To Hell in a Handbasket (8 page)

She stopped and searched the trees along the other side of the trail, trying to remember where the ski track had exited. She spotted a broken branch, with the end piece still attached. The same one she saw Monday? She skied closer and stared at it from a few yards away.
Yes.

She pointed to the pine tree and yelled at Silverstone. “Over here. I remember that broken branch.”

After he joined her, Silverstone clicked out of his skis and signaled Matthews to do the same. “Wait here while we search the area,” he said to the Hanovers.

Matthews studied the drooping branch. “Looks recent. The ends of the break aren't dried out yet.”

Silverstone trained his gaze on the ground. “Snow's trampled down about eight feet in, behind that fir. See?”

When Matthews took a step forward, Silverstone stopped him with a hand to his chest. “We don't want to step on any evidence. We'll approach from above.”

He tromped uphill and pointed out a set of ski tracks entering the woods. “Here's where he probably came in.”

Stepping over the tracks, Silverstone positioned himself a couple
of feet on the uphill side. He followed the tracks into the woods, scanning the snow as he walked. Matthews did the same from the downhill side.

Claire watched the men's progress as they worked their way through the widely spaced trees. When they reached the trampled area, the two leaned forward, hands on their knees and scanned the ground.

A shadow swept over the slope. Claire shivered. The snow cloud
that had built up during the morning loomed over the peak. A breeze ruffled her hair and blew a few snowflakes up her nose. She sneezed. “Storm's coming.”

“Bless you,” Roger said. “Hope these guys find something before the evidence gets all covered up.”

Judy extracted a fleece neck gaiter from her pocket. She pulled it over her head, positioning it to cover her neck and face.

Feeling the temperature drop and stinging snowflakes hit her cheeks, Claire followed her daughter's lead. Soon white flakes swirled all around them. Claire tucked her gloved hands under her armpits.

Roger stamped his skis on the ground. “This standing around and waiting is damn cold.”

Matthews pointed at the ground. Silverstone took a plastic bag out of his pocket and nudged something into it.

Claire took a step toward them. “What did you find?”

“A cigarette butt.” Silverstone stuffed the bag into his jacket pocket, eyes still scanning the ground.

“Maybe the killer smoked it while he was waiting for us to come down.”

“Maybe. Or any number of people could have stopped here and had a smoke.” He straightened and motioned to Matthews. “I don't think we're going to find anything else.”

When the two of them reached the Hanovers, Roger asked, “You can test for fingerprints and DNA on the butt, can't you?”

“I'll send it to CBI to be analyzed. If they can pull either prints or DNA off it, they'll run them against the FBI databases.”

Claire's hopes rose. “So we might get the name of Stephanie's killer?”

“Only if he's committed a crime or been fingerprinted for a job application in the past.” Silverstone clicked into his skis. “The match is best done when you have two samples—one from the crime scene and one from a suspect. We're missing the suspect here, and I'm not even sure this is a crime scene.”

When Claire started to speak, he held up his hand. “I'll still send it to CBI. Even with a high priority, it'll take awhile, though. They've got quite a backlog.”

Matthews studied the sky. “I suggest we get off the mountain. A mean storm is brewing. Weather service is predicting six inches.”

“First, I want to take another look at where Miss Contino hit.” Silverstone skied to the other side of the trail and down to the tree Stephanie hit. He leaned on his poles and peered at the scene, scanning up to the spot where the black-garbed skier had waited.

He looked at Claire. “Could you stand where you saw the ski tracks cross?”

Claire side-stepped to where she thought she remembered Stephanie's tracks and the other skier's had intersected. With all the snow swirling around, cutting down the visibility, she had a hard time pinpointing the spot. “I think it was about here.”

Silverstone gazed at her, eyes unfocused as if lost in thought.

Impatiently, Matthews skied to him. “If we don't leave now, we'll be caught in a total whiteout. C'mon, everyone, I'll lead the way.” He waved his arm down the hill as gusts of snow scoured its surface.

