To Hell in a Handbasket (3 page)

Confused, Claire looked at the senior ski patroller and back at the detective. “But didn't Mr. Matthews tell you about the tracks I saw?”

Silverstone checked his notes. “He said you thought you saw an extra pair of ski tracks in addition to Miss Contino's and the snowboarder's.”

“Yes,” Claire said, “And I believe—”

“I'm surprised you only saw one extra set, or that you could distinguish the tracks. Lower Ptarmigan's usually crisscrossed with tracks by that time in the morning, not to mention ones from the day before. It's not a slope that gets groomed every night, is it, Hal?”

Matthews shook his head.

Feeling a twinge of irritation, Claire gripped the arms of her chair. “But three inches of snow fell last night, so that covered yesterday's tracks. And the T-bar didn't open until a few minutes before we got on.”

“That so, Hal?”

“I talked to the lift operators,” Matthews said, “to see if they remembered the snowboarder. They remembered the goofy hat, but that's all. And they said they started up the T-bar at ten fifteen.”

“So, we were some of the first skiers to make tracks in the fresh powder.” Claire edged forward in her chair, anxious to make her point. “Not only were the tracks clear, but both the skier's tracks and the snowboarder's went close to Stephanie's where hers veered off into the woods.”

Silverstone quirked an eyebrow at Matthews. “Did you see that?”

“No. Mrs. Hanover claimed the sled went over them, so they were gone when she told me about them.”

Claimed?
Realizing the senior ski patroller didn't believe her, Claire kept pushing. “The ski tracks came straight out of the woods above the collision point. No turns. If the skier was the one who hit her, either he never saw Stephanie or he deliberately hit her.”

Judy stared at her mother. “You think someone killed her on purpose?”

“Whoa.” Matthews put out his hands. “You're getting carried away here.”

Claire focused on the detective. “No, I'm just covering all the possibilities.”

Silverstone stroked his chin. “We always look for the simplest explanation first. Accidental collisions happen all the time on the mountain, though they rarely result in death.”

He checked his notes. “You said the snowboarder passed the four of you, then he passed Miss Hanover again, presumably after stopping somewhere, before he reached Miss Contino?”

“Either he hit Stephanie and the skier must have seen it,” Claire said, “or the skier hit her and the snowboarder saw it. What's still puzzling me is why neither one stopped to help her.”

“Not everyone's as responsible as you,” Matthews said. “It's amazing what assholes some of our patrons can be.”

“Well, we know nothing about this skier,” Silverstone said, “or if he or she even exists. Our best course of action is still to find the snowboarder.” He flipped his notebook closed and glanced at Matthews.

“I called in while you were fetching the Hanovers,” Matthews said. “The patrollers haven't spotted him yet. One more thing. The ski resort prefers to be the primary contact with the press on this.”

Silverstone addressed the Hanovers next. “Until we determine if criminal conduct was involved, none of you should talk to the press. It could harm our case if we need to bring charges. And, as you can imagine, a death on the slopes can be very damaging to the local economy if it's blown out of proportion.”

Anger boiled in Claire's gut.
They're more concerned about bad publicity than the truth.

Roger covered her clenched hand with his. “We understand.”

Matthews stood. “The lifts will start shutting down in less than an hour. Would any of you be willing to ski Peaks Seven and Eight again tomorrow and help us look for that snowboarder?”

Claire looked at Roger and he nodded.

Judy shifted in her chair. “I think I should be with Nick . . . if he wants me.”

Claire turned to Matthews. “We need to visit the Continos in the morning, but Roger and I should be able to ski after that.”

“Both the ski patrol and the sheriff's office would really appreciate it.” Silverstone plucked a card out of his wallet and handed it to Roger. “I understand you've already got Mr. Matthews's card. Carry both with you tomorrow along with your cell phone. Call either one of us if you spot the boarder.”

He peered at Claire and Roger in turn, as if to assure he had their full attention. “Under no circumstances should you approach him yourself.”

