Love Is Murder (2 page)

“Steve,” Lucy said, “what were you doing up there?”

“I was coming back from checking on our outlying cabins—we close them in the winter—and checking for animal tracks. We have been having some problems with four-legged predators, and I wanted to make sure they hadn’t returned. I knew the storm was going to get bad as soon as the sky turned, so I took a shortcut. Stupid.”

“Why didn’t you take a snowmobile?” Patrick asked.

“They were all out when I left, and I can’t get to two of the cabins with my truck. I do this all the time,” he said defensively. “I just lost my balance. And my favorite skis.”

He didn’t open his eyes, and Lucy couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth.

She said, “I checked the weather report this morning. They said light snowfall overnight, clear tomorrow. I can’t believe they were so wrong.”

Steve laughed once. “Weather systems change often, especially in the winter. I’ve lived here my entire life and when I saw the report this morning I knew the system was going to shift as soon as the wind shifted. Weather reports are more reliable now with satellites and historical data all computerized, but minor changes in one location can have a chain effect, especially in the mountains.”

“How long do you think it’ll last?” Patrick asked.

Steve looked out the window. “I think we’re in for the weekend.”

“What?” Lucy exclaimed.

“We can get you off the mountain if you want, but tonight is going to be a blizzard and I don’t advise it.”

“I’m not going anywhere tonight,” Lucy said.

Patrick grinned. “What did you do, Luce? Send a prayer up for a blizzard to get you out of learning to ski?”

“On the contrary, I decided that I was going to learn how to ski if it was the last thing I did—just to prove to you that I’m not scared of failure.”

“I shouldn’t have said scared. You’re not scared of failure, you’re just pissed off. You don’t like it when you can’t do something your first time out. And you just said
learn how to ski
, meaning you have no intention of failing.”

“Why would I try if I expected to fail?”

“Indeed. I rest my case.”

Lucy was confused and sighed heavily. “Brothers.”

Patrick drove across the pressed gravel road that was now covered with a thick layer of snow, but the lights lining the lodge’s entrance helped guide him to the barn, which had been converted into a large garage. Steve jumped out of the truck and opened the barn doors. Patrick drove in and parked where he had earlier, next to the Delarosa truck. Patrick got out and helped Steve close the doors against the fierce wind.

“I need to gather up supplies and check the generators,” Steve said. “You should get inside before the storm gets worse.”

“With that bump on your head, you shouldn’t be out walking around,” Lucy said.

“I don’t have a choice. I’m not risking damage because I slacked off.”

“I’ll help you,” Patrick said.

“I don’t need any help.”

“Then I’ll tell your stepmother that you whacked your head. Based on her mother-hen attitude, I don’t think she’ll let you leave your room.”

“What do you care?” he asked petulantly.

“I’ve been the recipient of a nasty head injury,” Patrick said. “I know how unpredictable they are.”

Lucy didn’t say anything. Her brother had been in a coma, thanks to the man who had kidnapped her nearly six years ago. She still felt a pang of guilt that Patrick had been so severely injured while trying to rescue her. She thanked God every day that he was alive, breathing, and awake. Since his recovery, they’d grown much closer than they’d been growing up. Their ten-year age difference had been huge when she was ten and Patrick was twenty; now at twenty-four and thirty-four, it didn’t matter much.

“Fine,” Steve said, “if you promise to not say anything to Grace. She’s a worrywart.”

“Promise.”

Lucy didn’t think that was a good idea, and she was surprised that Patrick agreed to it.

“It might be kind of hard to hide that bandage,” Lucy said.

“I’ll take care of it. We need to get this done before full dark.”

“I’m dressed for it,” Patrick said. He nodded to Lucy with a look that said he’d keep an eye on Steve, and she felt marginally better heading inside to the lodge.

“I have plenty of extra snowshoes,” Steve said. “Lucy, stick to the path—there is ground lighting that shouldn’t be buried by the snow yet. It’ll land you right at the porch.” He handed her a pair of snowshoes.

“I’ve never walked in these.”

“It’s not hard, and if you go out in those boots you’ll sink farther and it’ll take you longer to get to the house.”

