Too Rich and Too Dead Page 12

  The same decorating theme—wood as far as the eye could see—was incorporated into the interior as well. In fact, if knotty pine was capable of causing an allergic reaction, Mallory figured, she'd be having a mighty hard time breathing right about now. Everything inside the Pine Creek Cookhouse was made of knot-covered wood that looked like an illustration in a book of Grimms fairy tales: the walls, ceiling, beams, columns, and even the tables and chairs. While the two rows of chandeliers that illuminated the dining room weren't made of wood, they had been fashioned from the next best thing: antlers.

  I sure hope there aren't any termites in Aspen, Mallory thought as she smiled at the hostess heading in her direction.

  “One?” the hostess asked pleasantly.

  “That's right,” Mallory said, noticing that the other two groups who had come up the mountain with her had already been seated.

  “Anyplace in particular you'd like to sit?”

  The most discreet seat in the house, Mallory thought.

  She did a quick survey of the restaurant and spotted a table in the corner. Not only was it out of the way, it also happened to be shielded by one of the thick wooden columns.

  “How about that one?” she asked.

  “Right this way,” the hostess said.

  As soon as she sat down, Mallory checked her watch. According to her calculations, Sylvie would be coming up the mountain on the very next commuter sleigh. That meant she still had a few minutes to jot down some notes.

  “Pine Creek Cookhouse,” she wrote at the top of a clean page in her notebook. “Horse-drawn sleigh. Mountain views. Friendly staff. KNOTTY PINE!!!”

  The sound of animated voices and raucous laughter caused her to glance up. A new group was filing in through the front door, their pink cheeks and bright eyes a sure sign that they had just had the total sleigh experience.

  One of the first people she spotted in the crowd was Sylvie, dressed in a blindingly white ski jacket and fur boots that made her look as if she'd mugged Sasquatch.

  But it wasn't the woman's fashion statement she was interested in. It was her lunch date.

  Mallory's heartbeat quickened as she peered out from under the brim of her hat, anxious to see who Sylvie had brought to the most secluded restaurant she could find.

  When her eyes zeroed in on another familiar face in the crowd, she clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from gasping.

  Harriet!

  Mallory was so startled that it took a few seconds for cogent thoughts to begin forming in her head. Once they did, they swirled around so fast and furious she could barely reign them in.

  What on earth is Harriet doing here—with Sylvie, no less? Is it possible that the police let her go and she didn't even bother to tell me? Even though I'm the one person she claimed she trusted enough to call upon for help in her darkest hour, the person she begged to get her off the hook by finding the real killer… the person she'd insisted was the only one she knew in Aspen who could help her?

  But instead of calling her, it appeared that Harriet had decided to go out for lunch with someone else. Sylvie, no less, a woman she had spoken about so bitterly that frogs and spiders had practically leaped out of her mouth. Mallory could still hear the venom in Harriet's voice as she referred to Silvie as “vile.”

  Yet with her very own eyes Mallory could see that the two of them were not only meeting at the most private, tucked-away eatery in town, they were laughing together as if they were the best of friends.

  The whole situation was so preposterous, in fact, that Mallory wondered if she was completely misreading it.

  Harriet can't be Sylvie's secret lunch date! She thought. Maybe it's just a coincidence that they both decided to have lunch here today…

  By that point, Sylvie and Harriet had sauntered up to the hostess.

  “Table for two?” she asked them pleasantly.

  “That's right,” Sylvie replied. “I made a reservation. Actually, my hotel did. The name is Snowdon.”

  So they are having lunch together! Mallory thought, watching as Sylvie followed the hostess to a table with Harriet trailing after her. And is it my imagination, or is Sylvie looking from side to side nervously as if she wished she, too, had thought to wear a gigantic Mata Hari hat?

