Too Rich and Too Dead Page 3

“I imagine you use the Internet to do most of your research,” Astrid commented.

  “That's very helpful,” Mallory said. “But I also read two or three guidebooks. The idea is to show up with a list of places I want to investigate. I also plot out a rough schedule. I figure out which items on my list are physically close together so I can minimize travel time. And I have to keep track of the hours the various places are open and which days they're closed.” With a shrug, she added, “The last thing I want to do is to show up somewhere I think would be perfect for my article only to discover that it's open every day of the week except that one.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Astrid agreed. “When I plan press trips for visiting journalists, I do the same thing. The organized ones like you who've figured out what they want to do in advance usually get much more out of their trip.”

  “Speaking of which,” Mallory added, “there's one place that's not listed in most guidebooks that I want to be sure to see. In fact, it's critical to the article I'm writing. It's a spa called Tavaci Springs.”

  “Of course. You mentioned that in your e-mail. I've got an interview set up with the owner on Thursday.”

  Unable to resist the urge to sound like an insider, Mallory said, “Actually, she and I went to high school together.”

  Astrid's eyebrows shot up so high that they disappeared into the ring of mink that framed her face.

  “Carly Berman?” she repeated, her voice wavering. “You know Carly Berman?”

  Mallory looked at her quizzically. Was she just imagining it, or did Astrid actually sound alarmed?

  “That's right.” Even though she suspected she already knew the answer, she added, “Do you know her, too?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.” By now, Astrid had regained her composure. “Pretty well, in fact. That's why I was so surprised. Goodness, what a small world!”

  “Since I won't be visiting Tavaci Springs until Thursday, I might give Carly a call before then,” Mallory mused. “I could probably contact her through the spa, but do you happen to have a number where I could reach her directly?”

  “I believe I do.” As she stopped at a red light, Astrid flipped open her red metallic cell phone and punched one of the buttons again and again, miraculously doing no damage to her long, perfectly manicured fingernail in the process. “What I mean is, I should have it, since I have the numbers of pretty much all the businesses in Aspen. The public relations department works closely with the Chamber of Commerce, so I need to be able to get in touch with anybody. I can even give you the Bermans’ home number. It's area code nine-seven-oh…”

  After punching Carly's numbers into her own cell phone, Mallory glanced up and saw that they'd arrived in the center of town. From the maps she'd studied, she already knew the streets were laid out in a grid. But she wasn't prepared for the fact that most of the buildings were made of red brick, giving the town a somewhat rustic look. One of the central streets, East Hyman Avenue, was closed off to traffic and paved with more red brick. Large sections in the middle of the Hyman Avenue Mall were planted with trees or flowers, creating an inviting pedestrian walkway.

  “I'll just take a quick drive around to help get you oriented,” Astrid said. “Over there is the ice skating rink. It's right across the street from the Rubey Park Transit Center, which has convenient bus service to the other ski mountains. That big hotel over there is the St. Regis, one of the largest hotels in Aspen. Now we're coming to the base of Aspen Mountain…”

  Mallory was already dazzled. Aspen was clearly a ski town, but one with way more style than she'd ever expected. Not only were the streets crammed with luxury boutiques and real estate offices; she knew from her research that the tiny community also boasted something like eighty restaurants.

  “Here at the other end of town,” Astrid continued as she turned down a street that took them away from the mountain, “you'll find the Aspen Art Museum and Rio Grande Park, where the John Denver Sanctuary I mentioned before is located. I know all this doesn't mean much to you now, but I promise it won't be long before you know your way around.

  “Your hotel is also at this edge of town,” she said, turning left onto East Main Street. “I arranged for you to stay at the Hotel Jerome because it's Aspen's most historic hotel. Jerome Wheeler opened it in 1889.”

  Mallory already knew all about the Hotel Jerome. From her research, she'd learned that Wheeler's dream had been to construct his own version of the great hotels of Europe, even though Aspen was still very much a raucous mining town. The Hotel Jerome was one of the first buildings west of the Mississippi that was fully lit by electricity. It also featured hot and cold running water, indoor plumbing, and a relatively new invention: the elevator.

