White Fire

27

Mrs. Betty B. Kermode sipped a cup of Earl Grey tea and looked from the picture window of her living room over the Silver Queen Valley. Her house on the top of the ridge — the best lot in the entire development of The Heights — commanded a spectacular view, with the surrounding mountains rising up and up toward the Continental Divide and the towering peaks of Mount Elbert and Mount Massive, the highest and second highest peaks in Colorado, which were mere shadows at this hour of the night. The house itself was quite modest — despite what people assumed, she was not by nature a showy woman — one of the smallest in the development, in fact. It was more traditional than the others, as well, built in stone and cedar on a relatively intimate scale: none of this ultra-contemporary, postmodern style for her.

The window also afforded an excellent view of the equipment shed. It had been from this same window that, not quite two weeks before, Mrs. Kermode had seen the telltale light go on in the shed, very late at night. She immediately knew who was inside and had taken action.

The cup rattled in its saucer as she put it down and she poured herself another. It was difficult to make a decent cup of tea at eight thousand five hundred feet, where water boiled at one hundred ninety-six degrees, and she could never get used to the insipid flavor, no matter what kind of mineral water she used, how long she steeped it, or how many bags she put in. She pursed her lips tightly as she added milk and a touch of honey, stirred, and sipped. Mrs. Kermode was a lifelong teetotaler — not for religious reasons, but because her father had been an abusive alcoholic and she associated drinking with ugliness and, even worse, a lack of control. Mrs. Kermode had made control the centerpiece of her life.

And now she was angry, quietly but furiously angry, at the humiliating disruption of her control by that girl and her FBI friend. Nothing like that had ever happened to her, and she would never forget, let alone forgive, it.

She took another swallow of tea. The Heights was the most sought-after enclave in Roaring Fork. In a town filled with vulgar new money, it was one of the oldest developments. It represented taste, Brahmin stability, and a whiff of aristocratic superiority. She and her partners had never allowed it to grow shabby, as other 1970s-era ski developments tended to do. The new spa and clubhouse would be a vital part of keeping the development fresh, and the opening of Phase III — thirty-five two-acre lots, priced at $7.3 million and up — promised to bring a stupendous financial windfall to the original investors. If only this cemetery business could be resolved. The New York Times article had been an annoyance, but it was nothing compared with the bull-in-a-china-shop antics of Corrie Swanson.

That bitch. It was her fault. And she would pay.

Kermode finished her cup, put it down, took a deep breath, then picked up the phone. It was late in New York City, but Daniel Stafford was a night owl and this was usually the best time to reach him.

He picked up on the second ring, his smooth patrician voice coming down the line. “Hello, Betty. How’s the skiing?”

A wave of irritation. He knew perfectly well she didn’t ski. “They tell me it’s excellent, Daniel. But I’m not calling to bandy civilities.”

“Pity.”

“We’ve got a problem.”

“The fire? It’s only a problem if they don’t catch the fellow — which they will. Trust me, by the time Phase Three comes online he’ll be heading to the electric chair.”

“The fire isn’t what I’m calling about. It’s that girl. And the meddling FBI agent. I hear he’s managed to dig up three more descendants who’ve given permission to look at their ancestors’ bones.”

“And the problem?”

“What do you mean, and the problem? It’s bad enough that this Captain Bowdree has shown up in person — at least she wants to bury her ancestor’s bones somewhere else. Daniel, what if those other descendants demand reburial in the original cemetery? We’re five million dollars into construction!”

“Now, now, Betty, calm down. Please. That’s never going to happen. If any so-called descendants take legal action — which they haven’t yet — our attorneys will tie them up in knots for years. We’ve got the money and legal power to keep a case like this going forever.”

“It’s not just that. I’m worried about where it could lead — if you know what I mean.”

“That girl’s just looking at the bones, and when she’s done, it ends. It isn’t going to lead where you’re worried it might lead. How could it? And if it does, trust me, we’ll take care of it. Your problem, Betty, is that you’re like your mother: you worry too much and you cherish your anger. Mix yourself a martini and let it go.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Thank you.” A chuckle. “I’ll tell you what. To ease your mind, I’ll get my people to dig into their background, find some dirt. The girl, the FBI agent…anyone else?”

“Captain Bowdree. Just in case.”

“Fine. Remember, I’m only doing this to keep our powder dry. We probably won’t have to use it.”

“Thank you, Daniel.”

“Anything for you, my dear cousin Betty.”