Murder on the Mountain. Cassie Miles

had known General Harrison Naylor and had offered respectful toasts to his memory, she had to leave. How could she have tampered with the crime scene? How could she, in good conscience, allow the world to believe this brave old Marine had committed suicide?

      She needed to confess, and that need lead her to the ice-skating rink near Vail where she knew she would find Deputy Paul Hemmings. She hoped that he would understand, that he wouldn’t hate her for what she’d done. Inside the arena, she took a seat by herself on the bleachers and watched as these seemingly delicate skaters performed their athletic spins and leaps.

      Checking out the audience, she immediately spotted Paul. Unfortunately, he was with Mac Granger and Abby Nelson—two people who knew about the safehouse. No way could Julia face them. It had been a mistake to come here.

      As she rose from her seat, intending to slip away before she was noticed, Paul spotted her. He bolted from his seat and came toward her. She couldn’t run away, had to face him.

      He took a seat on the bleachers beside her. His huge thigh brushed against hers. “I’m glad to see you, Julia.”

      “Did you get the girl’s makeup put on straight?”

      “Abby did it.” He pointed back toward the others who were all staring in their direction. “Abby Nelson. I think you know her. And Mac.”

      “Yes.” Julia gave them a small wave. “They stayed with me. How are they doing?”

      “Good. They’ve got a good relationship. I’ve never seen Mac so open.”

      They sat quietly for a moment and watched the tiniest skaters go through a simple routine with only a couple of slip-ups. Julia’s anxiety ratcheted higher with each passing second. In spite of the cold from the ice, she was sweating. Her mouth was dry as cotton. Her feet were itching to run.

      “Something wrong?” Paul asked.

      She had to face up to what she’d done. “Could I talk to you in private for a minute?”

      They climbed down from the bleachers and went toward the area where hot dogs and pretzels were being sold to benefit the Eagle County Skaters. From what Julia had heard, this newly built facility was a tremendous success—booked solid with figure-skating lessons, hockey teams and recreational time. She wished she could enjoy the evening, but the cheers from the audience only heightened her tension. She knew that once she spoke out, her words could never be reclaimed. The secrecy of the safe-house would be in Paul’s hands. “Can I trust you?”

      “A hundred percent.”

      “Even if I might tell you something that could cause conflict with your job?”

      He gave her a friendly little pat on the shoulder. “I guess that depends. If you tell me you’ve got twenty dead bodies buried in your backyard, I’ll probably have to dig them up.”

      She’d expected that response. Paul was a deputy, sworn to defend the law. And so was she. “It’s about the resort.”

      “I’m listening.”

      “My resort offers something more than lodging and meals.” She bit her lip. Now or never. Just tell him. “I’m running an FBI safehouse.”

      “You’re an FBI agent?”

      “Yes.”

      He didn’t seem surprised in the least. Instead, his expression was visibly more relaxed. “That’s a relief.”

      “You suspected something?”

      “You’ve got surveillance cameras all over the damn place, and your employees wear shoulder holsters. Mac was real secretive about the resort when he was staying there.” He grinned, showing his dimples. “I was worried that you might be protecting a bad secret.”

      “Twenty bodies buried in the backyard?”

      “Something like that.”

      “Nobody else can know about this.”

      “Understood. A safehouse isn’t much good if everybody knows it’s there.” He took both her hands in his and gave a squeeze. “Don’t worry, Julia. Your secret is safe with me.”

      Suddenly, his head jerked up. “That’s Jennifer’s music. Come on, we have to see her routine.”

      As they hustled back to the rink, her emotions were in turmoil. She’d taken the first step toward the truth. Would Paul be equally sanguine with her confession about tampering with crime-scene evidence?

      The music was “I Enjoy Being a Girl.” Four slender young skaters, dressed in pink-sequined leotards with short skirts, took the ice. Holding hands they skated in a figure eight.

      “The one in front,” Paul said, “that’s my Jennifer.”

      “I can tell.” Jennifer had her father’s black hair and dark eyes. And his dimples. “She looks like you.”

      “God, I hope not.”

      She glanced up at his profile. Every bit of his attention focused on the ice as he watched the skaters glide to the center. Each did a spin. Then a spread-eagle leap. After his Jennifer successfully completed her double axel, Paul gave a cheer and pumped his fist. “She did it. Damn, I’m glad. There’d be no living with the girl if she slipped up.”

      He applauded enthusiastically as the routine completed and the skaters left the ice, then he turned to Julia. “That’s all for my kids until the grand finale. Can I buy you a hot dog?”

      She nodded, wishing that she could relax and share the joy of this proud father. Though Paul was a deputy who carried a gun and dealt with crime, everything about him seemed wonderfully sane and normal—the very opposite of her daily routine.

      At the safehouse, there was constant surveillance, the ever-present threat of danger. She was always looking over her shoulder. Especially now, with her suspicion that the general had been murdered.

      She slathered mustard on a fat bratwurst and took a healthy bite, which she immediately regretted. Her throat was too tight to swallow. And her stomach twisted in a knot.

      Forcing herself to gulp down the brat, Julia realized that she had to be really, truly upset if she was having trouble eating. Usually, she had a cast-iron stomach. “Paul, there’s something else.”

      “Okay.” He led her to a round table, and gallantly held her chair while she sat.

      Though there was no one nearby, she lowered her voice. “It’s about the general. I have reason to believe he was murdered.”

      “Tell me why.”

      She hesitated. Supposedly, confession was good for the soul. But she hated admitting what she’d done. Throughout her career with the FBI, she’d been an exemplary agent. No mistakes. No black marks on her record.

      Quietly, Paul said, “All the evidence points to suicide. The door to the general’s bedroom was locked. Your surveillance tapes show that no one entered or exited. We checked the window, and it showed no sign of tampering. There were other fingerprints in the room, but none on the gun. No sign of a struggle. No blood spatters to indicate he was shot somewhere else, then laid out on the bed.”