To Hell in a Handbasket (4 page)

“Odd? How?”

“The door was open, so I walked in. Mr. Contino was pacing the room and crying. He kept saying over and over, ‘It's all my fault'.”

Every time Judy or Michael had gotten hurt, Claire had felt that parental guilt—
if only I had been there, protected them more, made them take fewer chances.
“He probably feels he and Nick shouldn't have gone to Copper, that if he'd been with Stephanie, he might have been able to protect her.”

“But how?”

“I know it doesn't make sense, honey, but that's the way parents are. He could also be feeling survivor's guilt. Did you leave them alone?”

“I tried to sneak out, but Nick saw me. He jumped up and followed me into the hall, said their conversation was private. When I said I realized that and had decided to leave, he grabbed my arm and asked me how much I had seen and heard. He seemed really worried about me seeing his dad like that. It was probably the most upset I've ever seen him.”

A chill raced down Claire's spine.
If that young man's abusing my daughter, he'll have to deal with Mama Bear.
“Has Nick ever hurt you, Judy?”

“Of course not, Mom.” Judy's nose wrinkled in disgust. “Jeeze, don't blow this up into some huge issue. He didn't grab me in that way. You know I'd never date a guy who hurt me.”

Claire relaxed. Yes, she had raised Judy to be strong and independent. Maybe too independent. “He was probably just con
cerned that his dad would be embarrassed that you'd seen him crying. What happened next?”

“I told him I hadn't heard much, and I apologized for walking in on them. I said I would knock next time. Then Nick said not to worry, that he and his dad were just really stressed out. I decided we all needed a break, so I offered to make lunch for everyone.”

“Oh.” Claire checked her watch. Almost five. “I should bring over a dinner for them.”

“You don't need to. Nick's going to pick up a pizza on the way home, but I doubt they'll eat much of it. They just picked at the sandwiches I fixed them.”

“I haven't even thought about our dinner,” Claire said. “Food doesn't seem so important at a time like this.”

“Maybe I should order some Chinese takeout,” Roger said.

“Not for me,” Judy said. “Some friends from CU-Boulder rented a condo here for the week. Nick and I called to tell them about
Stephanie. They asked us to join them for dinner tonight. He can't, but I thought I would.”

“But we've barely spent any time with you since you returned
from France. Not that it's anyone's fault,” Claire hastily added, “with
Stephanie's accident, but I thought we could spend a quiet evening together and comfort each other.”

Judy made a face. “I don't think spending the evening with two old people in their long underwear is what I need right now.”

Claire bristled. “That's not fair, Judy. We've been out skiing all afternoon looking for that damn snowboarder, and we're pooped.”

“C'mon, I was trying to make a joke. I'm not blaming you for how you look. Or feel.” Judy got up and paced the floor. “It's just . . . after spending the whole day with the Continos, I can't stand being serious and sad anymore today. I want someone to cheer
me
up.”

Claire's heart went out to Judy. “We'll cheer—”

“She's right.” Roger laid his hand on Claire's arm. “Let her go. She needs her friends. And we could use some one-on-one time ourselves. Maybe instead of Chinese takeout, we should go to that fondue place you like. What was the name?”

“Swiss Haven.”

“That's it. Just the two of us.” Roger winked. “Judy, toss me the phonebook, and I'll make a reservation.”

“Make it for the late eight o'clock seating,” Claire said. “We still need to shower.”

After handing her father the phone and phonebook, Judy sat next to Claire. “I promise, Mom, I'll spend tomorrow night with you.”

Claire sighed. “All right. I'll hold you to that. Where are you meeting your friends?”

“Their condo. Could you guys drop me off on your way to the restaurant? We'll probably go out somewhere, but I don't know where yet.”

“At least you know where to find Dad and me if you need us.”

_____

By nine-thirty that night, Claire was feeling none of her skiing aches and pains. Instead, her head buzzed pleasantly from half a bottle of plumy cabernet sauvignon. Her stomach comfortably bulged from a Gruyère cheese fondue, followed by a broth fondue
chinoise
into which she and Roger had dipped slivers of chicken and beef.