  Mallory loved the fact that being a travel writer enabled her to visit locations that up until now she'd only heard about. Besides, as a travel writer, she was generally treated better than any ordinary tourist. The staff at the hotels, restaurants, and attractions on her itinerary knocked themselves out to make sure she came away with a positive impression of their establishment. They showered her with first-class treatment, something she hadn't exactly become used to during the two decades she'd played wife, mother, and reporter at a small-town weekly. After all, her daughter wasn't the only one who understood that whatever Mallory wrote for The Good Life would be read by nearly two million people. Moneyed people, for the most part, as well as people who liked to travel.

  “During your stay,” Astrid noted, “be sure to check out the J-Bar, which has been an Aspen institution forever. It started out as a bar, but it became a soda fountain during Prohibition. You must try its signature drink, the Aspen Crud, which is basically a milkshake made with bourbon. It's supposed to represent the J-Bar's history as both a saloon and an ice cream parlor. But wait a few days before you do. Aspen is roughly five thousand feet above sea level, which means drinking anything alcoholic before your body has had a chance to get acclimated is guaranteed to give you a splitting headache.”

  Advice worth following, Mallory thought, resolving to keep as far away from any form of firewater as she could. It was just as well, since she was already warming to Aspen and she didn't want to dull her experience.

  “You must also see some of the other luxury hotels here during your stay,” Astrid insisted. “Tonight, you're free to do whatever you please. If you decide to rent a car, the front desk can arrange to have one delivered to the hotel. But for tomorrow evening, I've booked dinner at Montagna. It's the restaurant at the Little Nell, Aspen's only ski-in, ski-out hotel. I know you're here to find out how much there is for nonskiers to enjoy, but you'll still appreciate the fact that there's a ski concierge who provides guests with slopeside services. That means storing skis overnight so guests don't have to lug them around, as well as warming their boots in the morning.”

  “Now there's a concept,” Mallory commented. “Skiing with warm feet. It's almost enough to get me out there—at least on the bunny slope.”

  She was certain she detected a hint of condescension in Astrid's smile. She resolved to keep her anti-skiing jokes to a minimum.

  “I've also arranged for you to have a facial and a massage at the St. Regis, the hotel I pointed out to you before,” Astrid added as she pulled up at the front door. “You'll be doing a site visit of Tavaci Springs, of course, but I wanted you to experience the Remède Spa, as well, since it's really something special. I hope you don't mind.”

  Mind? Mallory thought, her head already spinning. Enjoying leisurely dinners and being pampered at hotel spas is what my job is all about. I don't blame Trevor for being envious.

  “You'll find a copy of the itinerary in your room, and I believe we have each other's cell phone numbers,” Astrid said as she opened the trunk of her Mercedes and stepped back to allow the hotel bellman to retrieve Mallory's suitcase. “I'm sure you'd like some time to get your bearings, but feel free to call me if there's anything you need.”

  After thanking Astrid once more, Mallo
ry followed the bellman and her suitcase into the Hotel Jerome's lobby. Her eyes immediately widened, and sentences began forming in her head.

  “Entering the lobby of the Hotel Jerome is like stepping out of a time machine,” she thought, reminding herself to jot down her thoughts as soon as she reached her room. “Visitors will instantly be transported back to the Wild West—or at least to Colorado's most successful silver mining town during its heyday in the 1890s. Ornate dark red wallpaper covers the walls, thick Oriental carpets cushion the wooden floors, and the old-fashioned lampshades and overstuffed couches are edged with silk fringe…”

  She also made a mental note about the exposed wooden beams crisscrossing overhead and the large black marble fireplace on the back wall, topped with a huge mirror and flanked by a matching pair of mounted deer heads. She half expected the Unsinkable Molly Brown herself to flounce into the room and belt out a song.

  The décor of her room was much more traditional. She didn't mind, since there was definitely something to be said for modern touches such as Internet access, digital TV, and a fully stocked minibar. Still, the wallpaper had a homey, old-fashioned pattern, the drapes were made of flowered fabric, and the thickly padded upholstered chair was paired with a matching ottoman. If old-fashioned translated to pretty and comfortable, that was fine with her.