“Well?” Claire asked Silverstone. “Now that you've seen the tamped-down snow, the broken branch, and the cigarette butt, do you believe Boyd and me about the skier deliberately killing Stephanie?”

Silverstone's face was impassive. “I always believed you, Mrs. Hanover, at least to the extent of what you saw. The problem is determining what it means.”

Seven:
Altitude Adjustment

After a late lunch
of spicy chicken tortilla soup and hot chocolate at the townhouse, Claire mulled over the visit to the ski resort while she loaded the dishwasher. Could the cigarette butt have come from the killer? Or was some other random person the smoker? Even if DNA or prints on the butt matched a criminal in the FBI database, that criminal could just be a ski enthusiast who had made a recent trip to Breckenridge.

At least they had returned to the slope before the storm hit. Silverstone never would have found the butt under the new snow cover. Claire hoped he was now convinced Stephanie and Boyd had been murdered. Or was open to the possibility.

Roger declared he was taking a nap and went upstairs.

Judy wandered around the living room, staring out the window and straightening pillows that didn't need straightening.

When Claire heard her daughter sigh, she decided action was called for. She started up the dishwasher and walked into the living room. “I want to make a sympathy basket for the Continos. I could use your help picking out items. Come shopping with me.”

Judy rolled her eyes and plopped onto the sofa. “Mom, one of your baskets isn't going to make them feel any better about losing Stephanie.”

Claire took a lot of pride in creating those gift baskets for the customers of her part-time business, but she refused to let Judy see how the flippant comment bothered her. “No, but it will let them know we're thinking of them, that we care. Maybe that'll give them some small amount of comfort.”

“I guess it's something to do.” Frowning, Judy picked distractedly at a sofa cushion. “I'd rather spend the afternoon with Nick, but he said he and his folks wanted to be by themselves today.”

Claire sat beside her daughter. “How serious are you two?”

“I really don't know. We got pretty close before I left for France, but it's only been e-mail and phone calls since then.”

Claire didn't ask how close, because she suspected she didn't want to hear the answer—that Judy had slept with Nick. “What about since you returned?”

“That's just it. This vacation was supposed to be a reunion, to see if we still felt as strongly about each other. But Stephanie's death changed everything. I've tried to talk to Nick, to help him deal with it, but he's been so distant.”

Claire stilled Judy's hand. “You'll pick that sofa cushion apart. Look, Nick's probably not ready to share his grief with you yet. Men feel they have to be strong, can't show emotion. Especially young men.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Just let him know you care, so when he's ready to open up, you can be there for him.”

Judy hugged the cushion against her chest. “What if he's never ready?”

“That could happen. He may want to keep his grief private and may never feel comfortable sharing it with you.”

“No, that's not what I meant.” Unshed tears glimmered in Judy's eyes. “I'm afraid he'll never be ready to pick up where we left off. That he'll keep on backing away from me.” She bit her lip. “I wish I knew how he really felt.”

“Has he ever said he loves you?”

Judy shook her head. “He's said he cares for me, wants me, needs me, and that he loves being with me, but he's never said those three words, ‘I love you.'”

“What about you?”

“I haven't said them either.” Judy kneaded the pillow. “I don't know, Mom. I've never been in love before. I don't know if what I feel for him is love or not.”

“What
do
you feel for him?”

“He makes me feel good, really good about myself, like I can do anything I want to, as long as he supports me. And until this happened, we could talk about anything for hours and hours. You know what I mean?”

“Oh, yeah.”
You've got it bad, honey.
“Remember, I've had twenty-
six
years' experience loving your dear old dad. Tell me, when you're together, do you always feel the urge to touch him, stroke his hand or ruffle his hair?”

“Yes.” With an excited flounce, Judy turned toward Claire. “And I always want to do things for him, which is why I wish he'd talk to me now. In the fall when I was still on campus, I would bake him honey wheat bread in the dorm's kitchen and bring it to him still warm out of the oven.”

