To Hell in a Handbasket (9 page)

The smile faded from Roger's face. He patted Claire's thigh. “Sorry you had such a tough day. Instead of cooking dinner, do you want to go out again?”

Claire chafed her chilled arms and pulled a comforter over her. “No, thanks. I feel like a pound of hamburger that's just been taken out of the freezer. I want to stay inside and thaw out.”

Judy finished hanging their coats. “How about if we order a pizza?”

Claire made a face. “I'm not a fan of pizza. Why don't you whip up some omelets instead?”

Judy sat on a stool by the kitchen counter. “Like how she says that, Dad? Just ‘whip up' some omelets as if it's the easiest thing in the world.” She waved her hand in the air.

Isn't it?
“What are you getting at, Judy?”

“Well, duh. Remember, I don't know how to cook. You always did the cooking at home, and I ate in the cafeteria at school. This semester in France, I'm trading chores with my roommate. She cooks and I do laundry.”

“It's high time you learned to cook something other than bread.” With a sigh, Claire tossed off the comforter.

Before she could rise, Roger stopped her and covered her again
with the comforter. “You're bushed. You stay here and relax. Be
tween the two of us, Judy and I should be able to rustle up some omelets, maybe even some biscuits.”

The blind leading the blind.
But Roger used to make breakfasts on Sundays, before he started working long hours to further his career.

Gratefully, Claire sank back onto the sofa. “Can't turn down that offer.”

Roger handed her the TV remote and joined Judy in the kitchen. Soon the two of them were banging cupboard doors and pots and pans. Claire tuned them out and switched the channel to the Denver news.

Within minutes, however, their voices coming from the kitchen distracted her.

“You need to stir those onions,” Roger said. “They're starting to burn.”

“I'm too busy chopping the peppers to keep track of the onions.”

He reached over and turned a knob on the stove. “Turn the fire down, then, if you can't pay attention.”

Judy waved her hand at the cutting board. “Why do we have to have all this stuff anyway? What's wrong with just cheese?”

“Your mother likes onions and green peppers in her omelets.”

“Well, I don't.”

“We'll leave them out of yours. Now, move out of the way so I can put these biscuits in the oven.”

Judy slapped her knife down on the cutting board, backed up, and crossed her arms.

Claire decided she should intervene. She walked into the kitchen.
“Why don't I finish chopping the peppers so Judy can stir the onions?”

She picked up the knife and went to work. Judy had chopped the peppers too large, so Claire re-cut the pieces without thinking about it. When she finished, she glanced over at the pan Judy was stirring in. Browned onion bits were stuck to the bottom.

“Did you oil the pan before you started?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Claire knew they were a mistake.

Glowering, Judy threw down the spatula. “No one told me to oil
it. First you have to redo all my work, then you criticize it. If you're so picky about your omelets, make them yourself.” She walked out of the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom.

Roger's gaze followed his daughter's path. “You should've stayed
on the sofa.”

“I thought I was helping.”

“Sometimes you help her too much. You treat her like she's still a teenager. She's an adult now. Let her make her own mistakes. We would have muddled through somehow. Now she's pissed.”

Anger flared in Claire. “So now I'm a horrible mother?”

“Of course not.” Roger gathered her in a hug. “Just a mother who's
done a great job and is having a little trouble letting go.”

Deep down, Claire knew he was right, but that still didn't make it any easier to accept her nest emptying. She worried her lip. “It's not just the cooking. Judy's under a lot of stress. And she's probably as worn out as I am.”

A sizzling on the stove drew her attention. The onions had blackened and started to smoke. She shoved the frying pan to the back burner and turned off the front burner.
Damn.
They would have to start over with a new batch of onions.

Unfortunately, she couldn't start over with Judy.

Eight: Trailer Trash

Claire turned her car
into the entrance to Kingdom Park mobile home village Thursday morning and checked the charge slip with Boyd and Pete's address. Someone had plowed the previous day's four inches of snow off the narrow dirt road, but Claire drove slowly to avoid slipping on the frozen mud and to scan the house numbers.

The scattered trailers squatting on cement blocks didn't look much like a kingdom—more like a slum. Though it was nine o'clock, she saw no activity except a huge slobbery Rottweiler barking at her from the window of a dingy white mobile home.

She spotted a mailbox with the right number on it, but the parking space next to the tan trailer had a rusted Subaru sitting in it. Then she noticed a row of parking spaces at the end of the short road with two vehicles, both beat-up pickup trucks, parked side by side.

She pulled in next to one of the trucks and walked to Pete and Boyd's trailer. A brown latticework skirt hung around most of the bottom, but the panel on the end was missing. The panel beside it gaped open, exposing a collection of twisted metal, possibly bike parts, and a pink plastic Big Wheel missing a pedal. Claire guessed these must have belonged to the previous tenants.

She crunched her way across frozen mud clods to the tiny wooden porch and rang the doorbell. Nothing. She rang again. Still no answer. Either Pete was sound asleep or not there.

Should I return sometime later? No, this drawing is important.
She pounded on the door. That should have awakened him if he was in. And if he wasn't, he did say the door would be unlocked. And she had his permission to enter, so she wouldn't be breaking in.

