Fifteen:
Bidding on Baskets

When Claire returned to the townhouse, she found a note from Roger lying on the kitchen counter.

Judy felt blue after she called Nick, and he said he’d be busy with his mother and Detective Silverstone today. So, she and I went skiing at Keystone. No one should be looking for her there. Call my cell phone if you want to join us. Otherwise, I’ll stay with her, and we’ll be back by four-thirty.

Love,

Roger

So much for keeping Judy indoors and away from windows. But maybe joining the crowds at Keystone, a nearby Summit County ski resort, was relatively safe. Claire couldn’t think of any way Petrov would know where Judy was. Unless he was monitoring the house and followed Roger and Judy. And if he’s the one who killed Stephanie, he’s a good skier.

Claire called Roger’s cell phone. After he answered, she asked, “Do you know if anyone followed you to Keystone?”

“No, I don’t. Why? Did Silverstone think someone was watching us?”

“No, but he said the police can’t protect Judy until they have evidence Petrov is targeting her. She’s vulnerable out there.”

“We’re sticking to the crowded slopes.”

“I’d feel better if Judy was home behind locked doors.”

“I know, but she needed this. I couldn’t have kept her from going out on her own otherwise. We’ll be careful. Are you joining us?”

“No, I have to finish the gift basket I promised to bring to the Summit Foundation fundraiser tonight.” And keeping her hands busy while she mulled over the confusing and horrifying events of the last few days seemed like a good idea.

“I’ve got to get off the lift now. We’ll be home in time to get ready for the fundraiser.” He hung up.

Claire covered the dining room table with supplies—spa items she had purchased at post–Valentine’s Day sales in Colorado Springs, a large market basket made of pale white oak, and a box of trim and packaging supplies she had brought from home. The pile of spa items included two long-handled, loofah-tipped back scrubbers, lotion, scrubs, bath oil and bubbles, scented candles, a tub pillow, a soothing CD of Indian flute music, and a pedicure kit with a gray pumice stone.

While she peeled off sales tags, she thought about a color scheme. Her gaze fell on the gray stone then picked up other neutrals in the collection. The scented items were vanilla, cinnamon, and pine in colors of ecru, tan, and green. She decided to use gray and green for the decorations.

She pulled out green tissue paper, dried Spanish moss, green raffia, brown leather strips, and pebbles with holes drilled in them to string on the leather. With the color scheme firmly planted in her mind, Claire could try to make sense of the recent deaths while her fingers worked. She started weaving leather strips around the basket.

First came Stephanie—killed by a skier wearing black Spyder clothing who used poles bent for gate racing. The quality of the gear and the skill of his pursuit of Boyd pointed to the excellence of the skier. Both Nick and his father appeared to be good skiers. Good enough that their story of skiing the back bowls of Copper made sense to Angela.

But the police found no evidence they were actually there, and Anthony matched the physical description of Stephanie’s killer—tall and lean with a mix of black and gray hair. Claire wondered if Judy had ever seen Anthony ski. Maybe she could compare his form to the rude skier she spotted on the slope before Stephanie died.

Do I really believe Anthony could have killed his own daughter?

What about Boyd? Could Anthony have killed him? The license plate of Anthony’s black Range Rover matched the two letters of the one she saw driving away after hitting Boyd. And Anthony seemed protective of his family. Yes, if he thought Boyd had killed his daughter, he would seek revenge.

But would he resort to murder?

Who else could have? There was one cold-blooded murderer in their midst. Viktor Petrov. And six other black Range Rovers had license plates matching the numbers Roger saw. Gregori Ivanov’s did, and he bought four others besides his own and the Continos’. Did Viktor own one of those? But if he did, it should be at his home in Chile. Why would he bring it here? And why would he mow down someone with an SUV if he was a crack shot? What reason would he have to kill Boyd?

The leather fell out of Claire’s hand. If Anthony asked him to.

Or maybe Ivanov offered Petrov’s services to Anthony after hearing about Stephanie’s death. But that presumed none of them killed Stephanie, pointing the finger back at Boyd, whose story rang true—and was corroborated partly by Judy.

