To Hell in a Handbasket (7 page)

Oh, God.
A wall of sadness slammed into Claire, forcing her against the back of her chair.

“Damn,” Roger whispered.

Judy dug for a tissue in her purse as a tear ran down her cheek.

“I'm sorry,” Silverstone said. “Did you know him well?”

“We just met him last night,” Roger said.

Silverstone cocked a brow and eyed each of them. “Maybe you can explain to me why you three have been the first on the scene for not one, but two suspicious and fatal
accidents
in the last two days.”

Roger gripped the arms of his chair and thrust his chin out. “You can't seriously think we had anything to do with either one.”

Spreading his hands wide, Silverstone said, “I don't know what to think.”

“Stephanie was my friend,” Judy blurted out. “My boyfriend's sister. Why would we want to hurt her?”

“Maybe she didn't approve of the relationship.”

Claire leaned forward and slapped the top of Silverstone's desk. “Look. Judy's upset enough. She's experienced more death in the last two days than in her whole lifetime up 'til now. And there's a big difference between saying a gentle goodbye to her grandfather in a nursing home and watching a young man get run down by a speeding car.”

Claire glanced at Judy, who wiped her nose and stared at her mother. “I will not allow her to be upset further. We came here willingly to cooperate with your investigation, not to be accused of killing people.” She sat back, crossed her arms over her chest, and narrowed her eyes at Silverstone.

A noise behind them made Claire turn around. A patrolman stood next to the one who had been typing and now sat stock still. They both stared at her.

“The crepe-stand workers can tell you,” Roger said, “we not only were nowhere near Naylor when he was hit, but we provided first aid and called nine-one-one, just like we did for Stephanie.”

Silverstone shooed the two officers out of the room with a wave of his hand then focused his attention on the Hanovers. “And for that massage therapist in Colorado Springs, too?”

Roger slumped in his chair and eyed Claire. “So you heard about that.”

“I thought I recognized your name,” Silverstone said, “and I did a little research last night. This makes three deaths you've been involved in, right?”

“Roger was totally exonerated in that murder,” Claire replied, “as you should know from your research. It has nothing to do with these deaths.”

“You can understand why I'd be suspicious, though.”

“No, I can't.”

Roger's jaw worked as he ground his teeth together. “Look, if you're going to accuse us of something, do it; then we'll sue you for false arrest.”

Silverstone held up his hands, palms out. “I'm not accusing any of you of a crime. But I do need to know what's going on here, and what your connection to it is.”

He rose and paced behind the desk. “We rarely get more than a few burglaries, drunk-driving arrests, maybe a domestic dispute or two in a week, and now all of a sudden, we have two deaths on our hands. The resources of our office and the Breckenridge police are being stretched damn thin to handle the investigations, let alone deal with the interference.”

Could someone be hampering the investigations deliberately?
Claire
leaned forward. “Interference?”

Silverstone pulled a small, shiny brown object out of his pocket and rubbed it absentmindedly. “The press, who want all the lurid details. And on the opposite side, the ski resort, the chamber of commerce, and the local politicians who all want this bad news to go away fast.”

He stopped and peered at the Hanovers. “Besides the timing, the only link we have between the two deaths is your presence.”

“That's not the only link,” Claire said, deciding that the promise she made to Boyd had died with him.

Silverstone reseated himself at his desk, his fists balled on the top. “You referring to the connection you refused to discuss with Officer Koch last night?”

“Boyd Naylor saw who killed Stephanie,” Claire said. “He is, or was, the snowboarder we were looking for.”

Roger nodded. “That's probably why he was killed. The SUV hit
him deliberately—aimed right for him.”

“And Nail-It was scared,” Judy added. “The skier who hit Stephanie chased him after Nail-It saw what happened.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Silverstone held out his hand, palm out. “First, who is Nail-It?”

“Boyd Naylor,” Claire answered. “His nickname was Nail-It.”

“Okay,” Silverstone said. “Now, I want to hear the whole story of what happened last night from the top, from when you first met this Naylor kid. Tell me everything he told you.”

Roger laid his head on the back of his chair and looked at the ceiling. “We already did this with Officer Koch last night.”

“I know.” Silverstone tapped a brown file filled with papers. “And he was kind enough to stay up late and type his notes for me to read before you came in. But I want to hear it again from your mouths.”