She strapped on the snowshoes and left the barn. Steve was right, it wasn’t difficult, she just had to lift her feet up completely and take wide, deliberate steps. She could see the house only fifty yards away, though visibility was definitely worsening. The wind was at her side, wanting to knock her over, but she kept an even pace.

By the time she reached the porch several minutes later, she was winded from the exertion, but exhilarated.

The lodge was a larger replica of the Ponderosa, the home of the Cartwrights of
Bonanza
fame. But the main floor was eight stairs up from the walk, and Lucy had to take the snowshoes off to climb the stairs. She opened the door, the wonderful aroma of simmering stew reminding her that she was starving. Falling down a lot apparently worked up a huge appetite.

The interior, while bigger than the Cartwrights’ fictional home, was decorated in the same Gold Rush–era style with simple wood furniture and old rugs. Clean and polished, there were no contemporary touches aside from electricity and indoor plumbing. The Delarosa Mountain Retreat was technology free: no television, no computers, no cellphone reception.

Lucy wasn’t so sure how she felt about that, but they’d be here for just three days. Maybe it was time to unplug and really, what was a few days? They’d be out of here no later than noon on Monday. In fact, only twenty minutes down the mountain there was a ridge where they’d noted they had cellphone reception, and fifteen minutes farther there was the small town of Kit Carson, with a restaurant, grocery, and gas station, plus a few dozen residents. Not that Lucy was planning on going to any of them and pleading like an addict,
“Please, can I log on to the Internet for just five minutes? I’ll pay you.”

Lucy started up the stairs to her room when Grace Delarosa, Steve’s stepmother, stepped into the foyer. Her face fell when she saw Lucy. “I thought you were Steve. He was supposed to be back by now.”

“He and Patrick went to bring in supplies and check the generators.”

“Was he okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t been himself lately. I’m worried about his health. He’s so much like his father, doesn’t want to go to the doctor. But I finally convinced him because he was getting dizzy so often, and while they couldn’t find anything wrong, when the doctor wanted to do more tests, he refused.”

Lucy thought about Steve’s tumble down the mountain. She bit back the truth, and said, “Patrick will keep an eye on him.”

Grace smiled tightly. “Thank you. We’re having dinner early. Appetizers are already in the dining room.”

“Great, I’ll change and be right down.”

She started up the stairs and heard Grace say, “What do you want now?”

Lucy glanced over her shoulder, startled, thinking that Grace was speaking to her, but all she saw was Grace turning the corner toward the office.

Lucy’s room was the first on the left at the top of the stairs. Patrick was directly across from her. There were six upstairs guest rooms in the lodge, two larger suites and four single rooms. Earlier, she’d learned that Grace and Steve lived in the small cottage behind the lodge, and Grace’s sister, Beth, had taken the caretaker’s room downstairs, adjacent to the office and kitchen.

Lucy had met the three couples staying at the lodge when she and Patrick first arrived. Alan and Heather Larson were thirty-five-year-old workaholics from the Silicon Valley who’d taken the snowmobiles to town in order to check their email. She’d almost laughed at the time, but now realized she’d been suffering the same technological withdrawal.

Kyle and Angie DeWitt were about Lucy’s age, and according to Beth they spend more time in bed than anywhere else. From their lovey-dovey display at the breakfast table, Lucy wasn’t surprised. She admitted to being a bit jealous of the newlyweds, as well as hopeful. Jealous that she didn’t have a close relationship like they did—she didn’t know if she was capable of that, for she certainly had never shown such outward affection for her longtime ex-boyfriend, Cody. And hopeful that maybe there was someone out there for her who she could love as much as that person loved her.

But that was in the future. She wasn’t going to look for it. Sometimes she thought her life experiences had jaded her to unconditional love. Or worse, made her incapable of trusting someone enough to love.

She suspected someday she might be in a relationship more like the Larsons’. They obviously liked and respected each other and had a lot in common—work, intelligence, a dry sense of humor; they even looked alike, both tall brunettes, nice-looking but plain, wearing almost identical wire-rimmed glasses. Lucy could imagine herself marrying her best friend out of comfort.

But Cody was your best friend, and you turned down his proposal
.

