Slayed on the Slopes

Book 2: Pacific Northwest Mystery

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

After talking her way into a job writing for Portland's Northwest Extreme magazine, Meg Reed may now really be in over her head. Actually, about 8,000 feet over her head. . . She's at Mount Hood's remote Silcox Hut, covering the the seriously hardcore Ridge Rangers-- Oregon's elite high-altitude rescue team--during their four-day winter training. Sure, Meg beefed up her outdoor skills over the summer . . . but she's still hoping to cover the event with some hot chocolate by the cheery fireplace. Then, during a sudden blizzard, she swears she hears gunshots. No one stranded in the hut believes her . . . until self-absorbed Ridge Ranger Ben Rogers is found outside in a pool of frozen blood. Meg's now got to find this killer quickly . . . before cabin fever does them all in! Praise For Scene Of The Climb "A splendid overview of the greater Portland and Columbia River Gorge region, perfect for travel buffs. Her protagonist shows promise with her determined attitude and moxie." -- Library Journal Includes Adventure Guides!

Release date: January 1, 1949

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

You’re an idiot, Meg.

Yep, that’s pretty much the first thing that came to mind as I frantically scanned the frozen sky.

Why don’t I trust my intuition? If I ever bothered to stop and listen to Gam’s oh-so-wise advice, I’d never get myself into these situations. But what do I do? Forge ahead, ignoring that nagging voice in my head.

What I couldn’t ignore now was the howl of the wind and the pounding in my forehead.

At 7,000 feet above sea level, where the air begins to thin, I couldn’t seem to fill my chest. My breath came in shallow, wheezing spurts and felt as thick as the snow beneath my feet. My head throbbed from the lack of oxygen, and my fingers burned with cold. Seventeen inches of new snow had fallen since the blizzard hit yesterday, and it didn’t look like Mother Nature intended to let up anytime soon.

For some strange reason I thought I could hear the faint sounds of Frank Sinatra’s crooning voice. The lyric “Kiss the good life good-bye” hummed on the wind. Message received. If I didn’t find my way back to the Silcox Hut—fast—I’d be kissing my life good-bye. I couldn’t be hearing music up at this elevation, could I? Was I losing it? How long does hypothermia take to set in?

Pausing in the knee-deep snow, I searched the sky for any clue that might lead me in the direction of the Silcox Hut and safety. Nothing but blinding white greeted me. I couldn’t tell how much snow was actually falling and how much was being hurled back up into the air by the deafening wind.

Yet there it was again. The swell of big band music teased my ears.

Guide me back, Frank, I thought as I used all the energy I could muster to free my tingling feet from the snow and trudge toward the sound of the music.

Thank God I’d worn my fur-lined Keen snow boots because even with two pairs of thick wool socks I was losing feeling in my toes. My fingers were another story. The supercute cashmere fingerless gloves seemed like an excellent fashion statement a couple days ago, but in terms of function, not so much.

I kicked my foot free from the powder and took a step forward. It was getting hard to stay upright. Icy flakes pelted my face. I sunk deeper in the snow.

At this rate you’re going to end up a Popsicle, Meg, I thought just as I heard a bang.

At first I thought it must be a drum—the bang of the big band reaching its crescendo. A moment later I realized I was horribly mistaken.

Lurching forward through the heavy snow, I heard another bang. This time there was no mistaking the sound—it had to be a gunshot.

I had no one to blame but myself. The assignment at the Silcox Hut was my idea. Two days before, while on my way to Government Camp, Oregon, there was no sign of the storm that had been battering the mountain ever since.

When I packed my Subaru Outback, a graduation present my dad—“Pops”—gave me before his untimely death almost a year and a half ago, I never would have guessed that I’d be caught in a blizzard. The languid late November sun warmed the interior of the car as I stuffed the cargo area with ski boots, snowshoes, my winter parka and a suitcase before departing from Portland.