Roger rubbed his fatigue-lined face and shot Claire a baleful look.

She launched into the story.

At the end, Silverstone returned to the subject of the black Range
Rover. “The Breck police have the DMV doing a license search based on the two letters you gave them. But given the popularity of those SUVs among the Denver skier population, we'll probably have to weed through quite a few. Any other features of the car stand out? A ski rack? A bent fender? Anything?”

Claire closed her eyes to visualize the SUV driving away, but the image of a different, stationary black Range Rover got in the way, sitting in a driveway. The Continos' driveway. Claire's eyelids flew open. “The Continos have a black Range Rover.”

Everyone stared at her. “You can't think—” Roger began.

“What if they found out about Boyd, like Judy did?”

“But to run him down in cold blood?”

Claire's emotions churned. While she thought the possibility macabre and despicable, she couldn't help but feel some sympathy for the parents who had just lost their child. “Imagine it, Roger. Imagine how you would feel if you discovered the identity of the young man who you thought killed your daughter. If it was Judy, wouldn't you want revenge?”

Roger's hands formed claws in his lap, as if clenched around someone's neck. Then they relaxed. “For an instant, yes. But to kill someone in cold blood like that, no. I would go to the cops.”

Silverstone nodded, as if in understanding, his hand massaging the hidden object.

Looking for evidence of a family, Claire searched his desk for a photo. There it was, half turned toward him. A tall, thin woman stood in a bright yellow aspen grove with her arm placed protectively on the shoulder of a little girl with black braids, about five.
Yes, he understood.

Silverstone followed her gaze to the photo. His face softened for a moment, and he bent his head to write on his pad. “I'll get the Continos' license plate number, see if it matches, and check on their whereabouts last night.”

“I can't believe it.” Judy's lips pursed in a thin, disapproving line. “The Continos would never do something like that.”

“You know Nick well,” Claire said, “but how well do you know his parents? We think only one person was in the car. It could've been Nick's father.”

Judy opened her mouth then hesitated. “True, I've only talked to Nick's dad a few times, 'cause he's always working late, but still—”

“Still, he loved his daughter, and she's just been killed.”

“But Nail-It didn't do it.”

“And the Continos don't know that. They still think a snowboarder crashed into Stephanie.”

“Which could still be the case,” Silverstone said.

Surprised, Claire said, “We told you Boyd's story about the skier dressed in black who chased him.”

He nodded. “That's precisely what it could have been—a story.”

“But Judy saw the skier. Not him hitting Stephanie, but getting off the lift. And I saw the tracks. And Naylor not only saw him, but drew a picture of him, too. He said the skier had black skis and thin graphite black poles and wore a black Spyder jacket and pants.”

Silverstone jotted down the description. “Naylor could have seen him on the trail, too, and decided the skier would be a good unidentified fall guy in his story.”

Claire's frustration rose. “So you don't believe I saw those ski tracks?”

“I'm keeping all options open right now. Maybe the tracks were there, maybe not. Maybe they were new that morning, maybe not. Since no one else saw them, I just don't know.”

Claire had an idea. “It hasn't snowed since Monday, has it?”

With a quizzical look, Silverstone shook his head.

“I remember exactly where those tracks came out of the woods. The skier would've waited there for Stephanie. If we go back and take a look, we might find something useful. At the very least, if he stood there awhile, the snow would be tamped down, confirming my story.”

Silverstone walked to the office door. He looked down the hall out a window facing the ski resort, then faced them, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose I should see where Stephanie Contino got hit, given this new information. Could be a crime scene now. We need to do it soon, though, since it looks like a snow cloud's building up. It should be ready to dump its load late this afternoon or tonight.”

He studied the brown object in his cupped hand. “Logically, these deaths could still be two unrelated accidents, or an accident and the Continos' revenge. Even if Naylor's story is true, and Stephanie Contino's death wasn't an accident, that doesn't mean his wasn't.”

Roger gripped the arm of his chair. “But I told you—”

Silverstone held up his hand. “I know you think it was deliberate, but we get folks speeding down Main Street all the time, especially after they've been hitting the bars.”

“There's still a possibility that both of them were murders,” Claire said.
If so, why? And who's next?

