To Hell in a Handbasket (10 page)

“No, but I need to get some information to Detective Silverstone right away.”

“And he never takes his cell phone with him.” The woman tapped her lips. “You could go up Engleman and the short section of Robin's Nest and try to meet him at the hut or catch him on the return trip.”

“How long does each part of the trail take?”

“For an experienced snowshoer like the detective, that section of Engleman takes about thirty minutes, and the long side of Robin's Nest about forty-five minutes. He spends about fifteen minutes eating lunch at the shelter, and forty-five heading back on the short side of Robin's Nest and Engelman.”

Claire did the math. Hopefully, after less than an hour, she'd be at Hallelujah Hut and she could talk to the detective on the way back. “I suppose my own gluteus maximus could use a workout.”

The woman cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, it'll get one all right. You haven't come from sea level, have you?”

“No, from Colorado Springs, and I work out and downhill ski.”

“I still don't recommend it, but I guess you'll survive.”

Fifteen minutes later, Claire had rented snowshoes and hiking poles and gotten a lesson from the woman on how to put on the shoes and use them. She had also purchased a day pass, a couple of PowerBars, and a bottle of water. She returned to the Peaks Trailhead parking lot. As she strapped on the shoes, she wondered if she was crazy.

You're not an old dog, Claire. Look at it as a chance to learn new tricks.
She took a step forward, wobbled and fell sideways in the snow.
Yeah, right.

She pushed herself up using her poles and swiped the snow
from her clothes. She tried to remember what the woman at the Nordic Center had said. Walk gently, take short strides, don't lunge.
Claire took a few tentative steps, shorter this time. Feeling more confident, she was soon actually enjoying herself. Striding across the snow, she puffed out her chest. Being alone on the trail made her feel as if she were an early explorer, setting out to conquer the wilderness.

A squirrel chittered at her from a tree. Claire looked up. She promptly stepped on the back of her forward snowshoe and did a face plant in a deep snowbank.

Pride goeth before a fall.

Laughing at herself, Claire sat up and spit out snow. Since she was already down, she took a swig of water from her bottle and unwrapped a PowerBar. She bit into the chocolate and peanut butter concoction.
Not bad.
She pushed herself onto her feet. The squirrel chittered again, but Claire refused to look.

You're not fooling me again, you conniving bugger.

After a few minutes, the trail sloped uphill. Soon, Claire was huffing and puffing, and her calves were screaming. She checked her watch. Thirty minutes had passed, and she hadn't reached the Robin's Nest trail marker yet.

Claire gritted her teeth and drove her head forward. She counted steps in a marching cadence. Concentrating so hard on her steps, she almost missed the marker. Ahead to the right the trail flattened then rose again. At the top of the hill, Claire glimpsed a wooden structure.
The hut?
She pushed forward with renewed purpose. Too soon, the flat section ran out, and she was huffing her way uphill again.

When her throbbing legs refused to take another step, she stopped to unzip her jacket. Sweat poured down the middle of her back and between her breasts. But this wasn't a hot flash. She gulped huge breaths, her sore body crying for oxygen. Around her, stately evergreens swayed in the breeze, rocky crags jutted out behind them, and marshmallow clouds moved slowly across the brilliant blue sky.

Another glance at her watch said forty-five minutes had passed and she still wasn't to Hallelujah Hut. At this rate, she would be out here for well over two hours.
Idiot. You should have waited in the car.

Plodding on with robotic determination, she drifted into a pain-
induced haze, focusing only on putting one increasingly heavy foot in front of the other. Finally, she spied the wooden shelter ahead. On a bench on the deck out front, the detective sat and stared out over the valley.

She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Detective Silverstone!”

He turned and stood. “Mrs. Hanover. What are you doing out here?”

She slogged her way to the bench and collapsed on it. After a few deep breaths, she found her voice again. “Looking for you.”

He lowered himself to the bench. “You look bushed. Have some water.” He held out his water bottle.

Clare waved him off, took out her own, and drank heavily. “Give me a minute.”

She rested her hands on her thighs and looked over the town of Breckenridge nestled in the valley below. “Great view.”

“Yes, indeed.” Silverstone's gaze followed hers, while he rubbed an object in his palm.

“What's that in your hand? You had it in the office, too, didn't you?”

“This?” Looking a little sheepish, he opened his palm to reveal a carved shape in brown-tinted onyx. “It's a Zuni fetish. Focuses my thinking when I rub it.”

Claire smiled. “Is it some kind of animal?”