  Mallory felt as if the entire room was swirling around her. While Harriet had looked like the victim of a police investigation gone awry as she sat in the basement of the courthouse, she'd changed her clothes, brushed her hair, and was now laughing and chattering and acting as if she didn't have a care in the world. With Sylvie, no less!

  Mallory had been totally supportive of Harriet up to this point—and completely convinced by her claim that she was innocent. But she suddenly didn't know what to believe.

  At the moment, however, Mallory knew her first priority was hightailing it out of there. The Pine Creek Cookhouse was big, but it wasn't that big. Even the floppiest hat could only do so much, and she was desperate to sneak out of the restaurant before either one of them spotted her.

  So while Sylvie and Harriet were absorbed in the waiter's recitation of the day's specials, Mallory pulled her hat down even farther over her head, stood up, and headed toward the front door. She took care to hide behind every column she passed.

  “I—I won't be staying for lunch after all,” she told the hostess as she neared the front door. “Something came up.” She pulled out her cell phone and pointed at it, meanwhile putting on the most apologetic look she could manage. “Family emergency.”

  “I'm so sorry!” the hostess said. “Would you like me to call—”

  But Mallory was already out of there.

  She found a spot near the corner of the building that shielded her from view. As she waited for the next sleigh, she sucked in as much cool, clean mountain air as she could, hoping it would help her think straight.

  Was Harriet really the hapless victim of an over-zealous police force, someone who was being unjustly accused of a horrendous crime she was incapable of committing? she wondered. Or was her plea for help simply a ruse—a way of diverting attention away from the fact that she was, indeed, the killer?

  At this point, Mallory simply didn't know. But there was one thing she did know: Now that Harriet had dragged her into this, she had every intention of following through until she found out for herself who the actual killer was.

  Returning to downtown Aspen was a relief.

  The first thing Mallory did was grab lunch at a deli called the Butcher's Block. While she waited for her sandwich to be constructed, she noted that the menu included caviar. Not exactly standard deli fare, at least where she came from. Then she contemplated what to do for the next few hours before dinner at Montagne. While part of her wanted nothing more than to retreat to her hotel room, stretching out on the bed with a good book, Mallory's more practical side urged her to use her free afternoon to do some sightseeing for her article.

  As she sat in her car in a parking garage at the edge of downtown Aspen, she consulted her guidebook, which was chock-full of Post-its marking places that sounded worth a visit. She was debating between going to the Aspen Art Museum and checking out bus tours of celebrity homes when her cell phone rang.

  She glanced at the caller ID screen and saw a number she didn't recognize.

  A local number.

  “Mallory?” a familiar voice replied when she said hello. “It's me, Harriet.”

  “Harriet!” she cried, her surprise sincere. “Where are you?”

  “I'm out! The police let me go.”

  “That's great! When?”

  “About a half hour ago.”

  A bold-faced lie, Mallory thought angrily. But she'd already decided that the best way to proceed was by going along with whatever Harriet told her.

  “It turns out the police weren't actually going to arrest me,” Harriet continued. “They just wanted to bring me in for questioning. But they still consider me a suspect. The fact that they found that silly letter has made me what they're referring
to as ‘a person of interest.’”

  Frankly, I'm finding you kind of interesting, too, Mallory thought wryly.

  Aloud, she said, “I hope the lawyer was helpful.”

  “Very. Thanks for finding him for me, Mallory. As soon as he got there, he gave the cops a dozen reasons why they couldn't hold me. They gave me this little speech about how I shouldn't leave town, of course—as if I have anyplace to go!”

  Maybe you do and maybe you don't, Mallory thought, still not sure what to believe.

  “That's great news,” she said evenly. “So what time did you actually get out of the police station?”

  “I'm not sure,” Harriet replied. With a nervous laugh, she added, “To tell you the truth, I was so glad to get out of there that I didn't even look at my watch.”

  The truth. Mallory was beginning to wonder if Harriet even knew the meaning of the word.