She tried the doorknob. It turned easily, and the door swung open. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Pete?”

The interior of the trailer was almost as cold as the outside. She stepped down the short hall into the kitchen/dining area. Dirty dishes filled the sink. An open pizza box and beer cans lay scattered across the plastic-topped table. Definitely a bachelor pad.

A few one-dollar bills and a five lay next to the pizza box. Probably change from paying the delivery person. Claire took a twenty out of her purse and slipped it under the pile. It wasn't much, but maybe Pete could buy a few groceries with it.

She quickly checked the two bedrooms and found no one. Maybe Mandy or one of her friends had offered the comfort of her arms around Pete to ease the pain of Boyd's death.

Claire studied the two bedrooms and decided the one with pen and ink drawings tacked on the walls must be Boyd's. The drawings showed boarders in action and the naked torsos of well-endowed young women with no heads. The faces must not have been as important to Boyd as what bloomed under the neck.

An overflowing trashcan stood next to a small desk beside the single bed. Claire sat on the bed, dumped the trashcan on the floor, and started unfolding crumpled wads of drawing paper. Halfway through the pile, she found the drawing.

The picture showed a few new details Boyd hadn't described. The ski poles were the bent kind for racing, not straight as Claire had presumed. The Spyder logos were clearly drawn on the jacket. Maybe Detective Silverstone could use the logos to narrow down the specific design from the manufacturer.

The crunch of tires on snow startled her.
Pete?
She peered through the mini-blinds on the window.

A black Range Rover parked sideways in front of the trailer, blocking part of the road. A man stepped out. With his back to the trailer, he scanned the area while fastening a neoprene ski mask over his lower face. When he faced the trailer, Claire saw he also wore dark sunglasses, a cap, jeans, and a black Spyder jacket with the logo on the left arm.

She checked the drawing in her hand. The jacket matched.
Oh, God.

With shaky fingers, she stuffed the drawing into her jacket pocket. The front door was still unlocked, and she bet the man planned to do just what she was doing—search for incriminating evidence. And if he found her . . .

She stood and glanced around.

Down the hall, she spied the back door and raced toward it. As she grasped the doorknob, the front door swung in. She opened the back door, slipped out, then shut it as soon as she heard the front door shut.

Hopefully, the man heard the two sounds as one.

Her heart hammering, Claire crouched and slid down the steps from the tiny porch to the ground. Heavy footsteps along the trailer's floor indicated the man was heading for the bedrooms. She considered running to one of the other mobile homes and hiding behind it, but what if he saw her?

Spying another gap in the trailer's latticework, she crawled through.
The footsteps above her approached the back door.
Damn, now what?

Aiming for a dark section behind unbroken latticework, Claire wormed her way behind two plastic laundry baskets frozen to the ground and filled with crushed beer cans. She spied a ripped piece of brown shag carpet, lay down next to it, pulled it over herself, and listened.

Aside from her own gasps, she heard nothing. Then the back door opened. She held her breath.

The man stepped out on the porch, waited for a moment, then the door closed. Had he gone inside? Claire stared at the porch steps.

A shoe appeared on the first stair.

Oh, God!
She looked around for some kind of weapon, anything to defend herself. She spotted a dark line on the frozen ground. She reached out. Her hand closed around a bent kid-sized golf club, and she slowly slid it toward her.
What good is this going to do? If he has a gun, I'm a goner.

Both shoes were now on the ground next to the bottom step, facing away from her. Strange. The shoes were loafers, not the snow boots or hiking boots most people wore in Breckenridge.

Claire gripped the golf club, sweat beading her brow even though she shivered from the cold. Or fear. She peeked at the Range Rover, but the license plate was too high for her to read, unless she
scooted out of her hiding place.
No way in hell is that going to
happen.

A shadow appeared near the gap in the latticework. Claire held her breath.

A head bent down and peered in.

Claire shut her eyes and tensed, waiting for the bullet that would pierce her flesh.

Nothing happened.

She opened one eye. The shadow was gone. The shoes turned then stepped up to the porch. The back door opened, and the man went in.

Claire took a deep breath.
Thank God.
Now all she had to do was wait him out. Let the man do his snooping and leave, then she could get in her car and go, too.

Wait, what if he sees my car?
If he had any brains, he'd realize no snowboarding bum would own a BMW. He had already shown he was smart enough to figure out who Boyd was and where he lived.

A violent shiver ran through her. She couldn't wait him out and risk him spotting her car. She had to make a run for it.
But how?
Her mind hashed through dire scenarios, none that worked, while she flinched at every step and creak above her.

The footsteps stopped in Boyd's room, and a bed creaked. Could he be sitting right where she was moments ago, looking through Boyd's things for any clue pointing to himself ? Her hand closed over Boyd's drawing in her pocket.

Just leave,
she prayed.
Please. Get in your car and drive away.
Her mouth went dry.
No, if I'm going to get out of this alive, I have to be the one to leave. And now's the time. Go!

She grabbed the golf club tight and slid the carpet off herself.
She eased toward the gap in the latticework, ears tuned to the slight
est sound above her. As she slithered past the laundry baskets, her foot nudged the second one. The cans inside clattered.

