Too Rich and Too Dead Read online

  She'd barely gotten the words out before her cell phone, left out overnight on the kitchen counter, began to hum.

  “Is that mine?” Jordan asked, glancing around frantically.

  “No, I think it's mine,” Amanda said, dashing across the kitchen for her purse.

  “Actually, I believe it's mine.” Mallory reached over and grabbed her phone, then checked caller ID before answering.

  “Good morning, Trevor,” she greeted the magazine's managing editor before he'd even had a chance to say hello.

  “Good morning yourself,” he returned congenially. “I hope it's not too early to call.”

  “Not at all,” Mallory assured him. “In fact, my kids and I were just talking about you.”

  “Nothing too terrible, I hope,” he joked.

  “Actually, they were asking me where I was being sent next.”

  Trevor let out a deep, booming laugh. “You make it sound like you work for the CIA.”

  “The Good Life sends me to much better places,” Mallory assured him. “No spies, no microchips, and no cyanide tablets.”

  “Not to mention that your job description includes some pretty nice perks,” Trevor kidded. “Staying at the best hotels, eating at fancy restaurants, going on endless sightseeing expeditions—all in the name of research, of course.” He sighed. “In my next life, I think I'll come back as a travel writer.”

  “No one appreciates how hard we travel writers work!” Mallory shot back in the same teasing tone. “I once had two massages in the same week.”

  “Poor baby!” Trevor cooed.

  “Actually, at the second spa, the massage therapist asked me when I'd last had one. I actually fibbed and told her it was three months ago.”

  “In that case, maybe I should put a cap on the number of spa treatments per trip.”

  “I didn't say I minded getting two massages,” Mallory insisted. “Although I'm not sure I can say the same about the eight pounds I've put on since I started writing for the magazine.”

  “The demise of your girlish figure is my fault?” Trevor asked with feigned indignation.

  “Not yours, exactly. More like the fault of all those wonderfully generous chefs in those afore mentioned fancy restaurants. They always insist that I sample every appetizer and every dessert on the menu. Then there are those who look positively crushed if I say no to the wine pairings…”

  “I'm definitely putting in my application to be reincarnated as a travel writer,” Trevor said, laughing. “And if I have to start wearing a bigger belt, so be it.”

  “At least it's for a good cause.” Her tone more earnest, Mallory added, “I really do take my job seriously. If The Good Life's readers are going to look to me for advice on where to spend their hard-earned vacation dollars, I want to be sure they get the whole story. And that includes the bad as well as the good.”

  “In that case,” Trevor said, “I think you'll appreciate your next assignment.”

  “I'm all ears.”

  “This time, you've got a choice.” Trevor paused to clear his throat. “We had an editorial board meeting late yesterday afternoon, and we came up with a new concept for the next issue. We're looking for an article about a destination that's famous for one particular type of activity. But we want to answer the question of whether it's possible for any visitor to have fun there—even one who doesn't enjoy whatever it is that put it on the map.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Mallory commented.

  “We thought of a couple of possibilities,” he continued. “One of them is Nashville. We'd want to answer the question, Can someone who doesn't like country music still have a good time there? Another idea is Alaska. The question would be, Can an indoor person have an enjoyable vacation in the wilds?” He paused before asking, “What do you think?”

  “Interesting angle,” she commented thoughtfully. Her eyes drifted over to the folded-up newspaper on the table. “But given the theme, how about Aspen?”

  “Aspen?” Trevor repeated, sounding surprised.

  “That's right.” She did some fast thinking. “How about finding out if it's possible for somebody who doesn't ski to have fun in Aspen?”

  “I take it you're not a skier?”

  “Hah! I'm one of those people who puts skiing in the same category as riding a motorcycle over the Grand Canyon.”

  “Aspen, huh?” Trevor was silent for a few seconds, as if he was mulling over the idea. “I don't know, Mallory. We did a piece on top ski resorts last winter. Even though Aspen wasn't the main focus of the article, I kind of feel we've already covered it.”

