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Christmas Crime in Colorado
Cassie Miles
Table of Contents
Though born in Chicago and raised in Los Angeles, Cassie Miles has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post.
After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. A lot of wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.
With love to the handsome and brilliant
Finn Hayden Bergstrom-Glaser. And, as always, to Rick.
In early December, night came quickly to the snowcovered hills and valleys of the high Rockies. The sunset faded. Dusk blew across the land, bending the bare branches of white aspens and tall pines. Stars began to appear. Outside her A-frame house, Brooke Johnson stood beside her Jeep station wagon and listened to the sibilant breeze. Shush, shush, time to rest, to sleep, to heal. Shush.
Less than four months ago, she’d packed up and moved from Atlanta to Aspen, Colorado. Leaving behind friends and a corporate job in human resources, she sought solace in the big-shouldered Rockies where no one knew her history. Her ex-husband Thomas. His infidelities. Her restraining orders. The miscarriage. The humiliation of a marriage gone terribly wrong.
In Aspen, Brooke hoped to make a fresh start at age thirty-two. Though she’d only visited Colorado twice before, she thought of the mountains as a natural paradise—a Shangrila where the air was clean and dreams came true. She’d found a job at a boutique and spent a sizable chunk of her savings on the security deposit for this furnished A-frame nestled on the sunny side of a canyon. From where she stood, she could only see the rooftops of two other houses. Both were vacant during the week, used only on weekends and holidays when the families came up to ski. She liked the solitude, the silence behind the wind. But the magnificence of the Aspen environs came at a steep price; the astronomical rent meant that Brooke had to have a roommate.
And that was her current problem: her roommate, Sally Klinger.
When they first met, Sally joked about how lucky they were to have the same build, same coloring and same long, dark auburn hair and blue eyes.
“Why lucky?” Brooke had asked.
“Because all the clothes that look good on you will suit me just fine!”
Sally took their physical similarity as an open invitation to help herself to Brooke’s wardrobe. Brooke quickly realized that this was a minor annoyance compared to Sally’s constant cursing, her blaring music and her clutter—magazines, dirty dishes, shoes and clothes—strewn with abandon around the house. Not to mention her herd of boyfriends, some of whom felt free to wander through the house in nothing more than boxer shorts.
Brooke had spoken to her dozens of times to no effect. This roommate thing just wasn’t working. Sally had to go.
Standing on the long, level driveway that branched off from the steep road leading up the side of the canyon, Brooke glared toward the A-frame. Every light was lit, including the lamp in her own bedroom—a probable indication that her roommate had been “borrowing” more clothes. Sally’s SUV was parked facing the road, ready to zoom the roughly twelve miles into town to troll for ski bums and beer.
Tonight, Brooke would tell her roommate that she’d had enough. She hadn’t escaped from her ex-husband only to fall into another abusive living arrangement. Even though Sally was only a roommate, Brooke intended to break up with her. It had to be done.
She turned the handle on the back door which was, of course, unlocked in spite of Sally’s promise to keep the place secure. As soon as Brooke stepped inside, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. It smelled even worse than usual in here. The kitchen counter was littered with beer bottles and two plates with half-eaten sandwiches. Two plates. Very likely, Sally was upstairs in her bedroom with yet another boyfriend.
Dropping her backpack amid the junk on the kitchen table, Brooke listened. Instead of the usual screeches of passion that indicated Sally was entertaining, she heard silence. No music. No TV. Not even the sound of Sally yakking.
“Sally?