Chapter 12
The chalet’s door opened with the room key they’d taken from Gerald’s wallet.
When Tean followed Jem inside, voices came from farther back.
Adult voices, talking over each other in a way that wasn’t exactly argumentative, but wasn’t exactly comfortable either.
The warm air smelled like burned coffee, and it made Tean’s glasses steam, but he didn’t miss the way Jem’s expression sharpened at the unexpected sounds.
He followed Jem’s example, shedding his coat and stamping his feet before they made their way down the short hall.
The chalet’s main room was full of people.
Five men, two women. All of them were White except for a man who had dark brown skin and whom Tean pegged as Latino.
As Tean and Jem’s presence registered, the group fell silent and turned to stare, until only one of them—a skinny thirtysomething with a mousey brown mop top—was the only one still talking.
“And I’m saying we need to get our stories straight right now before anyone starts asking questions!”
A bead of snowmelt snaked its way down the side of Jem’s face. He brushed it away with his knuckles. His gaze didn’t leave the guy with the mop top.
“Who are you?” That was the Latino guy—square jaw, massive arms exposed by a tank, huge legs that the gray sweatpants only accentuated.
“This is a private residence—” Mop Top began.
“I’ll take care of this,” one of the other men said.
He’d been sitting apart from the group in one of the armchairs, legs stretched out.
Now he gathered himself and made his way over to Tean and Jem.
He was a little taller than average, broad across the shoulders, with sandy hair and blue-gray eyes and a perfect smile—he’d definitely had braces.
The cream-colored sweater and dark jeans looked expensive in an understated way.
He reached for Jem’s hand first. “Stephen Anderson. Are you from the lodge?”
Tean started to shake his head, but Jem said easily, “Freelance, but currently contracted to the lodge. Jem Berger. This is my partner, Tean.”
Stephen switched his attention to Tean. He had a solid handshake, but he definitely didn’t do a lot of manual labor.
For a moment, he studied Tean, and then he broke into a tired smile.
“Gosh, that’s a relief. We’re kind of at a loss here.
Do you know what we’re supposed to do? Brigitte said that Gerald passed away last night—”
One of the other men—a round-faced, soft-bodied guy with dark hair—let out a sound that was almost a sob.
Stephen’s expression tightened. “Is there something we’re supposed to do? That sounds so stupid. I don’t even know what to ask.”
“There’s nothing anyone needs to do right now,” Jem said. “Could you tell me your relationship to Mr. Fitzpatrick?”
“I’m his—I was his PA. His personal assistant.”
“Right. And the rest of you?”
“They’re part of a spiritual coaching group that Gerald leads. Led.” Stephen rubbed his mouth.
“Why are you here?” Tean asked.
“That’s none of your business,” said Mop Top. He had his arms folded across his chest, and he was pacing along one of the walls.
“We’re having a spiritual retreat,” Stephen said. “For the weekend. Although that’s assuming the snow ever lets up.”
“I meant,” Tean said, “what are you doing here right now?”
“We have a morning devotional.” That was one of the women—high-volume blond hair, artificial tan, and eyelashes that made him think of a horse. She was sitting next to the round-faced man who had sounded like he was about to cry. “It’s how we start each day of the retreat.”
“Are you LDS?” Stephen asked. The question was smooth and polite and, just below the surface, weighted.
“No,” Tean said. “But I know what a morning devotional is.”
“Right. Well, we were supposed to start at nine—”
“Even with the snow?” Jem asked.
For a moment, a flicker of what might have been annoyance showed under Stephen’s smile—and that was when Tean realized he recognized that smile. It wasn’t just perfect. It was the smile Jem wore when he thought he had you right where he wanted you.
“Last night, Gerald said we’d continue with the retreat regardless of the weather,” Stephen said. “At the time, none of us expected the power to go out, and you have to understand that normally, the walks are heated.”
“That’s what everybody keeps telling me,” Jem muttered.
“What happened to President Fitzpatrick?” This man hadn’t spoken yet. He was a dishwater blond, and he wore a flannel shirt and jeans. His eyes and nose were red, and he sat with his shoulders stooped, his hands twisting around each other.
“Sister Fitzpatrick said he fell.” This was the other woman, and she sat with her knee pressed against the man’s.
Strawberry blond with perfect Utah curls, she was pretty and petite and reminded Tean of little dogs who liked to bite.
One hand was curled around her phone, tucked neatly against her thigh. “It was an accident.”
“We should sue,” Mop Top said as he continued his pacing. “We should all sue. For emotional damages.”