Three: Suspicions

While Roger drove to
the Contino home the next morning, Claire warmed her backside on the BMW's heated seat, wishing the heat could penetrate the cold knot of grief and dread churning her insides. She scanned the hastily written directions in her hand. “The turn for the Highlands is just north of town, right?”

“Mom,” Judy replied, “I told you I could give Dad directions. I was there with Nick two nights ago, remember?”

Claire faced Judy in the back seat. “I know, honey, but it was nighttime, and you were only there once. That's why I called the
Continos this morning. I also wanted to make sure they were ready
for us.”

Judy rolled her eyes. “Turn right at the light, Dad.” She avoided her mother's gaze and stared out the window.

Claire wished she'd had time to put together a sympathy basket. She had brought supplies to Breckenridge so she could construct and donate a gift basket to the upcoming Summit Foundation auction, but she didn't have suitable items for the Continos. Nothing would ease the raw pain of losing Stephanie, but Claire wanted to at least let her family know that the Hanovers cared.

As Roger drove the winding curves of Highland Drive, he let out a low whistle. “This is some neighborhood. I don't see a single home that looks like it would sell for less than two million.”

Lining the road, cemented river stone and peeled-log mansions sat back on large treed lots. Huge, dark windows faced the ski-area mountains and seemed to stare at the car like sunken eye sockets in hollow skulls.

Claire shivered. “Most of them look empty. They must be second homes. Did the Continos rent like us, or do they own a vacation home here?”

“They own it,” Judy answered. “They usually come up from Denver once a month or so.”

“They must be doing well.” Roger's tone was wistful.

Claire glanced at him. After Enrique, a massage therapist, was shot and killed in Claire's bedroom two months earlier and the Colorado Springs police accused Roger of the crime, Roger had lost his corporate job as a chief financial officer during the resulting lurid publicity. He had been exonerated for the crime, but he hadn't gotten his position back. Or found another one yet.

She smoothed her hand across his shoulders. “We're doing well, too, Roger. Well enough for me.” Thank goodness they were diligent savers and had a considerable cushion.

He flashed her a half smile, as if he half-believed her.

Claire pointed at the sign for the Continos' street. “There's the turn.”

“The house is the third one on the right,” Judy added.

Roger pulled into the long driveway and parked behind a large black SUV. “A Range Rover. I should've known.”

He can't be that envious.
“I'm sure your X-Five is just as classy as his Range Rover.”

“That Range Rover costs twenty to twenty-five K more than my car.” At Claire's sharp glance, Roger patted her hand. “Wishful thinking. That's all.” He stepped out, his shoes crunching on the frozen snow.

While Claire climbed out, she pondered why men always had to measure themselves against other males. Even when they were doing well, like Roger, they always managed to find someone who made more money, was a better athlete, had a larger banana. She sighed.
That's why we women have to keep telling them their bananas are plenty large enough for us.

When they walked onto the porch, Judy slipped her hand into her father's, reminding Claire why they had come. Claire took a deep, steadying breath as Roger rang the bell. The cold mountain air chilled her lungs.

Nick opened the door, and Judy fell into his arms. He hugged her then shifted her to his side. He held her protectively against himself, as if he already felt responsible for her.

The intimate gesture brought out Claire's protective maternal instincts. She wasn't ready to turn over her daughter to this young man. Not yet. Not until she was sure he valued Judy as much as Claire did.

Nick stepped back to make room for Claire and Roger. “Come inside, please. Thanks for coming.” Dark shadows edged his eyes, accentuating his heavy brows, almost black eyes, and sharp nose. His sleek, predatory features reminded Claire of a hawk, but a stressed-out, exhausted hawk.

Roger shook the young man's hand. “I wish we were getting to know your parents under better circumstances, Nick.”

“So . . .” Nick's voice caught in his throat, and he cleared it. “So do we. Mom and Dad are in the living room. I'll take your coats.” After piling their coats on a nearby bench, he led the Hanovers down the hall.

Claire clutched Roger's arm, dreading the tears and anguish to come.