  “I was so scared, Mallory. I still am. As soon as they let me out, I decided that the first thing I was going to do was run home and take a long, hot shower. All I want to do right now is hide, you know?”

  At this point, I don't know what I know, Mallory thought.

  But she simply replied, “Of course. Who could blame you?”

  “Anyway, I was wondering if I could take you out for lunch or something,” Harriet went on breathlessly. “To thank you for helping me out—and to pick your brain. I'm still hoping you'll do the thing we talked about you doing. Just because the police let me go after my lawyer showed up doesn't mean they're convinced that I'm innocent. And they won't be until the real killer has been caught!”

  “Yes, let's get together,” Mallory agreed. “How about coffee tomorrow afternoon? I may know more by then.”

  But sharing information with Harriet wasn't her real reason for wanting to get together. She was actually hoping to get information.

  And she hoped that getting together the following afternoon would help her accomplish exactly that. Without ever letting on, of course, that she'd noticed that even though Harriet was an accountant, things didn't always add up.

  “Too often travel, instead of broadening the mind,

  merely lengthens the conversation.”

  —Elizabeth Drew

  It's not a real date, Mallory told herself firmly a few hours later as she leaned closer to the bathroom mirror and flicked a mascara wand over her lashes. After all, having dinner at fancy restaurants is part of my job. It makes sense to bring someone else with me. That way, I have an excuse to taste twice as much of the food.

  When that line of reasoning didn't banish the butterflies from her stomach, she tried a different argument.

  Gordon Swig is just a nice guy who recognized that I'm all alone in this town, the same way he is. He probably doesn't have anyone else to have dinner with, either. Besides, we've both suffered a terrible shock, so a little companionship will be comforting.

  It's not as if he's interested in me, she reasoned. Not that way. And I'm not interested in him, either.

  Besides, a mischievous little voice piped up, even if you were interested, the two of you live on opposite coasts of what happens to be an extremely large country.

  Mallory was fully aware that this wasn't the first time since David's death that she'd been forced to face her ambivalence about being with a new man. The butterflies that went with it, either. On her very first press trip, back in January, she had met another man who, like Gordon, was charming, fun to be with, and, much to her amazement, interested in her. Yet just like Gordon, Wade McKay lived far away, in Toronto. While they'd kept in touch via e-mail ever since those few days they'd spent in Orlando, the same sense of uncertainty had kept her from allowing that relationship to go any further.

  With a sigh, Mallory took a step back from the mirror and scrutinized her outfit: a loose-fitting, tomato red jacket splashed with gigantic Chinese characters, a black silk T-shirt, and tailored black pants. She wondered if she should dress up, dress down, or just accept the fact that whatever she wore, she would never convince herself that she'd made a good choice.

  Good thing this isn't a real date, she thought wryly, objective enough to be amused by her own behavior. Lord knows what state I'd be in if it were.

  She relaxed a bit when she rode down to the main floor and found Gordon standing awkwardly in the lobby, his eyes glued to the elevators. She remembered that what she had first noticed about him was that he was on the short side, on the bald side, and not even close to being a contender for Best Dressed. Yet this evening she found his unpretentious appearance refreshing. Like Harriet, he struck her as someone who had more important things to think about than whether every hair was in place or whether he was wearing the most expensive suit in the room.

  As for the anxious expression on his face, it reminded her of the way dogs look when they're tied to parking meters outside stores, waiting for their masters.

  Okay, so maybe this is a date, she thought. And that's not necessarily a bad thing.

  Her reassessment of the evening ahead was reinforced by the way Gordon brightened the moment he spotted her. If he had a tail, Mallory suspected he'd be wagging it.

  “Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!” he greeted her, flashing that same warm smile that had grabbed her attention the night before. Maybe Gordon Swig didn't have the ego of a typical Hollywood director, but he certainly had the charisma. She bet that Jill Clayburgh and Burt Reynolds had pulled every string they needed to in order to get the chance to work with him.

