Muriel Gray - The Trickster

‘Now go get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute.’

Her son bounced up and hopped on one foot to the door, singing as he went. His nine-year-old mind had already moved on to other matters. Likewise, Katie’s thirty-four-year-old mind had drifted back to her husband, worry and anxiety drilling into her. It was wrenched back to reality by the sound of Bart bounding up stairs with Billy, as the dog knocked over the frosted glass vase on the landing.

She smiled, and went to play at being stern.

When dawn came on January tenth it revealed the best snow conditions Silver Ski Company had seen for fifteen seasons. It also brought Estelle Reader the worst day of her life.

When they brought back what was left of Joe around one-thirty, Craig had been first at Estelle’s door, his face a grey mask of grief. Craig thought about the kind of suffering you see in the movies, where widows thank the policeman, squeeze his hand, and sit quietly in a chair absorbing the news. He thought about it as Estelle fell to her knees gurgling like a pig being bled, clutching at Craig’s jacket with fists like claws. She writhed on the floor and tore at the rug, saliva running from her mouth as she grunted and panted in the pain of her despair, until Craig hooked his hands under her armpits and lifted her onto a chair.

Life wasn’t like the movies. In fact life in Silver over the last week had been real bad.

Two ski patrollers killed in a freak explosion, and now Joe. He would, of course, have to tell Estelle that Joe’s death hadn’t been an accident, but not now. Time for that later, and time was going to bring her more pain. She would have to suffer the wait before they could lay Joe in the ground, while an autopsy was performed on the grisly remains.

From what they recovered in the gorge, there wasn’t much left to fit in a coffin, and after the forensics had been at him, Craig suspected a Safeway’s bag would probably be big enough to bury his ex-sergeant decently.

He waited with the moaning shell of Estelle Reader until her sister got there, then left and headed back to work.

Half a mile from the office, Craig McGee pulled off the highway into a back road, stopped the engine and cried like a baby. He would be all right in half an hour. Right now, he was broken up.

‘No kidding? Well if it’s a problem we can send a car to the airport to bring her luggage separately.’

Pasqual Weaver watched her own reflection in the office window as she spoke. An elegant, if angular, woman in her thirties looked back, the grey fleece zippered top with the Silver Ski Company logo embroidered on the left breast doing its best to undermine her executive status.

The hand unoccupied by the telephone played with the zipper at her neck.

‘Sure, we want her to be real comfortable. And can I say we’re already over the moon she’s even considering it.’

Eric entered the room and Pasqual mimed at him to sit down.

‘Okay James, you put those things to her and get back to us when you have an answer, but please tell her from us that we’re all huge fans and are really hoping she can make it. Okay, you too. Take care.’ She hung up, and gave the phone her middle finger. ‘Jesus. The fucking old bitch is acting like she’s still a star. Make my day, Eric. Tell me you’ve come to persuade me this celebrity ski week idea is a crock of shit.’

Eric Sindon had not come to say any such thing. ‘You’ve heard about the accident?’

Pasqual’s body changed shape. No longer lounging in her leather chair, it was now sitting forward like a cat watching its prey before striking.

‘Tell me.’

‘Craig’s side-kick. His truck went over the gorge on Wolf’s Pass last night.’

Pasqual sat back in her chair with relief. ‘Fuck. Don’t give me scares like that. I thought we’d had a fatality on the slopes. I think we can live with a cop in an auto accident.’

Eric looked at his boss with distaste. ‘It’s the third death in Silver in a week. I’m getting rumours that there’s more to it than just an automobile accident.’

Pasqual opened her top drawer and fished around until she found a packet of M&Ms.

‘Want one?’ She tossed the packet over the desk to Eric after filling her mouth with chocolate.

‘No. Look, I’m telling you this because I think it will have a negative effect on the resort. Skiers don’t get off on reading about death when they should be reading about snow reports.’

‘Eric, I think our visitors are big enough boys and girls to cope with the fact that sometimes people die in cars.’

‘What about Lenny and Jim?’

‘Accidents happen. They were patrollers for Christ’s sake.’

Eric looked at her and she knew that look. Pasqual stood up and turned her back to him, looking out of the window at the last of the die-hard skiers stepping out of their bindings beside the lodge after stealing the last run of the day.

‘What do you see out there, Eric?’

‘A lodge that needs a re-clad and a nursery area that needs two extra tows.’

She laughed, and threw another chocolate peanut into her mouth. ‘Well, maybe so, but I see the best fucking snow we’ve had in years, and a season that’s going to do business like a cold beer stall in Hell.’ She turned back to him. ‘Now what exactly are you worried about?’

‘Someone has to.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you shouldn’t underestimate negative vibes in a fun resort, Pasqual.’

She sat down and smiled a wicked cat grin at him. ‘Are you telling me my job, Mr Sindon?’

Eric sighed. ‘Okay, forget it. Just thought it was worth mentioning.’

‘Thank you.’

Eric shoved some paper at her.

‘Here’s the shop stock-taking list, and there’s a guy outside looking for work. Do you want me to see him?’

‘Nope. I’ll see him. You fax more celebrities. Try and get something more famous than someone who voiced over an AT&T commercial. Remember the blackmail bit about the kids in wheelchairs. Lay it on as thick as you like. Where’s the guy?’

‘In the ski school.’

She emptied the last of the chocolates into her mouth, threw the packet in the waste bin and moved to the door. ‘Oh and Eric …’

Eric looked up expectantly.

‘No more drama-queen stuff unless a gondola full of customers spontaneously combusts. Right?’

Eric held her gaze without reply for a few more moments than was polite.

‘You’re the boss.’

‘Yes. I am. Aren’t I?’

She smiled and shut the door behind her. Eric looked at the door for a long time until the phone rang.

* * *

As Pasqual left the seclusion of her inner office, walking through the shop and past the ticket booths, she ran the gauntlet of questions and greetings from every member of staff in her path.

‘Oh Miss Weaver! Got a moment?’

‘Pasqual! Can you call the top station?’

‘Miss Weaver – any thoughts on this display?’

She loved it. She adored being pursued by a team of courtiers, anxious for her approval or instruction, and she treasured it all the more when the public saw her in the middle of it.

As she left the building and crossed the darkening nursery area to the ski school shed, she tossed her short brown bobbed hair, waved and shouted ‘Hi!’ to anyone who would respond.

The man was waiting inside. He greeted her with a smile.

‘Hi there. You’re the job hunter.’

‘Yeah. You must be Pasqual Weaver. Moses Sitconski. Pleased to meet you.’

He extended a lily-white hand, which she shook.

‘What kind of a name is that exactly?’

The man looked at her, neither offended or defensive. ‘My name.’

‘Well, Moses,’ she said, pronouncing the word as though it were a shared and intimate joke, ‘You’ve done your resort personnel homework. Now what kind of work are you after? We’re nearly half-way through the season, you know.’