Sapphire Trails Page 3

  Upon agreeing to call it a night, Jay returned Claire and Guy to the lodge.

  It was late, and an oh-so-comfortable bed awaited the pair, but the investigators took the time to step out onto the balcony of their third-floor room to observe the sky one final time before retiring. Flathead Lake sat directly in front of them, deep within Flathead Valley, and its waters glistened under the glow of the moon. Dark mountain ridges paraded directly behind the lake, nearly obscured by the blackness of the evening. Once their eyes adjusted to the lack of light, the two could make out the ever-so-tall ponderosa pines seemingly placed in great numbers all around. And then they looked up and noticed the stars. The stars. The luminous and incandescent heavenly bodies, sparkling and dazzling with phenomenal brightness in the darkness. Before long, the burden of case files piled high on both desks at Caswell & Lombard, Private Investigation began to evaporate, and they beheld the amazing beauty all around them without restriction. The stillness of the surroundings captured the sleuths in an intoxicating way, and they couldn’t seem to get enough of it.

  “This is what we’ve been missing,” Claire said. “It’s so … untroubled here.” A cool breeze grabbed her, and she shivered.

  Guy put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Yeah. Almost doesn’t seem real.”

  2

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING morning, Piper and Jay Cantrell showed Claire and Guy all around the grounds of Mountain Lake Lodge and then led their visitors toward the stately lodge itself, walking though the adjacent parking lot to get there. The custom-designed structure, built of golden pine logs, wooden beams, and stone, epitomized rustic elegance in the Rockies. The covered main entrance was welcoming. Massive clay pots, brimming with colorful summer flowers, adorned each side of the two steps leading up to its front double doors. Vines of vibrant petals trailed downward from hanging planters within the coved area. And lanterns were strategically positioned on a pair of front support posts anchored by bases comprised of assorted stones.

  Perched high atop a hillside, the lodge afforded its guests a view showcasing the vast vistas of Flathead Lake and Valley.

  Two restaurants were housed within the lodge, the Terra Restaurant and Riley’s Pub, both offering indoor and outdoor seating.

  Original framed pieces of art by local artists—oils, watercolors, pastels, and acrylics—decorated the walls of the main and upper level. And Jest Gallery occupied the lion’s share of the lower level, displaying an even greater selection of the unique, fine paintings of famed Montana artists. All the pieces in the lodge were consigned by the artists who painted them and were available for purchase.

  Standing in the lobby, Claire and Guy paused to take in the entire scene. A stone-hearth fireplace, ablaze with flames of orange and blue, took up the greater space on one main wall, and a sofa and two oversized chairs covered in a deep brick-red fabric sat facing it. Lamps with moss-colored shades and bases made of native rocks emitted soft lighting and added to the ambiance of the setting.

  A green leather guest journal with a pen attached sat open on the primitive coffee table, accessible to anyone sitting in the comfy area and wishing to add an entry. Claire quickly paged through it and observed that many visitors to the lodge had written clever and witty remarks or comments about the accommodations and the vacation they experienced while staying at Mountain Lake Lodge. Each note concluded with the name, hometown, and state of the guest who penned it, and Claire observed that the lodgers appeared to come from all across the United States. Alongside the journal, Claire spotted a photo album bulging with photographs of the lodge, its employees, past guests, and the various guest rooms. She browsed through it, moving with speed, marveling at the quality of the images the amateur photographers had captured.

  For guests to read and enjoy during their visit, a variety of novels crammed the shelves of a nearby wooden bookcase. There was even a thick spiral notebook entitled Unnamed Mystery sitting on top of the cabinet. Claire opened it, scanned several pages, and realized it was an ongoing tale being crafted by guests of the lodge. Those interested could add a paragraph, or a page or two, in the ongoing mystery under development. Claire thought it was a great concept and noticed it had already been a couple years in the making.

  Two well-worn brown leather saddles and other Western-themed items shared available spaces within the lobby area and created a most appealing milieu.

