Chapter 9
Wickham set everything up with Brig. By five thirty, we were at the lodge with Brig and a photographer. Golden sunlight rippling across the mountain snow as afternoon faded into evening was as perfect a backdrop as any cathedral.
I stood in front of the man who, for months, I’d dreamed of claiming as my own as he promised to be my lawfully wedded husband, to care for, be faithful to, honor, and stand with me for the rest of our lives .
. . potentially. To my surprise, Wickham slipped a delicate gold band with an oval stone out of his pocket and placed it on my ring finger.
It was the happiest day of my life.
Brig finished up the ceremony; the photographer's camera snapped wildly. “You may kiss the bride.”
And he kissed me so sweetly the angels could have cried. I told myself it would last forever, and mostly believed.
After a few photographs, we ran off together toward our cabin, giddy, and laughing. Before I made it up the wooden steps, Wickham swept me off my feet. “I can’t let my new bride cross the threshold on her own.”
As a picture-perfect couple, with Wickham carrying me in his arms, we crossed into our little honeymoon suite. Then he turned on the lights, and I screamed so loud my ears rang.
Tim, the Grey Doors alternative strings player, lay face down in the middle of the room with a knife in his back.
I grabbed my phone and called 911. “We need help. There’s a dead person in our hotel—-little cabin thing—whatever this place is. The Sky Powder Resort, number 217. Just hurry—we’re on our honeymoon.”
I sobbed, and Wickham wrapped his arm around me, then helped me to sit on the sofa. “What’s happening? How did he end up in our cabin?”
Despondent, he shook his head and patted my back. “I wish I knew. The Grey Doors are definitely being targeted, though. I can’t believe Tim’s . . . What was he even doing here?”
“Would he have followed us? I can’t believe we just ignored the danger and eloped. I talked myself into believing a fairytale.” My chest shook as I pulled in a breath. “What were we thinking?”
“Hey.” Wickham pulled me into another warm, gentle embrace. “We’ll figure this out.”
“Who did this?” I leaned into Wickham’s arms, letting him hold me as we waited for the police to arrive.
I glanced at poor Tim, lifeless on the floor, and a chill shot down my spine.
Someone had killed him, which meant there was a killer on the loose, and anyone in the band might be next.
This wasn’t a romantic adventure. This was a nightmare.
Someone must have followed us to the resort.
In fact, they were probably watching our cabin even now.
“It’s gotta be the same person who killed Alex.
But the biggest question is why on earth was he in our room? ”
“You’re probably right. Two people in the same band don’t usually get murdered by different people within days of each other.” Wickham rubbed his temples, and his aura dimmed nearly to gray.
“Tim . . . Alex . . . they didn’t have any connections. They may both have made the wrong person angry?” My imagination had gotten the better of me.
A heavy knock on the frame of the open door.
A pretty Black woman, who must’ve worked out five times a week, stood on the doorstep. “Sir, ma’am, we’re going to need to have you step outside. This is a crime scene.”
“Oh, okay.” Fortunately, my purse was right next to me, so I grabbed it along with my coat. I wasn’t sure whether they would let me collect the rest of my things. Wickham had paid the wedding photographer, so fortunately, he at least had his wallet on him. “Will they let us back in here?”
“Doubtful.” The officer took a second look at me. “You two just get married or something?”
“It hasn’t even been an hour,” Wickham said matter-of-factly, though I sensed tension under the surface. “This is not how we’d imagined our evening going.”
“Well, congratulations, I suppose. I’m Detective Ortho.
I’ll be handling this investigation. We’re going to need to chat in a little while.
You both alright with that?” Detective Ortho was close to my mother’s age, but in much better physical shape.
Definitely not the stereotypical detective in a deerstalker cap and trench coat I’d imagined as a kid.
“Of course. We’ll wait in the lodge,” I answered for both of us. It was too cold and dark to wait outside in our wedding clothes.
A crowd of skiers flooded the lodge, leaving scarcely any room in the main lounge. But we found a sofa at the edge of the foyer and waited. I huddled next to Wickham, my head on his shoulder.
He looked down and brushed a lock of hair from my face. "Lydia, I promise to protect you. Whatever happens, we'll be alright."
"I'm not afraid of being hurt. No mere human stands a chance against you. It's only, part of me believed we'd go back to that cabin and live happily ever after." I blinked back a tear attempting to escape my eye.
"We'll get things sorted, don't worry. But for now, you're right.
We need to focus on the reality in front of us.
We're playing cat and mouse with a killer.
I'm wracking my brain to think of a connection between Tim and Alex, but I've come up blank.
" Wickham's jaw tightened, and though he held me gently in his arms, his fist clenched.
After a good twenty minutes, Detective Ortho arrived at the lodge. She stopped to buy a diet soda from the machine in the reception area and then meandered over to us, fully inspecting the room on her way.
“Well, here goes the drill.” She sat on the sofa across from me and Wickham, took another sip of her drink, pulled out a notepad, and started.
After the usual questions about our identities and activities, Detective Ortho paused, like she was trying to decide whether we were innocent or guilty.
“So, you know the victim, but he’s not from this area? Something’s not right here.”
“Agreed," Wickham answered. “Do you have security footage from this evening?”
“Possibly some. There’s no guarantee it will tell us anything.
Trying to set up security cameras in a place like this, with so many small buildings and extreme weather, is a shot in the dark and is usually pointless.
But I have my tech team working with the resort right now.
” She scribbled a few things on her notepad.