When they entered the living room, Anthony Contino stood and offered his hand to Roger. He, too, had dark circles under his eyes. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Hanover.”

“Please, call me Roger. And call my wife Claire.”

Claire shook Anthony's hand. She looked at Angela, sitting on the green leather sofa. The woman was misery incarnate. Her formerly styled hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail. Obviously, she had tried applying some lipstick and blush, but most of it had rubbed off on the pile of wadded tissues before her. Tears still brimmed in her eyes, and her chin shook as she bit her lip.

Claire did what came naturally. She sat next to Angela and put her arms around the woman. She whispered, “I'm so sorry.”

That set them both to weeping again. Claire held Angela for a while, until they needed to snatch tissues from the box on the coffee table to wipe their faces.

The men had stood awkwardly with hands in their pockets and gazes averted from the sad scene. Judy quietly joined the mothers at the tissue box, pulling one out to wipe her eyes.

Angela picked up a cup of coffee and took a sip. Once she could speak, she said, “Please, tell me what happened. Everything.”

The others sat on the color-coordinated leather easy chairs and loveseat clustered around the stone-inlaid coffee table. Judy, Roger, and Claire took turns describing the events of the previous day.

When Claire began talking about the tracks she saw, Judy interrupted, “Mom, I think Mrs. Contino has suffered enough.”

The tissue pile had grown to twice its original size. Angela twisted another one in her hands. “No, please, I must know.”

Claire shot a
hush
glance at Judy and rubbed Angela's shoulder. “I understand. I would want to hear everything, too.” She diagramed the ski tracks and snowboard track with her finger on the coffee table while she described them to the Continos.

Nick released Judy's hand and sat forward. He ran his finger along the imaginary path of the unknown skier's track. After a sharp glance at his father, he asked, “So you think the skier might have come straight out of the woods, right at Stephanie?”

Claire nodded. “She would've had no time to react.”

Anthony drew in a sharp intake of breath. He and Nick locked gazes.

Claire saw a clear message of fear pass between them.
What the hell?

A frown of confusion passed over Angela's face. “Do you think this skier ran into her on purpose?”

“The ski patrolman said it was an accident, Mom.” Nick glanced
at his father.

“Yes, an accident. It must have been,” Anthony said quickly. “Anything else would be unthinkable, impossible.” He glared at Nick as if warning him not to say more.

“We just don't know.” Claire realized from Nick and Anthony's scowls that they wanted Angela to be assured that Stephanie's death was an accident. She took Angela's hand. “He probably took off from the woods without checking uphill first, so he never saw Stephanie.”

“Why do you say ‘he'?” Anthony asked sharply. He stared at Claire.

She shrugged. “I'm assuming the person had to be bigger than Stephanie to knock her so violently off track. The snowboarder was. If the snowboarder did it, the skier could have been a woman or a small man, I guess.”
Was that why the skier didn't stop? Could he or she have been afraid of the snowboarder and what he might do to him or her?

Nick bit his lip and watched his father, his finger tapping a solemn beat on the coffee table.

Anthony stood, smoothing his palms down his thighs, as if wiping off nervous sweat. If anything, his twisted face looked even more anguished than before. “We've been remiss. We haven't offered you anything to drink. We have coffee, and I can make tea or hot chocolate.”

“Don't go to any trouble on our account.” Roger stood. “You have enough to deal with. We just came to answer your questions and convey our condolences.”

Claire glanced at Angela, who seemed frail and worn out. “I'm sorry if I went on too long.”

“No, no,” the woman replied. “I needed to know.”

“Can we tell you anything else?”

Angela shook her head. “All we can do is wait for the ski patrol or the sheriff to find who did this to Stephanie.”

Claire rose and joined Roger, causing the others to stand too. “Roger and I will be on the slope today, too, looking for the snowboarder.”

“I wish I could look, too.” Nick's fingers clenched and unclenched
at his sides as if he itched to put those hands around the neck of the person who killed Stephanie, accident or no.