After my disastrous initial assignment last spring for Northwest Extreme, the award-winning adventure magazine where I’m currently a staff writer, I vowed to hone my almost non-existent outdoor skills. And hone I did. I spent the better chunk of my summer training with the Crag Rats, Oregon’s oldest volunteer mountain rescue team.

Thanks to the Crag Rats’ expert guidance and steadfast patience, I gained some street cred with the team at Northwest Extreme. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not planning to bungee jump off a bridge or scale Everest anytime soon, but I can hold my own on a day hike now. Plus, the Crag Rats schooled me on all their lingo and gear. It was like a summerlong immersion camp with the Boy Scouts.

I emerged from my outdoor intensive training more confident and with the equivalent of a bachelor’s degree in extreme adventure. Hopefully I’d be able to apply what I learned from the Crag Rats to my writing. I knew that Greg, my editor and distractingly gorgeous boss, was thrilled that I’d invested the time in training.

Fortunately my Crag Rat friends were generous in reporting my progress to Greg. I think I won them over with batches of my grandmother’s—Gam’s—orange dreamsicle cookies and my determination to ask unexpected questions. The Crag Rats convinced Greg that I could hold my own with any thrill seeker or professional athlete that he might task me with interviewing. Okay, so maybe that’s a stretch of the truth, but I wasn’t worried. I figured any future blemishes in my outdoor prowess could be glossed over by my ability to wield a paper and a pen. Or keyboard.

That’s why I’m an idiot. I’m the one who approached Greg with writing a feature on a new high-altitude guiding team—the Ridge Rangers. In fairness, I didn’t have an inkling of worry that things might not go according to plan.

“Got a minute?” I asked as I peered into Greg’s office early one November morning. The rising sun cast a pinkish glow on the wall of windows behind his desk and illuminated the Willamette River outside that divided my hometown, Portland, in half. I like to arrive before the rest of the staff in the morning. It gives me time to pull together my thoughts before the office starts to buzz with people facing the frenzy of deadlines.

“Hey, Meg, you’re here early.” Greg waved me in. “Come on in. What’s up?”

I thought I’d recovered from my crush on him. The distraction of the brawny Crag Rats over the summer almost did it. But at the sight of his scruffy stubble and tanned forearms, I had to stop myself from swooning. Having a crush on your boss is a bad idea. The man should model, not manage a magazine.

One glance around his office revealed that our photography department wasn’t immune to Greg’s natural good looks and charm either. Covers of Northwest Extreme were framed on the walls. Greg’s mug graced the cover of at least five. His tall, sculpted body hung from the side of cliffs and posed on summits.

“Sorry to bug you,” I said, rolling a swivel chair in front of his desk.

When Greg took over as editor in chief a few years before, he’d moved Northwest Extreme to a refurbished warehouse on the waterfront. Mere feet from his office windows sat a multi-use path where Portlanders ran, biked and walked in any kind of weather. We’d had a long stretch of Indian summer and the path was a mob scene of early-morning exercisers trying to burn calories and soak up some vitamin D before heading to work.

I adjusted the hemline of my 1950s pale pink cotton, pleated dress. Despite my burgeoning outdoor skills, I couldn’t give up my love of vintage fashion.

“Nice dress.” Greg winked. “Pink—I can always count on you for pink, Meg.”

“Thanks.” I held my hand on my forehead to block the glare from the water outside.

Greg glanced over his shoulder. “Is that too bright? I can close the shades.” He grabbed a remote control from his desk and aimed it at the windows.

Gray shades began to lower automatically.

“No, wait. You don’t have to do that. I love the sun. I just have to adjust my position. Keep them open.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” Greg clicked another button. The shades stopped and rose back to their original position.

“How’s life, Meg? I’ve been gone so much lately, it seems like I haven’t seen you for ages.”

“I know. How was Africa?” I asked, trying to keep things social.

“South America?” He leaned forward on his elbows. Did he intentionally keep his face casually scruffy?

“Oh, right. I can’t keep track of your travels. How was it? You climbed Aconcagua, right?” No wonder his skin looked as though it had been gently toasted and buttered.

