Chapter Six
Brian was aware of his fellow patrol members darting glances at him when they thought he wasn’t looking during Tuesday’s morning meeting.
This was his first day back, after spending Sunday in jail and Monday, his scheduled day off, skiing backcountry in an attempt to run away from the stares of his neighbors and his own racing thoughts.
The other patrollers had questions—he could see it in their eyes.
But they didn’t ask them. In fact, no one said anything to him.
His stomach knotted. Was he a pariah now?
On one hand, he was grateful that Connor didn’t say anything about his recent arrest and release at the morning meeting, but he would have expected his coworkers to at least acknowledge him.
“The snow up on the Apex runs is good enough to open that terrain for the weekend,” Connor said. “Brian, I want you to head up that way and dig out the T-bar.”
The old T-bar carried skiers up to a half dozen steep, rocky expert runs.
It only ran a few weekends a year, and there wouldn’t be anyone else over there.
Was Connor purposely sending Brian there to keep him away from public scrutiny?
If so, Brian didn’t know whether to thank him or insist that he had nothing to hide.
“Okay.” He glanced at the others, but no one was looking at him. Maybe Connor only wanted to keep Brian out of the way because it didn’t look good to have a murder suspect on ski patrol.
The silent treatment continued as he gathered his gear and prepared to head out after the meeting. He had just stepped outside when someone blocked his way—a weedy man wearing aviator sunglasses, an acid-green jacket and gray snow pants, phone in hand. “Are you Brian Weeks?” the man demanded.
“Dave!” Nina shouted. Brian looked up to find her waving. “Come ride up with me.”
At first, Brian thought she was talking to the guy in the green jacket, but then she hurried over and took his arm.
“Come on,” she said. “I want to get started.” As she pulled him away, she leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Play along. That guy is a reporter and he’s looking for Brian Weeks, so today you’re Dave. ”
The man in the green jacket had already turned away and was headed toward Chase Sargeant.
Brian followed Nina onto the lift chair.
On the chair, Brian felt for his name badge.
Surely the reporter had noticed that. “Your badge is in Connor’s desk drawer,” Nina said.
“I swiped it while you were feeding Daisy. We thought it would be better if you went undercover today.”
“I guess it’s not the best look, a possible criminal on ski patrol,” he said.
“You’re no criminal. And you shouldn’t have to deal with being hassled by vultures simply because the sheriff took you in for questioning.” The fierceness in her voice surprised him.
“Thanks,” he said.
“No problem. Just remember—today your name is Dave.”
At the top of the lift they parted company, and Brian headed for the T-bar.
No one said anything as he maneuvered among the few skiers on this part of the mountain. He couldn’t help thinking how different things were from only a few days ago, when everyone had greeted him. If Sharee ran up to him now would he be gentler with her—or more quick to warn her off?
He would probably have nightmares about the moment they accused him of killing Sharee for the rest of his life.
He still had the number Stacy McCrae had given him for a defense attorney in Grand Junction, but he hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to call her.
He didn’t really have the money to pay a lawyer—and calling one would make this whole nightmare more real.
It took forty-five minutes to ski over to the T-bar, working his way down a series of steep chutes, around rock outcroppings and through the trees to the old-style lift, the metal T-bars suspended in a line overhead.
With the runs leading to this lift closed he had the terrain to himself, and the deep snow and thick trees muffled the sounds from the rest of the resort. Brian started shoveling snow from beneath the lift’s path up the mountain, and had soon shed his jacket.
Lost in thought, he didn’t hear the skier’s approach until she spoke. “You’re a hard man to find.”
He staggered back, almost falling, and gaped at the helmeted figure in sleek black ski pants and jacket. Chloe pushed up her goggles. “Are you trying to avoid someone in particular?” she asked.
“You startled me.” He stabbed the shovel into the snow and faced her. “There’s a reporter looking for me, so yeah, I guess I’m hiding out for a bit. What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to you.” She looked around, at the deep snow and silent lift. “It took me half the morning to find someone who would tell me where you were. You’ve got a very protective bunch of coworkers.”
“I don’t need them to protect me.” Though he was grateful for their thoughtfulness, too. He reached for his jacket and put it back on. “Why did you want to find me?”