Silverstone gave a grim nod. “Two murders would blow the lid off our quiet little county. That would affect the business of all four ski areas—Keystone, A-Basin, and Copper Mountain, as well as Breckenridge.”

Roger squirmed in his seat. “But isn't finding a murderer, or even two, more important than the skiing business?”

“You don't understand. Every family in Summit County is tied in some way to the ski business, either directly as employees of the resorts or indirectly through jobs in the tourist industry. We're talking about a major impact on everyone's income.”

Claire realized the problems related to Stephanie's death were snowballing. “I see what you're facing.”

Silverstone looked at Claire. “I need to make a few calls, first, but Naylor's tale needs to be checked out. How soon can you be ready to go up on the mountain?”

Claire pressed her hand to her chest. “Just me?”

“All of you. Your daughter remembered seeing the black-suited skier when Naylor's story jogged her memory. Maybe returning to the scene will remind one of you of something else.”

“Give us an hour to get our gear,” Roger said grimly. “We'll meet you at the base of the Rocky Mountain Superchair.”

Six:
Down the Slippery Slope

Claire stood with Roger
and Judy at the base of Breckenridge's Peak Eight and scanned the undulating mob below the side-by-side high-speed chairlifts, looking for Detective Silverstone. Skiers and snowboarders shuffled forward in fits and starts as the chairs scooped up riders in bites of four each. Late-morning was prime traffic-jam time at the mountain base. The late risers were just arriving, and the early risers had returned after their first or second run.

Voices rose in greetings or shouted into the two-way radios and cell phones that everyone seemed to carry nowadays. “I'm at the base of the Colorado chair.” “Meet you in an hour at the Vista Haus.” “I don't see you. Where the hell are you?”

Claire could find no sign of Silverstone in the chaotic scene. “We should've picked a less crowded place to meet.”

Roger leaned on his ski poles and stretched the backs of his legs. “Don't worry. He'll find us.”

Judy finished rubbing sunscreen on her nose and passed the tube to Claire. She smeared Chapstick on her lips next, then promptly nibbled it off as she glanced anxiously around the crowd.

The growing gray cloud west of the range hadn't yet blocked the sun's rays, which glinted white and sharp off the crystalline snow. Claire shaded her eyes and squinted at people streaming off the top step of the stairs from the bus stop and off the walkway from the gondola transporting skiers out of the town parking lots.

She saw Silverstone's black jacket, with the yellow sheriff's office star on the left breast. The cold had outlined his sharp cheekbones in red, making them even more prominent. Claire wondered where the man's gray-blue eyes came from, given his obvious Native American ancestry.

Silverstone turned to say something to the man next to him, and Claire recognized Hal Matthews in his red jacket with the white cross. The two men spotted Claire's group and approached, carrying skis slung over their shoulders.

“Mr. Matthews is joining us as the ski resort's representative,” Silverstone said, as he and Matthews clicked into their skis.

Matthews nodded a grim greeting. “Owen filled me in on what happened to Naylor last night. A couple of my patrollers remembered him. Typical fast-riding boarder. Had to be warned a few times, but not a bad sort, really. What a waste.”

“Maybe we'll find something today,” Roger said, “that will help you guys figure out why two young people have lost their lives in the space of two days.”

“Not sure what you hope to find up there.” Matthews shot a worried glance at Silverstone's star. “I hope we don't draw a crowd. At least Breckenridge police aren't coming along. Their jackets aren't as discreet as yours.”

Silverstone slid on his ski goggles. “They're only interested in Naylor's case for now. But if we tie the two together, you'll be seeing a lot more of them, Hal.”

Matthews managed to look even gloomier.

Silverstone clapped his hand on Matthews's shoulder. “So, you gonna get us to the head of this line? That
is
why you came, right?”

“Right,” the ski patroller responded sarcastically, but he pushed ahead of them into the ski school line.

A children's instructor with desperation in her eyes herded eight young children in front of them. When she turned and spied Matthews's jacket, her face brightened in relief. “Oh, good. I need you folks to help me with these kids. Hal, can you take two?”

“Sure thing.” Matthews positioned himself between two boys and skied to the chair. The instructor efficiently paired two more kids with Roger and Silverstone, and two girls with Claire and Judy, then took the last two herself.