What if Boyd accidentally hit Stephanie and constructed an elaborate lie to cover it? Somehow, Anthony would have had to find out Boyd was responsible for his daughter’s death. Then he got Ivanov to fly in Petrov from Chile.

All in one day? Impossible.

But maybe Petrov was already in the U.S. for some other reason. Claire could envision Petrov killing Boyd, but the murder weapon was wrong. And Ivanov said on Friday, “The idiot who killed her with his carelessness will be dealt with.” Boyd was killed on Tuesday.

If Ivanov ordered his killing, why didn’t he know it was a done deal?

Claire’s head throbbed. The trouble with analyzing all the possibilities was that none of them made sense, at least with the information she had. What she needed was more data on Petrov.

If he was brought to Breckenridge to kill Boyd, maybe he wasn’t targeting Judy after all. Could Claire’s theory about why he and Ivanov were whispering about Judy be right and Leon’s be wrong? Or were they plotting some way of using Judy to pressure Nick into joining the Russian mob? Then Judy wouldn’t be a murder target, but a kidnapping target—with the ransom being Nick’s future.

Oh, God.

Claire looked at the rat’s nest of raffia in her hands that she had knotted up while thinking. She tossed the tangled bunch on the table and dropped her head into her hands.

Stephanie. The first death. She’s the key to the puzzle.

Claire was sure that once she knew who killed Stephanie and why, the other deaths would make sense, including Anthony’s suicide. His note had said, “I can’t live with the guilt any longer. Because of me, Stephanie is dead.” So, he felt responsible for her death.

Could he be responsible without having been the one who actually killed her?

Yes, if he ordered her killing. But Claire couldn’t envision Anthony doing that any more than having an incestuous relationship with his daughter. He truly seemed heartbroken by her death.

Claire’s musings had hit a dead end, with no answers, only more questions. She glanced at the mess on the dining room table, then at her watch. She had to hurry and finish the basket and take her shower before Roger and Judy got home. She shoved thoughts of murder, kidnapping, and intrigue out of her mind, grabbed the raffia, and started picking out knots.

_____

Claire stepped off the elevator at the third floor of the Beaver Run Resort and Conference Center. She felt rushed and anxious. She should have delivered the gift basket before the event began, and it was already twenty minutes after the six p.m. start time. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Judy and Roger followed.

Judy teetered on the same shoes she had worn to Stephanie’s memorial service, but she had paired them this time with a slinky purple top and a pair of dressy black jeans. Not an outfit Claire approved of for a charity benefit, but she could understand Judy’s refusal to wear the same dress she had on when Anthony died. Especially with the distinct possibility of Nick showing up at the fundraiser to accept his father’s award.

The opportunity to see Nick was what had persuaded Judy to leave the townhouse with them that night. Claire refused to let her stay home alone and was ready to resort to the old standby, “because I said so,” when Roger remembered the Summit Foundation had planned to present an award to Anthony Contino. Then Judy said Nick had gotten a call from the foundation chair asking what he preferred they do—drop the mention of his father, eulogize him without family present, or have Nick accept his father’s award. The last Judy knew, Nick had agreed to the eulogy but hadn’t decided if he would attend or not.

Roger peered around the huge basket he held. “Claire, could you please find out where I can dump this thing? It’s getting heavy.”

Claire looked down the wide hallway encircling the Colorado ballroom. Like the ballroom, the hallway was decorated with pale olive wallpaper. Oak wainscoting separated the wallpaper from maroon wall carpeting with swirled gold and green leaves that continued down onto the floor. Windows along the west wall faced the now-dark beginner ski runs below. Linen-covered tables underneath the windows contained donated items and bid sheets. Claire searched the tables until she found the empty space for her gift basket, then signaled Roger.

With a grateful sigh, he lowered the basket into place. “I need a drink. Either of you want one?”

Judy fingered her evening bag and glanced around, obviously searching for Nick. “White wine, I guess.”

Claire wanted to keep her wits sharp, especially if any of the Continos or Russians showed up that night. “Just soda water for me.”