  After she kicked off her shoes and hung up her clothes, Mallory sank into the upholstered chair and pulled out her cell phone. Yet even though she'd thought about little besides getting in touch with Carly ever since she'd read the article about her in the Times, now that it was finally time to do so she was actually nervous. She suddenly felt like an uncertain fifteen-year-old again—one who'd gotten through high school by doing as little as possible to call attention to herself.

  Looking her up will probably be fun, Mallory told herself firmly. Besides, you promised Trevor an in-depth interview. It's pretty much what got him interested in Aspen in the first place.

  Still, none of that helped keep her heart from pounding as she heard the buzzing of the phone at the other end of the line.

  It was followed by a familiar sounding “Hello?”

  “Carly?” Mallory began in a strangely high-pitched voice. Not only did she feel fifteen; her voice made her sound fifteen. “This is Mallory Marlowe—although I used to be Mallory MacGregor. I don't know if you remember me, but we went to JFK High together—”

  “Mallory MacGregor?” Carly exclaimed. “Of course I remember you! You were the girl who liked to read!”

  Mallory told herself she was just imagining that Carly made it sound as if she was the girl with leprosy.

  “That's me,” she replied cheerfully.

  “How are you, Mallory?” Carly squealed. “And where are you?”

  “I'm fine—and I'm in Aspen. I read the article about you in The New York Times a few days ago, and it just so happened that I was coming here on business. I recently started doing travel pieces for a magazine called The Good Life. In fact, I've got a visit to Tavaci Springs scheduled for Thursday, but I

  figured I'd look you up as soon as I got here, just to say hello—”

  “I'm so glad you did!” Carly sighed. “Boy, we had some great times back in high school, didn't we?”

  Mallory wasn't sure how to respond. True, she'd had some wonderful times during her teenage years. But none of them had remotely had anything to do with Carly or her crowd. In fact, some of the best times she could recall had been related to that weird pastime she liked to indulge in: reading.

  “Those were certainly the days,” she finally said, noting there was a good reason why meaningless clichés hung on for so long.

  “But now you're here in Aspen,” Carly went on. “I'd love to see you! You simply must come over. How about tonight? Are you free for dinner?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Great. Do you have a pen? I'll tell you where I live. It's less than a half-hour drive from the center of town.”

  “I'm afraid I don't have a car yet,” Mallory explained.

  “In that case, I'll send one. Which hotel are you staying at?”

  When Mallory hung up a few minutes later, she was stunned. While she had been hoping for a congenial reception, she hadn't expected Carly to embrace her as a long-lost friend. Yet that was exactly how she was acting.

  In fact, Carly's reaction made her wonder if Rejuva-Juice had one more miraculous power: re-writing history.

  “I think that travel comes from some deep urge to see

  the world, like the urge that brings up a worm in an Irish

  bog to see the moon when it is full.”

  —Lord Dunsany

  While Mallory hadn't exactly understood what Carly meant by her offer to send a car, she assumed she meant a taxi—or maybe a vehicle from one of those private car services that were so popular with high-powered Manhattanites.

  She found out how wrong she was when a sleek silver Rolls-Royce slid in front of the Hotel Jerome precisely at the designated time. Just as she was telling herself, “No, it couldn't be,” a chauffeur in a dark uniform climbed out and said, “I'm Carly Berman's driver. Are you Mallory MacGregor?”

  Close enough, Mallory thought, settling into the spacious backseat. As she ran her fingers over the velvety soft leather upholstery, she reflected on how easily she could get used to this.

  The late afternoon sun was low in the sky as the chauffeur whisked her out of Aspen. As they drove along a winding road they picked up right outside of town, the smattering of buildings quickly gave way to wide fields. Just beyond were scenic foothills that quickly morphed into majestic mountains. Mallory couldn't resist the urge to crack open the window. She leaned her head back against the seat, closed her eyes, and breathed in the cool, pine-scented mountain air.