Claire chatted up the two girls, aged eight and nine, who reminded her of Judy at that age. They were clearly apprehensive about trying Duke's Run, the advanced intermediate slope the instructor was taking them on, but tried to cover up their fear with brave claims of prowess.

Claire lifted the safety bar for them at the top. “I'm sure the instructor wouldn't take you on the run if she didn't think you could handle it. You go, girls.” She gave a thumbs-up signal.

With sheepish grins, the girls returned the gesture.

“Good luck and have fun,” Claire yelled as the girls skied away to join their group.

Judy raised her brow at Claire. “Always the Mother Hen, aren't you?”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“Only if the chick you're mothering doesn't need it.” Judy skied to where the men stood waiting.

Claire followed.
Where did that comment come from?

Once joined up again, the group pushed off. Claire wound through
other skiers as fast as she could to build the speed needed to crest the rise at the top of Duke's Run and maintain momentum for the traverse to the T-bar. A skier crossed her path, though, and she had to brake to a stop. She pushed herself along with her poles to skate the rest of the way. By the time she caught up to the others, she was out of breath.

Matthews signaled the T-bar lift operator and broke into the line. His ski patrol jacket and the sheriff's star bought them the approval of the waiting mob. But a few disgruntled snowboarders stared down the Hanovers as they followed, as if asking, “Why do you deserve special service?”

Unnerved by the hostile looks, Claire almost lost her footing when the T-bar jerked her and Judy forward. She caught her balance with a quick grab of the bar pushing against her rump.
Thank God.
A fall in front of all these advanced skiers and boarders—who felt obligated to guffaw when someone blew it—would have been downright humiliating.

With a deep breath, she loosened her grip. Then her poles started
to slip out from where she had tucked them under her arm. When she let go of the bar to readjust, one of her skis bounced over a chunk of ice. The tip swung across Judy's skis. Before Claire could say, “watch out,” the two of them fell in a tangle of arms, legs, skis and poles.

Free of their weight, the T-bar cable snapped up to its shortest length, and the bar swung off without them.

“Good one, Mom.” Judy shoved Claire's leg off her own, tugged her ski out from under Claire's rump, and slid on her butt to the side of the track, barely in time to get out of the way of the next two riders.

Claire rolled and scooted off to the other side. As she retrieved her poles and struggled to stand, she heard snickers. When she looked downhill, she could see some of the skiers in the crowd pointing at her with grins on their faces. Her cheeks flamed.
Oh, God.

Judy sat on the snow, head down and arms hanging over her knees.

“Are you hurt?” Claire called.

“No, only embarrassed to death.” She shoved herself to her feet. “Are you okay?”

Claire gave herself the once-over. “I'm okay.”

When Judy skied across the track, Claire could see her daughter's face was as red as her own.

“C'mon,” Judy said. “We've got to get back on.”

Skiing down was the last thing Claire wanted to do, but Judy was right. She pushed off and hockey-stopped beside the lift operator.

He pointed to the end of the line. “You have to get back in line.”

“But we're with that ski patroller and sheriff's detective,” Claire said. “We're helping with an investigation. They'll be waiting for us.”

With a sigh of exasperation, the lift operator rolled his eyes. “Think you can stay on this time?”

“Don't worry, I'll kill her if she doesn't.” Judy grinned at Claire and skied into place.

A snowboarder who was next in line opened his hands wide. “Hey, what gives?”

“Sorry, man,” the operator said. “They're with that patroller.” He waved Claire into place next to Judy and handed them the bar.

As they jerked forward, a few protests sounded from the crowd.

Claire clutched the bar with both hands, determined not to fall off again.

Judy peered at her. “How'd you fall? You've been on this lift a million times.”

“I know, and I'm sorry I embarrassed you. It was a bad combination of stuff, ending with that ice chunk on the track.”

It took Claire quite some time to settle into the rhythm of the uphill slide and relax her death grip on the bar. Finally feeling more confident, she glanced at Judy, who was staring pensively off toward Peak Seven.

“We haven't had a chance to really talk after Stephanie's death,” Claire said. “How are you doing, honey?”

“Probably no worse than you.”

“What's that mean?”

“I can't sleep, my throat's sore from holding in tears, I'm worried about Nick, and yeah, I can't help feeling a little guilty, like I could have done something to stop it.” After spitting out the litany, Judy shot a wry look at her mother. “I'm sure you're feeling some of the same things, right?”