While Roger got in line at one of the bars, Claire and Judy entered the ballroom. A string quartet played classical music in one corner. Tables of appetizers and desserts sat spaced along the walls, and smaller tables with chairs were placed in scattered groupings. Though the room was crowded, many of the chairs were empty. Most people stood and balanced drink glasses and small plates while they talked. As usual at a Colorado formal event, Claire spotted a range of outfits from tuxedos and long evening dresses to jeans and cowboy boots.

Roger returned with their drinks, handed them off, then promptly went in search of food.

Claire knew to let him forage. He was always starving after a day of skiing, and he would need quite a few platefuls of the tidbits to satisfy that hunger.

Judy saw a couple of college-aged young women across the room. “Mom, I want to talk to Anne and Chelsea over there. Remember I had dinner with them Tuesday? They’re heading back to CU-Boulder tonight right after this. You mind?”

Yes, I mind. But Claire knew Judy would never agree to stick close to her or Roger’s side on the off chance a Russian enforcer would try to shoot her in the crowded ballroom. The concern even sounded ridiculous to Claire. She resorted to the admonition she used when the kids were young.

“Stay where you can see me.”

When Judy rolled her eyes, Claire added, “So we can find you when we’re ready to leave or if we need you for something.”

Roger returned with his mouth full and his plate mounded with cheese puffs, meatballs, shrimp, and other protein-packed snacks. He looked around as he finished chewing then swallowed.

“Where’s Judy? I can’t believe you let her go off alone.”

Claire nodded her head toward the knot of three young women chatting away and gesturing wildly to punctuate every few words. “She’s with friends. I told her to stay where she could see us.”

Roger grinned. “I bet she liked that. Now, why was it so important to come here? Other than to drop off that damn basket and eat, that is.”

“To see if anyone interesting shows up, like Detective Silverstone. He was going to talk to the Continos this afternoon and try to dig up more information on Petrov. Or the ferret man himself could show up, along with Ivanov, though I really hope we don’t run into either one of them. The Continos could come—or what’s left of them.”

Claire grimaced at that slip. “I doubt Angela would be up to it, but Nick might have decided to accept his father’s award. Plus, he hasn’t seen Judy for two days. That could be incentive enough.”

Roger surveyed the ballroom. “Well, none of the aforementioned seems to be here now.”

Claire touched his arm. “Stay here and keep an eye on Judy. I’ll check the hallway.”

She exited the ballroom and joined the slowly shuffling line moving past the donated items up for auction. Between glances at bid sheets, Claire scanned the crowd for Nick, the Russians, or Owen. Especially Owen. She was anxious to find out if he had learned anything more about Petrov.

While she scanned the other gift baskets provided by local stores, she couldn’t help but critique them. One was overstuffed, so not all the items could be seen. Another had no unifying color scheme, and a third, from a ski clothing shop, had no items to taste, smell, or hear—not even a Warren Miller ski film. Claire always tried to tantalize all the senses in her baskets. When she approached her own basket, she felt gratified to see the bid sheet was full of names.

A shadow of a person moved outside the window, startling Claire. She realized she had reached the portion of the hallway that looked out onto the outdoor balcony. She should check for people out there. She stepped out of the line and walked toward the door.

When she went outside, the cold air blasted her face. She clasped her arms around her. Her black skirt and shiny gold silk blouse provided little insulation from the chill.

More than a few people stood outside, many savoring cigarettes that were forbidden inside. Claire moved along the perimeter of the large balcony, trying to get a glimpse of shadowy faces in the dark. She had made almost a full circuit and was about to give up and go inside when off to her left, she heard a familiar voice—Nick’s, directed away from her.

“What are you doing here?” The words were forceful, but hissed out in a low whisper, implying they were meant for only one set of ears. Those belonging to the large man standing next to him.

Ivanov! Claire turned her back to them and inched away so their view of her was mostly blocked by an outside wall angling in to artistically hide the exhausts from the kitchen below. She peeked over her shoulder to get a glimpse of Ivanov’s expression, but only his eyes were visible above the glowing end of a fat cigar stub.

