Too Rich and Too Dead (14 page)

She had to admit that the man standing at the cash register, animatedly discussing the pros and cons of something called corn snow with a customer, was one of the more attractive representatives of the male gender she'd ever laid eyes on. He was probably about fifty, but like so many Aspenites, he boasted an exceptionally lean, muscular frame. He also had carefully styled hair that didn't have a single gray strand in it, along with the year-round tan that she was learning was an essential requirement around here. In short, he had the rugged good looks
that Mallory was beginning to think were as common in this town as ski jackets.

As his customer headed out of the store, he turned to Mallory.

“Can I help you?” he asked. As he smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkled in a most attractive way. It was a look that always reminded Mallory of the cowboys in the movies she'd watched growing up.

“I'm looking for Dusty Raines,” she told him.

But instead of saying, “You've found your man” or something else befitting a Colorado mountain man, he replied, “He's in back. I'll get him.”

Turning toward the back of the shop, he yelled, “Dusty? Somebody wants to talk to you.”

Mallory expected someone with the same demographic profile as this gentleman to emerge from the back. Instead, a young man carrying a brand-new snowboard that was still wrapped in clear plastic sauntered toward her.

Her mouth dropped open as she found herself face-to-face with the cheese thief from Carly's house.

“You're
Dusty?” she cried.

“Ye-e-ah,” he replied, looking confused by her confusion.

And then a look of recognition crossed his face.

“Hey, I know you!” he announced, his head bobbing up and down. “You were at Carly's house this morning, right?”

Mallory couldn't stop staring. She knew she was being rude, but she couldn't help herself. She was too blown away by the fact that this ski dude was Dusty
Raines—the man who had been Carly's paramour, at least if Juanita had been correct in her assessment of the soap opera going on around her.

Frankly, she didn't know whether to be impressed or horrified that Carly had had a lover who was literally young enough to be her son.

“So what can I do for a fine lady like you?” Dusty asked breezily. “Skis or snowboard?”

As if, Mallory thought, glancing at the treacherous-looking equipment hanging menacingly on the wall.

“Neither, thanks,” she said quickly. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Carly.”

“Yeah, what a bummer,” he said, once again bobbing his head up and down so that his blond hair flopped against his forehead. “What about her?”

Realizing she needed to come up with a good reason for interrogating him, Mallory did some fast thinking. “Carly and I knew each other in high school. We were pretty good friends back then.”

She hoped her nose wasn't growing longer and longer with each word that came out of her mouth. Every time she referred to Carly as a friend, she couldn't help thinking that somewhere on the planet, the former members of her popular schoolmate's entourage were rolling their eyes and having a good laugh over such a far-fetched version of their shared adolescence.

“But we didn't exactly stay in close touch over the years,” Mallory went on. “She ended up here in Aspen, while I stayed in New York…”

“New York, huh?” Dusty's mouth stretched into an appealing grin. “I always wanted to go there. I

don't mean to sound full of myself or anything, but a couple of people I've met here in Aspen told me that they thought if I moved to New York, I might be able to make it as a model.”

Mallory could easily picture him on a building-size billboard on Times Square. Especially if he was clad in nothing but a pair of Calvins.

She reminded herself that Dusty was also young enough to be
her
son.

“Yeah, they tell me there's a lot of money to be made that way,” Dusty went on. “Not that it's about the money, of course. It's about the freedom. You know, having the resources to do the stuff you want.”

“Like traveling?” Mallory asked, curious about this young man's secret dreams and desires.

“Definitely traveling,” he agreed. “There are totally cool mountains all over the world. Switzerland, New Zealand, Chile… Hey, I hear there's even good skiing in South America.”

Ri-i-ight, Mallory thought dryly. The next best thing to flying all the way to Chile.

“Not that I don't love Aspen,” he continued, “but it sure is an expensive town. I live in an apartment over on Waters Avenue with, like, four other guys. We hardly have any furniture.” Flashing her a million-dollar grin, he added, “And you already know that our food budget isn't exactly humongous.”

Mallory's eyes automatically traveled down to the Rolex on his wrist. Maybe it's a fake, she told herself.

