To Hell in a Handbasket Read online

  The young man’s lips were drawn in a thin line, probably with teeth clenched behind them.

  Of course he would be angry, Claire realized. Angry at whoever killed his friend, at the world for collapsing around him, and at the need to hide his urge to cry behind that mask of rage.

  “I’m so sorry. This must be quite a shock to you.”

  She stifled the impulse to touch him, sensing he would resent it. Instead, she told Pete how they had figured out Naylor was the one who witnessed Stephanie’s collision, the story he had told at the crepe stand, and what they did to help him after the SUV hit him.

  Pete listened silently throughout, shoulders hunched and hands throttling his coffee cup. At the end, he licked his lips and said, “Thank you” in a hoarse voice.

  Judy took the last sip of her coffee. She signaled to Claire with a tilt of her chin that they should leave.

  Claire shook her head. She focused on Pete. “Boyd told us he drew a picture of the skier who collided with Stephanie. Have you seen it?”

  “Yeah. He showed it to me the next morning then balled it up and threw it away.”

  “Do the police have it?”

  “No. They searched the trailer last night, but they didn’t ask me about the drawing.”

  The two young men lived in a trailer? A ski bum’s life wasn’t as glamorous as it seemed. “What were the police looking for?”

  Pete tore a chunk from the rim of his Styrofoam cup and worried it with his fingers. “Contact information, mostly, to call his family.”

  “We just told Detective Silverstone about the drawing this morning. And he doesn’t know it’s in the trash. Do you have trash pickup at your place?”

  “On Fridays.”

  “Can I come over and look for the drawing? I think it might help the sheriff’s office find Boyd’s killer.”

  Pete checked his watch. “I start work in a few minutes, busing tables at the brewery. But you could go in anyway. We never lock the door. Lock’s busted, and we don’t have anything worth stealing. We stash our snowboards at a buddy’s house. Or at least we did. Nail-It won’t be using his anymore.” He ground his jaw.

  Mandy reached over and grasped his hand.

  Claire ached for Pete, wished she could hug him and give him permission to cry. She wondered where his family was. “I don’t want to intrude when you aren’t there. It wouldn’t feel right. How about if I come by tomorrow morning?”

  Pete faced her, his eyes red, and nodded.

  Claire took a charge slip and pen out of her purse and passed them to him. “Boyd gave us his phone number, but not his address. Could you write it on this?”

  Pete scribbled an address on the paper. “It’s in Kingdom Park off Airport Road, next to the Pinewood Village ski area housing. The trailers are for those of us who weren’t lucky enough to get into employee housing.”

  Claire put the paper and pen back in her purse and gathered up her share of the packages. “Thank you, Pete. And again, I want to say how awful we feel about Boyd. Is there anything I can do?”

  Pete shook his head. “Only if you can find me a roommate. Without Nail-It’s half of the rent, I’ll be thrown out at the end of the month.”

  Oh, God. Would he take money if I offered? Claire studied the firm set of his shoulders. Probably not.

  “We’ll find someone,” Mandy said. “The other gals are asking around.”

  Claire pulled out a card from her basket-making business and wrote the phone number of their townhouse on the back. “If Boyd’s parents want to talk to us, or if you need anything else, you can call this number in town for the next week and a half. After that, you can reach me in Colorado Springs at the number on the front of the card.”

  He shoved the card in a pocket. “Thanks.”

  Claire rose, and Judy followed her out the door into the late afternoon dusk. They trudged up the hill to their townhouse in silence. By the time they reached the front door, Claire was breathing heavily. Once inside, she dumped the bags on the floor, shucked her boots and outerwear and made a beeline for the sofa.

  When Claire plopped down beside him, Roger looked up from watching the stock reports on the business channel. “Heavy day of shopping?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. We ran into Boyd’s roommate at a coffee shop. Talking to him was almost more exhausting than shopping. The poor guy’s got a lot to deal with now. Including the possibility of being thrown out on the street.”

