Nicole stepped outside into a cozy courtyard with bistro tables and BTU heaters. A fire burned in the ringed pit, the flames leaping above the iron grate. Several people clustered together, piercing marshmallows onto skewers and sipping mugs of hot cocoa. Lars had Enrique Esparza at the station, peeled out of his outerwear and waiting to be questioned, but Nicole wanted to speak to the hired help. Every year the Huntington hired college kids back for the summer or for the holidays. They were the most likely to have paid particular attention to Beatrice, and to have caught her eye in return.
“Hey, Sheriff.”
The young man was taller than Nicole, but not by much. He was stocky and looked like a building block, size extra large. He stood apart from the small crowd, behind a beverage cart, and was topping off a latte with whipped cream.
“Hi, Andy. How’s Boise State treating you?”
“It’s good.” He smiled, and his teeth took the light. “Changed my major, you know. Thinking public service is the way to go—benefits and a pension.”
“Salary cuts and increased workload,” Nicole added, but she smiled through it.
“Pros and cons,” he agreed. Andy was solid, but a wanderer. He’d graduated high school three years before but had shifted through career choices so many times that he had to be a semester or two behind at college. “You out here investigating the murder?”
She nodded. “Did you know the victim?”
“Beatrice? Yeah, as much as you can get to know a kid on vacation.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Pretty and real nice. She talked a lot. Always said hello, coming and going.” He paused and considered his words, then nodded. “Yeah, like I said, she was nice.”
“What did she talk about?”
“Mostly she asked questions. She could do that, you know? Pull your life story out of you.”
“Did she ever say anything about herself?”
He shrugged, and Nicole could see an unease creep in. He shuffled his feet and picked up a packet of hot cocoa. “The usual stuff. She was mad at her dad, and sometimes her brother too. She stayed close to her sisters and wanted to—you could tell that about her.”
“What about her mom? She talk about her at all?”
Andy pushed back his wool cap, and tufts of his brown hair poked out around his ears.
“Just once. Her mom came out here looking for her. It was late and she wanted all the kids in, she explained. She was real nice about it, but when she left, Beatrice turned to me and said her mom was the great pretender. It was kinda weird coming in that context, but, you know, she was a teenager, and by definition a mystery, right?”
“Right.” Jordan was still predictable. She hoped that didn’t change. “Did you ask her about the comment?”
He nodded. “But she brushed it off. Said she and her mom were nothing alike. And I think Beatrice was a little mad about it, or disappointed, because for a minute there I thought she was going to cry.” He shrugged. “But she moved past it pretty quick.”
“What day was this?”
He thought about that. “She was here awhile by then—maybe the twenty-third?”
“You ever talk with Dr. Esparza?”
“Twice. He’s one of those neither/nor kind of guys.”
“Explain that.”
“You know, he wasn’t real friendly, but he wasn’t a jerk either. He smiled but didn’t linger. Said hello but not much else. That kind of guy.”
“Do you know a kid named Kenny?”
“No.”
“Was Beatrice friendly with anyone else here?”
“Everyone.”
“But no one in particular?”
“Etienne, but he’s not a kid. You gotta be at least eighteen to work here.”
Nicole didn’t know an Etienne. Blue Mesa was small enough that if she hadn’t met a person, she’d at least heard about them. And, according to Andy’s description, the young man was hard to miss at six feet two inches and two hundred fifty pounds. He usually worked equipment rental and handled the resort’s plow steadily. He’d also, according to Andy, dropped out of a college in California after his first semester and drifted around. A loose anchor.
She found him in the garage, wiping down equipment. Andy hadn’t been exaggerating about the size of the guy. He had shoulders like Atlas and hands the size of hams.
Her boots made small, whispery sounds on the cement floor, but even when she came to a stop not three feet behind the young man, she went unnoticed.
“Hello, Etienne.”
He spun around, lost his footing, and fell back against a snowmobile.
Skittish. The young man was fearful or nervous, and both could be good or bad.
“I startled you. Sorry,” she said. She pushed her department cap back on her head and gazed at him as he struggled to his feet. While he was big, he was not athletic. He was good for bulk, not finesse; for hauling, but he probably couldn’t shoot a basket from midcourt—he didn’t seem to have that kind of precision or coordination.