  The atmosphere of the lodge was casual and friendly, and guests milled around freely, visiting with one another, viewing and discussing the artwork, or simply sitting down to enjoy a cup of Montana coffee. Even the check-in desk, along part of the left-hand wall as one walked into the area, seemed inviting. A woman with an affable smile stood behind it, ready to check in all arriving guests and to assist those already registered.

  Tantalizing breakfast aromas emanated from the main-floor kitchen that serviced both the Terra Restaurant and Riley’s Pub. And a large poster sat on an easel not far into the entryway, enticing patrons to treat themselves to a tasty Blue Mesa Ranch steak for dinner at the Terra Restaurant, or to enjoy a savory brick-oven pizza at the more relaxed atmosphere of Riley’s Pub.

  Five outlying buildings housed six suites each for a total of thirty units. Each set of rooms had a gas fireplace—and a breathtaking view of Flathead Lake, the surrounding pine forests, and Flathead Valley.

  At check-in the previous evening, Claire and Guy had been assigned an exceptional room on an upper floor in one of the guesthouses. All rooms were given the name of a variety of tree—presumably easier to remember than a room number. Their room was named “Rocky Mountain Juniper.”

  The foursome gazed from painting to painting on the main floor, took the easy flight of steps leading down to the lower floor, and admired each original piece of artwork displayed in Jest Gallery. Afterward, they returned to the main floor and wandered over toward the breakfast buffet, filled their plates with a tempting array of foods, and sat down to chat while they ate.

  “Spend the day doing nothing … or anything your hearts desire,” Piper said.

  Afterward, Claire and Guy returned to their room, changed into swimwear, grabbed towels, walked to the pool situated in the courtyard, and jumped in. They swam laps, and then sat in the hot tub, where they observed their surroundings with awe and curiosity. The lodge’s position—built at the highest point on a tract of land—afforded a simply breathtaking view of the crystal-clear glacial lake wedged so prominently into Flathead Valley. Scores of tall ponderosa pine trees stood proudly, seemingly everywhere in the vicinity of the lodge, filling the glorious mountain air with the omnipresent, appealing scent of pine needles. Wild rose bushes and a variety of other flowers and shrubs appeared attractively placed in and around the grounds, and water features added to the almost surreal lush setting of the area.

  “This is the stuff I dream about,” Guy said. “I mean it. This beats Miami, hands down. It’s an odd feeling, though, having nothing pressing to do. Feels kind of strange. I think I should be doing something.”

  “I know,” Claire said. “I’m having trouble unwinding, too. We’re both geared to work, and sitting idle seems … unfamiliar. But once I relax, I think I could stay here a long time and be happy.”

  Guy stared at her. Her strawberry-blonde hair, still partially damp from swimming, was starting to dry under the heat of the sun, and her green eyes sparkled like dazzling emeralds. She smiled. Oh, how he loved that smile. And oh, how he loved this woman. How he wished he could feel joy again, as he used to.

  “Really?” he asked. “I admit it’s a nice idea. Sometimes the smells of the overcrowded streets of Miami really get to me, and I’ve given some real thought to the two of us one day moving to a place like this. But could we really be happy here? It’s the polar opposite of everything we’re surrounded by in Miami, everything we’re used to.” He paused. “Probably pie-in-the-sky thinking, huh?”

  Claire looked off into the distance. A look of contentment appeared on her face as she so
aked in the uncomplicated beauty of western Montana. “I’m not sure. Want to take a walk?”

  THAT EVENING over dinner at Piper and Jay’s, lively conversation again ensued. It was comfortable spending time with good friends, and the couples laughed, traded stories, and reminisced. Claire and Guy took turns filling their friends in on the challenging case that led them to Crete, and Guy pointed to the scars on his face as the permanent remnants of the horrific ordeal. Then, like old times, they played a game of dominoes combining two identical sets for the remainder of the evening. The battle—women against men—was hard fought, and in the end, the women were the victors.

  It was late, and Jay drove the investigators back to their room.