  “But not Aspen for nonskiers,” she insisted. “I bet there's lots to do there for people who have no intention of setting foot on a ski slope.” She hesitated before asking, “Have you ever heard of a spa called Tavaci Springs?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact—even before I read about the woman who founded it in the Times this morning. Carly something.”

  “Carly Cassidy Berman,” Mallory said. “How about an in-depth interview with her, something that goes beyond all the PR fluff? I could write about how entrepreneurs like her choose Aspen as the location for their businesses because of its wealthy and sophisticated clientele. And a top-of-the-line spa like Tavaci Springs is perfect because it gives people who visit Aspen something else to do besides skiing or snowboarding.”

  “Hmm.” Mallory's heartbeat quickened as she waited to hear Trevor's response. “Of course, you'd have to get this Carly Berman to agree to speak with you. Honestly, I mean.”

  “I think I can do that. It just so happens that she and I went to high school together.”

  “No kidding!”

  Mallory smiled. She could hear from his tone how impressed he was.

  “I think you may have something there, Mallory,” Trevor said thoughtfully. “The timing is certainly right. Since it's April, ski season is probably winding down. It would be kind of interesting to see if there are enough other things going on there to interest nonskiers. I know Aspen hosts a film festival and a few other special events throughout the year, but I'm more interested in what's available on a year-round basis. Attractions, restaurants, maybe some outdoor activities… and the spa, of course. The fact that you're friends with the woman behind Tavaci Springs would be a real bonus.”

  Not friends, exactly. Mallory gulped like a Looney Tunes character, hoping she hadn't just promised more than she could deliver.

  “Yes,” Trevor said, still sounding as if he was thinking out loud, “focusing on Aspen could work. How soon would you be able to go?”

  As soon as I buy some fashionable new clothes, get a facial, and find a really good hairstylist, Mallory thought gleefully.

  Not to mention guzzling all the Rejuva-Juice I can get my hands on.

  “When preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes

  and all your money.

  Then take half the clothes and twice the money.”

  —Susan Heller

  Ten days later, as Mallory stood at the baggage claim at the Aspen/Pitkin County Airport, waiting for her bag to emerge, she couldn't help noticing that her fellow travelers’ suitcases and carry-ons bore a disproportionate number of Burberry, Coach, and Fendi labels. Or that parked outside next to the runway were so many private planes that she felt as if she'd just arrived at the Lear Jet factory store.

  For the first time, she fully understood that she was about to experience a place that was like no other.

  Not that she hadn't seen her share of conspicuous consumption in New York City. But here, it was much more concentrated. After all, the airport was small. In addition to the single runway, it consisted of only a one-story brick and glass terminal. Inside, it was outfitted with little aside from the three basic amenities every airport should have: a restaurant, a bar, and a gift shop.

  At least as striking was the fact that instead of being surrounded by towering skyscrapers that were the symbol of commerce and wealth, all around her were the magnificent Rocky M
ountains, their craggy gray peaks zigzagging across the pale blue sky. She'd expected to see mountains, of course. But she'd had no idea how bowled over she'd be by how huge they were—or how beautiful.

  As she glanced at the well-heeled men and women around her, Mallory was glad that before coming she'd made time to get her hair cut so that it now included some layers. She'd also managed to pick up a few Eileen Fisher separates for less than half price at Nordstrom's Rack.

  After retrieving her suitcase, she stood apart from the crowd, her eyes darting around the airport as she tried to spot the public relations representative who had arranged her trip. But while she had exchanged endless e-mails with the woman who handled publicity for the city of Aspen, she knew nothing about her. Based on the fact that her name was Astrid Norland, Mallory expected a stocky woman in clogs with blond braids curled around her ears like two gigantic cheese Danish.

  So she was totally unprepared for the tall, model-thin blonde she suddenly noticed striding toward her, her smile communicating that she knew exactly who Mallory was. The woman could easily have passed for Heidi Klum's sister—except for the fact that she was much prettier.

