Snow Angel Read online

  Snow Angel

  by

  Melanie Jackson

  Version 1.1 – November, 2011

  Published by Brian Jackson at PubIt

  Copyright © 2011 by Melanie Jackson

  Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Contents

  Snow Angel

  High Society

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Fat flakes of white were beginning to fall, dancing in the headlights, a cause for concern if we were not so close to our destination. As it was, I could snuggle under the car blanket and enjoy the warm air pouring over my booted feet while Blue breathed heavily in my ear. She didn’t like car travel, but even she seemed happy to see the snow that meant we were near the top of the mountain.

  Alex and I had pulled it off! We had escaped for Christmas. I was feeling giddy. Mom wasn’t happy, but I had holiday amnesty because of Thanksgiving.

  We would not be completely alone of course. We were going to stay with one of Alex’s friends from college who had bought an old hotel and ski resort in the all but forgotten town of Bethlehem, Colorado. Locked between two arms of the Rocky Mountains, the hotel stood tall, a toehold of civilization in an otherwise still wild land. I wasn’t lulled to complete complacency by the technology and determination that had made this impressive edifice possible. The man-made lights and the ski lift were inspiring, but this was the mountain’s domain and I had a feeling that when she grabbed hold of a storm, it would have trouble getting away. It behooved us to be wary. Still I was glad to be there, snowstorm and all. At least we weren’t where so-called friends and family could easily find us since there was no cell phone coverage at the hotel and we hadn’t left a number with anyone but Dad. To misquote an old poem—any noose compared to that was cheap. Even a long working weekend.

  “A drama-free Christmas. No Althea—no Dale. This’ll be great!” I said.

  “Patrick needs satellite TV and Internet if he’s going to cater to civilized people,” Alex muttered. Being without Internet for an entire week was bugging him. Personally, I thought it would do us some good to unplug for a few days. We would be in Seattle for the New Year’s Eve gala a client put on every year, and that would be compensation enough for our time in the net-less country.

  The hotel was scheduled to open officially on New Year’s Eve but the new owner was having some kind of trouble with what was either vandalism or a run of very bad luck which some old-timers in town blamed on ghosts, and Alex had volunteered us to play sleuth while we were visiting. So, this was sort of a busman’s holiday. I didn’t mind—deterring vandals would surely be a piece a cake after the Thanksgiving we had just had. Criminals are easier to deal with than Tara Lee in full cry and couldn’t possibly be as destructive.

  As per instructions, we would be driving up to the hotel and using Patrick’s stable as a garage, but once it officially opened, guests would park in the lot that sat at the base of Loon Hill and be brought up to the Victorian monstrosity by steam train, owned by Patrick’s brother. All travel to and around the hotel would be by train and sleigh in winter, and train or carriage in summer. No cars allowed.

  I hadn’t met Patrick Farris, but Alex had painted him as a charming eccentric who came from money and therefore didn’t need to be as practical as the rest of us wage slaves. He wasn’t crazy, to hear Alex tell it, just a bit eccentric. I reserved judgment.

  It seemed to me that Alex was being a bit casual about a situation that seemed potentially dangerous, so I had done some supplemental reading. Foley’s Folly had been built in 1902 and the tiny railroad brought in during 1905. The hotel had enjoyed some success—a visit from President Woodrow Wilson even—but like many mining towns, Bethlehem had fallen on hard times during the depression, and the hotel had never regained its former glory. Foley had committed suicide, leaving the hotel and massive debt to a daughter who had a life full of other tragedies and in turn sold it to an investor named Curlew—who opened it as a ski resort in the 40s.

  Though designed to be comfortable and elegant, and advertised in all the right places to all the right people, the venture hadn’t prospered. Injuries happened. There was soon talk of ghosts and bad luck and supernatural accidents, and finally curses. The property was put up for sale again but no one would buy it. The building was abandoned, a haunted house overlooking Bethlehem, until Farris’s father bought it in 1989. He didn’t want the hotel, but rather the mineral rights that went with the property. He died before he could tear down the building and begin raping the land for its silver deposits.

  No dollar amounts were mentioned, but I wondered how much money was sunk into the venture. Even assuming that the father got the hotel at fire-sale prices just before his death, the renovations carried out by Patrick, which were a lot more involved than just slapping lipstick on a pig so it looked pretty, had to be running into at least the high six and maybe even low seven figures. And where there is money, there is always a motive for all kinds of unpleasantness. Alex knows this, being a forensic accountant, but he seemed content to largely ignore this fact, at least until Christmas was over. He’s kind of a kid that way.

  I was more suspicious of the situation. However, it was difficult to keep this grim history in mind when the wind parted the veil of snow and showed us a fairyland of white lights that was Foley’s Folly at Yule.

  “Oooh,” I breathed.

  The old hotel was brighter than a lighthouse and worlds more beautiful. I could see the giant blue spruce that had been ceremoniously lit on December first—a publicity stunt combined with a fund-raiser for Bethlehem School that brought some media. There was also an outdoor skating rink, though only two adventurous souls were out in the falling dark and increasing snow.

