He signed, looked down at the magazine that lay on his desk- and heard another scream. As before, it was distant and brief, but this time it sounded like a man’s voice. It wasn’t merely a shriek of excitement or even a cry of alarm: it was the sound of terror.
Frowning, Henderson got up and headed towards the door adjusting the holstered revolver on his right hip. He stepped though the swinging gate in the railing that separated the public area from the bullpen, and he was halfway to the door when he heard movement in the office behind him.
That was impossible. He had been alone in the office all day, and there hadn’t been any prisoners in the three holding cells since early last week. The rear door was locked, and that was the only other way in to the jail.
When he turned, however, he discovered that he wasn’t alone any more. And suddenly he wasn’t the least bit bored.
During the twilight hour of that Sunday in early September, the mountains were painted in only two colours: green and blue. The trees- pine, fir, spruce – looked as if they had been fashioned form the same felt that covered billiard tables. Cool, blue shadows lay everywhere, growing larger and deeper and darker by the minute.
Be hind the wheel of his 97 Ford Shelby Mustang GT 500, Malcolm Dome smiled, buoyed by the beauty of the mountains and by a sense of coming home. This was where he belonged.
He turned the Shelby GT off the three –lane state road, onto the country- maintained, two lane blacktop that twisted and climbed four miles through the pass to Snowfield.
In the passenger seat, his lovely girlfriend, Jennifer said, “I love it up her”.
“So do I”.
“When will there be some snow”.
“ Another month maybe sooner”
The trees crowed close to the roadway. The Shelby GT moved into a tunnel formed by overhanging boughs, and Jenny switched on the headlights.
“I’ve never seen snow except in pictures,” Jennifer said.
“By next spring, you’ll be sick of it”.
“Never. Not me. I’ve always dreamed about living in snow country, like you.’
Malcolm glanced at the girl.
“Will u teach me to ski?” Jennifer said.
“Well, honey, once the skies come to town, there’ll be the usual broken bones sprained ankles, wrenched backs, torn ligaments……….I’ll be pretty busy then.”
“Oh,” Jennifer said, unable to conceal her disappointment.
“Besides, why learn from me from me when you can take lessons from a real pro?”
“A pro?” Jennifer asked, brightening somewhat.
“Sure. Hank Sanderson will give you lessons if I ask him.”
“Who’s he?”
“ He owns Pine Knoll Lodge, and he gives skiing lessons, but only to a handful of favoured students.”
“I’ve known Hank for two years, ever since I came to Snowfield.”
They rounded a sharp bend, and Malcolm slowed the car. Ahead lay a long, up-sloping straight stretch, and the county lane became Skyline Road, the main road of Snowfield.
Jennifer peered intently through the streaked windshield, studying the town with obvious delight.
Snowfield was six blocks long from top to bottom of its sloping main street, and Malcolm’s house was in the middle of the uppermost block, on the west side of the street, near the foot of the ski lifts. It was a two storey, stone and timber chalet with three dormer windows along the street side of the attic. The house was set back twenty Feet from the cobblestone pavement, behind a waist- high evergreen hedge. By one corner of the porch stood a sign that read MALCOLM DOME, MD, it also listed her office hours.
Malcolm parked the Shelby in the short driveway. She got out of the car, and Malcolm discovered that the setting sun had given rise to a chilly wind.
He stretched, uncramping muscles that had knotted up during the long drive, and then pushed the door shut.
Malcolm walked over to the door looking behind him every step. He opened the front door and stepped into the dark foyer. “Hilda, we’re home!”
There was no answer.
The only light in the house was at the far end of the hall, beyond the open kitchen door.
“Who’s Hilda?” Lisa asked.
“My housekeeper.” Wondering why the kitchen light was on if Hilda wasn’t there, Malcolm headed down the hall, with Jennifer close behind.
Malcolm turned left as soon, as soon he stepped through the door, and went to the built in secretariat where Hilda planned menus and composed shopping lists. It was there she would have left a note. But there was no note, and Malcolm was turning away from the small desk when he heard Jennifer gasp.
Malcolm had walked around to the far side of the central cooking island. She was standing by the refrigerator, staring down at something on the floor in front of the sinks.
Her face was flour-white, and she was trembling.
Filled with sudden dread, Malcolm stepped around the island.
Hilda Beck was lying on the floor, on her back, dead.