“A badger. It stands for the ability to reach a desired goal, being single-minded and in control.”

“Appropriate, I guess, for a detective.”
And me on this hellacious trek.
“You have American Indian ancestry?”

“My mother was Navajo.”

“But you're so tall.”

“From my father—a Swede.” He stowed the fetish in his pocket. “Now what was so important that it brought you all the way out here?”

“First, I need to give you this.” She dug Boyd's drawing of the black-garbed skier out of her pocket and handed it to the detec
tive. “It's the drawing Boyd made of the skier who crashed into Stephanie Contino.”

Silverstone frowned and spoke sternly. “Why didn't you give this to me yesterday?”

“I didn't have it then. I found it today.”

“Where?”

“Boyd's trailer, in his trash can.”

“Wait a minute—”

She held up her hand, palm out. “I wasn't breaking in. Pete, Boyd's roommate, gave me permission to look for this.”

“So you knew where the drawing was and didn't tell me.”

“I didn't know where it was until I talked to Pete yesterday. He told me Boyd had thrown it out.” Claire felt a flash of guilt. “Sorry. I should have called you then and told you.”

Silverstone raised a quizzical brow. “Now you've really got my curiosity piqued. How did you meet Pete, Mrs. Hanover?”

“Call me Claire, please.”

He put out his hand. “Owen.”

She pulled off her sweaty gloves and shook his hand. “Owen. Along with meeting Pete, I saw the killer this morning at the trailer, and his jacket matched the one in Boyd's drawing.” She tapped the drawing.

Owen sat back and stared at her.

“He wore brown loafers. They're a common type of shoe, I know, but not really up here. I didn't get a look at his face, though.” She noted Owen's confused expression. “But let me start at the beginning.”

She told him everything she could remember about her meeting with Pete the day before and her experience at the trailer.

Owen's eyes grew even wider with the tale. “Do you realize how much danger you were in? You could have been killed.”

“Don't you think I know that?”

“You shouldn't have gone there alone.”

“Look, I thought Pete was going to be there, it was broad daylight, and all I wanted to do was get this drawing from him and give it to you. I didn't deliberately put myself in danger.”

“I guess not. But from now on, leave the investigating to me.” Owen rubbed his chin. “Looks like at least one of these deaths wasn't an accident if someone's looking to cover his tracks. How tall would you say the man was?”

So he believes me now. Finally.
“About six feet and lean.”

“Hair color?”

Claire shook her head. “He was wearing a cap and a Neoprene face mask. But he's probably got a couple of good-sized lumps on his head now.”

“Your description could match either of the Contino men. I won
der what their alibis will be for today.”

Claire drew in a sharp intake of breath. So Owen still suspected Nick or Anthony killed Boyd out of revenge for Stephanie's death. She tried to picture one of them running the young man down, but the image didn't fit. Then she remembered what Owen had said about alibis. He must have already asked the Contino men what they were doing when Boyd was killed.

“Did Nick and Anthony have an alibi for when Boyd was killed?”

The detective's brow furrowed as he seemed to consider how much he should tell her.

“Owen, you know my daughter's dating Nick Contino. I'm concerned about what danger she might be in. If Nick or his father is cold-blooded or crazy enough to kill someone, I don't want them anywhere near my daughter. You have a daughter. I saw her picture on your desk. Put yourself in my place. Wouldn't you want to know what your daughter's getting mixed up in?”

“Yes, I would.” Owen pursed his lips and sighed. “The Continos said that after Nick dropped your daughter at your place, they spent Tuesday night together alone at home, mourning Stephanie. With no visitors, no one outside the family can vouch for them.”

“Did their license plate match the partial Roger saw?”

“Yes.”

“Ohmigod!”

Owen held up his hand, palm out. “Wait, so do six other black Range Rovers.”

“That's odd. Why so many?”

“It's not that odd. Remember your husband only gave us two
letters. I've got an officer tracking down the owners and their alibis
for Tuesday night.” He peered at Claire. “Do you know the Conti
nos
well?”

Claire shook her head. “No. Roger and I met Nick Sunday night and his parents Monday morning after Stephanie's death. Why do you ask?”

“The Contino men's story for Monday fell through, too. Copper Mountain has no record of them being there—no ski pass sale—and none of the lift operators recognized them from photos I took out there yesterday.”

“Do they have season passes for Copper?”

“If they did, and they used the passes, that would have shown up in Copper's system. But no dice.”

