Death Knell In The Alps (A Samantha Jamison Mystery) (14 page)

Chapter 50

And Behind This Door Is…

Billowing smoke and sweltering heat struck our faces.

“Better pull up your ski goggles and scarves,” I shouted.

My eyes stung as I yelled out for Clay. But my words were lost to the sizzling fire as it burned out of control.

Martha was right at my side.

“Do you see him?” I yelled.

She no longer needed her flashlight. The flames were consuming drapes and everything else in its path. I had this sinking feeling my efforts were in vain, but kept on yelling. I took another step and stumbled, falling forward. “Oh!”

Mona was at my side instantly. “Are you alright, Sam?”

“My goodness,” shouted Hazel. “It’s a body!”

I scrambled on all fours to the person I had tripped on.

“Who is it?” Martha asked standing over me.

I prayed as I rolled the body over. “…It’s Peter!”

He was either unconscious or dead—it was hard to tell.

“Quick!” Mona ordered. “Let’s get him out of here.”

We all turned when the front door slammed shut loudly.

“Was that wind or did someone just run out?” I asked.

We fought our way back to the door, dragging Peter along. I looked back. It was nothing but flames trailing us. If Clay was in there, he was done for. I buried that chilling thought, trying to focus on getting the others out to safety.

I had to think positive. Maybe it was just Peter that was left behind instead of Clay. Who would do this? Was the same thing planned for Hazel and Betty if they had gotten inside too? This was one too many close calls.

It would be foolish to run back into that inferno. I said a silent prayer as we inched closer to the door, perspiring as the five of us dragged Peter toward it. By the time we reached the door, Mona grabbed the handle to open it so we could get Peter and ourselves outside to safety.

“Hurry,” choked Hazel.

“I can hardly breathe,” said Betty, gasping for breath.

Martha began hacking.

I yelled to Mona, who cursed loudly. “What’s wrong?”

She looked back at us. “The door won’t budge.”

I felt sick. We’d all burn to death in there. Who would save us? This chalet was on a remote trail with few skiers during the day, and after dusk, probably none at all.

Martha kicked the door. “I’m too young to die and I’m certainly not going out like this. I’ve got too many years left to have some fun screwing with people’s minds yet. Come on, everybody. Help me push this door open!”

We moved Peter to the side and pushed against the door.

Then it hit me. “Wait. That door opened inward.”

Martha looked at me. “…Okay, everybody pull!”

Nothing. The large door handle wasn’t budging.

It was useless. “It must be locked,” I yelled.

The flames crept closer. Our ski goggles were leaking and we were coughing.
Now what?

Chapter 51

Getting
Outed

Betty called out to Mona. “Hey, there’s a keyhole on the doorknob. Do you still have that key? We can unlock it.”

Near tears, Mona swiped her sweaty brow. “No. It’s still in the doorknob outside. I didn’t think to pull it out.”

Hazel patted Mona’s shoulder. “Don’t feel guilty. I would’ve done the same as you in all this confusion.”

Refusing to admit defeat, I searched for an escape route.

“How about I break that window? It hasn’t been touched by fire yet,” I said. I shoved the curtain back. “Damn!” Six by eight thick wooden panes: solid as a rock. But then I did a double take. The horse was gone. How convenient.

I glanced back to an unmoving Peter.

This was premeditated, attempted murder…

Martha ran to the sink. She wet a pile of hand towels and gave each of us one to place under our scarves to cover our mouths. “It’s not much, but it might buy us time.”

If we didn’t get out, we’d burn or suffocate to death.

Mona gave the door an angry whack in frustration. Then we heard a whack from the other side. We were speechless.

“Who’s in there?” yelled a voice from the outside.

The others screamed, “
Heeeeelp
!”

I almost fainted in relief. “Oh my god!” I yelled.

All eyes turned my way.

“What’s wrong?” Betty asked.

“It’s our favorite gumshoe, Clay!”

Everyone began shouting simultaneously. I kept an eye on the fire that was inching closer. “Hey,” I called out to the others. “Help me drag Peter closer to the door.”

They all turned back and began assisting me, while still yelling for Clay to get us out. I stared down at Peter’s body.

There were two possible motives in play here: Peter was compromised or was contaminated (he was dirty)
.

Which one was it?

Within seconds the door swung wide open.

“Did you know there was a key in the knob?” Clay said.

Everybody ran out, as Clay shoved each of us forward through the door. I grabbed him, pointing to the body on the floor. “It’s Peter. Hurry, get him out too,” I said, and then ran out myself, choking and crying in relief.

Clay was alive and safe and so were we. And Peter…?

I stood outside shivering in the cold, watching the chalet burn. If there was anyone else in there, they were toast. I shivered at the thought, as Clay’s arms encircled me from behind. I turned into his embrace, still in shock.

“I thought you were in there,” I said unsteadily.

He tipped up my chin with his thumb, wiped away my tears and kissed me. “I’m fine, and it appears Peter will be too. He’s slowly coming around. You and your friends saved his life.”

I hugged him tightly chilled by what happened and my suspicions about Peter’s loyalty.
Could I be wrong?