  “It’s like Las Vegas,” Alex said, who hadn’t done much reading about faeries and tended to think in man-made terms.

  We had passed through Bethlehem about twenty minutes before. Based on a comparison of lights, the hotel was larger than the entire town. I revised my cost estimate upward.

  At Alex’s suggestion I had done my architectural homework while he investigated the staff. The hotel had twenty guest rooms, all on the second and third floors. Staff slept on the fourth floor, including Patrick Farris and his brother Andrew. The first floor was made up of an enormous lobby, office, dining room, kitchens, and lounge that doubled as a small ballroom. There was also a “hanging” circular staircase that had been photographed by many architectural magazines through the years. There was an elevator for those with special needs, which I assumed included staff with heavy cleaning equipment, but it was hidden out of sight of the lobby which retained its authentic turn-of-century feel.

  There was also a basement boiler room that held a giant furnace and two industrial-sized water heaters, and an area that used to be an underground hot spring patterned after Roman baths, but which was no longer open to the public. Patrick had not said why, but I got the feeling that it had less to do with needed repairs than a nasty reputation caused by a murder there.

  “How many employees are here at present?” I asked Alex.

  “For now, two maids—one for each floor. A chef, an assistant cook, and a waiter-dishwasher person. There’s a chauffer for the sleigh and an engineer for the train—though Andy isn’t really an employee since he’s Patrick’s brother.” Alex was reciting from memory. His mind was on the icy road whose steepness was incre
asing. I could see why the train was the preferred method of travel. Even plowed, the road was formidable. “There will be a gardener hired in the spring, I guess.”

  It didn’t seem like enough staff. Maybe more people would be taken on when the hotel was officially opened.

  “How many guests now?” I asked.

  “Just us—and some family. Andy and Patrick’s Aunt Minnie and her daughter, Della.”

  I wondered if Minnie and Della were the two skaters. The figures were hidden by bulky parkas but seemed smallish and feminine.

  The women were a question mark since Alex hadn’t met them and his friend had rarely spoken about his extended family. Or his immediate one, for that matter. There hadn’t been time to do a thorough investigation of them—or anyone—since this was last-minute and Alex was concentrating on employees. Trusting my gut, I did a little looking at Patrick and his brother. If there was a motive for vandalism, it was probably there. If the urge was simply to attack the hotel, it could have been done in the decades it was abandoned.

  I take Google results with a grain of salt, but I was willing to lend credence to what I had read since the same impression of the new owner and his brother was given interview after interview. If Patrick Farris was charming and eccentric, his brother was less charming and more egocentric. Younger than Alex or Patrick, Andrew Farris had been indulged to excess by his mother as a way to make up for the coldness of their father. Patrick Senior was a futures trader who eventually founded his own investment firm and gotten very, very rich. If the bios were to be believed, he had had a sense of self-importance about the size of Texas and as much human kindness as the Federal Reserve. He did not play well with others, not even his wife and children, but that was so often the case with really ambitious men, and his family apparently never expected anything more of him than a high standard of living. As Alex had put it, Patrick Senior had been chosen to play Baby Jesus at the school pageant and had never gotten around to recognizing any higher power. At least while living. Who knew what he was thinking now.

  Many of the people interviewed seemed envious and even bitter when they spoke of the Farris fortune, though the man himself always sounded smug. Frankly, Patrick Senior’s life didn’t sound so much like living as making a series of calculations about bottom lines, business and familial. That wouldn’t suit me, but maybe Patrick Senior was different and he had been a deliriously happy man, deep inside where it never showed.

  Happy or not, both of Patrick Junior’s parents were gone now, and the two boys had inherited their share of the kingdom. Patrick had taken his portion of the money and used it to invest in a more public business and to endow some charities. Everyone agreed that he was a philanthropist, interested in people, and believed in supporting worthy causes.

  Andrew was interested in trains.

  I tried to think that it was nice that they could combine their hobbies in one venture and maybe being near his brother would help Andrew find a crusading spirit and love of his fellow man. After all, it was the season of miracles.

  “I bet Blue will like skating,” I said.

  “I bet.” Alex smiled but never took his eyes from the road. The snow had already dusted over the landscape and night sky above, inviting nature to the long sleep of winter, and it was making it difficult for stars and tires alike to function as they should. Fortunately now that we were near the hotel there were other lights to show the way for those who wished to stay up past winter’s scheduled bedtime.

  We rounded the last bend and came upon the old stable, which retained its traditional shape in spite of the added gingerbread on the eaves. A lean man with dark gold hair and skin that suggested he spent a lot of time outdoors was waiting for us. He smiled and waved a gloved hand as he pulled the door wide. Alex waved back and carefully drove the car inside.

  “He looks like a scarecrow,” Alex muttered.

  “That’s Patrick?” I asked as our lights brushed over his buffalo plaid coat and lighted the flecks of silver in his blond hair. Alex was right. He did seem a little like a scarecrow. The image didn’t match the photos of the tycoon I had seen.

