To Hell in a Handbasket (5 page)

A grenade?

“Mom?”

Feeling as if she was descending into Dante's Inferno, Claire walked slowly down the stairs.

What are we getting into?

Four: The Snowboarder

When Claire reached the
bottom of the stairs, she grabbed Judy's arm and whispered, “Did you see that sweatshirt with the grenade logo?”

Judy tsked. “You're such a dinosaur, Mom. That was a hoodie, and Grenade is a brand of snowboard wear.” She dragged Claire into the small, dark alcove inside the door.

A young man with a scraggly beard sat perched on a stool behind a cash register. “Three dollar cover.”

While Claire blinked to adjust her vision to the dark interior, Judy dug some bills out of her pocket and paid him. A larger and more muscular young man lounged on a stool beside a small coat-check counter. Presumably the bouncer, he looked Claire up and down then gave her a mocking half smile, as if to say, “You don't belong here, do you?”

She and Judy took off their coats and handed them to the young woman behind the counter. They headed down another dark flight of stairs lined with a flexible red tube light. The noise picked up as they rounded the corner into a room no larger than their basement rec room in Colorado Springs. Packed with young people, the room held a pool table and a bar along the far wall. Art Deco posters lined the black and red walls.

Underlying the chatter of voices and strains of a wailing guitar, the deep thump of a persistent bass echoed in Claire's stomach. Her full tummy churned from the stench of cigarette smoke, beer, and hormone-drenched young bodies. Claire realized she had at least twenty years on everyone else in the room.

Skirting the outstretched cue of a man aiming a shot, she followed Judy around the pool table into the larger back room, the source of the heavy thumping.

A pimply faced disc jockey with large earphones looped around his neck bopped on a tiny stage behind a stand of stereo equipment. Flanking the stage, huge speakers pulsed a primitive dance beat. The disc jockey loaded a vinyl record on one of the two turntables in front of him.

Claire wondered why he wasn't playing CDs. When he rubbed the record under the needle, producing a scratchy repetition of a section of music, she realized why.

People stood talking in clumps in front of the stage, but no one danced. The ratio appeared to be about two men to every woman, and most of the clumps were single-sexed. Everyone held drinks. Claire presumed that later in the evening, the liberal lubrication of alcohol would facilitate more mixing.

While she and Judy pushed through the crowd, a rotating mirror ball bathed faces with multiple colors. Posters of bands Claire had never heard of lined the black walls, along which young people lounged on tall stools, smoked, and drank beer. That seemed to be the only beverage everyone was drinking, though the mirrored bar stocked bottles of liquor.

When they reached the bar, Judy put her head next to Claire's so she could be heard. “Beer, Mom?”

“Why not?” Maybe a beer would settle her stomach and help her to not feel so out-of-place. She had already received a few stares. Remembering why she was there, Claire searched the room. Though many of the young men wore baseball caps, some backward, or knit beanies, none sported a hat of multi-colored fleece dreadlocks. Claire doubted Nail-It would wear such a hat in the warm room.

As Judy handed over a glass of beer, Claire said, “I bet we won't see that hat in here. He would probably leave it at the coat check. We'll have to ask around.”

Claire leaned over the bar as the bartender brought Judy's change and shouted, “You know a guy named Nail-It?”

“Nope.” He moved on to fill another order.

Claire turned to the young man on her right. “How about you? You know a snowboarder named Nail-It?”

The guy gave her a suspicious glance, shook his head, and turned his back to her.

“You're embarrassing me, Mom.” Judy clutched her beer as they stepped away from the bar. “You can't ask everyone here if they know him.”

“Why not? How else are we supposed to find him?”

“Go up the stairs and ask the coat-check girl if a guy has already checked the hat. If he hasn't, wait and watch for him.”

“Good idea. You do that. But remember what your dad said. Don't talk to the snowboarder. In the meantime, I'll keep asking around.” Claire took a sip of beer for courage.

Judy shot her mother a dubious look then walked into the billiard room.

Claire approached a quartet of young women clustered at the other end of the bar and spoke with a raised voice so it would carry over the music. “Excuse me. I'm looking for someone. Do any of you know a snowboarder named Nail-It?”