  “You're not so bad yourself,” she returned, giving him the sunniest smile in her repertoire.

  Whoa! Mallory thought. Where did that come from?

  She could feel herself blushing, horrified by how shamelessly she was flirting. Calm down, girl! she warned herself. You and Gordon haven't even made it to the restaurant, and you're already looking so far into the future that you're going to end up with eye strain.

  “I've heard great things about this restaurant,” she commented as they headed across the Hotel Jerome's ornate lobby, deciding to stick to business, at least for now. She even resisted the urge to take his arm as they stepped outside and were suddenly enveloped by the refreshingly cool mountain air that descended upon the town at dusk. The entire town spread out before them like a red carpet, inviting them to stroll along the charming red brick walkways. All around them, lights were coming on, twinkling like the stars strewn across the darkening cobalt blue sky.

  “Montagna is excellent,” Gordon agreed. “One of my favorite restaurants in Aspen, in fact.”

  “I didn't know you'd eaten there before.” Mallory sometimes forgot that not everyone was seeing the places she was visiting on assignment for the first time, the way she usually was.

  “I've been there two or three times,” he said. “But never with a charming travel writer who's undoubtedly going to give me an entirely new perspective on the experience.”

  Mallory laughed. “If by that you mean that I'm going to insist on sampling everything on your plate, you've got that right.”

  Montagna was located inside one of Aspen's other top hotels, the Little Nell, which had the distinction of being the only ski-in, ski-out resort in town—meaning guests could literally put their skis on at the hotel and then ski right up to the lift. Thanks to both Astrid and her guidebooks, Mallory knew all about its ski concierge, who not only stored hotel guests’ skis overnight in a small building just a few feet away from the lift, but also waxed their skis, warmed their ski boots, and plied them with hot coffee.

  The hotel lobby had a modern feeling that stood in sharp contrast to the Hotel Jerome's old-fashioned, almost kitsch Wild West feeling. The first floor of the Little Nell was all straight lines and neutral colors. Yet comfortable couches faced an inviting fireplace and the view from the seating areas was delightfully serene: a courtyard with a small swimming pool, viewed through wall-size windows. Mallory found herself taking mental notes, constructing phrases like, “cozy without being prissy” and “coolly elegant but at
the same time inviting.”

  Montagna, nestled in a back corner, was considerably more ornate. The restaurant was on two levels separated by a railing supported by wine-barrel-shaped columns. Both the railing and the columns were made of the same dark, heavy wood. While the walls were pale yellow, the room had a dark, romantic look, thanks to the deep red Oriental carpeting and the banquettes with upholstered cushions in the same shade. The dim lighting, the result of the opaque parchment colored shades on the lamps, added to the romantic ambience, as did the colorful bouquets of flowers on each table.

  “The décor looks kind of like Early Brothel,” Gordon commented after they had been seated and presented with a wine list. “But not necessarily in a bad way.”

  Mallory picked up the impressively thick wine list that their waiter had presented to them with pride. “Wow, this is heavy,” she exclaimed. “I understand the wine cellar is stocked with fifteen thousand bottles. No wonder this thing is sixty-nine pages long!”

  “The last thing I read that was that long was a Dostoevsky novel I was thinking of making into a movie,” Gordon said.

  “It even has its own table of contents,” Mallory observed, leafing through the tome. She handed it to Gordon. “I think I'll leave this up to you.”

  “I have a better idea. Let's ask the sommelier to choose something.”

  After a deep discussion with an earnest young man who clearly knew his way around a wine cellar, they decided on a cabernet. The sommelier delivered it with the usual fanfare, showing both of them the label, uncorking the bottle, and pouring a sample for Gordon's approval before filling their wineglasses.

  “Nice,” Mallory commented after taking her first sip. “Asking the pro to choose for us was a terrific strategy.”

  “One of the most important things I learned as a director is the value of delegating,” Gordon said. “Especially when decisions need to be made in an area I know nothing about.”