Crimson Slopes (Part Uno)

A Giallo in Winter Tale

Part I

“There aren’t any safety issues at the ski resort…right, Mr. Devereux?” The attractive blue eyed woman asked from the luxurious backseat of the Mercedes G Wagon. Even under her North Face winter jacket, Roger Devereux could tell she possessed an athletic figure, probably toned from several hours of yoga and pilates training at some swanky private gym in Manhattan.

“No, ma’am. Those stories you heard about the recent disappearances are nothing more than fear mongering from the anti-tourist NIMBY types. We have a lot of them in Vermont. It’s sad to say this, but some mentally unwell people commit suicide by wandering out into the dark, cold forests in winter. Their bodies are found in spring or never found at all.” Roger Devereux responded in a frank manner.

“I see, yes, that is quite sad. How long until we reach the ski resort?” She asked in her cultured, slightly foreign accent. Roger couldn’t place it, it was too subtle.

“Approximately thirty minutes, Mrs. Novak. I can turn on one of the satellite radio stations, if you would like to listen to some music on the drive?” The hired chauffeur offered.

“No, I prefer a little warm conversation; do you mind, Mr. Devereux?”

“Not at all, I’m a sucker for good conversation, ma’am.” Devereux grinned into the rearview mirror of the SUV but the affluent millennial didn’t catch the 80s movie reference he had tossed at her.

“Darla…I mean Mrs. Sharpov said that you had been a police officer before starting your luxury transport service, is this true?”

“Well, yes, I was a sheriff’s deputy with Rutland County, the county we are in now for six years before starting my current business. This luxury transport business was part of my final MBA project, I had to come up with a viable tourist business…” Roger stopped going further into his explanation about his graduate school project when he saw the socialite’s eyes glazing over. He still retained enough law enforcement observation skills to know when he was boring a woman to death.

Regardless, she soon perked up and slowly unzipped her white down jacket and allowed her large, modified breasts to breathe a bit more. She continued her line of questioning.

“Still, a deputy sheriff, that must have been exciting? Although, I am sure you prefer running your own business, my husband certainly does, far more than he enjoys being married.”

Roger was astute enough to not respond to her last comment.

She continued her undressing, taking off her red knit winter cap, Her light blonde hair cut in a stylish bob that probably cost more than what Roger spent in monthly groceries.

“It was just a job. When I first joined the sheriff’s office and went through the Vermont Police Academy, I had all sorts of romantic notions. After a year or so on night patrol, they were completely dispelled.”

“Hmmm, I was listening to this podcast at my gym. They talked about all the serial killers that have traveled through or lived in Vermont over the years. Very creepy.” She whispered conspiratorially.

Oh, dear God, she is a true crime enthusiast, Roger thought. He attempted a placating smile.

“You know, when I was a patrol deputy, mostly what I dealt with were people who made poor decisions due to drugs or alcohol. On occasion, I would come across a professional thief operating at one of the ski resorts. But even those were rare. Sorry, no serial killers.”

“That you know of.” She responded cheekily in her light accent. Roger grinned and just shook his head. He liked her moxie.

But he turned on the radio anyway.

“So, I can just text you, if I need your car service then?” Roger’s long-legged client asked. She was nearly his height and he was 6 feet 2. He took both of her large black suitcases out of the trunk of the SUV and handed them off to the resort’s young bellhop staff, along with a Burton snowboard.

“Yes, your husband paid for my weekend excursion executive package. You have access to me throughout the weekend. If you want to go into Rutland or the outlet stores outside the resort, just text me and I will be here in minutes. I will never be more than fifteen minutes away, Mrs. Novak.” Roger shut the liftgate of the G Wagon.

“Excellent, please call me Lara, may I call you Roger? We aren’t living in Downton Abbey.” She smiled and her soft, plump red lips revealed perfectly aligned white teeth.

“As you like, Lara. I recommend that once you get settled in your suite, you try the aperitifs cocktails at the Red Barn Saloon next door. Also, their Friday night dinner specials are excellent.”

“Thanks for the tip, Roger. You will hear from me tomorrow, goodnight.” Roger watched her follow the entourage of bellhops to the magnificent entrance of the large chalet style resort lodge to check-in. They treated her like a Viking queen, bowing and opening doors for her. The curves of her tight, muscular bottom slid delicately up and down in her black Lulumon leggings. Even in winter boots, she moved like a ballet dancer.

Roger took a few deep breaths to settle himself, he had forgotten how lonely he had been since Bethany the bartender had broken up with him.

All around him, laughing, excited people were coming and going, most of them headed to the mountain slopes. It was easy to tell the local families from the wealthy urbanites at Killington.

Many of them were stylish, alluring females in small groups, at the resort for a girl’s weekend. These were the type of women who enjoyed brunch and were eternally bored. Spending their time on the slopes, partying in the resort bars and fornicating with the local college boys from the nearby university. In short, alleviating the tedium of their existence for a brief moment.

And thank God for it, Roger thought. He depended on these flatlander housefraus to hire his luxury car service. Sometimes, the husbands would hire him and offer to throw in a bonus, if he kept track of the wives’ extracurricular activities. He always declined, he had scruples. He would have become a P.I. if he wanted to be some seedy professional peeper.

On his way back home, Roger listened to a podcast. It was produced by some Vermonters and rightly called: Strange New England. The recent disappearances allowed the hosts to talk about a current event for once and encouraged their listeners to text in speculative comments.

In a span of ninety days, three different people had gone missing at Killington, a record for the region. All sorts of theories abounded from serial killers to cryptids and even a witch cult or two.

“Yeah, man! New England is pregnant with witch cults!” One of the hosts exclaimed.

“Totally, remember that bizarre story about the railroad cop who stopped a witches’ sabbath back in the forties?!? Witches and warlocks are everywhere in this region!” The second host declared.

“Always have been!” The first host agreed.

Roger chuckled at the chuckleheads. People will never stop their love of gossip. He weaved the G Wagon down the snowy mountain roads back to his small “A” frame house for a quiet night of steak and bourbon. No witches in his neck of the woods. An image of a sensual, comely Lara came into his mind: That you know of, she smiled at him.