new developments had occurred.
It was time to give them something more to work on.
“Morning, Mr. Murphy. ”
It was Mrs. McLaren, the friendly, motherly widow who ran the small boardinghouse on Laurel Street. She bustled over to the sideboard to make sure the coffee was still full and there were plenty of rolls and doughnuts left for her other guests.
“Morning Mrs. Mac,” he said cheerfully, letting her have the full benefit of his beaming smile. He knew she liked him. He knew he could make just about any woman, any age, like him when he turned on the charm.
“My land but you’re up early,” she said. “Those others won’t be stirring for half an hour yet.”
“Can’t get things done lying in bed, Mrs. Mac. ” He grinned easily, and she nodded her agreement, setting another pot of water on the warming plate and changing the filter draw in the coffeemaker. It was a sentiment she approved of.
She nodded at the Post, lying open in his lap.
“What’s in the news today?” she asked. He looked down at the paper, as if seeing it for the first time, then smiled back at her.
“Oh, hardly anything. Hardly anything at all,” he said.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose no news is good news, as they say. ”
She turned to head back to her kitchen. He nodded once or twice, then, after she’d gone, he said to himself, “Not for someone, it isn’t. ”
He wondered who he’d be killing next. Then he shrugged. Not that it really mattered.
J esse had pulled a ten-hour shift on ski patrol after two volunteer members had failed to show up for duty. He was relaxing in the Tugboat, working his way through a burger, when Lee’s call came through.
The phone behind the bar shrilled, just managing to cut through the blare of conversation and laughter that filled the place. Todd, serving up a brimming glass of chardonnay with one hand, scooped the phone out of its cradle.
“Tugboat Saloon,” he said, then, “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
His serving hand now free, he covered his right ear with the palm so he could hear the voice on the other end of the phone more clearly.
“Yeah, Sheriff, he’s here somewhere, I’m sure,” he said. “Just hang tight for a moment.” He set the phone down and leaned forward on the bar, searching through the crowd for Jesse, spotting him finally at a table by the coatrack. Fortuitously, Jesse chose that moment to look toward the bar and saw Todd making unmistakable gestures toward the phone. Leaving the remains of his burger, he made his way through the crush and took the phone from Todd’s outstretched hand.
“It’s Lee,” the barman told him.
Like Todd, Jesse clapped his free hand over his other ear to hear more clearly.
“This is Jess,” he said. “Something happening?”
“I’d appreciate it if you could get down to Gondola Square.” There was something about her voice, a deliberate lack of emotion, that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Well, don’t go making a lot of noise about it up in the Tugboat, Jess,” Lee said, “but we’ve got us another dead body on the Silver Bullet.”
NINE
O nce again, it was John Hostetler who had found the body. It shook him up pretty bad and Lee had Tom Legros take him to the gondola office and pour coffee into the elderly man.
John was a kindly soul. He’d lived in Routt County all his life, had raised a family here and seen them all go on to other towns, other cities to marry and bring up their own children. He had eleven grand-children who loved to see their grandpop whenever they came to visit. His wife, Evie, had passed away three summers back and John, although well past retirement age, had taken the job at the gondola to help ease the loneliness. He was a friendly, cheerful man. A man people instinctively liked. He was the sort of man who would never willingly do harm to anyone.
A man like that shouldn’t be subjected to the shock of finding a dead body hunched
It was time to give them something more to work on.
“Morning, Mr. Murphy. ”
It was Mrs. McLaren, the friendly, motherly widow who ran the small boardinghouse on Laurel Street. She bustled over to the sideboard to make sure the coffee was still full and there were plenty of rolls and doughnuts left for her other guests.
“Morning Mrs. Mac,” he said cheerfully, letting her have the full benefit of his beaming smile. He knew she liked him. He knew he could make just about any woman, any age, like him when he turned on the charm.
“My land but you’re up early,” she said. “Those others won’t be stirring for half an hour yet.”
“Can’t get things done lying in bed, Mrs. Mac. ” He grinned easily, and she nodded her agreement, setting another pot of water on the warming plate and changing the filter draw in the coffeemaker. It was a sentiment she approved of.
She nodded at the Post, lying open in his lap.
“What’s in the news today?” she asked. He looked down at the paper, as if seeing it for the first time, then smiled back at her.
“Oh, hardly anything. Hardly anything at all,” he said.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose no news is good news, as they say. ”
She turned to head back to her kitchen. He nodded once or twice, then, after she’d gone, he said to himself, “Not for someone, it isn’t. ”
He wondered who he’d be killing next. Then he shrugged. Not that it really mattered.
J esse had pulled a ten-hour shift on ski patrol after two volunteer members had failed to show up for duty. He was relaxing in the Tugboat, working his way through a burger, when Lee’s call came through.
The phone behind the bar shrilled, just managing to cut through the blare of conversation and laughter that filled the place. Todd, serving up a brimming glass of chardonnay with one hand, scooped the phone out of its cradle.
“Tugboat Saloon,” he said, then, “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
His serving hand now free, he covered his right ear with the palm so he could hear the voice on the other end of the phone more clearly.
“Yeah, Sheriff, he’s here somewhere, I’m sure,” he said. “Just hang tight for a moment.” He set the phone down and leaned forward on the bar, searching through the crowd for Jesse, spotting him finally at a table by the coatrack. Fortuitously, Jesse chose that moment to look toward the bar and saw Todd making unmistakable gestures toward the phone. Leaving the remains of his burger, he made his way through the crush and took the phone from Todd’s outstretched hand.
“It’s Lee,” the barman told him.
Like Todd, Jesse clapped his free hand over his other ear to hear more clearly.
“This is Jess,” he said. “Something happening?”
“I’d appreciate it if you could get down to Gondola Square.” There was something about her voice, a deliberate lack of emotion, that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Well, don’t go making a lot of noise about it up in the Tugboat, Jess,” Lee said, “but we’ve got us another dead body on the Silver Bullet.”
NINE
O nce again, it was John Hostetler who had found the body. It shook him up pretty bad and Lee had Tom Legros take him to the gondola office and pour coffee into the elderly man.
John was a kindly soul. He’d lived in Routt County all his life, had raised a family here and seen them all go on to other towns, other cities to marry and bring up their own children. He had eleven grand-children who loved to see their grandpop whenever they came to visit. His wife, Evie, had passed away three summers back and John, although well past retirement age, had taken the job at the gondola to help ease the loneliness. He was a friendly, cheerful man. A man people instinctively liked. He was the sort of man who would never willingly do harm to anyone.
A man like that shouldn’t be subjected to the shock of finding a dead body hunched
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