  “Sleep well tonight, my friends,” Jay said. “I’m glad you’re here. Actually, it’s just what Piper and I needed, I think.” He paused. “Things have been tough between the two of us lately.”

  “I’m sorry,” Guy said, furrowing his brows. “I had no idea.”

  Claire looked surprised. “What can we do to help?”

  “Nothing, really,” Jay said. “We need to work through some issues, that’s all. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Then he abruptly changed the subject. “Remember, brunch is served at the lodge between eight and eleven. And if you don’t care for that much food, you can order off the menu.” He smiled. “See you in the morning.”

  The evening air carried with it a bit of a chill, and Guy flipped on the switch to light the gas fireplace soon after they entered the room.

  “Oh, the heat feels good,” Claire said. She snuggled deeply into an oversized chair and lifted her feet onto the matching ottoman. “What do you make of Jay’s comment?”

  “Hard to say. Seemed to come out of left field.”

  “Yeah. And why would they want us to come visit if things are not good between them? I would think that might be uncomfortable.”

  “You have a point,” he said. “Or maybe they figured being around old friends might be a good thing.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed,” Guy said.

  The next thing Claire felt were Guy’s sweet lips pressing down on hers.

  “I feel better here,” he said.

  IN THE middle of the night, Claire awoke suddenly.

  “What was that noise?” she asked. “And that odor. What is it? Smells like … copper … like pennies.”

  Guy did not respond. Sleep had captured him completely.

  “Strange,” Claire said, more to herself than aloud. “Something’s going on.”

  She glanced at the alarm clock. Then she got up, tiptoed to the window, pulled back the drapes, and peered outside. There was no movement anywhere. It seemed everyone and everything in that part of the world was sound asleep—except for her. She returned to bed, now wide-eyed, and remained that way until morning, disturbed by the interruption.

  Thursday

  GUY AWOKE refreshed and happier than he had felt in months. Claire felt exhausted, and her usual vitality was absent, but she didn’t mention her restless night to Guy for fear it would put a damper on his renewed spirits. They shared a shower and slipped into distressed blue jeans, plaid Western snap-closure shirts, and Western boots.

  “I’m ready for a relaxin’ day, pardner,” Guy drawled. “Whaddya say?” He combed his once salt-and-pepper—now quite salty on the sides—hair back into place. His eyes looked like dark, shiny marbles, and his face remained handsome, despite the several scars now present.

  Claire chuckled. She hadn’t seen the playful side of him in such a long time. She looked him over from head to toe. “All that’s missing is your cowboy hat.”

  “Easily remedied,” he said. He disappeared into the closet and came out wearing the hat he had toted along on the airplane.

  “Now you look like the quintessential cowpoke,” she said, grinning. “And I like what I see! I like you in the cowboy way.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Guy said. “Hold the thought until later, will you?”

  “Of course, counselor. I mean, wrangler,” Claire said. She winked at him.

  Arm in arm, the two strolled toward the lodge, ready to consume large quantities of sumptuous breakfast cuisine. The mountain air had a way of rousing an appetite to great proportions, and they were hungry. Cumulus clouds clustered in the big, blue morning sky, as if suspended by invisible wires, promising a beautiful sunny day.

  But as they neared the lodge, they quickly realized the day had other plans. A Lake County sheriff’s car, three marked patrol deputy squad cars, and one unmarked car sat parked near the front entrance, lights flashing. Guests and nearby locals stood propped against each other on the steps leading up to the front double doors, stretching their necks to get a closer look at what was going on inside the lobby. Like an audience viewing a play, the onlookers appeared to be waiting with baited breath to catch a glimpse of what the next act would bring.

  “What is going on?” Claire asked. She threw a concerned look in Guy’s direction and grabbed him by the hand. “Hang on to me!” She pushed her way through the milling crowd, up the steps, and into the lobby, pulling Guy closely behind her.