She froze.

The bed creaked above her.

Oh, God.
Claire scrambled out of the gap and took off, sprinting for the nearest trailer.

The back door slammed open on Pete's trailer. Feet landed on the ground, expelling an “Oof” from the man.

Claire rounded the back of a neighboring trailer. An attached tool shed jutted out on the other side. She ran behind it to hide.

Footsteps thudded on the frozen ground behind her.

Trying to still her heaving chest, Claire raised the golf club. As the man ran past the tool shed, she whacked his head as hard as she could.

He sprawled face-down on the ground.

Still brandishing the club, Claire took a step forward.
Is he out?

With a groan, the man pushed himself up on his hands and knees.

Claire clubbed him again, then ran and ran, without looking back, gasping for breath, the back of her neck crawling with fear, straight to her car. She tossed the golf club aside and clawed for the car keys in her pocket while scanning the road for any sign of her pursuer. Nothing yet.

She yanked open the door and jumped in. With trembling hands,
she shoved the keys in the ignition. As soon as the car started, she threw it in reverse and roared backward down the road,
barely missing the Range Rover. She spun into the main road, shifted to forward, and stomped on the gas.

A check in the rearview mirror showed no one followed. Claire remembered to breathe.
Must find Detective Silverstone.

_____

Claire rushed into the Summit County Sheriff's Office at the justice center and leaned on the reception counter. “Is Detective Silverstone in?”

The receptionist checked a white board behind her containing names and In and Out columns. “No, he checked himself out for a long lunch.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“To the Nordic Center. He snowshoes on one of their trails once a week or so. Says it helps him think. In the summer, it's fly-fishing for trout.”

“When will he return?”

The receptionist glanced at the clock, which showed eleven-fifteen. “Not for a couple of hours.”

“I guess I could call him on his cell phone.”

The receptionist shook her head. “He never takes it with him, doesn't want to be interrupted while he's mulling over a case. You might catch him before he heads out on the trail. The note on the board says he left a few minutes ago.”

Claire trotted to her car and drove up winding Ski Hill Road to the Breckenridge Nordic Center, located about a mile below the Peak Eight base area. She parked in the crowded lot shaded by tall lodgepole pine trees and got out.

The center was a gray building with forest green trim, fronted by tall flagpoles bearing flags of a dozen or so skiing countries. Claire recognized Switzerland's flag, a white cross against a red background. A strong breeze swayed the pines and snapped the flags.

The sun was shining again after yesterday's storm. Claire walked from the shadow of the trees into the bright clearing in front of the center. Lifting her face to the warm rays, she took a deep breath of the cool, crisp air and looked around. A couple of wooden Adirondack chairs sat in the snow outside the center. Nursing a cup of hot chocolate in one of those sun-soaked chairs sure would feel good.

She shook her head and marched to the door.
I don't have time now for soaking up sun.

Inside, a family sat on wooden benches around a black potbelly stove and munched on sandwiches. Claire's stomach growled. A woman smiled at her from behind a long counter. The woman wore a yellow fleece vest with some kind of logo on the front.

Claire approached the desk. “I'm looking for Detective Silverstone. Have you seen him?”

The woman nodded. “He left a few minutes ago, heading for the Peaks Trailhead parking lot.”

“Where's that?”

The woman pulled out a trail map and showed Claire a small parking lot farther up Ski Hill Road that serviced intermediate and advanced cross-country and snowshoe trails. “You going to join him on the trail?”

“I hope to catch him before he leaves.”

“Better hurry.”

Claire ran to her car and drove to the lot. She pulled alongside a sheriff's car and climbed out. She didn't see the detective anywhere. She spotted the snowshoe trailhead and ran over. Seeing no one, Claire cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Detective Silverstone?”

She walked a short way down the trail that was already somewhat packed down by morning snowshoers and shouted again. No answer.
Damn.

Claire returned to the Nordic Center. This time, she noticed a snack counter off to one side. Having a little lunch by the stove while she waited for him to return seemed like a pleasant proposition.

“Will Detective Silverstone come back here?” she asked the receptionist.

“No. He usually heads out on rounds after he leaves the trail. He'll phone in sometime this afternoon so we know he made it out. He's good about checking in and out. But there's no reason for him to stop at the center. He has his own snowshoes.”

Thoughts of a warm, cozy lunch faded. The prospect of sitting in her car waiting for him at the parking lot didn't thrill her. Plus, she couldn't afford a long wait. She and Roger had to deliver the
gift basket to the Continos, and Roger wanted to ski that after
noon. It looked like the only way to track down the detective was to follow him on the trail.

Claire pulled out the map the woman had given her. “Okay, which trail did he take?”

“He always takes the same route.” Her finger ran alongside a path marked with an expert black diamond.

“Gluteus Maximus?”

“No, that's a cross-country ski trail next to the showshoe trail, which is called Engelman. He'll take that to the Robin's Nest loop trail, eat his lunch at Hallelujah Hut here, and return.” The woman ran her finger along the shorter side of the loop then studied Claire. “You ever snowshoe before?”