Claire's heart started hammering. She and Roger really knew nothing about the Continos and probably couldn't count on Judy's judgment. As far as Nick was concerned, her perspective would be biased, and even Judy said she didn't know Anthony that well.

“Is Anthony your prime suspect for Stephanie's death now, too?”

Owen nodded.

“I can almost understand how Anthony might go after Boyd, but why Stephanie? She's his own flesh and blood.”

“Most murder victims are killed by someone they know, many of them family.”

“But what possible reason could he have?”

Owen looked away, down the valley.

“I've got to know. What if the reason involves Judy?”

He stared at her, as if measuring her ability to handle what he had to say. “Could be abuse. Or incest.”

Claire stared at Owen, revulsion churning her stomach. “Oh, no, you can't mean . . .”

Owen gave a solemn nod. “There was a case in Colorado Springs a few years ago. Man killed his nineteen-year-old daughter because she threatened to reveal their incestuous relationship to her mother.”

Claire shuddered.
What kind of family has Judy gotten mixed up with?
“Do you suspect Anthony of such a thing?”

“He's the right build and has the right hair color.” He pointed to the drawing. “Now that I have this, I'll be taking a look at the Contino men's ski gear and clothes. Their shoes, too.”

Claire gasped as an image of her daughter lying dead in the snow flashed in her mind.
Oh, God.

Owen frowned and laid his hand on her arm. “If Judy was my daughter, I would limit her interaction with this family until we know what's going on.”

Claire got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “She's out buying flower arrangements for Stephanie's memorial service with Nick right now.”

Nine: Sympathy Basket

After an exhausting, but
mostly downhill, trek to her car with Detective Silverstone, Claire drove to the townhouse with her thoughts in turmoil. Anxious to talk to Roger, she called for him as she removed her coat, hat, gloves, and snow boots in the hall.

“Where have you been?” Roger clomped down the stairs. “We'll be lucky to get in a couple of hours of skiing today.”

Claire collapsed on the sofa. “My legs can't take any more exercise today. I've been snowshoeing for over two hours.”

“Since when did you develop a sudden interest in snowshoeing?”

“Since I found some new evidence at Boyd's trailer and had to get it to Detective Silverstone. He was out on a snowshoe trail and didn't have his cell phone with him.”

“Why couldn't you wait for him to finish?”

“I probably should have, but I was trying to get back here soon enough to deliver the gift basket to the Continos and still have time to go skiing. I thought I could make the round trip on the short side of the trail in an hour and a half, but I was wrong.” Claire rubbed her aching calves. “Could you get the ibuprofen?”

Roger returned with the pill bottle and a glass of water. “What was the new evidence?”

“The drawing of the skier that Boyd mentioned, plus I saw the killer in the flesh.”

Roger's eyes widened. “What?”

After swallowing the pain relievers, Claire told him the whole story. Well, almost. She left out the part about the guy chasing her and having to whack him with the golf club, and only related her mad dash to the car. She couldn't lie, especially not to Roger, but she wanted to save that part for later and break it to him gently.

“Holy moley, Claire! What if he'd seen you?”

“I wish I'd been able to see his face or the license plate on his car.”

“Yeah, you would have seen his face on the other side of a gun aimed straight at you! You could very well be dead yourself—a frozen corpse lying under a trailer.” Roger paced, running both hands through his gray fringe of thinning hair. “Why do you keep putting yourself in danger?”

“You aren't making sense, Roger. I had no idea the man would come to the trailer. I told you where I was going this morning, and neither one of us thought visiting a trailer park in broad daylight would be a problem.”

“You should have left when Pete didn't answer.”

“Why? He gave me permission to enter. Look, fighting over something that's over and done with makes no sense. I'm safe, okay? What I'm really worried about is Judy, especially after what Owen said about abuse and incest. We don't know anything about the Continos.”

Roger stopped, hands on his hips. “Nick seems like a nice young man. I can't believe he would hurt Judy. You can see in the way he looks at her that he'd fight off a bear for her.”

Claire stared at Roger. His perceptiveness surprised her. So her number-crunching hubby could interpret a young man's fancies for his daughter as well as he could understand his spreadsheets. “I think Judy's a good judge of character. I'm more worried about Anthony.”

“He seemed normal enough.”

“Yeah, seemed. Haven't you heard those interviews with neighbors of murderers after they've been apprehended? The neighbors go on about how nice and quiet the person was.”

A thought struck Claire. Maybe she could at least prove to Owen that Nick wasn't the one at the trailer. “Wait a minute. What time did Nick come over to pick up Judy?”