Or maybe she’d fall in the camp of Trevor Marsh and his wife, Vanessa Russell-Marsh—complete opposites physically and in personality. Breakfast this morning had been interesting with Trevor’s boisterous laugh and Vanessa’s cool demeanor. While Vanessa was model-beautiful, Trevor was a bit overweight and looked a little like a cherub. She was at least two inches taller than him and they seemed mismatched, though they had an obvious silent communication going on that suggested they’d known each other for a long time. Lucy had liked Trevor’s lack of pretension.

If she wasn’t so hungry, Lucy thought as she stripped off her damp clothes in exchange for a warmer—and dry—outfit, she would go right to bed. She was physically exhausted. But dinner first.

A scream pierced the second floor, a sound so anguished that Lucy immediately knew that someone was in pain.

But she feared it was much worse.

II.

As soon as Lucy stepped out of her room, she realized that shouts were coming from Trevor and Vanessa’s room. She ran down the hall to the last room on the right just as Kyle swung open his door across from the Marshes’ room. He was bare chested, and Angie had on a short robe. Both looked stunned, but Kyle took action and ran into the Marshes’ room ahead of Lucy.

“Vanessa,” Trevor moaned his wife’s name. Tears dampened his face as he shook the lifeless body on the bed. “Please wake up!”

Kyle froze inside the doorway. Lucy pushed him aside and went to Trevor’s side. She didn’t have to feel for a pulse; it was obvious that Vanessa had been dead for at least an hour. Her half-opened eyes were glassy and already had a thin, cloudy film over them, and her jaw and eyelids had already noticeably stiffened. Rigor mortis starts in the face and limbs and works inward.

“Trevor, put Vanessa down,” Lucy said calmly.

“W-why?” he cried.

Lucy quickly assessed the large room. It was L-shaped, with a couch and desk in a small area directly in front of the entrance, and the bed in the larger area to the left. Clothes had been draped carefully over the sofa, as if someone was deciding what to wear: a simple black dress; jeans and a cashmere sweater; and a blue sweaterdress. Matching shoes were lined up beneath each outfit.

Vanessa was on the bed in a thick white terry bathrobe, similar to the one Lucy’s sister-in-law had given her for Christmas last year. Vanessa’s long, golden blonde hair was damp and a bit stringy, as if she had brushed it after getting out of the shower but it had nearly dried before she could style it.

A prescription bottle was on the nightstand, along with a glass of white wine. Lucy squatted to read the label without touching the bottle, remnants of her training with the Arlington County Sheriff’s Office—not that this was anything but what it seemed.

The prescription was made out to Vanessa Russell for Seconal. Seconal was a common temporary sleep aid. The thirty-day prescription had been filled two months ago and appeared half-f—not uncommon, with the direction to use as needed for insomnia.

The DeWitts were still standing in the doorway when Grace came through saying, “Excuse me, please, excuse me.”

Lucy looked up. “Grace—”

“Oh my God, what happened?”

“You need to call the police.”

“Police? Why? Is she—”

“She’s dead,” Trevor moaned.

“But how?” asked Grace.

When Trevor didn’t answer, Lucy did. “We don’t know.”

Trevor rocked Vanessa’s body in his arms. “I don’t understand. Why would she do this?”

“What happened?” Grace asked.

“It could have been an accidental overdose,” said Lucy. “We don’t know how many pills were in the bottle. It’s an older prescription.”

Grace frowned. “But—she took pills, right?”

Lucy couldn’t say. On the surface it looked like Vanessa had taken sleeping pills—but there was no suicide note, no indication that she’d intended to harm herself. But if she wanted to take an afternoon nap, why take Seconal, which came with the warning to only take if you could sleep for eight hours because of possible side effects? Not that people followed the rules of their medications, but if Vanessa had been taking the drug for a while, she’d know its potential dangers.

That there was a nearly empty glass of wine was also disturbing, because anyone who regularly took sleeping pills knew alcohol enhanced the effect of the drugs, even within normal dosage.

Alan Larson popped his head into the room and Lucy said to Grace, “Get everyone out of here. Please,” she added as an afterthought.

She wasn’t a cop, but she’d been at enough crime scenes to know that contamination was a big problem. Not that this was a crime scene; it was technically an unattended death, but Lucy felt compelled to protect the body and the scene as much as possible before the police arrived.