Their table in the back room of the Swiss Haven had given her and Roger some privacy while they talked out their feelings of horror over Stephanie's death. When she expressed her concern about the effect on Judy, he reminded her how strong and independent Judy had grown. He was more concerned about how Nick would deal with his sister's death.

Their table also had provided a vantage point for watching waiters waltz between tables filled with customers. They expertly balanced platters laden with grills, fondue pots, bread baskets, and plates of raw meats and seafood. The low murmur of voices, the sizzle of grilling meats, and the occasional pops of wine corks provided a relaxing filler for the gaps in their own conversation.

Claire hadn't realized how much stress she had been feeling until it had slunk away to lurk in a dark corner. She picked up her almost empty wineglass, took a sip, and looked at Roger. His frisky answering smile told her what plans he had for the rest of the evening.
And I'm more than willing to go along with his plans.

This family ski trip had another purpose besides a reunion with Judy. The getaway was part of the healing process to repair their marriage after the Colorado Springs murder. Claire had finally convinced Roger she hadn't slept with the handsome young massage therapist. But restoring their loving partnership was a more daunting task. A task she was determined to succeed at, by God.

Roger covered her hand with his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Isn't this better than eating Chinese takeout with a twenty-one-year-old daughter who needs cheering up?”

Claire smiled. “You said it. Though, she did pique my curiosity when she mentioned Nick's odd behavior.”

“What was odd about it?”

“That he was so secretive about his father's grief.”

Roger rubbed his chin. “Could be their culture. Maybe they're very private and keep things inside the family.”

“Maybe, but I get the feeling that Judy's pretty close to being family herself.”

Arching a brow, Roger said, “Really?”

“Really. I'm seeing signs that she and Nick are getting serious. This family could be our in-laws someday. We need to get to know them better.” Claire ran a finger over her wineglass. “Something else was odd. Did you notice how strange Nick and Anthony acted when I told them about the ski tracks?”

Before Roger could reply, their waitress brought a steaming pot of dark chocolate fondue and a tray of pound cake and fruit. Roger speared a cube of pound cake, dipped it in the chocolate, and popped it in his mouth. After swallowing, he said, “I'll fight you for the rest of this.”

“Oh, no you don't.” Claire speared a strawberry, dragged it through
the dark sauce, and took a bite. “This is heavenly.”

With a grin, Roger quickly stabbed a banana slice, and the battle was on. They both fell into serious eating, lapping up as much chocolate as they could, until the pot was polished clean.

Roger leaned back, folded his hands over his belly, and asked, “What were you saying before? Something about the Continos acting strange?”

Claire gave up on trying to scrape a fragment of dried chocolate off the rim of the pot and put down her fondue fork. “When
I raised the possibility the skier could have deliberately hit her,
I swear I saw fear in Nick's and Anthony's faces. Then they got
nervous.”

“What would they have to fear?”

“I don't know. And another thing. Supposedly they were at Copper Mountain skiing in the deep powder of the back bowls when Stephanie was killed, but their ski clothes were dry when they got to the medical center.”

“Copper is a twenty-minute drive away. Their clothes could have dried in that time.”

“Ours take hours to dry if we've been in deep snow. And Nick acted nervous when Judy asked how the Breckenridge ski patrol contacted them there.”

Roger peered at her. “You're not trying to turn into a PI on this thing, are you?”

After risking her life to find Enrique's killer, Claire had developed a reputation as a sleuth. One she didn't want.
I'm a gift basket designer, a mother, and a wife, and that's all.

She rubbed her knee against Roger's. “No, this vacation is for other things. I'm only trying to make sense of what I saw.”

Roger leaned in close, nipped her earlobe, and whispered, “Speaking of other things, let's forgo the after-dinner coffee and head straight home.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Claire polished off her wine.

Roger raised his hand to signal the waitress, but a disturbance at the front door diverted his attention.