  The smile faded from Roger’s face. He patted Claire’s thigh. “Sorry you had such a tough day. Instead of cooking dinner, do you want to go out again?”

  Claire chafed her chilled arms and pulled a comforter over her. “No, thanks. I feel like a pound of hamburger that’s just been taken out of the freezer. I want to stay inside and thaw out.”

  Judy finished hanging their coats. “How about if we order a pizza?”

  Claire made a face. “I’m not a fan of pizza. Why don’t you whip up some omelets instead?”

  Judy sat on a stool by the kitchen counter. “Like how she says that, Dad? Just ‘whip up’ some omelets as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.” She waved her hand in the air.

  Isn’t it? “What are you getting at, Judy?”

  “Well, duh. Remember, I don’t know how to cook. You always did the cooking at home, and I ate in the cafeteria at school. This semester in France, I’m trading chores with my roommate. She cooks and I do laundry.”

  “It’s high time you learned to cook something other than bread.” With a sigh, Claire tossed off the comforter.

  Before she could rise, Roger stopped her and covered her again with the comforter. “You’re bushed. You stay here and relax. Between the two of us, Judy and I should be able to rustle up some omelets, maybe even some biscuits.”

  The blind leading the blind. But Roger used to make breakfasts on Sundays, before he started working long hours to further his career.

  Gratefully, Claire sank back onto the sofa. “Can’t turn down that offer.”

  Roger handed her the TV remote and joined Judy in the kitchen. Soon the two of them were banging cupboard doors and pots and pans. Claire tuned them out and switched the channel to the Denver news.

  Within minutes, however, their voices coming from the kitchen distracted her.

  “You need to stir those onions,” Roger said. “They’re starting to burn.”

  “I’m too busy chopping the peppers to keep track of the onions.”

  He reached over and turned a knob on the stove. “Turn the fire down, then, if you can’t pay attention.”

  Judy waved her hand at the cutting board. “Why do we have to have all this stuff anyway? What’s wrong with just cheese?”

  “Your mother likes onions and green peppers in her omelets.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “We’ll leave them out of yours. Now, move out of the way so I can put these biscuits in the oven.”

  Judy slapped her knife down on the cutting board, backed up, and crossed her arms.

  Claire decided she should intervene. She walked into the kitchen. “Why don’t I finish chopping the peppers so Judy can stir the onions?”

  She picked up the knife and went to work. Judy had chopped the peppers too large, so Claire re-cut the pieces without thinking about it. When she finished, she glanced over at the pan Judy was stirring in. Browned onion bits were stuck to the bottom.

  “Did you oil the pan before you started?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Claire knew they were a mistake.

  Glowering, Judy threw down the spatula. “No one told me to oil it. First you have to redo all my work, then you criticize it. If you’re so picky about your omelets, make them yourself.” She walked out of the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom.

  Roger’s gaze followed his daughter’s path. “You should’ve stayed on the sofa.”

  “I thought I was helping.”

  “Sometimes you help her too much. You treat her like she’s still a teenager.
She’s an adult now. Let her make her own mistakes. We would have muddled through somehow. Now she’s pissed.”

  Anger flared in Claire. “So now I’m a horrible mother?”

  “Of course not.” Roger gathered her in a hug. “Just a mother who’s done a great job and is having a little trouble letting go.”

  Deep down, Claire knew he was right, but that still didn’t make it any easier to accept her nest emptying. She worried her lip. “It’s not just the cooking. Judy’s under a lot of stress. And she’s probably as worn out as I am.”

  A sizzling on the stove drew her attention. The onions had blackened and started to smoke. She shoved the frying pan to the back burner and turned off the front burner. Damn. They would have to start over with a new batch of onions.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t start over with Judy.

  Eight: Trailer Trash

  Claire turned her car into the entrance to Kingdom Park mobile home village Thursday morning and checked the charge slip with Boyd and Pete’s address. Someone had plowed the previous day’s four inches of snow off the narrow dirt road, but Claire drove slowly to avoid slipping on the frozen mud and to scan the house numbers.

