Murder at Eagle Summit. Virginia Smith
A scream pierced the mountain air.
Liz!
Heart pounding, Tim crouched on his snowboard, picking up speed. His gaze searched the downhill path. There! Liz, unmistakable in her pink ski jacket, lay facedown. A man loomed over her.
Tim let out a howl of rage. He didn’t have time to think about words, just bellowed like a bear. An angry bear. If that man harmed one hair on Liz’s head…
The guy let go. With lightning speed, he darted away. Tim shot across the snow in a direct path to his ex-fiancée. He threw himself to his knees on the snow beside her and gathered her up in his arms.
“There, baby. It’s okay now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She threw her arms around his neck, her sobs loud in his ear.
In that instant, Tim knew. In fact, he’d always known.
He was still in love with her.
VIRGINIA SMITH
A lifelong lover of books, Virginia Smith has always enjoyed immersing herself in fiction. In her mid-twenties she wrote her first story and discovered that writing well is harder than it looks; it took many years to produce a book worthy of publication. During the daylight hours she steadily climbed the corporate ladder and stole time late at night after the kids were in bed to write. With the publication of her first novel, she left her twenty-year corporate profession to devote her energy to her passion—writing stories that honor God and bring a smile to the faces of her readers. When she isn’t writing, Ginny and her husband, Ted, enjoy exploring the extremes of nature—snow skiing in the mountains of Utah, motorcycle riding on the curvy roads of central Kentucky, and scuba diving in the warm waters of the Caribbean. Visit her online at www.VirginiaSmith.org.
Virginia Smith
Murder at Eagle Summit
Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean: wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.
—Psalms 51:7
For my husband, Ted.
Thank you for introducing me to Utah skiing.
Acknowledgments
This story would not have come about if not for the assistance of many people. Thanks to:
Susan Ashley, who gave me the idea of setting a story in Park City, and for invaluable insights about the day-to-day operation of ski resorts. And for so many terrific ideas, like finding a frozen body on a chair lift.
Zach and Heidi Nakaishi, for patiently answering my questions and for educating me about police procedures in Utah’s Summit County. If I goofed it’s not their fault.
Tracy Ruckman and Amy Barkman, for excellent feedback.
The CWFI Critique Group for working so hard on the first few chapters, the summary, and title brainstorming: Amy S., Amy B., Vicki T., Sherry K., Richard L., Ann K. and Tracy R.
My agent, Wendy Lawton, for believing in me and telling me so.
Editor extraordinaire Krista Stroever, whose insights make me a better writer and whose encouragement makes me a grateful one.
And finally, thanks to my Lord Jesus, for more things than I could possibly list here. But He knows.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
“Have you ever seen an uglier dress in your life?”
Liz Carmichael pitched her voice to be heard over the windshield wipers and the downpour of rain battering against the roof of the car. Rainfall this heavy was unusual in December, but nothing about this warm Kentucky winter could be called usual. She lifted her head from the passenger headrest and cracked one tired lid to see her friend’s reaction to her question.
Jazzy clutched the wheel with both hands, her gaze fixed on the wet road through the windshield. Lightning flashed across the coal-black sky above them, illuminating her dainty profile in an eerie white glow.
“It was pretty awful,” she agreed without looking toward Liz.
From the backseat came Caitlin’s voice. “But the bride was beautiful.”
“What bride?” Liz snorted. “If there was a girl somewhere inside all those ruffles, I couldn’t see her.”
“Oh, there was a bride, all right. I have her check to prove it.” The corner of Jazzy’s mouth twisted. “And a stiff neck, too.”
“Yeah, and my lips are numb.” Caitlin, the flutist in their classical ensemble, sounded tired, too. “I think that’s the longest we’ve ever played at a wedding reception. We earned our money tonight, that’s for sure.”
Liz rubbed a thumb across the calluses on her fingertips, sore from playing her cello for two hours straight. “I just hope the check doesn’t bounce.”
She snapped her jaw shut. She must be more tired than she thought. That was a bit much, even from her.
Caitlin poked her shoulder from behind while Jazzy said, “Don’t be such a sourpuss. Of course the check won’t bounce.”
Liz half turned to give Caitlin a crooked grin. Good thing her friend knew her well enough to see through her cynicism and realize the reason for her grumpiness.
The car slowed as they approached the entrance to Liz’s apartment complex.
“I thought we played well. Did you notice—”
“What’s going on over there?” Jazzy cut her off with a finger stabbing at the windshield.
Liz looked where Jazzy had indicated. Flashing blue and white lights from a pair—no, three police cars sliced through the dark haze of the downpour.
“They look like they’re in front of your building, Liz.”
Liz leaned forward to peer through the torrent of rain as Jazzy guided the car through the parking lot. As they drew near, a person in a dark rain poncho exited her