“Oh, Clay! What is going on here?”

He hugged me again. “…I’m not sure, but at least we’re all safe.”

I looked at the chalet, and then at him. “…For now.”

Looking back at the chalet, he frowned. “Yes, for now.”

Chapter 52

Aftershock

I sat up with a start scanning my surroundings: the flames still licking at the edges of my nightmare. It was morning, I was in my hotel suite, and all my friends were safe and sound asleep. But all this spy business we were caught up in was very real and bordering on deadly.

I looked over to my bedside clock, shocked to find we had slept right through breakfast. After evacuating us safely and Peter had regained consciousness, Clay then dropped Peter at his home after he adamantly refused to go to the hospital. Clay then left the rest of us back at our hotel.

“Shouldn’t we report the fire to the police?” I had asked.

“Best not to,” Clay replied. “Let sleeping dogs lie.”

But I knew differently. He wasn’t letting go of a thing. I
knew
Clay. He had his own methods of investigating.

I recalled yesterday’s intended victims. Why Peter? And why make an example of two sweet old ladies? Was a deadly process of elimination in play? Anger pulsated at the thought.

But then I remembered who we were dealing with: spies who thought nothing of sacrificing and burning bridges for the greater cause: like saving their asses. After this
,
I’d like to burn a few of them myself
.
But I promised Clay I’d wait until his sources got back to him with some information.

Trust me, this gumshoe’s sources ran both high and low.
I just hoped Clay knew what he was doing, and that he was thinking with a clear mind. I certainly didn’t want any risk to my friends or me to escalate because of his issues.

Martha and Mona woke first, and Hazel and Betty came into our room soon afterward. Nobody felt like skiing. I couldn’t blame them. They were still upset about the fire.

There was a knock at our door. “It’s me, Clay.”

I called out, “Come on in.”

He entered smiling, but soon frowned. “No skiing?”

“Not today,” said Martha. “Nobody is in the mood.”

“I feel bad about what happened last night,” he said.

I went over and kissed him lightly. “Not your fault.”

“But still, there must be something I could do.”

Hazel asked, “How is Peter doing?”

“Will he be okay?” asked Betty.

“He’s resting and will be fine.”

Mona stood up, moaning. “I am so sore.”

Clay’s face brightened. “I’ve got it.”

Martha looked up from soaking her feet. “What?”

“I’m treating all of you to a day at the hotel spa!”

Martha eyed him, smiling. “Including nails and hair?”

He winked, “And a body massage to boot!”

“Now you’re talking!” laughed Martha.

“How about it, Sam?” Clay said smiling. “You in?”

“No, I’m typing notes while they’re fresh in my mind.”

After they left for the spa, I got to work at my laptop.

Before leaving, Clay had mentioned that Peter received a note about Kraus’ case too. After leaving me, Peter skied to the chalet to meet whoever said they had information.

My theory:
When Peter arrived, the door wasn’t locked. He walked in and was hit on the head.

Was the door locked right after that?

Then we arrived. The set explosion spread the fire. We uncovered a spare key and found Peter, but then ended up being trapped ourselves.

Was this a stretch? Was it possible?

We learned afterward Betty and Hazel had found their note shoved under
my
door, not theirs. They just ran with it, inadvertently pocketing the note and not leaving it behind for any of us to find to confirm their whereabouts. I made a lucky guess in figuring out they were headed to the chalet. I shuddered at the possible negative alternatives.

…That computer-generated note was meant for me.

There was no word from Clay on the chalet that burned. But we did catch the cleaning couple in our suite the night before when they showed up as they were turning down our beds. We walked in on them looking like hell: disheveled and exhausted and smelling like a fire brigade who just left a burning building. Maria nodded and continued dusting. Neither batted an eyelash at the smell or our appearance.

They were an older couple. Maria wore a hair scarf. Carlo had dark hair. That was it. Other than that, they were sort of generic looking: uniforms covering most of their bodies, which covered their average builds and average heights. I don’t think anyone could pick them out of a lineup after just a fleeting glance at them.

Did that play to their advantage: being invisible?

They shook their heads speaking only Italian at our feeble attempts at conversation with them. And after a few minutes of going nowhere, we gave up trying.

Was it possible they were spies too? They had access…

Maria’s face brightened as she held up one of my books.

“
Sel
tu
l´autore
?”

I was able to understand her gesture and nodded.

(Yes, I was the author.)

Carlo then tapped Maria on the arm and said to us, “
Ci
scusi
per
favore
.”

And they were gone.

“Hey, they left chocolates!” said Martha grabbing one.

At this point, doubt stepped in. I shouted, “No, don’t!”

Damn, Swiss
Toblerone
too. Better safe than sorry

First it was the
Spanx
and lastly this fire.

I sat back looking over my laptop notes. I couldn’t recall anything else that might be valuable in solving this mystery. Accurate notes were now critical because my incentives had morphed since this would be my next book, involving covert spies, the war, an assassin,
(I still hadn’t forgotten Clay’s father’s murder)
and some type of spy agenda that apparently still survived to this day.

It was a spy whodunit that I thought was solvable and might even sell for both Kraus as well as me.