“Nail-It Naylor?” the brunette on the end asked. “Why're you looking for him? If he owes you money, join the crowd.”

The others laughed.

“No, he doesn't owe me anything,” Claire said. “He witnessed an accident on the slope yesterday. It involved a friend of mine, and I just want to ask him what he saw.”

The tall blonde tossed back her long hair. “You mean the woman who bashed a tree?” Her expression softened. “You knew her? I'm sorry.”

Refusing to succumb to grief, Claire reminded herself why she was here. “Thanks. Could you describe this Naylor guy to me? All I saw of him was his outerwear and that multi-colored hat.”

The blonde laughed. “Boyd likes to have all eyes on him, especially when he's flipping tricks or grinding rails.”

What the heck is she talking about?
“Is Boyd his first name?”

“Yeah, he hates it, which is why he goes by Nail-It. Matches his last name, and he does nail his jumps.”

“He shreds with the best,” one of the other young women added.

Shreds?
“What does he look like?”

The blonde cocked her head and stared into space as if trying to picture him. “Fuzzy blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes, a few inches taller than me.”

A young man wearing a backward baseball cap stumbled into the group. His open coat slouched off his shoulders, and his red-rimmed eyes wandered unfocused over the faces of the young women. “Any of you ladies care to dansh?”

He swayed before them, obviously well on his way into a good bender. His beer sloshed on the gray carpet underfoot. The blonde and her friends turned their backs as a group.

Not as fast, Claire was left alone with him.
Darn!

A look of disappointment crossed the drunk's face, then he focused on Claire. “How 'bout you? Let's boogie.” He shuffled his feet, causing more liquid to slosh from his glass.

She tried to keep the distaste out of her expression. “No, thanks.”

He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the stage. “C'mon.”

Claire planted her feet and pulled his hand off. “I said, no thanks.”

He lurched close, his stale beer breath overpowering. “Jus' one.” He held up a finger, which swayed between their faces.

Roger appeared next to Claire and took her arm. “The lady said no.”

The drunk eyed him, taking in Roger's advantage in height and weight and the angry set to his jaw, then put out his hand, palm out. “No offensh, man. Didn't know she was your lady.” He spun, put out a foot to catch his balance, and stumbled off.

Roger dropped his grip on Claire. “I leave you alone for a few minutes, and you're already attracting young drunks.”

Ready with a retort, Claire noticed the grin on his face, and swallowed her angry words. She lifted her beer glass as if toasting him and took a sip. “Always ready to dance with a handsome fellow like yourself.”

Roger glanced at the stage. “Not sure I'd know what to do to this music.” He scanned the non-dancing crowd. “No one else seems to either.”

“Did you see Judy when you came in?”

“She was talking to the coat-check girl and told me where to find you.”

He steered Claire toward the back of the room, away from the stage, though the noise level didn't dissipate much. “I called the sheriff's office. The dispatcher said she'd locate Detective Silverstone and send him over here, but she had no idea how long that would take. She seemed to know the place, as if they've had trouble here in the past. So, did you find this snowboarder?”

“No, but I have a name, Boyd Naylor, and a description from the young women over there.” She tilted her head toward the quartet at the bar.

Judy walked up beside Roger, her beer glass already half empty. “Oh, good. You found Mom. Nail-It seems to be here. The girl behind the coat-check counter found a hat that looks like his.”

A young man in baggy black jeans and a T-shirt with a marijuana leaf on it stepped out of the men's restroom and walked toward the billiard room. His fuzzy blond mop looked like a whole family of gerbils could nest in it.

Claire walked over to the tall blonde who had given her Naylor's first name and tapped her on the shoulder. “Is that Boyd?” She pointed at the receding back of the young man.

“That's him,” the blonde replied.

Claire grabbed Roger's arm. “Let's go.”

They walked into the billiard room and found Naylor leaning on the small bar there, ordering a beer.

When the bartender brought the glass, Roger slapped a twenty on the counter. “It's on me.”

Naylor whirled around and stared at Roger. “Who're you and why're you buying me a beer?”

