Chapter 5
“Look at this, would you look at this!” Rick Dalton cried, gesturing at the snow falling out of the black sky into the bright lights, huge flakes, the size of quarters, real snow!
“Whoo-eee. Can you imagine the snow cover we’ll have by the grand opening this weekend?
” Imitating a football player spiking a ball in the end zone, he yelled, “Score!” He lurched forward so violently he almost tilted the ski lift chair forward enough to dump the two men out.
“Hey, Dickie, ya wanna calm down here,” said the man beside him, who had to throw his weight against the back of the chair for balance.
Bill Anderson, Rick’s best friend from childhood and the only person on the planet who’d dare call him Dickie rested his hand on Rick’s arm, making elaborate patting motions, the way you’d stroke a horse’s flank. “Whoa there, steady boy, steady.”
Rick raised his voice to be heard as the ski lift chair passed over the top of a rumbling snow machine. “I’m telling you, this was one of the best ideas I’ve ever had.”
Bill coughed into his mitten to hide a bark of laughter. “Riiiight, Dickie, a great idea, one of your most brilliant—invite a whole herd of Amish to go skiing.”
“I didn’t invite them to ski?—”
“It’d be kind of funny if they did, though, wouldn’t it? I’d pay cash money to see that.” He feigned a slightly German accent as he called out, “Hold onto your kapp, Maggie, I’m comin’ through!”
“Seriously though.” Rick plowed doggedly ahead. “Think of the goodwill this one little gesture is creating. And it’s cheap. I’ll just be out the cost of running the lifts and the snowmaking machines?—”
“And dinner. You forget about dinner? All that food. You laid out a spread big enough to feed all the blond men in the Norwegian army.”
“Catered. Buffet style. Didn’t have to pay the restaurant staff?—”
“LEDs.” Bill gestured to the lights turning night into noon from their perch atop fifty-foot poles.
“Oh, come on. It’s still a bargain for what I’m getting.” Rick was becoming frustrated. “Two hundred fifty people from every part of the county—including the Amish—talking about Royal Oaks Ski Resort.” He paused. “And saying good things about Rick Dalton.”
“You coulda rented a billboard on the turnpike for a buck two-ninety-eight.” Bill gestured as if pointing out the words on a sign. “‘Dickie Dalton—the man, the myth and the legend!’ I got a pen if you want to write that down.”
Rick shook his head, smiled in spite of himself.
He had been the butt of his friend’s constant ribbing since they were five-year-olds in a sandbox.
If you were in Bill Anderson’s world, you’d best develop a thick skin because nobody was immune to his razzing.
Last Sunday, he’d landed with both feet on Pastor Stancowski for a typo in the church bulletin—a minor thing, just substituting the word “of” for the word “in.”
“Yep, Pastor, we definitely need to be praying for ‘those who’re sick of our church and community.’”
Bill didn’t approve of Rick’s grand plan, saw no point in “advertising” to the locals when the overwhelming majority of Rick’s paying clientele would be out-of-towners from Pittsburgh or Cleveland who wanted to enjoy a weekend in the Laurel Highlands of western Pennsylvania.
Skiers and snowboarders from Washington D.C.
, who’d take Interstate 70 West and get on the Pennsylvania Turnpike at Breezewood—the gas-station/truck-stop/motel and fast-food capital of North America.
He couldn’t get it through Bill’s thick skull how important it was to be on good terms with the local community—because it would be those people, not some skier from New York, who’d be called out in the middle of the night if a pipe burst at the resort.
They’d be the ones making an off-the-books, ooops-we-ran-out delivery of booze …
after the PLCB’s (Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board) mandated 2:00 a.m. closing time.
Bill ran a business, but he still didn’t understand the nuances of reciprocity that kept the wheels on the bus.
Things ran smoothly or they were constantly screwed up.
Neither of those outcomes was ever accidental, and in that regard, the pre-grand-opening celebration to honor the people who’d built the resort was a stroke of PR genius.
The only fly in that particular dish of buttermilk was, of course, the Amish. Over the two years of construction, maybe as many as seventy-five Amish carpenters had worked on the project. And those folks weren’t famous for being party animals.
But Rick was determined to show his gratitude to them in particular.