  The scattered trailers squatting on cement blocks didn’t look much like a kingdom—more like a slum. Though it was nine o’clock, she saw no activity except a huge slobbery Rottweiler barking at her from the window of a dingy white mobile home.

  She spotted a mailbox with the right number on it, but the parking space next to the tan trailer had a rusted Subaru sitting in it. Then she noticed a row of parking spaces at the end of the short road with two vehicles, both beat-up pickup trucks, parked side by side.

  She pulled in next to one of the trucks and walked to Pete and Boyd’s trailer. A brown latticework skirt hung around most of the bottom, but the panel on the end was missing. The panel beside it gaped open, exposing a collection of twisted metal, possibly bike parts, and a pink plastic Big Wheel missing a pedal. Claire guessed these must have belonged to the previous tenants.

  She crunched her way across frozen mud clods to the tiny wooden porch and rang the doorbell. Nothing. She rang again. Still no answer. Either Pete was sound asleep or not there.

  Should I return sometime later? No, this drawing is important. She pounded on the door. That should have awakened him if he was in. And if he wasn’t, he did say the door would be unlocked. And she had his permission to enter, so she wouldn’t be breaking in.

  She tried the doorknob. It turned easily, and the door swung open. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Pete?”

  The interior of the trailer was almost as cold as the outside. She stepped down the short hall into the kitchen/dining area. Dirty dishes filled the sink. An open pizza box and beer cans lay scattered across the plastic-topped table. Definitely a bachelor pad.

  A few one-dollar bills and a five lay next to the pizza box. Probably change from paying the delivery person. Claire took a twenty out of her purse and slipped it under the pile. It wasn’t much, but maybe Pete could buy a few groceries with it.

  She quickly checked the two bedrooms and found no one. Maybe Mandy or one of her friends had offered the comfort of her arms around Pete to ease the pain of Boyd’s death.

  Claire studied the two bedrooms and decided the one with pen and ink drawings tacked on the walls must be Boyd’s. The drawings showed boarders in action and the naked torsos of well-endowed young women with no heads. The faces must not have been as important to Boyd as what bloomed under the neck.

  An overflowing trashcan stood next to a small desk beside the single bed. Claire sat on the bed, dumped the trashcan on the floor, and started unfolding crumpled wads of drawing paper. Halfway through the pile, she found the drawing.

  The picture showed a few new details Boyd hadn’t described. The ski poles were the bent kind for racing, not straight as Claire had presumed. The Spyder logos were clearly drawn on the jacket. Maybe Detective Silverstone could use the logos to narrow down the specific design from the manufacturer.

  The crunch of tires on snow startled her. Pete? She peered through the mini-blinds on the window.

  A black Range Rover parked sideways in front of the trailer, blocking part of the road. A man stepped out. With his back to the trailer, he scanned the area while fastening a neoprene ski mask over his lower face. When he faced the trailer, Claire saw he also wore dark sunglasses, a cap, jeans, and a black Spyder jacket with the logo on the left arm.

  She checked the drawing in her hand. The jacket matched. Oh, God.

  With shaky fingers, she stuffed the drawing into her jacket pocket. The front door was still unlocked, and she bet the man planned to do just what she was doing—search for incriminating evidence. And if he found her . . .

  She stood and glanced around.

  Down the hall, she spied the back door and raced toward it. As she grasped the doorknob, the front door swung in. She opened the back door, slipped out, then shut it as soon as she heard the front door shut.

  Hopefully, the man heard the two sounds as one.

  Her heart hammering, Claire crouched and slid down the steps from the tiny porch to the ground. Heavy footsteps along the trailer’s floor indicated the man was heading for the bedrooms. She considered running to one of the other mobile homes and hiding behind it, but what if he saw her?

  Spying another gap in the trailer’s latticework, she crawled through. The footsteps above her approached the back door. Damn, now what?