She wondered what else about Dusty Raines was fake.

But this wasn't the best time or place for finding out. Not with other people wandering in and out of the store, perusing merchandise that was guaranteed to make it hard for them to get life insurance.

On impulse, she blurted out, “Dusty, would you have lunch with me?”

A startled look crossed his face. “You mean like a date?”

“I mean like two people who are mourning the loss of someone they knew, spending some time together, just… remembering.” When he still looked uncertain, she added, “Lunch would be on me, of course.”

From the way his face lit up, she knew she'd said the magic words.

“Cool!” Thoughtfully, he added, “But not today. Gotta work late. I usually get off at one, but with the sale and everything, we're extra busy.”

“How about tomorrow?” Mallory suggested.

“Tomorrow would be awesome,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. “I should be outta here at the usual time.”

As they decided on a meeting place, Mallory wondered if Dusty thought he'd just found himself a new sugar mommy. She certainly didn't come close to Carly in the looks department. But if this young man's true agenda was acquiring some additional accessories to go with his Rolex, he probably wouldn't care much about what his Good Fairy looked like.

Besides, she reminded herself as she left the store,
what Dusty thinks doesn't really matter. What's important is that the dude is too young to have learned that there's no such thing as a free lunch.

As she walked back to the Hotel Jerome, Mallory glanced at her watch. When she saw it wasn't even noon, she stared at it for a few seconds to make sure the second hand was moving.

It was hard to believe how much had happened in the few hours since she'd gotten out of bed that morning. She'd started the day by getting the shocking news that Carly had been murdered. She'd immediately rushed over to Cass-Ber to offer Brett whatever support she could. Next she toured Tavaci Springs, where she'd actually spotted the scene of the crime, at least from the outside. As if all that hadn't been draining enough, she'd then learned that the police now considered Harriet a suspect in Carly's murder.

Thanks to that new wrinkle, Mallory now found herself smack in the middle of the murder investigation. She'd even set up a meeting with one of her top suspects: Carly's lover-boy.

With the emphasis on “boy,” she thought wryly.

She was looking forward to retreating to her hotel room while she tried to figure out exactly how she was going to help clear Harriet of suspicion at the same time she did all the research she needed to do in order to write her magazine article. Ordering lunch from room service—and eating it with her shoes off and her feet up—sounded like a really good way to plan her strategy.

As she strode inside the Hotel Jerome, she contemplated what she felt like eating while she took that relaxing in-room lunch break. But before she had a chance to decide whether she was in the mood for a local delicacy like mountain lion stew or something more conventional, she noticed that someone familiar was standing at the front desk, even though her back was to Mallory.

Sylvie Snowdon. The woman Harriet had spoken of so bitterly, mainly because her ruthless determination to acquire the Rejuva-Juice empire for HoliHealth would most likely cost her her job.

Mallory hung back, ducking behind a cart piled high with luggage. That particular location put her far away enough from Sylvie not to be noticed but close enough to overhear. She only hoped one of the bellmen wouldn't think she was trying to filch somebody's carry-on and sic security on her.

Peering over the hot pink molded plastic suitcase balanced precariously on top of the cart, Mallory struggled to hear what Sylvie was saying.

“It's getting close to lunchtime,” Sylvie told the man at the front desk, “and I wondered if you could suggest a good restaurant.”

“Aspen is full of great restaurants,” the clerk replied politely. “May I ask what kind of place you're looking for?”

“Someplace quiet,” Sylvie answered quickly. “Someplace private.”

The clerk thought for a few seconds. “If you have a little time, I'd suggest the Pine Creek Cookhouse.
It's a bit out of the way, about a half-hour drive outside of town. And once you get there, you have to be transported up the side of a mountain. But getting there is half the fun. Of course, if you'd rather stay in town—”

“No, it sounds perfect,” Sylvie assured him.

“In that case, I'll be happy to make you a reservation.” As the clerk picked up the phone, he asked, “Will that be for one person?”

Sylvie hesitated before saying, “No, make it for two. And make it for one-fifteen. I'll head over as soon as I can.”

