Powdered Murder

"Right." Murray cleared his throat. "Who do I talk to about the guest list thingy?"

"You've got to be kidding," I muttered.

*   *   *

Doc Henry came immediately to examine Do

I pulled up to my apartment to look for a bargaining chip but nothing came to mind. A huge wad of cash would surely loosen his lips. I had a few twenties in my nightstand. As I stepped out of my car, I noticed a figure leaning against the wall of The Painted Deer Bookshop. He was tall and lean, and really needed to pull the price sticker off of his brand new beanie. I took a deep breath, my calf muscles flexing. The man slowly approached me. I didn't know John. I didn't know the real reason he had travelled here from su

"Hi." He walked towards me and I stopped. I avoided looking upstairs and giving away where I lived.

"John, right?"

"That's right."

"I'm sorry, but the answer is still no. I can't help you."

"If you would just hear me out," he continued. "This isn't the kind of thing you think it is. My sources--"

"Whatever your sources told you it isn't true," I replied. "Bison Creek is nothing but a quiet little ski town with the smoothest powder in all the Rockies. If you're looking for a big story of sorts, next week is our town Waffle Fest. Some of the townies get really into it."

"That's not exactly the kind of thing I'm looking for." He took a step forward. As soon as he did, I took a step back. He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at his snow boots, a little confused. "Well, is there anyone around here I can talk to?"

"You can try the Grizzly?" I suggested. "The local bar."

"Okay, I'll do that. I was already headed there anyway."

My muscles became less and less tense as he turned and walked away. The regulars over at the Grizzly would keep him occupied for the next couple of days. If he didn't leave town just to get away from Booney and his infamous question game he played with tourists, I would've been shocked. Booney likes to one up any story he's told. Most of the time he circles back to stories about how he lost his pinky finger in the army. The story usually changes with every tourist.

John went walking down the street, glancing up at the setting sun. I had to make it to Wade's place before I lost all daylight. It was impossible to drive on the road leading towards his cabin at night, and I was definitely not pla

They say that love makes people do crazy things.

Well, death makes people do even crazier things.

CHAPTER FOUR

I drove down a dirt trail just outside of town. It gave the phrase “off the beaten path” a run for its money. I could barely drive five miles per hour because the road was embedded with rocks that could have blown my tires at any second. Wade put extra rocks there on purpose to keep wanderers away. When I was close enough to his house, I parked the car and got out to walk.

I zipped my ski coat all the way up and wrapped my scarf around my nose as a harsh breeze blasted across my face. The sun was going down and I could see a lantern lighting Wade's front porch. Wade's house was a one-bedroom mountain lodge with a smoking chimney and a pile of chopped firewood outside the door. Next to the lodge was a shed large enough to shelter his baby. A 1967 Camaro.

Wade was outside gathering wood when he saw me coming. With his hiking boots and mud-stained jeans, he looked like a typical mountain man. His face was always scruffy and his light brown hair was long enough to put back in a ponytail. He smirked when he saw me.

“Essie," he chuckled.

"Wade," I greeted him.

"The last time I saw you was right after your sister threatened to cut off my family jewels and throw them at my head." He picked up a bundle of wood like it was nothing but a pile of toothpicks bundled together with dental floss. "Come on in."

I followed him inside. I'd been to Wade's place plenty of times. I even remembered when he started building it ten years ago. The floors were a dark wood and the furniture was plain and simple. The walls were still painted a sage green from when my sister used to live here.

"I see nothing has changed much," I said.

"The house or me?" he asked.

"Both." I unzipped my coat and carefully sat down next to the pile of woodworking magazines that were stacked on the couch like it was a bookshelf.

Wade is a pretty reasonable guy, except when he's around my sister. Unfortunately, they are just one of those couples that bring out the worst in each other. The only reason they got together in the first place was because they hadn't lived together yet, and all that heated energy was being spun into sexual tension instead.

"Does Joy know you're here?" He smirked when he said her name as if the thought of her going insane because we were having a conversation gave him pleasure.

"Believe me, I would not have come if it wasn't urgent."

"This is about golden boy, isn't it?" He set the wood next to his fireplace and began feeding the small flame that was flickering inside it.

"How did you know Patrick was back?" I asked

Wade shrugged.

"The same way I know Sheriff Williams stopped by the gas station for an extra pack of brews last night. Word gets around when you work the mines." He nodded looking pleased with himself. I'd always found it comical that he referred to himself as a miner. A long time ago that might have been true since the majority of people in this town had ancestors who moved here to work in the silver mines. But the silver mine in Pinecliffe Mountain had been dead for years. Wade worked as a tour guide slash maintenance guy. To get to Bison Creek you had to exit the highway and drive past the silver mines' main entrance and gift shop, as well as the historic Bison Creek Railroad Station. The steam engine train was another one of the town's tourist attractions. Wade saw it all and, because he had the tendency to eavesdrop on tourists who came into town, he heard it all, too. If anyone knew the specifics of this John Slagger guy and when he'd arrived, Wade did.

"You're a tour guide," I reminded him.

"I go inside the mines for work." He brushed the wood shavings from his hands. "That still counts, sweetheart."

"Let me make this easy for you," I started. "I'm going to ask you if you've seen or heard anything about a nosey tourist who calls himself John, and you are going to nod if the answer is yes."

"I thought you'd be wanting to hear more about that Lila Clemton woman," he responded. "When I heard Patrick wanted to keep his visit hush hush, I knew that famous chick must be here too." He stopped to study my expression. "I'm right, aren't I? She is here." His eyes widened as he put the pieces together. "Which means . . . do I hear wedding bells?"

"Yes, okay," I said impatiently. "You're so clever. Now, do you know anything that can help me?"