  The investigators walked into a situation of sheer mayhem. People—mainly employees and lodge guests—had crammed into a good part of the lobby, wringing their hands and talking incessantly. As the tsunami of shared shock swept over their collective faces, the gravity of the situation started to take hold. The Lake County sheriff, together with three of his patrol deputies and a resident patrol deputy from the immediate area of Woods Bay, all spoke authoritatively and seemingly at the same time, questioning staff members and guests alike, one after another, and also Piper and Jay.

  The resident patrol deputy had arrived first to the scene, and he had quickly cordoned off one entire section of the lobby with yellow “Sheriff’s Line Do Not Cross” tape. He had also propped open the front doors and taped off that area. The Lake County sheriff and other patrol deputies had made the twenty-two-mile trip from Polson to the lodge in record time. The patrol deputies jotted down notes fast and furiously, trying desperately to make sense of the horrifying scene and to obtain preliminary information about the victim and the obvious homicide. Some of the individuals present darted around wildly, as if in fast motion, yet at the same time stunned. Others stood frozen in place. The murder of the lodge employee was a disturbing bombshell.

  Claire’s eyes moved in a rushed manner in all directions, taking in everything around her. She first noticed the feet of a body lying face down on the floor behind the check-in desk. She moved in as close as possible to observe the victim. A substantial amount of blood had seeped onto the white sheet covering the backside of the subject’s upper torso. And a significant amount of the red fluid had also spattered over a large part of the check-in desk, as well as the entire surrounding area, including the wall directly behind it. No shell casings were present, but she observed three bullet holes present in the wall behind where the victim presumably stood. No murder weapon was visible.

  The odor of copper or rusting metal permeated the air. Now Claire realized the origin of the smell that had haunted her in the night. It was blood. And lots of it. The stench made her gag. As investigators, she and Guy almost always got involved after a crime was committed—when answers needed to be found or witnesses or culprits located. But never were they called to an actual murder scene. This was something for the police and the crime scene investigators to handle. She was not prepared for this scene of violence.

  The patrol deputies forced people back, away from the victim and clear of the check-in desk, to protect against any contamination of the area. Any minute now, the major case team from the Lake County Sheriff’s Office was expected to arrive to process the crime scene and to collect and bag any evidence the perpetrator left behind.

  The lobby was quickly rolling into a disorderly jumble. Desperately, Claire searched the crowd for her friends. She needed answers. She spotted Jay and P
iper standing several feet away with two patrol deputies. Piper was sobbing, and Jay stood silently by her side, eyes dazed. Valuable artwork had been ripped from the walls and, as the investigators would later learn, also taken from the downstairs gallery. In fact, none of the artwork Claire had viewed the day before on the main level was anywhere visible. The serene setting of the sofa and chairs—placed so strategically in front of the cozy, blazing fireplace only one day earlier—had been utterly disrupted, as the deputies had moved all furniture against one wall to make space to do their work. Claire noticed that the sofa and chairs had been slashed.

  She focused her attention on the female patrol deputy standing next to Piper, riddling the co-owner of the lodge with questions. Claire moved in closer and listened in on the conversation.

  “How long had he been in your employ?” Patrol Deputy Becca MacFie asked.

  “Several years. Actually, since our opening,” Piper wailed.

  “What was your relationship with him?” the patrol deputy asked.

  “He was like family to us. We all loved him.” She tried desperately to stop her tears, but to no avail. “Who could have done this to him? Why?”

  “Victim’s full name?” the patrol deputy continued.

  “Blake Hel … ms,” Piper stuttered.

  “Blake Helms, did you say? H-E-L-M-S?” Patrol Deputy MacFie asked. “Do you have a photo of him?”

  Piper nodded to acknowledge the spelling of the surname and then trotted off in the direction of the coffee table. Her eyes searched until she spotted the photo album sitting on a chair, only feet away from it. She retrieved a picture of Blake Helms from the book and dutifully delivered it to the patrol deputy.

  “His age?” the female patrol deputy asked.

  “You’ll have to ask my husband, Jay, that question. I’m not positive. Fifty-eight, though, I believe.”