Judy looped her arm through Nick's and looked at Angela. “I'd like to stay here today, if you'll have me, to help with the . . . arrangements.”

Proud of Judy's initiative and willingness to help, Claire gave her daughter a warm smile. A worrying thought struck her. Judy was acting like a daughter-in-law, volunteering to take on such a large role in Stephanie's funeral arrangements. Was she that serious with Nick?
Cut it out, Claire. Be glad she's assisting Angela in some way. God knows the woman needs it.

“Thank you, Judy. I'd appreciate that. It's all rather overwhelming.” After giving Judy a sad smile, Angela turned to Roger and Claire. “We want to have the service here, rather than in Denver. Stephanie loved the mountains, and—” Her voice caught, and her hand went to her mouth.

Nick finished for her. “We plan to spread her ashes somewhere in the mountains.”

Claire gave Angela a hug, quick enough to prevent another onslaught of tears. “We'd like to come to the memorial service.”

Angela nodded.

Anthony escorted Claire and Roger to the door and gave Roger a stiff handshake. While they walked to their car, Claire hunched
her jacket around her chilled neck and reviewed the conversa
tion
in her mind. Something troubled her. Nick and Anthony's strange reactions to the possibility that the skier had deliberately hit Stephanie.

What are they afraid of ?

_____

Hours later, exhausted after hunting for the snowboarder on the ski slopes, Claire lay on one side of the L-shaped sofa in the living room of their rented townhouse. She groaned and stretched her sore muscles. Roger lay on the other side, nursing a beer. They had stripped off their outer ski clothing and sweaters, so they lounged in turtlenecks, long underwear bottoms, and slouched ski socks.

As the waning afternoon sun threw long shadows across the floor, Roger asked, “Who's getting up for the ibuprofen?”

“I guess I will.” With a grunt, Claire pushed herself to her feet, staggered a bit until her stiff legs remembered how to walk, then padded upstairs to the bedroom. She returned with the bottle and
passed it to Roger before plopping down on the sofa again. After swallowing two pills with some water, she said, “I wish we'd
spotted that snowboarder.”

“He's probably lying low or boarding at another Summit County resort,” Roger said. “Especially if he or one of his buddies saw the signs the ski patrol posted.”

“Either that or he could've been here for the day from some
where on the Front Range, Denver, Boulder, or Colorado Springs—
like us.”

“On a Monday? I don't think so. A weekend day, maybe. I bet he's a local or he's here for a week or two, like us.”

“So there's a chance we'll still find him.”

Roger took another sip of beer. “He moved like someone hooked
on snowboarding. I doubt he'll give up more than a day or two of it, especially if he's here on vacation. He'll probably ditch the goofy hat, though.”

“But not his board, unless it was a rental. I remember that swirly orange pattern.” Claire rested her head against the sofa back.
“I hope we find him. I want to do
something
for the Continos. I feel so helpless.”

The front door opened and Judy walked in. Her gaze swept over her parents sprawled on the sofa, and she cracked a wry grin. “Don't you two look attractive.”

Claire sat up and peered beyond Judy. “Is Nick coming in? I'll change into sweats if he is.”

“No, he just dropped me off. They still need to contact some more relatives.” Judy shucked off her coat, slid onto a barstool next to the kitchen counter, and leaned her chin on her hand.

Claire studied her daughter's face. Judy looked tired, sad, and blotchy, as if she had done some crying.

“Poor Mrs. Contino,” Judy said. “Nick and Mr. Contino decided
to call the relatives so she wouldn't have to. But then, she and I met with the funeral director and she had to make all those decisions about the service. She kept asking me what I thought, and I had no idea how to answer her.”

“I'm sure your presence was a comfort to her.”

Judy took a moment to think. “I'm not so sure. Sometimes I'd catch her looking at me with a wistful expression on her face. I think it's weird for her that I'm alive and Stephanie's not. It was a little too overwhelming, so finally I had to get out of there, at least for a minute. I went to find Nick. He was with his dad in the study. That whole scene was a little odd.”