Murder on the Mountain. Cassie Miles

stationed in D.C.,” the general said.

      “The driver’s name was John Maser.”

      The general paused for a moment. His lips moved as he silently repeated the name several times. “That’s Maser as in Maserati?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “It’s hard to remember all of the men I’ve had under my command. You said there was a car accident. What happened to Maserati?”

      “He was killed.”

      “A shame.” The general shook his head. “Can’t say that I know the gentleman.”

      Paul was dead certain that he’d seen the general before. “Do you come to this area often? Maybe for skiing?”

      “This is my first time. I usually ski in Utah.”

      “General Naylor, have we met?”

      “I don’t believe so.”

      “You might have seen the general on television,” Julia said. “He does a lot of expert commentary.”

      “You can’t believe everything you see on TV,” the general said. “Nothing they’ve said about me is the truth. Not one damned thing.”

      He executed a sharp turn and marched through the door into the lodge.

      Paul exchanged glances with Julia, who seemed as puzzled by the general’s statement as he was. “Interesting guest.”

      “Very,” she said.

      “How many other people are staying here?”

      “Four. And I have two full-time guys who help me run the place.”

      Since it was obvious that she didn’t want to invite him inside, Paul took the initiative. He held open the storm door. “After you.”

      As she sauntered past him, her curly ponytail came so close that he could smell the fresh scent of her shampoo. There was no other perfume on Julia. She didn’t seem like the type to fuss with girlie things. And yet, she was all woman.

      When he’d seen her chopping wood behind the resort, Paul’s heart had pounded harder than thunder across the valley. He’d been stunned, unable to do anything more than stand and stare as this Amazon raised the ax over her head and swung down with force. She’d been breathing hard from her exertions. Inside her white turtleneck, her full breasts heaved. Damn, but she had a fine figure. An hourglass shape.

      She reminded him of the early settlers in these mountains—women who were strong, resourceful and brave. And beautiful. Her complexion flushed with abundant health. Her eyes were blue—the color of a winter sky after a snowfall had washed the heavens clean.

      Unfortunately, it seemed that she didn’t particularly want him around. Not that she was rude. Just standoffish. He wondered if one of the men who helped her run the lodge was her boyfriend.

      In the kitchen, she introduced him to a young man who was doing the cooking for dinner. Though Paul was pleased to see that their relationship fell into the category of boss and employee, there was something disturbing about this guy. Young Roger Flannery had the bulge of a shoulder holster under his flannel shirt. Not illegal. But worrying.

      A small, sleek woman entered the kitchen, and Julia introduced her. “Another of our guests. This is RJ Katz.”

      She looked like a cat with a button nose, a tiny mouth and wide, suspicious eyes. As Paul shook her thin hand, he asked, “Where are you from?”

      “I travel a lot.”

      That was an evasive answer if he’d ever heard one. “Business or pleasure?”

      “Both.”

      Just like a cat. Snooty, cool and independent. When RJ Katz sidled toward the fridge, he half expected to see her take out a bowl of cream and lap it up with her tongue.

      If the car crash of John Maser turned out to be something more than an accident, Paul would put RJ at the head of his suspect list. “I need to see your driver’s license, Ms. Katz.”

      “It’s in my purse. In my room.” She popped the tab on a cola and took a sip. “What’s this about?”

      Paul explained about the car accident and the victim from Washington, D.C. He watched for her reaction when he mentioned the name John Maser.

      She was unruffled. “Don’t know him.”

      “I’d still like to see your license.”

      “I suppose you’re wondering if I live near D.C. Well, I do. My address is Alexandria, Virginia. But I assure you, Deputy, I don’t know your victim.”

      There was a lot more he wanted to ask, but Paul had promised Julia that he wouldn’t harass her guests. “Enjoy your stay.”

      Before they left the kitchen, Julia directed a question toward RJ Katz. “Do you know if David is in his room?”

      “He’s in the basement,” she said, “playing with his precious computer.”

      “I’d appreciate if you asked him to come up here and speak with the deputy. So we don’t have to go downstairs.”

      An unspoken communication passed between the two women, but Paul couldn’t guess why. He was beginning to think that something strange was going on at this rustic little resort. There was the cook with a shoulder holster. And the feline Ms. Katz who seemed determined to hide her identity. And, of course, a general who gunned down jackrabbits from the porch.

      When Paul first arrived, he had noticed three satellite dishes that might be for extra-fine television reception or for some other kind of communication. Clearly, he needed more information about Julia and the lodge.

      She led him through the dining room to the front area where a cheery fire burned in the moss rock fireplace. Comfortable was the first word that popped into his head. The sturdy leather sofas and chairs looked big enough to sink into and relax. “Nice,” he said. “I could see myself sitting in that big chair on a Sunday afternoon watching the football game.”

      “How about those Broncos?”

      “Are you a fan?”

      “Actually, I prefer hockey.”

      “Me, too.”

      Damn, he liked this woman. He really hoped there was nothing sinister going on here.

      She stepped in front of him and looked him directly in the eye. “I want to level with you, Paul.”

      “Go ahead.”

      “All five of my guests are from the Washington, D.C., area. They’re here for a retreat and meetings.”

      The presence of the high-profile general who appeared on talk shows suggested a topic for those meetings. “Something political.”

      “I really shouldn’t say.”

      “What you’re telling me is that any one of your guests might be acquainted with the man who was killed.”

      “Yes,” she said.

      Paul was sure that if they knew anything about the death of John Maser, these people wouldn’t be forthcoming with information. More in-depth questioning and investigation was necessary. He needed to verify their alibis and arrival times.

      On the other hand, he might be bothering these people for no reason at all. John Maser might have died as a result of careless driving. Nothing more.

      After the autopsy, Paul would have a better indi-cation of foul play. Right now, his only evidence was the whispered word of the dying man who might have been out of his head. Murder.

      “I have a thought,” Julia said. “It’s almost time for dinner, and everybody will be gathered in one place. You can talk to all of them at the same time.”