Nobody understood the way Rick did the incalculable contribution those master craftsmen had made.
Royal Oaks certainly wasn’t the biggest resort in the Laurel Highlands, or the flashiest. But he was determined it would be the classiest!
He’d wanted special touches that’d raise Royal Oaks above the bar of ordinary ski resorts, so he’d gone online and found pictures of famous European ski resorts with ornate details he could incorporate into the design of Royal Oaks.
He’d wanted exposed timber beams in the great room using Pennsylvania hardwoods—white oak and black cherry.
He’d wanted hand-carved designs—of squirrels, deer, wildflowers, eagles, even wild turkeys—in the wood throughout, in balcony railings, mantels, beams, door and window frames, arches, even in the wood paneling.
When he’d shown the Amish carpenters the pictures and asked if they could replicate it, they’d looked at each other, nodded, and replied, “Yup.” And they had!
They’d made Royal Oaks look like a resort high in the Austrian Alps, and he owed them.
He’d decided to host a dinner, followed by an evening of nighttime skiing on the Wednesday before the weekend grand opening as a thank-you to everyone who had worked on the project.
He’d sent embossed invitations, as fancy as wedding invitations, to all the employees and the families of Vanguard Construction Company—the carpenters, plumbers, electricians, office staff—and the staff of the Somerset Builders’ Supply that had gone out of their way to procure exactly what he wanted, all the way down to the Italian tiles for the floor in the dining room.
He invited other local businesses as well—the upholstery shop that had made the draperies, the flooring store that had provided the carpet—a total of about two hundred fifty people.
Of course, it had taken some convincing to talk the Amish among them into coming and bringing their families.
The Old Order Amish politely but firmly refused right off the bat.
He’d expected that. But those who were New Order Amish considered the idea.
They were generally more lenient about recreation—so long as it was wholesome and family-oriented and not flashy or competitive.
The key factor would be intent—enjoying God’s creation from a mountain view versus engaging in a high-adrenaline sport like skiing.
He sold it as an opportunity for the families to do something unique—enjoy a fine dinner and then ride a ski lift to the top of the mountain.
He said he’d provide ski jackets, black, of course, which gratefully the rental ski jackets at the resort were, and helmets, goggles, gloves, the works.
For the adventurous among them, and surely to God there were some, the resort would provide sleds at the top of the mountain.
He saw Amish children sledding down the hillsides every winter, and the chance to sled all the way down a ski slope …
then get on a lift, go up and do it again …
had surely set off some please-oh-please-oh-please-Mommying from the kids.
“You do know there’s hot chocolate at the top—” Rick began.
He stopped when his eye caught movement on the ski lift chair that was three empty chairs in front of them. As he stared in amazement, the lone man in the chair collapsed sideways and then slid beneath the restraining bar and fell out, gliding soundlessly, no scream, down to the snow below.
“What the …?” Rick couldn’t get his breath. “That guy just … fell.”
“He didn’t fall,” Bill said. “Didn’t you hear it?”
Rick’s head was spinning. “Hear what? All I heard was the snow machine?—”
“There was a gunshot. I heard a gunshot!”
Rick stared at Bill in astonishment. “Oh, come on?—”
“I heard a gunshot!” Bill began looking around frantically. “Somebody shot that guy out of the seat.”
“That’s crazy.” Rick was still craning his neck to see the splash of red ski jacket on the white snow below.
“I’m getting out of here!” Bill had been in the military, had deployed to Afghanistan, and had suffered horrific bouts of PTSD when he first got home. He had that same wild look in his eye right now.
“What?”
“Don’t you get it? We’re the next targets. I’m not gonna be a sitting duck!”
“Where do you think you’re?—”
Before Rick could do anything to stop him, Bill lifted the bar in front of him … and leapt out of the chair.
Rick was so stunned he couldn’t speak. Bill had literally jumped out of a ski lift chair! It was probably twenty-five feet from the ground, which was covered in snow, so?—
He didn’t have a chance to think the rest of the thought, to wonder if Bill had survived the fall. A sudden incredible pressure slammed into his chest, stole his breath. He looked down and saw blood squirting out, staining his jacket a darker red before the world went black.