  “It is. I think.”

  Alex parked the car and we got out to stretch our numbed legs and meet our host. Blue was out a little ahead of us. The stable might have been eerie since the only light came from lamps that were meant to resemble torches, but the reassuring sounds and smells of animal habitation reached me at once. There were horses, probably for the sleigh. The odor was homey and reassuring.

  Blue went at once to Patrick Farris, who was closing the barn door, and woofed politely when he turned to face her. She stood tall, her tail wagging. Some people are afraid of Rottweilers, but not Patrick.

  “Hello,” Patrick said, answering her grin with one of his own and then dropping to his knee to pet her. The towering pile of firewood beside him all at once seemed very large and dangerous, but I told myself not to worry. It was secured with ropes and tarps and there was no reason to think that it would give way.

  I know that people can smile and smile and still be villains, but I find Blue to be an excellent judge of character, and if she thought Patrick Farris was a good man, then I was prepared to like him.

  “And you must be Chloe,” he said, standing and offering his hand to me. He was not disconcerted by my lack of inches, so either Alex had mentioned that I was petite, or he simply wasn’t interested in physical appearances. It was nice to think that he might be a soul above such things.

  “Hello, thank you for having us. Blue is very excited to be here.”

  “I can see that. She likes horses?”

  “Oh yes. She likes everyone.”

  “Patrick—you vagabond!”

  Alex and Patrick did the handshake and backslap that many men use in place of a hug. I could see that there was genuine liking there so made no judgment about the restrained greeting.

  “Let’s get you inside. It’s going to blow tonight,” Patrick said. “It’s good we have a backup generator.”

  Alex opened the trunk and the men between them managed the luggage. I did not make any protests about this. They were big and strong and I could hear the wind picking up speed. It would be effort enough getting myself into the hotel, never mind a large suitcase whose wheels would be useless in the snow.

  The hotel was built as a capital E on the first three floors and also in the basement, though that wasn’t visible, of course. The fourth floor existed only along the spine which looked out over the town. The front facade was gabled and crenelated and every single peak was outlined in twinkling lights.

  We entered through a small side door on the lowest arm of the E that was nearest to the stable. Even this modest entry was decorated with twinkle lights and small icicles forming on the doorframe that glittered like a faerie’s ransom. We were fairly protected from the wind on the east side of the building, but I was still glad to get indoors and away from the whispering gusts that were colder than what I was used to.

  We passed through a sort of pantry storeroom, reassuringly well stocked, and passed the deserted kitchen before encountering the lobby, which was an inadequate word to describe what was really a great room for a palace that happened to have a desk in it. It was carpeted in a thick red pile and furnished with bulging chairs and sofas that begged to have people come snuggle up and read in them.

  There was a giant river rock fireplace, swagged and candled in the traditional manner, and between the flames and the gentle light of the chandelier, the room felt warm and welcoming in spite of the imposing size.

  Less expected was the grand piano and large harp which were set apart by some ornately carved bookcases which were filled with leather-clad books. The books did not look new and I doubted that they had been purchased as a prop, at least not originally. Many loving hands had handled them.

  At the farthest end of the lobby was a giant fire pit surrounded by embroidered cushions. The fire was electric, but it looked quite real and I knew that this cross between sk
i-lodge chic and a historical pasha’s palace would be popular with guests who would gather after a day on the slopes to drink buttered rum and Irish coffee while they skirted the line of insider trading.

  There were tall windows, lit in a dramatic fashion that showed off the snow, but I was ready to bet that they were every bit as dazzling in daylight and in every season of the year.

  Two women came through the main entrance, chased by swirls of snow. Both were taller than I am and athletic in build, but one was young and wore a goofy knit hat and even goofier smile. She reminded me rather a lot of Jacky MacKay and I wondered for a moment if perhaps she was “simple.” The girl came toward us while the older woman divested herself of her red parka and hung it on a clothes tree near the door. The older woman was wearing a green sweater with a snowflake zipper pull that I had seen in an expensive clothing catalogue. She also had a green and white scarf that would have looked festive on someone else.

  Blue galloped over to greet the girl and she dropped to her knees with a reverent ooohhhh of pleasure. Blue knows how to respond to this greeting and prepared to be hugged. Her tail was swinging madly.

  “Have you been skating?” I asked, a safe question since the girl still held ice skates in her left hand.

  She nodded.

  “And making snow angels. Mama didn’t want to but I made one anyway.” Her giant gray eyes looked my way. “Do you want to make some? How about you, Uncle Patrick?” The eyes turned his way next. “There’s lots of new snow now.”

  “Not tonight, Della,” he said gently. “The storm is getting worse and my friends have driven a long way to visit and must be tired. This is Chloe and her husband, Alex. And that is Chloe’s dog, Blue.”

  “Blue and I would like to make snow angels tomorrow,” I heard myself say. “If you don’t mind that Blue’s angels look a little like hippopotamuses.”