“Who are you?”
“Sheriff Cobain. I’m here to talk to you about Beatrice.”
With Etienne at his full height and breadth, Nicole felt her own vulnerability. Beef and brawn, she reminded herself. Awkward swing, no connect. But she cautioned herself. He was twitching, bouncing on his toes, and a guy like Etienne would be at home in the WWE ring, slamming bodies to the mat.
“I don’t want to talk about her.” He had a small mouth in a very large head, and his lips were dry and peeling. Etienne wasn’t used to winters this far north.
“I’m not asking, Etienne.”
“Why?”
“You know she’s dead?”
“I know you’re saying that.”
“But you don’t believe it?”
“No. She couldn’t be dead. Girls like her don’t die.”
If his reasoning was faulty, the wail in his heart seemed genuine.
“You liked her?”
He nodded. “She smiles a lot.”
“You ever talk to her, Etienne?”
“All the time.”
“You ever call her?”
“You mean like on the phone?” He shook his head. “No. She doesn’t like phone calls and never answers them.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
“Did that make you mad?”
“Why would it? She told me, ‘Never call,’ and I didn’t.”
“But you texted her?”
“Sometimes. She always answered.”
“Have you tried to text her today?”
“No.”
“What kind of messages did you send Beatrice?”
His ears were pink, his blond hair cropped close. “I wanted her to know I liked her.”
“A lot?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know Beatrice was only fourteen years old?”
“She told me.”
“So she’s too young for you to date her.”
His cheeks flooded with color. “We didn’t date.”
“But you wanted to.”
“No. She needed a friend. She said so.”
“So what did you do about that?”
“I brought her presents. I wasn’t supposed to.”
There was a simplicity about Etienne. His ability to understand seemed very black and white, and he muddled around inside those confines trying to make sense of Beatrice.
“What did she do with them?”
“She gave them back to me. Or her father did.”
“Beatrice’s father?”
“Yes. He said she had to stop collecting people. Do you know what that means?”
“He told you no more presents?”
“Yes, he said I was special and that Beatrice thought so too, but she couldn’t talk to me anymore and I had to stop giving her presents.”
“What did you give Beatrice?”
“Small things,” he said. “A key chain. It was a dream catcher. She had big dreams. She said so. I thought she would like that.”
“Anything else?”
“A magnet of Montana so she never forgets she was here. And a Ranger patch, because she’s brave. And I gave her a picture of me, too, because she said I could be a foot soldier in King Arthur’s army. I liked that.”
“Do you know about King Arthur?”
“He loved Morgan.”
“Like you loved Beatrice?”
But Etienne shook his head. “Morgan stole the sword, and that killed King Arthur. Beatrice wouldn’t do that.”
“When was the last time you saw Beatrice, Etienne?”
“Yesterday. Christmas. She looked like a princess. Her sisters too.”
“They were going out to dinner?”
“Yes, with the family, and after that Beatrice was turning into the fairy godmother.”
“The fairy godmother?”
“That’s what she said.” His smile was broad, and he had perfect teeth, straight and white.
“What was she really doing?”
“Hair and makeup.”
“Christmas night?”
“Yes. She was getting all the girls ready for the party.”
“Her sisters and some other girls too?”
“One other girl. Her name is Violet. That’s a pretty name.”
“Do you know where Violet lives?”
“She’s just visiting, like Beatrice.” He was shifting on his feet, and the soles of his boots scraped against the concrete. “Violet wants to make snow angels, and maybe one day she will.”
“But she won’t now?”
“Not today. Beatrice hopes someday.”
“Why does Violet have to wait?”
Etienne frowned, clearly puzzled. “I don’t know. I don’t know Violet, but I know Beatrice, and she’s going to make snow angels for Violet until Violet can do them for herself. She said so.”
He picked his rag up off the floor and started on the Bobcat’s rear fender.
“What else did Beatrice tell you?”
“Sometimes you have to give up everything. Sometimes that’s what it takes to help people.”
Etienne’s voice sounded watery, and Nicole stepped closer. “Etienne? Are you okay?”
“I think that’s sad. And I think Beatrice helped too much.”
Nicole thought so too.