“About eleven. He said the whole family's been having trouble sleeping and got a slow start this morning.”

“Did he drive the Range Rover?”

“No. He said his father needed it, so he came in an old four-wheel-drive Subaru they keep garaged up here. I wondered why they parked the Range Rover in the driveway when they had a two-car garage. Nick said the garage is stuffed with snowmobiles as well as the Subaru.”

“So Anthony could've been the man at the trailer, or Nick himself if he hustled home from Kingdom Park. Anthony may have enlisted his son's help to cover up his crimes. We need to contact Judy.”

“I already tried calling her cell phone earlier, but I just got her voice mail. Either she's got it turned off or let the charge run down again.” Roger shook his head. “And you refuse to carry one. I swear I don't know what to do with the two of you. If you'd taken a phone, you could have called for help while you were stashed under that trailer. Then the police might've caught the killer, and I wouldn't have been sitting here worrying about you for the past two hours.”

“Sorry, honey. I never dreamed I might need to call the police. And I hadn't planned to go off snowshoeing.”

He sighed. “That's precisely why you should've taken the phone.
When your plans changed, you could've told me. Doesn't do much good to leave it here with me when I'm right next to the house phone.” He smacked his hand on the kitchen counter by the phone.

Poor man. He has a perfect right to feel frustrated.
Claire nibbled on her lip. “We might as well deliver the gift basket to Nick's parents, since we can't track down the kids. Maybe Angela knows where Nick planned to shop for flower arrangements. And I want to talk some more with Anthony, see what kind of man he is.”

Or monster.

_____

Twenty minutes later, Claire and Roger drove up the Continos' street and parked beside the driveway, which contained not one, but two black Range Rovers. As Roger hefted the large sympathy basket out of the back of their BMW, Claire walked up the driveway to look at the license plates of the two large SUVs.

Both plates started with AY. In fact, they matched in all but the last two numbers, which were less than fifty apart. Did the Continos own two Range Rovers? If so, why didn't Nick drive one of them that morning? When Roger joined her, Claire pointed out the plates. “Not just one car that matches the partial license number you saw, but two.”

He studied the front bumpers. “No blood.”

“They could have cleaned it up.”

Roger pointed at one of the cars. “What's that?”

Claire bent down to take a look. The bumper had a two-inch dent in it. “Could that be all the damage to a car from hitting a man?”

“Could be from anything. A fender-bender, a mailbox or a parking meter. Can you really picture one of them behind the wheel of the car that ran down Naylor?”

Claire gave a theatrical shrug. “Could Jeffrey Dahmer's neighbors picture him chopping up young men in his basement?”

“Now you're getting freaky, honey.”

“Just consider that we could be walking into a murderer's house.”

“With a gift basket.” Roger shifted the basket in his arms. “That's getting damned heavy. We'll just drop it off and leave if you want, then call Silverstone once we finish.”

Feeling jittery, Claire preceded him to the front door. As she raised her hand to ring the bell, the door opened.

A great bear of a man stood in the entryway, his barrel chest straining against the seams of his leather coat. He looked to be in his fifties, with jowly cheeks and a bulbous nose, but his bushy hair and mustache were solid brown with no flecks of gray.

He scowled at Claire and Roger. “Who are you?” His accent sounded foreign, maybe East European.

Angela Contino peeked around the man. “Oh, these are the parents of Nickolas's girlfriend. Roger and Claire Hanover.” She swept her hand toward the gruff-voiced stranger. “This is Gregori Ivanov, originally from Russia and a client of Anthony's.”

The Russian bear stuck out his hand. Claire shook it, but Roger could only heft the basket and shrug.

Angela stepped back and pulled Ivanov with her. “I'm sorry. Please come in. You can put the basket on the bench.”

Claire stepped inside with Roger, and Angela closed the door behind them. As Roger set down the basket, Claire drew Angela over to look at it. “I have a part-time gift basket business, and I put this together for you. Hopefully, some of the items will be useful in the next few days.”

Angela wrapped Claire in a hug. “Thank you so much. Wasn't this thoughtful, Gregori?”

“Very much. I must go now.” He laid his hand on the doorknob.

“Oh, is one of those Range Rovers outside yours?” Claire turned
to Angela. “We were thinking you had two.”

Angela shook her head. “We didn't even buy ours. Gregori gave it to us as a gift.”