“Yep. I’m working on a feature about the seven summits. I have three left. Not a bad gig.” He laughed, cracked his knuckles and leaned even closer on his desk. “Now, what can I do for you?”

I could smell his aftershave and see the curve of his muscles in his forearms.

Stop it, Meg. I scooted back a little and crossed my legs.

Gathering my composure, I launched into my pitch. “Well, you know how the Crag Rats sort of took me under their wing this summer? They’re the oldest volunteer mountain rescue group this side of the Rockies, right?”

Greg nodded.

“I learned from a couple of the guys that some of them are branching off and starting a new mountaineering guiding team made up primarily of competitive snowboarders—the Ridge Rangers. They’re going to lead groups of climbers up the mountain, from novices to experts. Their goal is to make sure everyone who books a trip with them summits. I think it could make a really interesting story. Readers will really connect with their tricks, skills and rugged good looks.” I winked.

“Oh, really? So what exactly were they training you on?” Greg raised his eyebrow. “You know there are a ton of women who board, right?”

Heat rose to my cheeks. “Yeah. I know. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that we might draw in some new female readership because most of the Ridge Rangers are men—that’s all.” Stop, Meg. “The team is having their first meeting up on Mount Hood later this month and I thought I could go and do a write-up about it.”

Greg leaned back in his chair. “You’re too easy, Meg. You know you can never play poker. One little joke and you turn as red as those Japanese maples outside.”

The maple trees lining the pathway were ablaze with color. My cheeks felt equally hot.

Greg had an uncanny ability to unnerve me no matter what.

He grabbed a pencil from a coffee cup on his desk. The cup displayed our Northwest Extreme tagline—KEEPING THE WEST WILD. He made a note on a blank sheet of paper, stopped and looked at me. “Yeah, I love this idea. The Ridge Rangers, right? A cover story maybe? Oregon’s wild guides on the slope. Let’s do it.”

“Really?”

“Sure. So what’s this meeting they’re holding?”

“Hang on one sec, okay?” I scooted the chair back and sprinted out of his office. The communal area was dark and empty. Most staffers arrive around 9:00, but everyone keeps their own schedule. Greg likes his staff to have autonomy and the flexibility to be out on assignment or out for a long run at a moment’s notice. I appreciated his hands-off approach to management and hoped he didn’t notice that I tended to pop out for a double mocha versus for a long run.

My desk sat in the middle of the exposed brick building below high-beamed ceilings. I fumbled through a stack of file folders and found one labeled “Ridge Rangers.” I tucked it under my arm and returned to Greg’s office.

“Here’s everything I’ve gathered so far.” My foot slipped out of my slide sandal and I stumbled onto his desk, spilling the file.

“You okay?” Greg smirked.

I gathered the papers together and reached down to grab my rose-colored sandal. Holding it in the air, I laughed. “Yep, just a slight wardrobe malfunction.”

You’re such a klutz, Meg, I thought as I slid my sandal back on and held my hand over my stomach.

I tucked my hair behind my ears. It’s at a weird in-between stage. Usually I wear it short, but I decided I wanted to try something new going into the colder weather, so I’ve been growing it out. The result is a bunch of funky blond layers that tend to flip out in all the wrong places. I might have to give up on long locks and chop it off again.

Greg caught my eye and gave me an expectant look.

I turned on my most professional voice. “Right.” I passed him the file. “The Ridge Rangers are hosting their inaugural training meeting before they start to take clients up the summit. They’re taking over the Silcox Hut at Timberline for a long weekend of events—rescue training, boarding exhibitions, gear demos, team bonding—that sort of thing.”

He thumbed through the notes I’d collected. “See, Meg, this is why I keep you around. Nice preliminary work. So when’s the training?”

I grinned and relaxed my stomach muscles. “In three weeks. The weekend before Thanksgiving.” Glancing out the window as a group of runners breezed past in shorts and T-shirts, I continued. “Although at this rate I’m guessing there won’t be any snow on the mountain.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Greg shook his head. “Such a bummer.” He handed me back the folder. “The week before Thanksgiving?”