Roger stuck out his hand. “Roger Hanover. This is my wife, Claire, and my daughter, Judy.”

Claire and Judy nodded at the puzzled snowboarder.

“Are you Nail-It Naylor?” Judy asked.

He drew back but had the presence of mind to take a swig of his free beer. “How do you know who I am?”

Judy smiled. “No need to worry. We just have a few questions. First, you wear a hat with multi-colored fleece dreadlocks, don't you?”

His brows furrowed. “Yea—ah.”

“And your snowboard is orange with swirls on it,” Claire said.

“Where's this going?” Naylor peered at each of their faces as he drank some more beer.

Roger pocketed the change the bartender returned to him and faced Naylor. “We're friends of the young woman who was killed on Peak Eight yesterday.”

“Shit!” Naylor slammed the glass on the bar, sloshing the beer, and turned to flee.

Roger laid a restraining hand on his arm. “We want to hear your side of the story.”

“No way. That dude'll get me for sure.” Naylor's eyes widened with fear. “I didn't see nothing.”

“That dude?” Claire advanced on Naylor. “What dude?”

Naylor shook his head.

Claire's mind raced. Obviously, the young man was afraid of someone. Was he already in trouble with the ski patrol, Breckenridge police, or the Summit County sheriff ? Or maybe the dude was the skier—the one whose tracks she had seen. If Naylor saw the skier hit Stephanie, the skier could have threatened him with harm if he divulged anything.

How could she get him to open up? Claire got an idea. She caught her daughter's eye, pointed her chin at Naylor, and gave Judy a nudge.

“Look, we're not the authorities,” Claire said. “We knew the young
woman who died. We need some closure, to understand what happened to her. So do her parents and brother.”

Judy removed her father's hand from Naylor's arm and slipped her arm through the snowboarder's. “She was my friend. It's very important to me. I'd really appreciate it.”

Though Naylor still looked edgy, his desire to flee seemed to wilt under her sweet gaze.

“If you want,” Claire added, “whatever you tell us won't go beyond us and Stephanie's family.”

Sorrow joined the fear in his eyes. “Oh, man. I didn't want to know her name.”

“Please help us.” Judy stopped just shy of batting her eyelashes at him.

When did she become such an expert flirt, Claire wondered. And how much practice did it take?

Naylor licked his lips. “You won't go to the cops?”

Claire damn well would, but she could convince him of the necessity of that later. Right now, she had to get him to trust them and tell them what he knew. She was terrible at lying, but a delaying tactic was different, right?

“We won't tell a soul unless you approve it first.” Claire glanced at Judy and Roger. “Okay?”

Roger shot her a dubious look but appeared to be willing to follow her lead. “Okay.”

Judy nodded.

“Let's go somewhere quiet, so we can hear each other talk.” Claire scanned Naylor's thin frame. “How about the outdoor crepe stand across the street. You hungry? We're buying. It'll only take a few minutes.”

Naylor downed the rest of his beer and wiped his hand across his lips. “Okay.”

He led them up the stairs and retrieved his snow jacket and goofy hat from the coat check. Claire, Roger, and Judy got their coats, too, and Roger tipped the young woman.

Once outside, Claire led the way across the street and talked Naylor into ordering two dessert crepes, chocolate and strawberry. She also ordered a round of hot chocolate, so he wouldn't feel self-conscious about eating alone. Once they were seated at an outdoor table beneath an overhead gas heater, Naylor dug into the crepes, wolfing down big bites like a stray dog on the run.

The sight reminded Claire of her son in the midst of a growth spurt.
Poor guy probably skipped dinner.

Roger leaned forward. “Judy saw you zoom past her seconds before Stephanie was hit. You were going awfully fast.” The accusatory words came out in a cloud of frosted breath.

After taking a swig of hot chocolate as if to bolster his courage, Naylor said, “It's like this. I may look like I'm booking too fast down the slope, but I know what I'm doing. I've been riding board for eight years, since I got hooked on it in junior high. I can catch major hang time and still land on a dime. Just ask around.”

“A young woman in the bar said you shred with the best,” Claire said.
Whatever that means
.