but felt her stalker was near. Anticipating the worst, she’d come prepared. In the pocket of her sweatshirt was a container of pepper spray.
The first time she’d seen her stalker was a couple of months ago, late at night. He’d been on the street outside the hospice, wearing a black cap and ski mask. He’d called her name, then raised his arm and pointed at her. The creep didn’t come close enough for her to get a good look, just a general impression that he was average height and weight. She’d leaped into her car and driven home.
Now and again, she’d caught other glimpses but was too exhausted to do anything. When her apartment was broken into, she called the police. After a cursory look around, they’d found no evidence. Nothing had been stolen. They suggested that she stay with friends or family for a few days. That was when she’d contacted her wealthy Uncle Simon Markham who lived near Aspen. Vanessa had swallowed her pride and asked for money. To her surprise, Simon had stepped up and paid for a private suite in a nursing facility for her and her father.
Still kneeling at Mom’s marker, she emptied the ashes from the Mason jar into the grass. Now Mom and Dad would be together forever. Vanessa flashed on a wishful vision of them holding hands in a rose garden, surrounded by love and beauty.
Their ordeal was over. And hers had just begun.
Behind her back, she heard the scrape of a boot against stone. Night birds took flight. When she whipped around, she saw a dark figure, dodging among the headstones and moving in her direction. For a moment, she lost sight of him in the shadows.
Why, why, why was he coming after her? Anger melted her fear and stirred her blood. Scrambling to her feet, she yelled, “Leave me alone.”
“Vanessa.” The breeze carried her name. “Vanessa, I won’t hurt you.”
“Don’t come any closer.” How dumb did he think she was? “Stay back.”
He showed himself. Only thirty feet away from her, he was dressed in dark colors and wore a black ski mask. With long strides, he approached. “Vanessa, Vanessa.”
“No,” she yelled at him. “Get back.”
She cocked her arm and threw the Mason jar at him. The glass jar thumped against his chest. A lucky shot! He stumbled, then regained his balance. “You little bitch!”
With her pepper spray in her hand, she charged at him and aimed at his mask and his eyes. Screaming in pain, he sank to the ground.
She took off running. Her feet barely touched the grass as she darted through the graves to the break in the border hedge. Looking over her shoulder, she didn’t see him coming after her but didn’t slow her pace until she reached her car and jumped inside.
She slammed the car into gear and peeled away from the curb. At the corner, she turned left. After six more blocks, her little sedan merged into traffic. Was she safe? Would she ever be safe again?
In the distance, the mountains created solid ramparts against the night sky. Like a fortress, that rugged terrain would protect her. The implacable Rocky Mountains were where the story of the Whitman family began. Dad had wanted a portion of his ashes to be scattered amid those majestic peaks where he grew up.
She reached over and patted the urn that held the rest of his ashes. Riding in the passenger seat, it was held in place by the seat belt.
“Don’t worry, Dad. I’m taking you home.”
Chapter Two
Vanessa leaned back in the swivel chair behind the long library table with carved legs and took stock. It had been four months since she left Denver. As far as she could tell, her stalker hadn’t followed her to Uncle Simon’s sixteen-bedroom mansion in the mountains near Aspen. She had a roof over her head and food to eat. Her bank account wasn’t booming, but she wasn’t flat broke, thanks to a couple of payments from Simon, a celebrity chef, who’d hired her to edit his latest cookbook. The formerly downward trajectory of her life seemed to have taken a positive turn.
She rose from the chair and she closed The Legends of Tremont County, an oversize book with faded sepia photos and an unreliable account of the history for this area. In spite of the outlandish lies and legends, this reading material was dry as a desert before the spring runoff, and that was okay with her. Unlike her dad, Vanessa wasn’t looking for adventure.
She went to the tall casement windows in the third-floor library, flipped the latch and cranked one of them open a crack. The early autumn breeze whispered against the glass. She opened the window a bit wider and stuck her head out. The panoramic view was incredible. Late afternoon sunlight spilled across a wide valley. Several miles away was a condo development and in the opposite direction was open range. Once upon a time—over a century ago—this acreage as far as the eye could see belonged to the Whitman family. Her great-great grandfather ran a vast cattle ranch. His son built this massive residence using brick, cedar and chiseled granite, which led to the name Whitman’s Castle. Simon owned it now.
He’d inherited the property twelve years ago when his wife, Vanessa’s aunt Dorothy, disappeared. Months later, her remains were found, and she was declared dead. There was a legal fuss regarding the terms of her aunt’s will, but Vanessa hadn’t been living here and hadn’t paid much attention. Nor had her father. Dear old Dad—bless his heart—had never been practical when it came to legal matters. She glanced toward the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves where his urn was positioned so she could keep an eye on him.
In her bare feet, she strolled across an exquisite Persian rug. She reached up and lifted the bronze urn from its place of honor. Though she’d searched for the perfect spot to scatter Dad’s ashes in the mountains, she couldn’t make up her mind. The task had taken on deep significance, and it was important for her to get it right.
Before she moved forward, there were questions from the past that she had to answer. She needed to know where she’d come from before she figured out where she was going. The one good thing about hitting bottom was the chance to start over.
Mona Oliver, the housekeeper, poked her head into the room. A wisp of a woman who almost always dressed in black with a pinstriped apron tied around her waist, she wafted into the library. Her long gray hair was pulled into a tight bun.
As she watched Vanessa place the urn on the library table, Mona clasped her right hand over her heart. “Your father. You miss him, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Did you ever meet hi
m?”
“Afraid not. He never came to visit.”
“You started working here...when...nine years ago?”
“That’s right. Simon had just married Chloe, and she kept me hopping with cleaning, renovation and entertaining.” Mona didn’t sound unhappy about the extra work. “Busy, busy, busy. The house was full of friends, associates and shirttail relatives, even more than now. Simon loves to play host.”
“He’s a generous man.” Her uncle might be arrogant, hot-tempered and insensitive, but his hospitality was unmatched. “I appreciate what he’s done for me.”
Mona drifted toward her and lightly touched her arm. “When I mentioned shirttail relatives, I wasn’t talking about you, dear. You’re not one of those spoiled brats who never make their beds and leave clutter all over. You’re tidy. I like that.”
“Good, because it looks like I’m going to be staying here awhile longer.”
“That’s nice, dear. But why?”
“Simon is going to hire me to be his ghost.”
Mona’s thin eyebrows raised almost to the edge of her widow’s peak hairline. “I beg your pardon.”
“Ghostwriter,” she said with a grin. “He’ll tell me his stories, and I’ll put them together in a memoir of his life. After this last cookbook, his publisher asked for a more personal biography embellished with a couple of his favorite recipes.”
“I guess that means you’ll be an author.”
“Not really. I won’t have my name on the book.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem fair. Are you okay with this arrangement?”
“I’ve always wanted to be a writer.” Even though she didn’t share her father’s gift for poetic language, she enjoyed writing. “Ghosting is a good place to start.”
“If you say so.” Mona smoothed her apron. “I had a message that there was something you wanted to see me about?”
Vanessa had almost forgotten. “There’s going to be one more person for dinner tonight. Sheriff Ty Coleman.”