“Yep.”

He paused and tapped his pencil again. “That might work out perfectly. My family has a place in Government Camp, near the lodge. I was planning to be up there that weekend anyway and I’ve been wanting to get the whole team together. Maybe we can do a staff meeting the day before, work on next year’s editorial calendar and bond a bit. Will that work for you?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Great. Let me make a couple calls and see if I can reserve the lodge. Don’t say anything to the rest of the staff yet.”

“Of course not.”

“If it works out we can knock out a team retreat and a cover story. Plus, this way I’ll be around to help you with the feature. I wouldn’t mind taking a couple runs with those guys anyway. What do you say, Meg? We’ll throw in our skis and make a weekend out of it?”

So much for autonomy. I gulped. “Sure, that sounds great.”

“You ski, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I totally ski,” I lied as I tucked the file under my arm and exited from his office.

What are you thinking, Meg? I thought as I made my way back to my desk. My last ski trip hadn’t ended well. My bestie, Jill Pettygrove, was on the ski team when we were growing up. Her parents are avid skiers and Jill was shredding the slopes as soon as she took her first steps.

They invited me up to the mountain when we were in elementary school. Despite their expert training I spent most of the weekend on my derrière. On our way home I nursed a sprained ankle and a bruised bum and vowed I’d never ski again.

Yet somehow I managed not only to rope myself into a ski trip, but a ski trip with my boss. My only consolation was the brilliant November sun. Its rays had penetrated through the windows on the far side of the office and warmed the back of my chair. As I booted up my laptop to begin outlining my feature on the Ridge Rangers, I was confident there was no chance I’d have to break out skis soon.

There wasn’t a cloud on the horizon and the forecast called for continuing sun. In fact, the local news stations had been warning of a potential drought for the past two months.

I didn’t have anything to worry about. The mountain would be bare.

Was I ever wrong.

Three weeks later my red Subaru Outback wagon was bursting with gear and equipment.

“You’re sure these will stay?” I asked Jill as I struggled to tighten a pair of her old skis to the top of the car.

Jill is a good five inches taller than me. Her thin, model-like arms easily reached the ski rack and cinched the straps tight. “They’re good. They’re not going anywhere. I just hope you don’t have to use them. You know the forecast is calling for snow now, right?”

I looked up at the cloudless blue sky above us. A slight breeze released a single leaf from the white birch tree in front of my apartment. “I know,” I said as I dug through my purse for my sunglasses. “That means there’s no way it’s actually going to snow. The forecasters are always wrong. I mean, look around. The only thing I see is the sun.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.” Jill looked doubtful. “You remember what happened the last time we went skiing?”

“Uh, yeah.” I pushed up my purple Kate Spade sunglasses (a freebie from Northwest Extreme) on the bridge of my nose. “Don’t worry. Even if it snows I’m not getting on those suckers.” I pointed to the skis. “They’re just for show.”

The contents of my bulging trunk were evidence that if nothing else I was overprepared for this assignment. In addition to Jill’s skis, I’d packed snow boots, a North Face hooded parka in a matching shade of plum, a knit pink and purple striped hat and my favorite find of the season—fingerless gloves made from recycled cashmere sweaters. They’re hand-sewn by a local seamstress and friend of Gam’s. Mine were a deep shade of eggplant and embellished with tiny pastel flowers on the tip of the hand. I was focused on looking the part of an extreme sports reporter. Plus, not only would I look stylish on the slopes this weekend, but my fingers would be free to take notes. Genius, if I did say so myself.

“Anything else you need before you hit the road?” Jill asked, twisting her silky shoulder-length hair into a ponytail.