  They rode for at least fifteen minutes before the car turned down a side road, one that no one had bothered to pave. As they bumped along, Mallory assumed the road was deliberately left in such poor condition to deter prowlers. Either that or the man she thought was a chauffeur was actually a kidnapper who was driving her to his secret cave, albeit in high style.

  She decided the first scenario was the more likely explanation when she finally spotted a rustic building nestled in the foothills. Because it was made of wood and stone, it blended right in with the craggy rocks, brush, and occasional smatterings of wild-flowers.

  At first, she was disappointed. From a distance, Carly's house didn't look all that impressive.

  It wasn't until the Rolls got much closer that she saw how huge it was. It sprawled across the rugged terrain, in some places spiking up three stories high. The exterior was largely glass, with huge windows everywhere. The clever interplay of indoors and outdoors extended to the numerous decks and balconies, as well as a large stone patio that overlooked a rock garden.

  Now that she saw how much her destination for the evening resembled one of the rustic mountain lodges she was accustomed to seeing in John Wayne movies, Mallory hoped the outfit she'd finally decided upon wasn't a mistake. The loose-fitting black pants and jacket she wore with an iris blue silk blouse suddenly seemed so urban, especially compared to, say, a cowboy hat and chaps.

  Still, the chauffeur is wearing a uniform, she reminded herself as she walked toward the front door, the gravel crunching beneath her feet. And the housekeeper who opened the door even before she'd had a chance to knock was dressed in a black dress and a crisp white apron that was more Kensington High Street than OK Corral.

  My choice of clothes is fine, she decided with relief, grateful to Eileen Fisher for serving her so well. At least I got that part right.

  “Good evening,” she greeted the housekeeper pleasantly.

  At first glance, it was difficult to discern the woman's age. While her chubbiness gave her cheeks a smooth, almost childlike appearance, her dark hair, pulled back into a single braid that hung down her back, was streaked with gray. She wore two gold chains around her neck, one with a large gold cross dangl
ing from it and a second with the name “Juanita” written in script.

  “I'm here to see Carly,” Mallory added when the woman failed to respond.

  “Mees Berm, she ees expecting you,” the housekeeper finally replied, acting as if making polite conversation wasn't part of her job description. “Oh, and welcome to Casper Ranch.” Muttering as if she were talking to herself rather than to Mallory, she added, “I always forget I'm supposed to say that. One more rule Mees Berm make me remember.”

  O-kay, Mallory thought. Aloud, she asked, “Casper Ranch? Is that Casper as in Casper the Friendly Ghost or as in Casper, Wyoming?”

  “Ees C-A-S-S-B-E-R,” Juanita explained crossly. “Cass-Ber. Ees a combination of Meester and Mees's last names—Cassidy and Berm. Mees Berm, she make eet up.” She rolled her eyes, as if looking toward heaven for understanding. “She theenks giving a place a fancy name makes it more high-class or something.”

  “I see.” Mallory wondered if Carly's housekeeper's deliberate mispronunciation of her employer's last name was due to her faulty English or one more way of asserting her independence. Or would scorn have been a more appropriate word?

  She kept her questions to herself as she followed Juanita inside, noting that the house's interior was as impressive as its dramatic exterior promised. The cavernous living room's A-Frame configuration was emphasized by exposed beams made of uneven dark wood that looked as if it had been stolen from Abe Lincoln's birthplace. The same shape was echoed in the tremendous windows that dominated three of the walls, each of them five-sided so that their tops also formed peaks. All that glass did an effective job of making the spectacular landscape part of the décor. At the moment, the scenery happened to include the pale yellow sun setting against a darkening blue sky streaked with oranges, pinks, and purples that in any other context would have looked downright garish.

  If I lived here, Mallory thought, I don't think I'd ever leave this very spot.

  That feeling was reinforced by the furnishings, which like the room itself were striking enough to be featured in a glossy design magazine. They incorporated an array of amazing textures: the ragged gray stones of the fireplace that jutted up between two of the gigantic windows, two Three Bears-style chairs made from rough-hewn wood but softened with buttery leather cushions in a deep shade of red, a long comfy couch upholstered in shaggy white fabric that reminded her of a polar bear.