Judy stood in the middle of the restaurant, scanning the tables. When she saw Claire and Roger, she rushed toward them. “Mom. Dad. You've got to come quick.”

Claire straightened. “Why? What happened?”

Judy leaned her hands on the table, brought her head close to theirs, and spoke in a whisper. “When we were at Downstairs at Eric's, I saw a hat on a wall peg by the video games that looked like the one the snowboarder wore. I tried to keep an eye on the hat to see who it belonged to, but it disappeared while I was giving the waiter my order.”

“Tough luck,” Roger said.

“No, listen. When I saw the hat was gone, I asked people playing the games if they saw who took it, pretending I wanted to buy one like it. Finally, one guy said it belonged to somebody called Nail-It.”

“Sounds like the nickname of a snowboarder.” A shiver of excitement stirred in Claire's belly.

Judy nodded, her eyes wide. “I thought so, too. I asked the guy if he knew where Nail-It went, and he said Nail-It usually hangs at Sherpa & Yeti's.”

“What's that?” Roger asked.

“An underground grunge bar on the other side of Main Street. I decided to follow him there, but my friends refused to go with me. They said they'd just ordered and wanted to eat.”

“A grunge bar?” Claire asked. “I'm not sure you should be exposed to that environment.”

“Mom! Grunge is a way of dressing. It doesn't mean the place is dirty.”

“No, what I mean is, I don't think you should be going to any bar.”

Judy placed her hand on her hip and looked askance at Claire. “I've been twenty-one for three months now. I've been in lots of bars in France. I know my way around them.”

Oh, God, my daughter is drinking and hanging out in bars now.
Claire stared at Judy while visions of drunken debauchery starring her daughter crowded into her mind. She rubbed her forehead.
No, don't be ridiculous. Judy's responsible. She wouldn't go overboard. Would she?

“We should call Detective Silverstone instead of confronting this snowboarder ourselves.” Roger opened his cell phone and pulled the detective's card out of his wallet.

“Nail-It might be long gone before the cops get there.” Judy grabbed Claire's hand. “C'mon. We've got to hurry. Here's our chance to find the guy who killed Stephanie.”

Claire glanced at Roger. “She's right on both counts. We can't wait for the police and she shouldn't go alone.”

“Foiled again.” Shooting a look of regret at Claire, Roger stood. “I'll go with her while you pay the bill.”

“But I can't. I left my purse at home.”

“All right, you go, but if you find the guy, don't approach him. I'll call Silverstone, pay the bill, and catch up.” He punched the detective's phone number into the cell phone.

Claire grabbed her coat and zipped it shut as she followed Judy out of the Swiss Haven into the dark night. Streetlights cast puddles of light on the ground, while a swath of bright stars shone overhead. Claire trotted to keep up with her daughter's fast pace and maintain her footing across the frozen slush piles lining the sidewalk.

As they headed across Main Street, breathing clouds of vapor in the frigid air, Judy asked, “What did Dad mean by ‘foiled again'?”

Claire pulled her collar tighter around her neck.
I'm not about to discuss my sex life, or lack thereof, with my daughter.
“Never mind.”

They passed in front of a cream-colored building with maroon and teal trim, one of many Victorian-style buildings in the historic downtown district. Judy stopped by a sign advertising the businesses within—an insurance office, a souvenir shop, and a black square with “Sherpa & Yeti's” scrawled in red, as if it had been painted in blood.

Claire stared at the flyer advertising that month's entertainment —Jungle Brothers, Bongo Love, De La Soul—listed as hip-hop, funk, and African dance bands. She wasn't even sure what those music styles sound like.

“It's down here.” Judy beckoned to her from halfway down a narrow flight of concrete stairs leading to the basement. A rhythmic thumping pulsed from the open doorway, and the distinctive purplish glow of a blacklight painted the bottom of the dark stairwell.

As Claire hesitated, a trio of young men in baggy jeans brushed past her and clattered down the steps. Though the temperature was below freezing, only one wore a jacket—a hooded sweatshirt with a grenade logo stenciled on the back.