Claire grinned. “I didn't know you could bake bread. I thought you were a klutz in the kitchen. When are you going to make us a loaf ?”

“I don't feed people who call me a klutz.” A smile cracked Judy's lips then disappeared. “But seriously, is that how you felt about Dad before you two got married?”

“I still do, though in his case, brownies are the path from his stomach to his heart.”

With a jolt, Claire realized that she was Judy's age when she married Roger. Accepting that her daughter might be ready to make that big step would be difficult. Claire studied Judy's face, shining with anticipation and heartfelt emotion, and felt a rush of maternal protection.
Heaven help that young man if he breaks her heart.

Claire stood. “Let's shop and make that basket. We'll take it over to the Continos tomorrow. Maybe Nick'll be ready to talk to you then.”

“I hope so.” Judy managed to look anxious and excited at the same time. She joined her mother in the hallway and donned her coat. “What are you planning to put in the basket?”

Claire threw her muffler over her shoulder. “That's part of the fun of putting a gift basket together—the thrill when I find something unique that really matches the occasion or the person who's getting the basket. I thought I'd start with a nice pen and some high-quality thank you notes or blank cards Angela can use for thank you notes.”

“There's a stationery store on Main Street,” Judy said. “We can walk there.”

They stepped outside, and a blast of cold air peppered Claire's face with snowflakes. “We may need a hot drink before long.”

While she briskly walked the two blocks into town with Judy at her side, Claire smiled to herself. She was looking forward to spending the afternoon with her daughter, sharing the hunt for those elusive items that made one of Claire Hanover's gift baskets special.

Judy turned to Claire. “Thank you cards and a pen won't fill a basket. What else do you have in mind?”

“Some soothing things, like scented candles or a book of uplifting poems. Are the Continos religious?”

“Catholic. Nick doesn't go to church much, but his mom attends mass every Sunday.”

“Okay, some religious poetry or a book about taking your grief to God, or something like that. And some soft music. A gift basket should have something for every sense—taste, smell, sight, touch, and sound. What kind of music do Nick's parents enjoy?”

Judy thought for a moment. “Classical, I think.”

Claire rubbed her hands together as they turned onto Main Street. “Good, I'll ask at the stationery store where we can find some nice CDs.”

An hour later, they each lugged three plastic bags of purchases, including a dyed wicker basket Claire had found for thirty percent off at an import store that carried Middle Eastern furnishings. The basket exactly matched the colors in the Continos' ski house living room and could be used to hold reading materials later.

The wind tugged at the bags, flapping the plastic edges. It tore at Claire's face, too. Her cheeks were raw, her whole body felt chilled, and her feet were killing her. She spotted a coffee and oxygen café across the street called Altitude Adjustment.

She angled her head at the café. “I need to get off my feet and have a hot drink.”

“Good idea.” Judy led the way.

Claire ordered a couple of vanilla lattes at the counter and searched for a place to sit. She spotted the blonde from Sherpa & Yeti's two nights before, sitting with a young man with a scraggly beard and long dark hair. Both looked distraught, their faces grim.

Claire set her packages on the seat of a booth across from the two. “There's the young woman who pointed out Boyd to us. We should talk to them.”

“I think we should leave them alone,” Judy said. “Can't you tell they're grieving for him?”

“Of course I can tell. That's precisely why I want to talk to them.” After pushing away Judy's restraining hand, Claire walked over to the couple. She leaned down and spoke softly to the blonde, “You've heard about Boyd, I presume.”

The blonde bit her lip and nodded.

“I just wanted to say how sorry I am that I couldn't have done more to save him.”

The young woman's eyes widened, and she pointed at Claire. “You were the woman working on him in the street before the paramedics came!” She turned to her companion. “She was also the one looking for him at the bar.”

The young man stared at Claire, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

“May I?” Claire sat next to the blonde. “Maybe it would be helpful if I explain things. My name's Claire Hanover, and that's my daughter, Judy, over there.”