He took a puff and lowered his hand, shifting his face into shadow again. “I come to see you, since you no longer welcome me to your home. We must talk.”

“Haven’t you extracted enough blood from our family?”

“Nickolas, you are upset.” Ivanov’s tone was conciliatory, but firm. “You will see. We will provide good life for you and your mother.”

“No, dammit. It ends with Dad. He played your game. He had to, and because of it, Stephanie’s dead.” Nick’s voice caught, but he pressed on. “And now he’s gone, too, because he couldn’t live with the guilt.” Nick whirled and clutched the railing.

Claire spied the movement and chanced another quick look at the two men.

When Ivanov patted Nick’s shoulder, Nick flinched. The larger man let his hand drop. “I did not think he would take his own life.” He sighed. “No one did.”

Nick bowed his head. “What would you expect a man to do who caused his own daughter’s death?”

“He did not push her.”

“But he might as well have.”

Ivanov’s voice softened. “Do you blame him, Nickolas?”

Nick raised his head and glared at Ivanov. “No, I blame you, Gregori.”

He pushed off the rail and strode across the balcony. He yanked the door open and went inside.

Ivanov watched the young man while taking another puff on the cigar. He dropped the stub on the concrete floor of the balcony and ground it out with his heel.

“We will talk again, young Nickolas. We will talk again.” He shoved his hands in his pocket and moved slowly toward the door, threading through knots of people.

Claire shivered. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering as she waited for Ivanov to go inside. So, Anthony caused Stephanie’s death somehow, but he wasn’t the mysterious black-clad skier who pushed her. Nickolas didn’t seem to be either, because he blamed Ivanov. But the bear of a man was too large to match Boyd’s description.

Stephanie’s killer must have been Petrov. The ferret-faced enforcer was the same build as the Contino men—tall and thin. And he had salt-and-pepper hair. But the nagging question still lingered. Why? And why would Anthony want his daughter killed, then commit suicide over it days later?

Thoroughly puzzled, Claire walked to the door, massaging her arms to rub some warmth into them. She checked that Ivanov and Nick were out of sight and slipped inside.

She hurried up to Roger in the ballroom. “Where’s Judy?”

He put his arm around her then stared at her in surprise. “You’re ice-cold, Claire. Did you go outside?”

Claire nodded, her teeth chattering. “Nick’s here. He was talking to Ivanov on the balcony. I need to ask Judy something.” She started to move away.

“Let me warm you up first.” He wrapped his arms around her and rubbed her back.

About the time she stopped shivering, Claire spotted her daughter across the room. She rushed to Judy’s side, with Roger close on her heels, and pulled her away from her friends.

“Judy. I found out something, and I need your help. Remember at the Continos’ reception when you said you recognized a man who kept staring at you, but you didn’t know where you’d seen him before? A ferret-faced man?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Close your eyes and visualize his face. Now, imagine him with some sunglasses, a black ski jacket, and pants . . .”

With her eyes shut, Judy frowned in concentration. “He took off his sunglasses to wipe them. In a lift line . . . the line to the T-bar.”

Her eyes flew open, and she gasped. “He’s the rude skier in black, the one who shoved past the two guys at the top of Ptarmigan.” Her hand gripped Claire’s arm like a claw. “The one who killed Stephanie.”

Roger cleared his throat. “Gals, we’ve got trouble.”

“What?” Claire asked. “Where?”

Roger tilted his chin over her shoulder.

She whirled and saw Ivanov pushing his way through the crowd as he made his way to the door. “Where was he? Did he hear us?”

Solemnly, Roger put his arms around his daughter’s and wife’s shoulders. “I saw him out of the corner of my eye right when Judy said, ‘the one who killed Stephanie.’ His face went white—then he took off.”

At the door, Ivanov turned and stared at them. His dark eyes bored into Claire’s and rooted her to the spot.

The blood drained out of her face. “Oh, God.” She felt like a
cornered rabbit watching death swoop down in the form of a predator hawk with talons bared.