Virginia Smith - Murder at Eagle Summit

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

“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 building and sloshed through the water pooling on the sidewalk. The figure slid inside one of the police cars. Oh, no. What if something had happened to one of her neighbors?

What she noticed next made her stomach twist. A light shone in the second floor window on the left side of the building.

Her window.

She had turned off the lights before she left. She always did.

“I think…” Her voice came out choked. She swallowed and tried again. “I think they’re in my apartment.”

Caitlin’s gasp was almost drowned out by the rumble of thunder outside.

Jazzy pulled the car to a stop behind the third police cruiser and cut the engine. The sound of rain hammering against the roof grew louder in the silence. Dread gathered in Liz’s core. Had her place been broken into? Had she been robbed?

Shuffling sounds from the backseat made Liz look around. Caitlin had pulled her hood up over her head and was tying it in place beneath her chin.

Liz cleared her throat. “You don’t have to get out in this weather. You’ll get soaked.”

Jazzy slipped her car keys into the pocket of her raincoat before turning a disbelieving stare in Liz’s direction. “Are you crazy? We’re your friends. We’re coming with you.”

A flash of relief loosened her tense shoulders, but only for a second. She needed to get in there and see what was going on in her apartment. She braced herself, pushed open the car door and exited the vehicle at a run. Dimly aware that Jazzy and Caitlin followed, she splashed across the sidewalk and into the breezeway of her building. Water plastered her bangs to her forehead and dripped into her eyes. Blinking furiously to clear them, she ascended the six stairs in two leaps. Her friends right behind her, she skidded to a halt in front of her door.

It stood open.

Just inside the doorway, two police officers, one male, one female, blocked her way. Both wore thick rain ponchos and hats covered in plastic.

Someone rushed up beside her, and Liz felt her arm caught in a tight grip.

“Oh, Liz, I’m so sorry.” Her neighbor, Mrs. Evans, peered up at her from beneath a creased brow. “You’ve been burgled.”

No. Not again. “I have?”

Mrs. Evans nodded. “They left your door open, and I peeked in. When I saw the mess, I knew something was wrong so I called the police.” Her clutch eased and she patted Liz’s arm. “You’re not nearly as messy as all that.”

All what?

“You’re Elizabeth Carmichael?” The female officer’s badge read R. Lawrence. She and the man stood shoulder-to-shoulder so Liz couldn’t see past them.

Almost fearfully, she nodded.

“I’m afraid someone made quite a mess of your apartment.”

“What…” Liz cleared her throat “…what did they take?”

The other officer, T. Franklin, lifted a shoulder. “You’re going to have to tell us.” He stepped aside and gestured for Liz to enter.

She took a step forward and stopped. A shudder ran down her spine. The sight that greeted her was hauntingly familiar.

The couch cushions had been pulled off and tossed aside. Books lay strewn over the floor in front of the empty bookcase. Sheet music littered the floor.

“Oh, no,” said Caitlin behind her.

“Not again.” Jazzy’s whisper echoed her thoughts.

Liz’s hand rose involuntarily to her throat. Once before she and her friends had been the victim of a break-in when their trio was hired to play at an out-of-town wedding. Only, then she’d been present when the intruder arrived.

But that was four months ago. That man was in prison for murder.

“As far as we can see,” Officer Franklin said, “your television and stereo are here, and your computer is in the other room. We need you to walk through, and without touching anything, tell us if you notice anything missing.”

“The bedroom looks worse.” Liz winced at Officer Lawrence’s sympathetic warning.

While Jazzy, Caitlin and Mrs. Evans waited by the door, Liz stepped slowly across the living room. Hands clasped to keep from picking anything up, she did a mental inventory. CDs and DVDs were scattered around the floor. Were any missing? Impossible to tell. Sheet music…well, she wouldn’t know until she went through it, but she couldn’t imagine anyone would want her cello music. Her DVD player had been pushed cockeyed, but it was still there. Still showed the correct time, even.

Bracing herself, she headed for the bedroom. The officers followed. Bile churned in her stomach when she saw the mess the intruder had left: dresser drawers upended all over the floor; the mattress shoved off the box springs; the contents of her jewelry box scattered across the top of the dresser.

Her computer desk drawers had been dumped and her personal papers strewn everywhere. Bank statements, receipts, letters, all littered the room. Hard to tell if any were missing. She’d have to alert the bank and her credit card companies, just in case they’d taken something, or made note of her account numbers. But the computer was still there.

“Do you have any firearms that may be missing, Miss Carmichael?”

Liz whirled toward Officer Franklin. “No. Nothing like that.”