  Aiming for a dark section behind unbroken latticework, Claire wormed her way behind two plastic laundry baskets frozen to the ground and filled with crushed beer cans. She spied a ripped piece of brown shag carpet, lay down next to it, pulled it over herself, and listened.

  Aside from her own gasps, she heard nothing. Then the back door opened. She held her breath.

  The man stepped out on the porch, waited for a moment, then the door closed. Had he gone inside? Claire stared at the porch steps.

  A shoe appeared on the first stair.

  Oh, God! She looked around for some kind of weapon, anything to defend herself. She spotted a dark line on the frozen ground. She reached out. Her hand closed around a bent kid-sized golf club, and she slowly slid it toward her. What good is this going to do? If he has a gun, I’m a goner.

  Both shoes were now on the ground next to the bottom step, facing away from her. Strange. The shoes were loafers, not the snow boots or hiking boots most people wore in Breckenridge.

  Claire gripped the golf club, sweat beading her brow even though she shivered from the cold. Or fear. She peeked at the Range Rover, but the license plate was too high for her to read, unless she scooted out of her hiding place. No way in hell is that going to happen.

  A shadow appeared near the gap in the latticework. Claire held her breath.

  A head bent down and peered in.

  Claire shut her eyes and tensed, waiting for the bullet that would pierce her flesh.

  Nothing happened.

  She opened one eye. The shadow was gone. The shoes turned then stepped up to the porch. The back door opened, and the man went in.

  Claire took a deep breath. Thank God. Now all she had to do was wait him out. Let the man do his snooping and leave, then she could get in her car and go, too.

  Wait, what if he sees my car? If he had any brains, he’d realize no snowboarding bum would own a BMW. He had already shown he was smart enough to figure out who Boyd was and where he lived.

  A violent shiver ran through her. She couldn’t wait him out and risk him spotting her car. She had to make a run for it. But how? Her mind hashed through dire scenarios, none that worked, while she flinched at every step and creak above her.

  The footsteps stopped in Boyd’s room, and a bed creaked. Could he be sitting right where she was moments ago, looking through Boyd’s things for any clue pointing to himself ? Her hand closed over Boyd’s drawing in her pocket.

  Just leave, she prayed. Please. Get in your car and drive away. He
r mouth went dry. No, if I’m going to get out of this alive, I have to be the one to leave. And now’s the time. Go!

  She grabbed the golf club tight and slid the carpet off herself. She eased toward the gap in the latticework, ears tuned to the slightest sound above her. As she slithered past the laundry baskets, her foot nudged the second one. The cans inside clattered.

  She froze.

  The bed creaked above her.

  Oh, God. Claire scrambled out of the gap and took off, sprinting for the nearest trailer.

  The back door slammed open on Pete’s trailer. Feet landed on the ground, expelling an “Oof” from the man.

  Claire rounded the back of a neighboring trailer. An attached tool shed jutted out on the other side. She ran behind it to hide.

  Footsteps thudded on the frozen ground behind her.

  Trying to still her heaving chest, Claire raised the golf club. As the man ran past the tool shed, she whacked his head as hard as she could.

  He sprawled face-down on the ground.

  Still brandishing the club, Claire took a step forward. Is he out?

  With a groan, the man pushed himself up on his hands and knees.

  Claire clubbed him again, then ran and ran, without looking back, gasping for breath, the back of her neck crawling with fear, straight to her car. She tossed the golf club aside and clawed for the car keys in her pocket while scanning the road for any sign of her pursuer. Nothing yet.

  She yanked open the door and jumped in. With trembling hands, she shoved the keys in the ignition. As soon as the car started, she threw it in reverse and roared backward down the road, barely missing the Range Rover. She spun into the main road, shifted to forward, and stomped on the gas.

  A check in the rearview mirror showed no one followed. Claire remembered to breathe. Must find Detective Silverstone.

  _____

  Claire rushed into the Summit County Sheriff’s Office at the justice center and leaned on the reception counter. “Is Detective Silverstone in?”

  The receptionist checked a white board behind her containing names and In and Out columns. “No, he checked himself out for a long lunch.”