She waved Judy over to join them. When Judy shook her head, Claire waved again, more insistently this time. With an exasperated toss of her head, Judy picked up her coffee and all their packages and walked over. She sat next to the young man and shoved the packages under her chair.

After she was settled, the blonde said, “I'm Mandy and this is Pete, Nail-It's roommate.”

The young man's lips were drawn in a thin line, probably with teeth clenched behind them.

Of course he would be angry, Claire realized. Angry at whoever killed his friend, at the world for collapsing around him, and at the need to hide his urge to cry behind that mask of rage.

“I'm so sorry. This must be quite a shock to you.”

She stifled the impulse to touch him, sensing he would resent it. Instead, she told Pete how they had figured out Naylor was the one who witnessed Stephanie's collision, the story he had told at the crepe stand, and what they did to help him after the SUV hit him.

Pete listened silently throughout, shoulders hunched and hands throttling his coffee cup. At the end, he licked his lips and said, “Thank you” in a hoarse voice.

Judy took the last sip of her coffee. She signaled to Claire with a tilt of her chin that they should leave.

Claire shook her head. She focused on Pete. “Boyd told us he drew a picture of the skier who collided with Stephanie. Have you seen it?”

“Yeah. He showed it to me the next morning then balled it up and threw it away.”

“Do the police have it?”

“No. They searched the trailer last night, but they didn't ask me about the drawing.”

The two young men lived in a trailer?
A ski bum's life wasn't as glamorous as it seemed. “What were the police looking for?”

Pete tore a chunk from the rim of his Styrofoam cup and worried it with his fingers. “Contact information, mostly, to call his family.”

“We just told Detective Silverstone about the drawing this morning. And he doesn't know it's in the trash. Do you have trash pickup at your place?”

“On Fridays.”

“Can I come over and look for the drawing? I think it might help the sheriff's office find Boyd's killer.”

Pete checked his watch. “I start work in a few minutes, busing tables at the brewery. But you could go in anyway. We never lock the door. Lock's busted, and we don't have anything worth stealing. We stash our snowboards at a buddy's house. Or at least we did. Nail-It won't be using his anymore.” He ground his jaw.

Mandy reached over and grasped his hand.

Claire ached for Pete, wished she could hug him and give him permission to cry. She wondered where his family was. “I don't want to intrude when you aren't there. It wouldn't feel right. How about if I come by tomorrow morning?”

Pete faced her, his eyes red, and nodded.

Claire took a charge slip and pen out of her purse and passed them to him. “Boyd gave us his phone number, but not his address. Could you write it on this?”

Pete scribbled an address on the paper. “It's in Kingdom Park off Airport Road, next to the Pinewood Village ski area housing. The trailers are for those of us who weren't lucky enough to get into employee housing.”

Claire put the paper and pen back in her purse and gathered up her share of the packages. “Thank you, Pete. And again, I want to say how awful we feel about Boyd. Is there anything I can do?”

Pete shook his head. “Only if you can find me a roommate. Without Nail-It's half of the rent, I'll be thrown out at the end of the month.”

Oh, God. Would he take money if I offered?
Claire studied the firm set of his shoulders. Probably not.

“We'll find someone,” Mandy said. “The other gals are asking around.”

Claire pulled out a card from her basket-making business and wrote the phone number of their townhouse on the back. “If Boyd's parents want to talk to us, or if you need anything else, you can call this number in town for the next week and a half. After that, you can reach me in Colorado Springs at the number on the front of the card.”

He shoved the card in a pocket. “Thanks.”

Claire rose, and Judy followed her out the door into the late afternoon dusk. They trudged up the hill to their townhouse in silence. By the time they reached the front door, Claire was breathing heavily. Once inside, she dumped the bags on the floor, shucked her boots and outerwear and made a beeline for the sofa.

When Claire plopped down beside him, Roger looked up from watching the stock reports on the business channel. “Heavy day of shopping?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. We ran into Boyd's roommate at a coffee shop. Talking to him was almost more exhausting than shopping. The poor guy's got a lot to deal with now. Including the possibility of being thrown out on the street.”