She’s Grace Kelly. I’m Doris Day. There’s no escaping it. Jill exudes an easy elegance that I could never match. Not that it matters. No one our age could probably even name either icon. Lucky for me, Portland is a mecca for all things vintage. I’m sure my girlish style blends in with the hipsters who seek out antiques and purposely wear retro clothing. Little do they know I have a secret obsession with the 1950s. Gam says it’s because I’m an old soul—much wiser than my twenty-three years. Mother says it’s because high-waisted skirts flatter my figure. They’re both right.

“I think I’m good,” I said to Jill, reaching into the pocket of my jeans and handing her the key to my apartment. “Thanks again for letting me borrow your old skis. Here’s the key. The common area is in the basement—no one ever uses it. You’ll be totally alone down there, Picasso.”

Jill squeezed my hand. “Thanks. And thanks again for not saying anything to Will.”

Will Barrington is Jill’s pretentious lawyer boyfriend. She made me promise—actually pinky swear, like we’ve been doing since the third grade—that I wouldn’t mention to him that she’s painting. They’ve been dating for a little over a year after meeting at the upscale law firm where Jill’s been interning. Don’t even get me started on Will. He uses a Gucci umbrella. Need I say more?

Jill’s artistic talent rivals that of any professional in the creative community of Portland, especially in the Pearl where Jill lives. You can’t go more than a block there without seeing an art gallery. But she’s extremely protective of her work. Only a handful of people know that she paints.

Sometimes I want to shake her and force her to come out of hiding, but I know that pushing her only makes her retreat inward. Instead, I found her a space to work.

After crashing on her couch for almost a year, I finally moved out this past summer. It was time. With Jill and our good friend Matt’s help, I rented a one-bedroom apartment in a small complex in North Portland, or NoPo as the hipsters like to call it.

NoPo boasts an eclectic mix of old bungalows, tree-lined streets, funky shops, pubs, food carts and, of course, a coffee shop on every corner. In Portland, being a barista is a profession. We take our coffee seriously. Career-baristas usually look more like urban lumberjacks with iconic beards, mustaches, flannel shirts and surly attitudes to match. NoPo is a diverse neighborhood where brunch is the most important meal of the day. It’s also less than a ten-minute drive to Gam’s condo across the river in Vancouver, Washington.

My apartment is on the ground floor with large bay windows that look out onto the courtyard. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. The living room is warm and cheery with scratched, yet shiny original 1920s hardwood floors and a brick fireplace in the corner. I set up my writing desk in front of the windows, which may have been a mistake as I tend to get easily distracted by activity in the courtyard.

The kitchen is by far the best thing about the small 750-square-foot space. The walls are painted lemon yellow. There are whitewashed cabinets and butcher block countertops, but the pièce de résis-tance is the rustic wooden island in the center of the room. It houses my vintage teal mixer and usually is the only spot where I end up getting any writing done.

When I moved in, I discovered an empty common area in the basement. It’s perfect for Jill’s painting, with concrete floors covered in layers of chipped paint and enough natural light from rectangular south-facing windows to allow her to work her magic on canvas.

If Jill wouldn’t open up about her secret affair with art, at least she’d have a space to create.

“Did you remember to pack a dress?” Jill asked. “I’ll be up on Saturday for Mike’s wedding. You think you’ll be able to ditch out for a couple hours and come meet us at Timberline?”

“I’m gonna try. I scored the cutest ivory and green taffeta dress that I’m dying to wear.” The wedding Jill referenced was for our college classmate Mike. He’d been part of our group of friends since my freshman year and was the first one of us to take the plunge into marriage.

I rolled up my sleeves. “It’s warm today.”

Jill nodded in agreement but didn’t look as though the heat had any effect on her. She looked casually cool in tailored black slacks and a burnt orange silk shirt. Her outfits are understated and elegant, always making her appear much older.

She swears that I have curves in all the right places, but I wish my bust could be tamed. Seriously, “the ladies,” as we call them, have a mind of their own.

Today I wore a pair of jeans I scored at the Goodwill, rolled up to midcalf, a plain ivory T-shirt, four brushed silver and gold necklaces and flip-. . .