  Instead of clogs, Astrid wore caramel-colored knee-high boots with stiletto heels. They happened to be the perfect complement to the rest of her outfit: an ivory ski parka lined with what looked like real mink and a pair of skintight chocolate brown leather pants.

  “You must be Mallory,” she said warmly as she approached, her voice tinged with the slightest accent. “I'm Astrid. Welcome to Aspen!”

  Mallory didn't know her Scandinavian accents very well, but she would have bet her laptop that this one was Swedish. In less than five seconds, she'd also surmised that Astrid was as personable as she was gorgeous. Not unusual for women who chose to go into the public relations field, she knew, aside from the fact that this particular one struck her as exceptionally personable and exceptionally gorgeous.

  “Pleased to meet you, Astrid,” Mallory said. “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “No problem.”

  As Astrid waved her hand in the air, Mallory caught sight of ten perfectly manicured nails. They were thickly lacquered with a dark nut-brown polish that struck her as more Manhattan than mountaineer. Now that she was up close, she also saw that Astrid's large blue eyes were fringed with lashes so long, dark, and dense they looked like awnings, and her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut through some serious Swedish ice.

  “Need any help with your bags?” Astrid asked cheerfully. Gesturing toward the airport entrance, she added, “We don't have far to go. My car is parked right out front.”

  “Thanks, but I'm fine,” Mallory replied. “I'm actually pretty good at getting in and out of airports. It comes with the job.”

  “I envy you,” Astrid commented with a sigh. “I've thought of leaving PR and doing some travel writing myself. But I love Aspen too much.” Flashing a smile, she added, “Which is why I'm so glad that my job is to make other people love it, too.”

  “I've only been doing this for a few months,” Mallory admitted, “but I really like going to new places all the time. I find something to love in each one.”

  “But you're going to like Aspen best of all,” Astrid insisted.

  Mallory laughed. “I'm absolutely ready to be convinced.”

  As she fell into step with Astrid, Mallory suddenly felt strangely short. Astrid had to be at least six feet tall. Of course, the spiky heels on her soft leather boots added a good two or three inches. She wondered what kind of traction those things got in the snow.

  Like Astrid's wardrobe, her vehicle was top-of-the-line. Mallory was no car expert, but she knew an especially expensive Mercedes when she saw one. This one was powder blue with chocolate brown leather upholstery that looked as if it had been cut from the same bolt as the sleek leather pants Astrid had been poured into.

  After they'd both settled into the front seat, Mallory cracked open the window so she could breathe in some of that fresh mountain air. Even though back in New York spring was shouldering its way in, here at nearly eight thousand feet above sea level the air was delightfully crisp and cool.

  “Now that you're here,” Astrid said once they got on the road, “let me give you a short course in Aspen's history. Aspen one-oh-one, I call it. The first thing you need to know is that this area is called the Roaring Fork Valley. The Ute Indians, the original inhabitants, called these magnificent peaks ‘Shining Mountains.’ It was a pretty peaceful place until the summer of 1879, when prospectors found a major silver lode here. One of the biggest in the world, in fact. They set up a camp they called Ute City, but the name soon changed to Aspen after all the aspen trees.

  “Aspen would have remained a small mining camp if it hadn't been for Jerome Byron Wheeler,” she continued as she veered onto Highway 82, heading toward town. Even though traffic was minimal, the nonchalance with which she darted between lanes left Mallory gripping her seat. “He was president of Macy's department store then. Of course, there was only one Macy's in those days, back east in New York City. Wheeler was a real innovator, and he made silver mining profitable by building a working smelter to reduce silver ore along with a tramway to transport the ore down to the smelter.

  “Anyway, thanks to Wheeler and all that silver, by 1893 Aspen's population had grown to twelve thousand . The town was booming, with a hospital, two theaters, an opera house, four schools, and three banks. It also had six newspapers and its own small red-light district.”