“Right.” Claire relaxed a little. Judy's feistiness was a good sign. At least she wasn't giving up and letting the depression and anxiety overwhelm her. “You gonna be okay then?”

Judy threw the question right back at her. “You okay?”

“Not really, but I'm handling it.”

“So am I. No need to mother me.” Judy directed her gaze off to the side, away from Claire.

So she doesn't want to talk about it and probably resents me for asking. Nothing new here.
Claire had received the same response many times during Judy's late teen years, but sometimes, just sometimes, a few hours after an outburst her daughter might casually bring up the touchy subject again. Then Claire could mother her, but only on the rare occasions when an invitation was offered. She studied Judy's stiff stance.
Probably not today.

Casting about for another topic, Claire remembered something Boyd had said. “Remember Boyd mentioning Toilet Bowl? Think we can see it from here?”

Judy glanced downhill over her shoulder. “We need more altitude.”

“It's strange. Here I've been skiing Breckenridge for years, and just yesterday I hear about a part of the resort I've never been in.”

With a sardonic grin, Judy said, “Well, I don't think any of his gang would invite you to hang out and smoke weed with them.”

“But someone might have invited you. You never heard of it before?”

“No-ope.” Judy drew it out, as if she knew what was coming next.

Claire took a deep breath and decided to ask the question. The subject had been broached, and she didn't know when her next opportunity would be. “When Boyd talked about smoking weed, you nodded, to show you knew what he was talking about. I know you didn't touch the stuff in high school, but have you smoked pot since going away to college?”

Judy harrumphed. “You can't tell me you and Dad never tried it when you were in school.”

“No, I can't. But we never touched anything stronger, like cocaine. Look, I won't freak out. I only want to know you're being safe.”

Judy shot a glance at Claire. “Yeah, I've smoked pot a few times but I didn't really enjoy it. I haven't done it in a while, Mom, so no need to worry.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

Relief flooded over Claire, loosening the hand she had clenched around the T-bar. “I'm glad.”

When they reached the top, Roger asked, “What kept you?”

A smile played at the edge of Judy's lips, but she held her tongue.

“Nothing important,” Claire said. “Let's get back to the business at hand.”

“Where did you first see the skier in black, Miss Hanover?” Silverstone asked.

Judy pointed to the top of the Ptarmigan run. “Over there.”

“Let's go.” Silverstone skied to where she pointed, followed by the others. “Okay, stand where you were when you saw him and tell me what you remember.”

Judy moved over a ways, closed her eyes for a few seconds, then described the skier again.

“How was his skiing ability?” Silverstone asked.

“Real smooth, like someone who'd been doing it a long time.”

Matthews leaned forward on his poles. “How close together were his skis?”

A puzzled frown creased Judy's face. “Pretty close. More like the way Dad skis than I do.”

“Ah ha.” Matthews turned to Silverstone. “He learned the old way, when we were told to keep our skis clamped tight together while paralleling. So, he's probably at least in his forties.”

Silverstone nodded. “Good insight. Anything else you can tell us, Judy?”

She shook her head.

“We'll do the same thing at the spot where Naylor passed your group,” Silverstone said. “You lead the way, and Hal and I will follow.”

They made their way down the smooth upper section of Ptarmigan, through the mogul field at the bottom and over to the side. Again, Silverstone asked each of the Hanovers to recount what they saw.

As Claire finished her description of Naylor's pass, she said, “I thought he was totally out of control and was scared he would hit one of us.”

Roger shook his head. “My impression was that he knew exactly what he was doing. Sure, his style was wild, but he was coming in close to check out Judy and Stephanie and make a big impression on them.”

“My patrollers would probably agree with that assessment,” Matthews said. “Naylor's fast . . . too fast, but he's well liked and he never hit anyone—that they know of.”

But he pissed off someone enough that they hit him.

Silverstone turned to Claire. “I want you to find the place where you say the skier came out of the woods. Don't go in there. Just point it out from the slope. We'll hang back above you until you've located the spot.”

Claire pushed off to ski down the slope. She shuddered when she passed the place where she had heard Judy scream, then she slowed and scanned the woods. She spied the trampled area below her where Stephanie had hit the tree. Thankfully, someone had removed the bloody snow. Or covered it up.