Read Online Destination Murder by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online Page B

mine had a fireplace and a small terrace. The hotel’s towers backed onto Whistler Mountain and faced the village, a diverse blend of low-rise buildings that I imagined would fall into an architectural category that could be called “Mountain Modern.” There were lots of steep roofs with deep eaves, covered boardwalks, and sheltered balconies to protect visitors from the weather. Wood, stone, and stucco were the predominant building materials and the whole was tied together by narrow streets that invited exploration. The pedestrian-only lanes curved past charming cafés and shops and emptied into squares or dead-ended at peaceful, green parks. My windows overlooked a cobblestone courtyard which led to the village and had a view of Black-comb Mountain.
    Minutes after I entered my room, a pleasant young detective arrived and took my statement. He asked what had occurred in the hour leading up to Blevin’s death. I had little more to offer than what I’d told Detective Marshall. All I’d observed was a group of people enjoying drinks in preparation for our arrival in Whistler.
    After the detective left, I freshened up and wandered into the village. Renowned as a resort for skiers, Whistler was just as crowded with early summer visitors. Where four streets converged, tourists laden with cameras and consulting maps filled the many outdoor restaurants ringing the square or spilled from the rough-hewn buildings or stand-alone houses that accommodated clothing boutiques, art galleries, sporting goods emporiums, and travel agencies, not to mention every manner of souvenir shop imaginable, hawking such must-have wares as moose antler baseball caps and bracelets made from dalmatian jasper. Hordes of young people and many not-so-young people wheeling mountain bikes and wearing hiking shoes and backpacks mingled with the other visitors. There also seemed to be a large number of dogs, but whether they lived with local residents or came along with the day-trippers, I couldn’t tell. All in all, it was an energetic, eclectic mix of people, young and old, and everyone in a seemingly good mood.
    I browsed windows and purchased a few postcards to send to friends back home. One store window advertised Havana cigars, and I was reminded that Canada did not go along with the American ban on products from Cuba.
    I gravitated to the entrance where gondolas departed to transport people up Whistler Mountain, one of two soaring peaks that attract millions of skiers, hikers, and mountain bikers each year. I’d ridden gondolas back East and always enjoyed the spectacular views they afforded. I went to the ticket window and presented the discount card.
    “Senior citizen rate,” the young woman said pleasantly, “and a three-dollar discount for the card.”
    I laughed. “Is it that evident?”
    “What?”
    “Recognizing that I’m a senior citizen.”
    She looked up, flustered. “Oh, I didn’t mean to insult you.”
    “You didn’t at all. It was just my little joke. Thank you.”
    “Enjoy the trip.”
    The fully enclosed gondolas moved through a roundhouse at the base of the mountain, stopping long enough for doors to open, allowing descending passengers to disembark and new ones to board. I stood in a short line until my turn came. I was joined by a young couple who said that friends who’d taken the ride earlier that day had seen a mother bear and her two cubs during their ascent. They seemed as excited at the contemplation of seeing the bears as they were about the ride itself. The doors closed and we began the half-hour, six-thousand-foot ascent up the rugged mountain named after the village, or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, I felt the tension of the morning lift as the gondola left the roundhouse and as the view back to the village grew smaller the higher the little car climbed.
    I sat on a bench and drew deep breaths. I was glad I’d decided to take the gondola trip. A small opening above the side window let in the