Exhaustion from the long day washed over me. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
Detective Ortho’s gaze was surprisingly sympathetic. “I know today is a special day for you. But I need you to stick around—the resort can find you another cabin. Plus, the roads are still terrible. Chances of you making it any further than Main Street are slim to none.”
Detective Ortho left us with a few officers standing nearby. The sun had set completely, and through the lodge windows we had a view of millions of stars in the clear night sky. An occasional tear trickled down my cheek. “Wickham, what do we do? I was so happy, over the moon. And now—I’m worried.”
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Lydia.” His tone was stern, and his eyes were darker than usual.
“I trust you. But do you get the feeling that someone’s watching us?” I searched his face for answers he didn’t have.
“It's possible,” Wickham’s voice was unnaturally calm, and I wondered if he was trying to play it cool for my benefit.
Everything was out of balance. Despite the police presence and knowing there was a dead body in our cabin, it was a beautiful night.
Then the clouds returned, covering the sky.
The world outside was silent, as soft falling snow blanketed the ground.
But it was also bitterly cold. A juxtaposition.
Our wedding was a dream, and discovering the body, a nightmare.
The horrific scene and the cozy lodge backdrop all fought my ability to make sense of my situation. Maybe Tim’s murder was the same.
“Wickham.” An idea hit me. I paused, wondering how to phrase my question, and rubbed my arms. My coat was too warm, but the wedding dress provided no insulation, so I opted to be slightly chilly.
“Was there anyone who particularly liked Alex, or even Tim? Were either of them involved with someone romantically?”
“Alex talked about a girlfriend several times, but he never introduced us to her. Tim didn’t have serious relationships, but he dated a lot.
” Wickham draped his blazer around my shoulders, and I stared at the enormous fire crackling in the fireplace, the reflected light dancing in his eyes.
The tension in my shoulders dropped a pinch.
"So there probably wasn't a romantic rival?" In the lodge’s great room, small groups of onlookers occasionally gawked at us. We certainly stood out in our wedding clothes among the skiers. “The creepy feeling I get when someone’s watching me is flooding my senses. Don’t act like you’re looking, but try to see if you recognize anyone in the crowd.
What if the killer followed us to this building? ”
“I’m looking,” Wickham whispered back as he casually rubbed his chin. “It’s hard to tell. I don’t recognize anyone we know.”
“Neither do I.” I continued to rest my head on Wickham’s shoulder. A couple of people were familiar. There was an older couple who’d been dining together earlier, a couple of college kids who were probably on winter break, the artist who’d been sketching in the lobby earlier in the day.
“There’s a woman at the far end of the room with magenta hair that’s familiar,” Wickham barely whispered, like the words were caught in his throat. “Reminds me of the wig back at the bakery.”
“It couldn’t be the same wig, but it’s very similar. Can you see their face?” I whispered back even though I felt like screaming. Why hadn’t I noticed her before? Whoever it was didn’t look like a killer, not by any stretch of the imagination.
“The way she's leaning forward makes it almost impossible to see her profile—not to mention those blocky glasses. But that’s probably a wig. It’s the only person here whose face we haven’t seen clearly.
” Wickham stared intently at the figure.
She was far across the lobby, sitting on a sofa.
Our view of her was from the side, and thick strands of red-magenta hair partially covered her face.
“If we could get her to look up or turn her head,” I muttered. Whoever it was had a chaotic aura, orange and gray pulsed around their body.
Before I pondered what else to do, Detective Ortho marched back over to us. “Video feed doesn’t show much. But I have a few questions for you, Mr. Wickham. Do you know a man named Alex Adler?”
My heart leapt into my throat. If Wickham was nervous at all, he didn’t show it.
In fact, he was a very impressive actor.
But that was just it. I was beginning to see through him.
The cooler his outer shell appeared, the more stressed he was inside.
“I certainly do. He was a bit of a business partner and helped manage the band I’m in.
He lent me some money a while back so I could afford to go on tour. ”
“He was found dead a few days ago. You’ve been listed as an official person of interest regarding that case.” Detective Ortho narrowed her eyes as she watched Wickham’s face.
“What do you mean? I had no motive to kill Alex.” Despite having owed Alex a bunch of money, Wickham’s answer was convincing.
It was a good thing I trusted him implicitly, because he could pull a lie off like nobody’s business, if he wanted to.
That wasn’t a talent I’d ever had. My emotions were always as plain as day on my face.
“It means”—Detective Ortho glanced at me apologetically—“we’re going to need you to come down to the station for questioning. Mrs. Wickham, we’re going to have you stay here.”
My breath caught in my throat, and I couldn’t speak for a moment. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
“I hope it will be quick. I don’t want to leave my wife.” Wickham’s brow furrowed as Detective Ortho nudged him to his feet. “I won’t be able to help you at all. Lydia and I have been together . . .”
“I’m sorry, we have no choice.” Detective Ortho responded sternly.
“Lydia, please be careful,” he said. For the first time, a slice of fear registered in his voice.
I gave him a slight nod and clutched his hand to indicate that I understood before Detective Ortho guided him away.
There was a murderer somewhere at the resort, and I was on my own.
Even worse, we'd dug ourselves into this situation by letting our guards down and getting caught up in a fairytale.
What madness urged me to abandon everything and run off with Wickham?
We'd made ourselves easy targets, and the killer wouldn't have to work hard if I didn't adjust my objectives.
Apparently, I'd been deceiving myself. A tear slipped down my cheek, and I wiped it away with the back of my sleeve.