The Trickster. Muriel Gray
Billy yelled from the other room, and Katie said her goodbyes and hung up. Some chat show host was smarming through his front of show stand-up, while Billy Hunt ignored him in favour of a hand-held computer game. He yelled again as Katie came into the L-shaped room that was the biggest living space in the house.
‘Nine thousand, Mom! I got nine thousand! Yeees!’
Katie stood behind her son, and ran one thoughtful hand through his straight black hair. ‘Bed, Billy boy. Now.’
‘You said I could wait up and see Dad,’ he replied without taking his eyes off the grey plastic block in his hand.
‘Dad’s stranded in the storm over at Stoke. He’s coming home tomorrow, so that means bed for you, right now.’
She leaned over and switched off Billy’s game.
‘Aw Mom!’
‘I said now, Billy. Your hockey kit’s at the foot of your bed. You forget to put it in your bag again tomorrow, then you’re on your own, kid. I’m not driving round to school with it.’ She turned to leave the room.
‘Mom?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Dad won’t be at home tonight at all?’
Suddenly he looked worried. Katie went back and joined him on the sofa.
‘It’s okay. Like I said: he’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Can Bart sleep with me tonight?’
Katie tried to look hurt. ‘Oh, so Jess and I won’t do for company then? I keep forgetting, we’re just sappy girls.’
Billy put his hand in hers, and looked into her eyes with such concern she already regretted the joke. ‘You do fine. I just want Bart with me. It’s important.’
Katie squeezed his little hand. ‘Sure. If you can get him in. Good luck. You know what he’s been like.’
‘Great!’
‘Now go get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute.’
Her son bounced up and hopped on one foot to the door, singing as he went. His nine-year-old mind had already moved on to other matters. Likewise, Katie’s thirty-four-year-old mind had drifted back to her husband, worry and anxiety drilling into her. It was wrenched back to reality by the sound of Bart bounding up stairs with Billy, as the dog knocked over the frosted glass vase on the landing.
She smiled, and went to play at being stern.
When dawn came on January tenth it revealed the best snow conditions Silver Ski Company had seen for fifteen seasons. It also brought Estelle Reader the worst day of her life.
When they brought back what was left of Joe around one-thirty, Craig had been first at Estelle’s door, his face a grey mask of grief. Craig thought about the kind of suffering you see in the movies, where widows thank the policeman, squeeze his hand, and sit quietly in a chair absorbing the news. He thought about it as Estelle fell to her knees gurgling like a pig being bled, clutching at Craig’s jacket with fists like claws. She writhed on the floor and tore at the rug, saliva running from her mouth as she grunted and panted in the pain of her despair, until Craig hooked his hands under her armpits and lifted her onto a chair.
Life wasn’t like the movies. In fact life in Silver over the last week had been real bad.
Two ski patrollers killed in a freak explosion, and now Joe. He would, of course, have to tell Estelle that Joe’s death hadn’t been an accident, but not now. Time for that later, and time was going to bring her more pain. She would have to suffer the wait before they could lay Joe in the ground, while an autopsy was performed on the grisly remains.
From what they recovered in the gorge, there wasn’t much left to fit in a coffin, and after the forensics had been at him, Craig suspected a Safeway’s bag would probably be big enough to bury his ex-sergeant decently.
He waited with the moaning shell of Estelle Reader until her sister got there, then left and headed back to work.
Half a mile from the office, Craig McGee pulled off the highway into a back road, stopped the engine and cried like a baby. He would be all right in half an hour. Right now, he was broken up.
‘No kidding? Well if it’s a problem we can send a car to the airport to bring her luggage separately.’
Pasqual Weaver watched her own reflection in the office window as she spoke. An elegant, if angular, woman in her thirties looked back, the grey fleece zippered top with the Silver Ski Company logo embroidered on the left breast doing its best to undermine her executive status.
The hand unoccupied by the telephone played with the zipper at her neck.
‘Sure, we want her to be real comfortable. And can I say we’re already over the moon she’s even considering it.’
Eric entered the room and Pasqual mimed at him to sit down.
‘Okay James, you put those things to her and get back to us when you have an answer, but please tell her from us that we’re all huge fans and are really hoping she can make it. Okay, you too. Take care.’ She hung up, and gave the phone her middle finger. ‘Jesus. The fucking old bitch is acting like she’s still a star. Make my day, Eric. Tell me you’ve come to persuade me this celebrity ski week idea is a crock of shit.’
Eric Sindon had not come to say any such thing. ‘You’ve heard about the accident?’
Pasqual’s body changed shape. No longer lounging in her leather chair, it was now sitting forward like a cat watching its prey before striking.
‘Tell me.’
‘Craig’s side-kick. His truck went over the gorge on Wolf’s Pass last night.’
Pasqual sat back in her chair with relief. ‘Fuck. Don’t give me scares like that. I thought we’d had a fatality on the slopes. I think we can live with a cop in an auto accident.’
Eric looked at his boss with distaste. ‘It’s the third death in Silver in a week. I’m getting rumours that there’s more to it than just an automobile accident.’
Pasqual opened her top drawer and fished around until she found a packet of M&Ms.
‘Want one?’ She tossed the packet over the desk to Eric after filling her mouth with chocolate.
‘No. Look, I’m telling you this because I think it will have a negative effect on the resort. Skiers don’t get off on reading about death when they should be reading about snow reports.’
‘Eric, I think our visitors are big enough boys and girls to cope with the fact that sometimes people die in cars.’
‘What about Lenny and Jim?’
‘Accidents happen. They were patrollers for Christ’s sake.’
Eric looked at her and she knew that look. Pasqual stood up and turned her back to him, looking out of the window at the last of the die-hard skiers stepping out of their bindings beside the lodge after stealing the last run of the day.
‘What do you see out there, Eric?’
‘A lodge that needs a re-clad and a nursery area that needs two extra tows.’
She laughed, and threw another chocolate peanut into her mouth. ‘Well, maybe so, but I see the best fucking snow we’ve had in years, and a season that’s going to do business like a cold beer stall in Hell.’ She turned back to him. ‘Now what exactly are you worried about?’
‘Someone has to.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you shouldn’t underestimate negative vibes in a fun resort, Pasqual.’
She sat down and smiled a wicked cat grin at him. ‘Are you telling me my job, Mr Sindon?’
Eric