3 Requiem at Christmas (10 page)

“Hm.
So, in other words, he’s not
someone to invite to the next Fourth of July party.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Juliet said her thanks for the information and also for
Garret looking after her cat and then went downstairs.

After a continental breakfast in the in-house coffee shop, which
clearly only represented the North American continent, Julie called on the
concierge’s desk which was doing a brisk business that morning.

The lobby was packed with the kind of people one would
expect to see at a ski resort before Christmas when a Celtic fair was happening
next door. Juliet caught a glimpse of a hung-over Carrie Simmons, still dressed
like an L.A. rapper, staggering by as she waited in line and was grateful not
to be noticed by her. The woman made her uncomfortable.

It was odd how many adult women she had started to notice
behaving like Carrie, because the French were just as
fashion-
and beauty-obsessed
as Americans, but somehow they managed the whole
thing with dignity. Maybe because they had figured out that youthful packaging
did not equal attractiveness. Carrie could take a page from
Ninon
de
l’Enclos
, though she
never read, so any number of pages from
Ninon’s
work wouldn’t
help in the least. Her self-delusions of eternal youth and attractiveness were
hardly comprehensive enough to need psychiatric treatment, but those that she
had, she clung
to
tenaciously. And Juliet wasn’t the
person to break the bad news about the appearance of slipping breasts in
burnout t-shirts to her. There simply wasn’t language to cover it.

Carrie wasn’t the only body to be avoided. There was also
one of the satellites hanging around—the slightly shorter and broader one
dressed in dark skiwear—ostensibly looking at postcards and flyers of local
attractions but really doing who knew what.

One of the rooms—possibly the one wanted by the man in front
of her—was being used for a nuptial bacchanalia. The man was the spokesman for a
host of orange-clad
Buchanans
, hunting for a meeting
room where they could hold their annual general meeting, one large enough that
they wouldn’t have to lie horizontally and stack themselves like cordwood in
order to fit, which they were having to do in the closet space they were
assigned. And if it could be accomplished that morning, well, that would be
excellent. Juliet kept her distance because the ringleader was giving off
periodic puffs of body odor and was clearly suffering from advanced
bromhidrosis
fueled by whisky and garlic. Perhaps he was
one of the people camping at the park and without access to a shower who lived
on garlic fries because they’re cheap, yummy, and couldn’t be bullied by even
the strongest scotch.

While the argument about the meeting room went into round
two, a man in a Campbell tartan walked by and the
Buchanans
,
to a man—and one woman—stared at him with identical expressions of hatred.

Juliet blinked.
Really?
Still? But
maybe it was healthy to divert hostility to a quarrel that happened centuries
ago on another continent. Especially if you were secretly afraid of the era you
lived in, as so many people were.

Her turn for aid and comfort arrived. If pressed, Juliet
would do downhill skiing, but she preferred cross-country and using her own
skis. It was quieter, a time to think without dodging people and deadly trees.
It delighted her when the harassed concierge told her about a seldom-used trail
that skirted part of the lake and hurriedly assured her when pressed for a map that
she “couldn’t miss it” and to “just look for the trailhead sign.”

Juliet fetched her skis.

Once away from the hotel, the scenery was like an
Ansel
Adams photograph—all blacks and whites with deep gray
shadows. She supposed that in spring grass would soften the landscape and add
color, but these were hard mountains—very masculine. Her home was in softer
hills with gentler tones and colors and shapes.

The trail began comfortably enough, but as it neared the
lake, it narrowed until it began to feel that it was clinging uneasily to the
cliff, only one storm away from toppling into the cold water. She was still
feeling a little sore after her adventure in the blizzard and began to loaf
along, feeling pessimistic about the upkeep and safety of the track the
concierge had recommended. There were no markers anymore. Had she gone astray?

The lake was a bowl open to the sky that reflected back the
gray and somehow redoubled the darkness. It gaped like an open mouth, the
boulders the teeth that lined the jaws of cold, wet death. This wasn’t a place
that made concessions to the careless and Juliet began to understand why it was
seldom used—if she was even on a real trail anymore. The waters were lonely, no
boats on its surface, no hikers, no skiers, no skaters, no children making
snowmen at its edges. There were no humans—except Juliet—to contemplate its
cold depth.
And if she fell in….
All it would take was
one tiny shove.

One thing was for sure, she had zero urge to paint any of it.
This wasn’t a memory she wanted to take home with her.

Unnerved, she stopped and pulled off her knit hat so she
could better listen. Juliet had developed a kind of inner warning system that
played Marco Polo when danger was near. In spite of the silence broken only by
the occasional drop of snow from the distant trees,
Marco
was getting
a quick
Polo
. The day had begun to feel an awful
lot like her last detour which had ended up with a snowbound car and a dead
body. She realized that her calm had almost evaporated and it was ready to
abdicate to panic. She was glad that she had brought her gun, though if this
kept up she was going to have to buy a holster for it so she could carry it
with more ease and accessibility.

Juliet moved on to higher ground, feeling like a lightning
rod on top of the tallest building, but wanting to see what and who was near
her. The air was very still and carried sound with eerie clarity. She heard the
hissing of skis and had her hand in her pocket and around her baby Glock before
Esteban appeared around a bend in the path.

“You’ve been following me? Why?” she asked, greatly relieved
to see him and not one of the satellites.

“I saw you leave from the line for the ski lift. I’m
practicing being secretive and stealthy so I stayed back a little. And because
I am also paranoid, I wanted to see if anyone else was following you first.”

“And am I being followed?”

“Not that I can see, but I’m feeling uneasy about being away
from the crowds.”

“I know.
Me too.
Let’s go back. I
don’t like the look of this trail anyway.
If it is a trail.
I think the concierge is confused.”