Mallory was curious about who Sylvie knew in Aspen—well enough to plan a lunch date, no less. Here she'd just assumed she come into town alone.

It could be anyone, she told herself. She could have friends or even family in Aspen. Just because she works for a company that's based outside of San Francisco doesn't mean she doesn't know people in other parts in the country.

But she was suddenly extremely interested in finding out.

The Pine Creek Cookhouse, Mallory repeated to herself. One-fifteen. That means there's plenty of time for me to get there, too.

As she rode up the elevator, mourning the loss of her shoeless, stressless lunch even though she recognized that it was for a good cause, her cell phone trilled. When she glanced at caller ID, she saw her home number flashing on the screen.

She would bet anything it was Amanda. Jordan only called in case of emergencies—for example, to
ask where she was hiding the plastic garbage bags or to get the name of the Chinese restaurant that made that great shrimp fried rice.

“Hello, Amanda,” she answered.

Bingo.

“Mother, are you all right?” her daughter demanded anxiously.

“I'm fine,” Mallory told her. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“Don't they have newspapers in Colorado?”

“Not yet,” Mallory replied cheerfully. “The sheriff simply posts the latest Wanted poster outside the jail, which is located next door to the saloon—”

“This is nothing to joke about!” Amanda cried. “Mother, Carly Berman was murdered!”

“Yes, I know.” Mallory was suddenly as serious as Amanda. “I didn't realize the story had made the news back east.”

“Of course it has! Everyone in my dorm has been glued to the TV And since it happened right in Aspen, I've been worried sick about you.”

“What on earth for? It's not likely that whoever had it in for poor Carly made me number two on his hit list.”

“You don't seem to be taking this very seriously,” Amanda accused.

“Believe me, I'm taking it very seriously,” Mallory assured her.

She held her cell phone in one hand and with the other used her key card to open the door of her room. As soon as she walked inside, she let out a gasp.

“Oh, my goodness!” she cried.

“What's wrong?” Amanda exclaimed.

“Nothing's wrong. I just walked into my room here at the hotel and there's a bouquet of flowers on the dresser. Roses, in fact. Red ones. Beautiful, long-stemmed red roses.”

And they were probably flown into Aspen on a flight that took even longer than the one those poor lobsters endured, she thought.

“Who do you know in Aspen who's sending you flowers?” Amanda demanded.

“They must be a gift from the Jerome,” Mallory replied.

“Jerome?” Amanda asked anxiously. “Who's Jerome?”

“Relax, Amanda.” Mallory sighed. “The Hotel Jerome is where I'm staying. The management must have sent up the flowers. Hotels often go out of their way to make travel writers feel welcome.”

She noticed a small white envelope nestled among the stems. Exhibiting impressive manual dexterity, she managed to rip it open with one hand.

Yet she nearly dropped the phone when she saw what was written on it.

“I'd love to take you to dinner tonight,” the card read. “Call me. Gordon Swig.”

Underneath was a phone number.

“Amanda, I have to go,” she told her daughter.

“Don't you think you should come home, Mother?” Amanda wheedled.

“Come home?” Mallory sputtered. “That's—
that's preposterous! I'm working, for goodness sake!”

“But—but Aspen sounds so
dangerous!”

Mallory had to keep herself from laughing. Aside from Carly's murder, the only crime she could imagine being committed in this town was wearing last year's styles.

“I'll be sure to keep my wits about me whenever I walk through a dark alley,” she assured her daughter. “Thanks for your concern, Amanda, but I'll be fine. In fact, I'll call you later.”

The main reason she hung up was that she wanted to call Gordon to tell him she'd love to have dinner with him. But she hadn't even had a chance to punch in the number printed on his business card before her cell phone buzzed a second time.

Goodness, that girl won't take no for an answer, she thought crossly.

But this time, caller ID told her it wasn't her daughter who was calling. It was her boss.

“Mallory?” Trevor Pierce said brusquely. “Good ness, are you all right?”

The East Coast media is obviously doing a fabulous job of portraying Aspen as the Wild West, she thought. Either that or Trevor and Amanda should be competing in America's Top Worrywart.