In a low voice, Stephen said, “As you can tell, emotions are running high. We all relied on Gerald. Losing him is a tremendous blow.”
“Uh huh,” Jem said.
“I don’t think you said,” Stephen said, and that little flicker of something under the surface was back again—silvery and fast, like minnows in a still pool. “Why are you here?”
“We’re following up with Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” Jem said. “We spoke with her earlier. Is she available?”
“I’m sorry,” Stephen said, “she’s resting—”
“No, she’s not!” That little voice was Milo’s, and it came from the loft, where two blond heads were barely visible peering down at them.
“She’s watching TV,” Maeve announced.
Nervous laughter worked its way through the gathering. The round-faced guy tried for an I-love-kids voice that came out a little closer to what-are-you-brats-doing when he pitched his voice toward the loft and said, “Hey, how long have you guys been hiding up there?”
“Mom!” Milo screamed. “Jem is here!”
“Now probably isn’t the best time—” Stephen tried again.
But from the back of the chalet came the sound of a door opening, and a moment later Brigitte appeared in the hallway. She’d changed into a sweater and jeans and suede ankle boots, and she’d had time to do her makeup. She held herself stiffly, her gaze on Stephen before moving to Jem and Tean.
“Thank goodness,” Brigitte said. “You’re back. What happened? Was it him?”
Jem nodded. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“What does she mean, ‘was it him’?” That came from Mop Top, who had stopped pacing now to stare at them. “Who else could it be?”
“Somewhere private,” Jem said.
Brigitte seemed not to hear him for a moment. Then she came alive, blinking away tears—or what might have been tears, anyway—and saying, “Of course. This way.”
“I’d better come too,” Stephen said.
“Why don’t you make sure everyone’s okay?” Brigitte asked. “I know Gerald would have wanted you to do whatever you could for them.”
“Everyone’s fine,” Stephen said. “I want to do whatever I can for you right now.”
“We’re fine, thank you.”
“No, we’re not!” Maeve shouted from the loft.
“We’re hungry!” Milo informed the room.
“There you go,” Brigitte said. “You can get the children something to eat.”
“I can help you—” Stephen said, and he took a step toward her.
“No,” Brigitte snapped. “Jeremiah and I are going to talk. Alone.” She swept her gaze around the room, and a thin smile carved its way across her face. “I’m so sorry. Excuse us for a moment.”
That alone had sounded definite, but when Brigitte took Jem’s arm, the blond man shot a beseeching look at Tean, so Tean followed them down the hall.
He risked a glance at Stephen as he passed him.
Helplessness. Confusion. Weariness. And that was all—just a friend who’d gotten his head bitten off for trying to help.
Brigitte led them into what must have been the primary bedroom at the back of the chalet.
It had another fireplace, where a fire burned steadily, with armchairs and a low-backed sofa drawn up around it.
There was a TV, and although it was off now, Tean couldn’t help wondering if Maeve had been right about what Brigitte had been doing back here.
The bedding was smooth, as though it hadn’t been touched.
Motioning for them to sit, Brigitte shut the door. She waited a moment and opened the door again.
The hallway was empty.
She shut the door again.
When she curled up in the armchair closest to the fire, Jem said, “Trouble?”
“He’s a leech,” Brigitte said. “Gerald thought he walked on water.”
“What do you mean, a leech?” Tean asked.
Brigitte glanced at him as though she’d forgotten he was with them. She put a hand to her forehead, as though she had a headache, and shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that. It slipped out, and it was unkind.”
Unkind, maybe. But it hadn’t slipped out. She’d meant to say it. And she’d meant for them to hear it; Tean was sure about that.
“What happened?” Brigitte asked, sliding her gaze to Jem. “Was it him?”
Jem nodded. “It’s Gerald.” He shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry.”
Brigitte squeezed her eyes shut, but tears escaped anyway, trickling down her cheeks. No sobs. No wails. After a moment, she nodded and wiped her cheeks.
Jem sat there, staring at her, his hands balled into fists.
Tean went into the en suite bathroom. He couldn’t help noticing the pill bottles on the counter. He found some tissues and offered them to Brigitte.
She dabbed away the tears. “I’m sorry. I knew he was dead. But when you told me—it felt real for the first time. This is horrible. This is like a nightmare.”
“Is there anybody who would have wanted to hurt Gerald?” Jem asked.
Brigitte, still dabbing at her cheeks, slowed. She pressed the tissues against her cheek. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, had he gotten in a fight with anyone lately? Did he have any enemies?”