  While Mallory was finding Astrid's history lesson interesting, she was much more fascinated by what she saw out the window. Not long after they circled through a roundabout, signs of civilization began to appear in the form of pleasant, relatively modest houses along tree-lined streets. From the looks of things, they were driving through the outskirts of the greater metropolitan Aspen area.

  But the attractive houses looked like the toy-sized ones underneath a Christmas tree compared to breathtakingly beautiful Aspen Mountain, which loomed more than three thousand feet above the entire town. Even though it was April and the trees and grass at ground level were decidedly green, the imposing mountain was still covered with snow. Yet there wasn't a single skier in sight. As she'd learned from the research she'd done over the past week and a half, the mountain always closed around April 1.

  “Everything was great until 1893,” Astrid continued, “when silver crashed because the federal government decided to return to the gold standard.” She careened around the curves in the road with such confidence that Mallory assumed she was also an expert skier. “The town just about died. By 1935, there were only seven hundred residents. But all that changed in the mid-thirties when a group of international businessmen swooped in and saw the area's potential as a ski resort. They formed the Aspen Ski Club and hired a Swiss avalanche expert named André Roch to create a racecourse on Aspen Mountain.

  “During World War Two, the Army's Tenth Mountain Division trained nearby, and many of the soldiers enjoyed skiing in Aspen in their free time. One of them was a man from Austria named Friedl Pfeifer. After the war, Pfeifer joined forces with Walter Paepcke, a businessman from Chicago, and his wife, Elizabeth, who was a patron of the arts. While the Paepckes were mainly interested in developing the area as a cultural center, Pfeifer remained committed to building a ski resort that was as good as the ones in Europe.

  “Aspen Mountain opened in 1947, already boasting the longest ski lift in the world. But Paepcke's vision was also very much alive. In 1949, he orchestrated a major event called the Goethe Bicentennial Convocation in honor of the great writer's two hundredth birthday. Programs in music, dance, theater, and art were held, which attracted creative people from all over the world.”

  Astrid's voice was filled with pride—or at least a good PR rep's imitation of it—as she concluded, “Aspen was on its way to becoming an international center for both skiing and the arts. It also became a desirable spot for celebrities looking to build their dream vacation home. Our local citi
zenry has included Donald Trump, Kevin Costner, Don Johnson, Goldie Hawn, Jack Nicholson… And let's not forget John Denver. In fact, you might want to check out the John Denver Sanctuary, near Rio Grande Park, while you're here. It's one of our most popular attractions for both skiers and nonskiers. There's also the John Denver Memorial Grotto on Aspen Mountain. Of course, you'd need to be on skis to see that.”

  A hidden competitive streak in Mallory suddenly made her want to show Astrid that she wasn't the only one who'd done her homework. “Speaking of skiing,” she said, “there are four different ski mountains in the Roaring Fork Valley, aren't there? Including Aspen, I mean.”

  “That's right,” Astrid replied. “Aspen Highlands and Buttermilk opened in 1958, and Snowmass opened ten years later.”

  Glancing over at Mallory, she added, “But of course you're different from most travel writers in that you're not interested in Aspen as a skiing destination.”

  Mallory nodded. “That's right. I plan to write about everything but skiing.”

  Astrid nodded. “Well, I'm here to help you see and do whatever you need for the article you're writing. I've set up visits to a few of the places we e-mailed about, but have you had a chance to decide what your top priorities are? We want to make sure you see everything you need to see.”

  “I've actually come armed with a list,” Mallory said. “The Wheeler Opera House, the Cooking School of Aspen, a shopping tour, maybe some spa treatments…”

  Astrid glanced over, looking surprised. “It sounds as if you've done quite a bit of research.”

  “I try to come to every new destination prepared,” Mallory replied. “Even though I'm new to the job, I've learned that the more I know before I arrive, the more comprehensive I can make my article. These research trips are pretty brief, never more than five days. Some have been as short as three days. But I'm supposed to come away from my whirlwind tours a virtual expert, the last word on what to see and do—as well as what to avoid.”