When Claire and Roger turned to him, Ivanov shrugged. “I like them so much I buy six, all in black, to give to valuable business associates like Anthony.” His eyes twinkling, he thumped his chest. “But I save one for me.”

Ah, so that explains the close license plate numbers.
And also why
so many black Range Rovers matched the partial plate Roger saw, since Ivanov probably was responsible for six of the seven.

His expression sobered. “Now I say goodbye, Angela. You watch over Anthony for me, okay?”

She nodded, escorted him out, and shut the door behind him.

Claire wondered why the Russian had asked Angela to watch over her husband. Wasn't she just as grieved? “How is Anthony?”

“Very depressed. He's spent a lot of time closed up in his study these last two days. Burying himself in work, I suspect.”

“Didn't he go somewhere this morning?” Claire asked.

“No.” Angela's brow furrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“Nick said when he picked up Judy that he took the Subaru because his father needed the Range Rover.”

“Maybe Anthony planned to use it, but when Gregori called to say he would drive up from Denver today for a visit, he changed his plans. I thought Gregori's visit might lift Anthony's spirits. But he didn't even walk Gregori to the door. He stayed in his study and let me do it.”

“So Anthony spent the morning with Gregori.”
And not at a trailer park.

“Oh, no. Gregori didn't arrive until noon.” Angela smiled. “That man has a knack for showing up at mealtime. After lunch, they had a long meeting in Anthony's study.”

Is she covering for her husband, or did Anthony really stay home all day?

Roger unbuttoned his coat. “What's Anthony do for work?”

“He's a financial advisor, has his own firm, and takes on only a few clients—ones with a lot of money to manage, like Gregori.” Angela wrung her hands. “I don't understand what Anthony does really, but he's always talking about money transfers and the stock market.”

Claire envisioned the scene forming in Roger's mind of the former CFO and the financial advisor trading tips. “This is not the time to talk business with Anthony, dear.” She turned to Angela. “Do you know which florist the kids went to?”

“They were going to a couple of different stores in Frisco and Silverthorne. Nick called about half an hour ago to say they're almost done and will be home soon.” Angela lifted the basket. “Let's go in the living room so I can unpack this and see what's in it.”

Claire glanced at Roger. “We might as well wait for Judy here.”
And get her out of here as soon as possible.

As they followed Angela into the living room, Roger leaned over to whisper to Claire, “Sounds like Judy's fine.”

Claire nodded. “Maybe.”

“And what made you think I'd want to talk business with Anthony? I'm not a total clod, you know.”

The only reply Claire had time for was a curt, “Sorry.”

Once in the living room, Angela insisted they should have a hot drink, coffee or tea, before she sat down. Claire assumed that, much like Anthony with his financial work, Angela took some comfort from busying herself with hostess duties. She signaled Roger that they should ask for something.

A few minutes later, Angela bustled in with a tray of cups and coffee fixings. After a sip of heavily creamed coffee, she oohed and aahed over the basket contents, lifting each of them in turn, until Claire felt thoroughly embarrassed.

“I wish we could do more,” Claire said. “Do you need any help with the . . . other arrangements?”

“I've pretty much finished making plans. The service will be tomorrow morning at eleven at Saint Mary's Catholic Church here in town.” Angela sucked in her trembling lip and took a moment to compose herself. “You will come, won't you?”

“Of course.” Claire laid her hand on Angela's. “What about out-of-town guests? Do they need a place to stay?”

Angela shook her head. “My sister's family arrives tonight. They will stay with us. Many of Stephanie's friends are already here for spring break. Anthony was an only child, and his parents are deceased, so no one from his side of the family is coming. Gregori has a room at the Hilton. Our other friends and business associates are driving up from Denver in the morning.”

She covered Claire's hand with her other one. “I'm glad you stopped by this afternoon. With the plans all made, Nickolas gone, and Anthony closeted with Gregori in his study, I was feeling lonely.”

She glanced upstairs. “Maybe you can help me cheer up Anthony some. At least he should see the basket.”

Claire nodded. “You want us to wait here while you bring him down?”

Angela picked up some of the gift items strewn all over the coffee table and returned them to the basket. “He might just tell me to go away. No, let's all go. We'll take the basket and some snacks to him. That way, he won't be able to refuse to see us.”

Claire finished refilling the basket while Angela prepared a tray with cheese and crackers and wineglasses. When she returned, she handed Claire a large straw-wrapped wine bottle and opener. “It's almost cocktail hour. Will you join us for a glass of chianti?”

“Sure.”
Maybe the alcohol will loosen the Continos' tongues, too.