“I’m not convinced the sheriff’s department is going to try hard to find out who killed Sharee, now that they’ve decided you’re the likeliest suspect,” she said.
Did this mean she really didn’t believe he was guilty? Relief washed over him, followed by more panic as the rest of her words sank in. “You think they’re still going to come after me?”
“You’re the one person they’re sure had a reason to want to silence Sharee. And there’s the glove.”
“But I didn’t kill her. I swear.” How many times would he say that before people listened to him?
“Then we need to find out who did.”
“We?” He stared at her, unsure he had heard correctly. “You’re trying to figure out who killed Sharee yourself? Who’s helping you?”
“Will you help me?”
“Why me?” he asked.
“You saw Sharee at the resort, on the ski runs and with her friends. You can tell me who those friends were and what they’re like. And I figure you’re more motivated than most people to find the real killer.”
He was definitely that. “I don’t know how much I can help you,” he said. “I didn’t really know Sharee.”
“I’m not sure how well I knew her, either. But maybe together we can figure some things out.” She glanced around. “Is there someplace we can sit down and talk?”
He was supposed to be working. But he was pretty sure the whole point of this assignment was to keep him out of the way.
He dug in his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys and sorted through them.
“It’s not all that comfortable,” he said.
“But at least we can sit.” Then he led the way to the T-bar lift shack.
She removed her skis and followed him into the small wooden shed with windows on two sides, some hooks on the wall, and two folding chairs, a shovel and a wooden counter.
A gas heater hung from the ceiling, turned off.
The temperature inside the shack equaled that outside, and the place smelled of mouse droppings and old cigarette smoke.
“I can’t turn on the heat,” he said, and offered her one of the folding chairs. “The propane tank needs to be filled.”
“That’s okay.”
She sat, and he studied her. “You came down one of the Apex runs?”
She nodded. “I followed your tracks.”
Those were expert runs. “I didn’t know you skied. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here.”
“I came to SkyCrest for the skiing, several years ago,” she said. “But when rent and lift tickets both skyrocketed, I couldn’t afford to ski anymore. Plus, I needed to focus on my business.”
“But you bought a ticket today.” He winced inwardly. A single-day lift ticket would run her over $200. Plus she had to take off a day of work.
“I needed to talk to a lot of people at the resort, not just you,” she said. “I spent my first hour here questioning every lift tech and ski patroller I could find. I asked when they last saw Sharee and who she was with.”
“Did you find out anything?”
“Everyone knew her. That’s not really surprising.
My sister drew attention, wherever she went.
From the time she could talk, she liked being the center of attention and she had the kind of personality and the looks that made that easy for her.
” She leaned toward him, elbows on her knees. “Who do you remember seeing her with?”
“Most of the time when I talked to her, she was alone.” He grimaced, remembering the time she had cornered him in the lift shack.
“But you must have seen her other times. She wasn’t always alone, was she?”
He tried to conjure up some memory of Sharee. An image formed in his mind of a group of young people her age. “There were some local high school students I saw her with a few times. A couple of girls… Winter and Leah?”
“Leann? Leann Royberg?”
“I don’t know the last name, but Leann sounds right. And there were some guys—Josh and Trevor? There were others, but I only heard the names in passing.”
“What were they like? I mean, with her? Did you get a sense they were friends or was there tension?”
“They all seemed friendly. But I only saw them in passing.” He paused, thinking. “They were all about her age and the girls seemed a lot like her.”
“How do you mean?”
“They were pretty and outgoing. Friendly. Flirty.”
“Did they come on to you, too?”
“No. They’d say hi and everything, but they were focused on guys closer to their own age.”
“Josh and Trevor?”
“And others. Four or five guys altogether. I’m pretty sure they go to the local high school.”
“Did you ever see her talking to an older man—in his thirties, good-looking with dark brown hair and eyes?”
He considered the question, then shook his head. “No. But I didn’t really focus on Sharee. I was working and only paid attention to her when she was right in front of me, talking to me.”
“I get it,” she said. “You were trying to avoid her.”
“Not when I first met her, but later…yeah.”
“Several other people I talked to mentioned the other teenagers. I talked to Leann already but I’ll try to find the others and speak with them, too. Everyone I’ve spoken with so far says they never heard Sharee arguing with anyone.”