Virginia Smith - Murder at Eagle Summit

The door to the second bedroom was closed. Jazzy and Caitlin were apparently still sleeping.

At least some of us will be rested today, the lucky dogs.

Liz searched the cabinets in the compact kitchen. A set of dishes—two sizes of plates, cereal bowls, mugs with saucers—lay neatly stacked in one, and an assortment of glasses in another. The rest of the cabinets were empty. A coffeemaker sat on the counter, taunting her with its empty carafe.

Wish I’d remembered to pack some coffee. We’re going to the grocery today no matter what.

Liz grabbed her purse and headed for the lobby.

Though the town of Park City boasted many timeshares, condos and hotels, the lodge at Eagle Summit was situated adjacent to the main chairlift of the small, privately-owned ski resort. Out-of-town skiers loved being able to walk a mere hundred feet from their condos to the lift. And a city bus stopped right in front of the lodge, if guests chose to ski at the bigger and more famous area resorts, Deer Valley and Park City Mountain Resort.

Liz preferred Eagle Summit. During her years in college, she’d skied here fairly often. Eagle Summit had fewer chairlifts and not as much in the way of vertical terrain as the more well-known resorts, but Liz had always enjoyed the wide, tree-lined slopes that management kept meticulously groomed. And the lower price college kids paid for a day pass counted for a lot.

Liz remembered one time when she and Tim were skiing—

She skidded to a halt on the stone-tiled floor as she entered the lobby area. No! I will not take a stroll down Memory Lane!

Being back in Utah, and especially up in Park City where Liz had spent so much time with Tim, would trigger a lot of memories if she allowed her mind to wander in that direction. Which she did not intend to do.

In the lobby a dark-haired woman sat behind the front desk, a highly polished counter to the right of the main entryway. She looked up when Liz entered, nodded, and went back to whatever she was doing. Liz scanned the lobby. Wouldn’t you think they’d have coffee set up for the guests who don’t want to fix their own up in their rooms? She couldn’t see any, though.

Beyond the front desk was a coffee shop with no sign of movement in the darkened interior. A copy of today’s edition of USA TODAY rested on the floor in front of the glass door. She spotted a small sign that said they’d open at seven. A wave of irritation tightened her lips, but she forced herself to relax. She’d been up for almost an hour already without coffee; another ten minutes wouldn’t hurt her.

She wandered in the direction of a huge stone fireplace in a cozy sitting area that took up one corner of the lobby. Overstuffed chairs and a big, comfy-looking sofa were clustered around a furry bearskin rug, while a giant moose head stared mournfully at her from above a rough wooden mantle. Though dead animals wouldn’t be Liz’s first choice of room décor, in a lodge-type setting, with thick cedar beams crisscrossing the high ceiling, it worked. She crossed to stand in front of the hearth, enjoying the heat still emanating from a few ash-covered embers in the grate. To the left of the fireplace, three floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the deserted slopes. The morning sun was starting to lighten the sky but had not yet managed to climb above the mountain peaks. Deep shadows covered the snow-packed ski area.

A jingle behind her made her turn. A fiftyish man dressed in a dark gray suit strode across the lobby fingering a huge set of keys and mumbling to himself. He approached the coffee shop, picked up the newspaper and fitted a key into the lock, his lips moving as he muttered.

Finally. Maybe a jolt of caffeine would chase the heavy tiredness out of her limbs. Liz followed the man through the door.

“Oh.” He turned a startled look her way, which he immediately replaced with a professional smile. “Good morning. I’ll bet you’re looking for a cup of coffee.”

Well, duh. That’s why I’m in a coffee shop. But Liz returned his smile and managed a pleasant, “I sure am.”

“It’ll take me a minute to get it started. The girl who was supposed to open this morning just called in sick, so I’ve got to…” He disappeared into a room behind the serving counter. The drone of his voice continued, though Liz couldn’t make out the words. The overhead lights flickered on, brightening the room considerably. A second later he reappeared, a foil packet in each hand. “But at least you know it’ll be fresh.” He held the packets up for her inspection. “Regular or decaf?”

Liz didn’t hesitate. “Definitely regular.”

“Coming right up.” He whirled around to a metal commercial coffee machine on the back counter and pulled an oversize filter off a stack on a shelf above it. “I haven’t seen you before. Have you been at Eagle Summit all week?”

Liz paced to the far end of the counter to peek into a glass display case. Parchment-covered trays lined two shelves, empty except for a couple of bran muffins. Her stomach threatened to rumble, but there was no telling how long those muffins had been there.

“No, my friends and I arrived last night.”

He slid the basket of coffee grounds into place and pressed a button. The high-pitched sound of water running through pipes began as he turned toward her and extended a hand across the counter. “I didn’t think I’d seen you before. I’m Greg Harrison. My wife and I own the place.”

Surprised, Liz shook his hand. “You own the lodge?”

He waved toward the back wall, beyond which lay the ski area base. “And the resort. Well, us and the bank, of course. We bought it a couple of years ago.” He glanced at the muffins in the case. “Oh, don’t even think about eating those. The bakery should be here with their daily delivery any minute.”

Liz slid into one of the tall wooden chairs as he pulled the old muffins out and wadded up the crumb-covered parchment paper. Eagle Summit must be a smaller business than she thought, if the owner had to step in when a coffee shop worker called in sick.

He chatted as he wiped the trays down and lined them with fresh paper. “My wife oversees the ski resort, and since my background is in the hospitality industry, I take care of the lodge.”

“You both must stay pretty busy.”

“You know it.” He flashed a grin in her direction as he slid an empty tray back into the case. “But at least we love what we’re doing.” He raised a hand and snapped his fingers in the air. “You’re with the Carmichael wedding party!”

“That’s right. How did you know?”

He grimaced. “I wish I could say we have so many reservations that it’s hard to keep track of all the guests, but that wouldn’t be true. We’ve been looking forward to this wedding for months. Besides, you look like you’re related to the bride.”

“She’s my cousin.”

His smile brightened. “Ah, then you’re the musician from Tennessee.”

“Kentucky, but yes.”

“I’m eager to hear what you think of our new reception room. I hope the acoustics are okay. Your cousin’s is the first wedding we’ve held in it since we remodeled.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

He flashed an absent smile in her direction and went into the back room again. The odor of fresh coffee permeated the air and Liz watched the carafe fill with the dark liquid.

Mr. Harrison returned with a pitcher of cream and a container full of sweetener packets just as the stream of coffee slowed to a drip.

“There you go.” He set an oversize mug on the counter in front of her. “Those fresh muffins should be here any minute.”

Liz sipped her coffee black from the mug. Ah!

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “I’m meeting the bride for breakfast at eight.” She lifted the mug in a mock salute. “This is perfect until then.”