“I suppose we should. I was thinking of cutting inland a bit
first and checking for tracks. If I were following someone I would do it from
the trees.”

The band of evergreens was only about thirty feet wide and
not particularly dense, but there were large stones and it offered enough cover
to conceal a man.

Juliet looked at Esteban’s skis. He wasn’t wearing the
cross-country variety. Going inland wouldn’t be easy, though Esteban was
certainly strong enough to force the matter if he was inclined.

“You aren’t making me feel better with this stalker talk.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” he said, this time without any joking.
“I think you have a stalker—and here I am without my telescopic rifle. I don’t
suppose that—but of course you are,” he said approvingly when she patted her
pocket where she had her gun.

“The pertinent question is why am I—or are we—being
followed? Don’t you think that’s pertinent?” she asked.

“I love it when you get all logical.” The tone was light but
his eyes kept moving over the trees and Juliet found herself studying them too.
“I also love that you aren’t arguing about the stalker. I suppose that I
haven’t broken any news to you. Your intuition is always excellent.”

Juliet shook her head.

“I haven’t seen anything but…. Are they following because I
found the body and the killer thinks that I have the stolen Rembrandt with me?”

“A nuclear device.
That one’s
better. No one steals Rembrandts any more—too many forgeries.”

“Better for whom?” she demanded and then shook her head
again. Esteban was correct that it wasn’t the right time for an argument. “Is
it just because I set off in the direction of the murder and some moron with a
greatly exaggerated notion of my physical abilities thinks that I plan on
skiing the whole thirty miles over the mountain and then back again to—to what?
To discover something at the crime scene that the police
missed?”
Juliet didn’t care if her voice carried. Let them hear what she
was saying.

“Or to get something that you hid before?
Like when you found the body? They might be thinking that.” Esteban was
entering into the spirit of things.

Juliet shook her head and pulled her cap back on.

“We will leave aside the implication that I am a thief and
that I was able to recognize whatever the hell I am supposed to have stolen as
something valuable, and move right on to the
hid it where?
In a snowdrift that looks like all the other snowdrifts
and is now even more buried? In my car which the murderer could and probably
did search?
’Cause that’s all that’s out there.
If
they think that then we aren’t dealing with a criminal mastermind.”

“No, more like the village idiot. Doesn’t mean they aren’t
dangerous though. In fact, stupid people are the worst when they get desperate.
A thinking man will consider carefully before doing something rash. The idiots
rush right in.”

They both saw the movement in the trees at the same time and
a hump of dark blue and green stood up and began skiing away. Their stalker,
perhaps hearing their conversation, had decided not to wait for them since
obviously they wouldn’t be doing anything interesting when they knew they were
watched. Juliet figured it was too much to hope that they had abandoned all
interest in her.

Anger put strength in her sinews and she forgot that she was
feeling sore and cold. They followed as soon as they found a way through the
rocks to the tree line, but the stalker had a head start and his trail led back
to the regular ski runs and joined hundreds of other tracks and milling bodies.

Juliet gestured at the ski lift. Two men in navy and dark
green were in a chair about a hundred yards away. One was very thin. The other
might have been one of the satellites but he had on a knitted mask so it was
hard to tell.

“Do we make a futile gesture and perhaps break a leg on the
slopes chasing them, or do we go for coffee?” she asked. “Because I am not
letting you go off alone.
Especially if you are unarmed.”

Esteban studied her. She was wearing skinny skis that had
only a front binding which were great for cross-country skiing but which would
be dangerous on any kind of a serious slope.

Juliet was also feeling cold. Mostly from the snow, but also
because danger was again close by. The shouts of
Marco! Polo!
were
very loud in her brain.
Still, she meant what she said. She had seen Esteban shot once and didn’t plan
on letting it happen again.

“I wasn’t going to mention that you were looking a little
cold and forlorn—that is a word, yes?”

“Yes, and that’s nice—not mentioning my forlornness. But I
am
cold and feeling very alone. Maybe
even a little frightened that someone thinks I’m involved in this mess.”

Esteban put a hand on her shoulder which she could barely
feel through her down jacket, but she appreciated the gesture.

“We’ll never find him on the slopes—and if we did, how would
we know for sure who it was? Lots of people are wearing green and navy. Let’s
get out of these skis. I’ve
been wanting
to try
peppermint chocolate with snowman poop, and they have some at the booth over
there.”

“You have not. No one wants to eat snowman poop,” she said,
glad they wouldn’t be playing bloodhound. “You
know,
a
thoughtful stalker would wear hot pink and fall down a lot because they are
from the city and don’t know how to ski.”

“But that’s how it is with stalkers,” he said lightly as he
loosened his bindings. “They never think about anyone else.”

*
 
*
 
*

“I could be crazy,” Juliet began as she finished her hot
chocolate without marshmallows. It was too sweet for enjoyment but it had
stopped her shaking and given her some much needed energy.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but since you brought it
up, I’d say that fact pretty much shines through with every recent word and
deed. What the hell were you doing out there alone?”

“Oh shut up. You’re as bad as Raphael—and not nearly as
handsome.”

“I was only agreeing with you,” Esteban answered, pretending
to be hurt. “Besides, it’s me you want to paint nude.”

“I’ll kill Raphael,” she said.
Then looked
at her watch.
“Later.”

“It wasn’t
Rafe
who told me. You
convicted yourself. I have very good hearing. And it’s in your eyes. A man knows
these things.”

“You would have to be extraordinary to have heard us above
the bagpipes. So that leaves Elizabeth. I’ll kill her instead for ratting me
out.”

“We can’t have that. Okay, I just guessed all on my own.”

“I say again—shut up. Why can’t you hear this?” She threw
her cup into a trash can that was painted to look like a tubular snowman.