LITMIR.BIZ

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      A frown appeared. “I wanted to see something. Someone, actually. She was about your age and height. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, of Swedish descent.”

      A slippery tendril wound its way through Sasha’s stomach. “Was. Past tense. I take it she’s dead.”

      For an answer, he curled his long fingers around the nape of her neck. “Her name was Kristiana Felgard. Her body was discovered up at Painter’s Rock early this morning. She was murdered.”

      Chapter Two

      “I think we’re dealing with a serial killer.”

      In the Mountain House bar, Nick went over the grisly details. “The case has gone cold twice since the first murder eight years ago,” he said, “but back then the media dubbed the perpetrator the Snow Globe Killer because at each murder scene he left a snow globe with an angel inside.”

      Sasha felt trapped and edgy, but refused to let either feeling show. “Dana said the police found nothing at the scene of Kristiana Felgard’s murder, so your theory already has a hole in it.”

      A big one, she hoped. Because ever since Nick had appeared tonight, her stomach had been tied in knots.

      Nick slid her a sideways look. “There was an imprint in the snow to the right of the victim’s head. That’s where the killer always placed his mementos. The impression is consistent with the bases of previous snow globes.”

      She wanted to leave. More than that, she wanted Nick and Dana to stop looking at her as if she had a big red X on her chest.

      She drew a deep, steadying breath, caught the smells of leather, whiskey and wood smoke from the bar’s enormous stone fireplace.

      The room felt like an old saloon, warmed with polished oak tables and a mirrored bar that spanned the entire back wall.

      Everything was gouged and timeworn and, given Skye Painter’s reputation, no doubt authentic, down to the glasses currently being placed in front of them by a rather baffled-looking server in high-heeled cowboy boots.

      Sasha waited until she’d left and the drinks had been rearranged. “The waitress is a blonde. Why aren’t you terrifying her with your serial killer story?”

      “Mandy’s color comes from a bottle.” Dana looked through the crowd to the entrance. “She’s a lovely woman, a grandmother of three whose husband passed away last month, which is why Skye hired her. Believe me, Mandy Cullen’s not our boy’s type.”

      “No, according to Nick, your boy prefers women with Scandinavian ancestry.”

      Nick eyes remained steady on hers. It was unnerving how he did that.

      “He does, Sasha. In every case I’ve investigated I’ve found a Swedish or Finnish connection. And you already told us you’re Swedish.”

      If she hadn’t been so freaked, she would have been tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

      She’d come to Painter’s Bluff to design a resort and now she found herself the target of a serial killer. Or so the cop and mayor sharing the booth with her believed.

      “My grandmother’s only half-Swedish, Nick. Her father came from Finland. He built ships in Sweden, but he was born in Helsinki.”

      Nick’s eyes didn’t waver. “There you go then.”

      Her hackles rose. “No, there I don’t go. You said it’s been five years since this guy’s murdered anyone.”

      “That we know of.”

      “But you would know, wouldn’t you? You’re a homicide cop.”

      “I was a homicide cop. I work cold cases now. They’re my specialty. My partner and I have been working on this particular case for the past nine months. Six weeks ago, just after Thanksgiving, a woman was attacked in Aspen.”

      “Attacked,” Sasha repeated. “Not killed?”

      “She managed to get away, but she couldn’t tell us much. It was getting dark and her attacker was wearing a wool mask when he grabbed her. She’d been skiing all day and took the lift up to one of the more difficult slopes, hoping to squeeze in another run before meeting her friends for dinner. He skied right into her, then dragged her into the trees. She was disoriented, but not as badly as he believed. When he started to tie her up, she fought him.”

      “And either pulled off his mask or scratched him. No description, so I’ll go with scratched.”

      “Not bad, Detective Myer. Long story short, we were able to get his DNA from the blood and skin under her fingernails. We had a suspect in mind. Unfortunately, his DNA didn’t match. The investigation continued through Christmas, but for all intents and purposes, the case has gone cold again.”

      Sasha felt as though she’d been thrown into a patch of quicksand, one that was sucking her in deeper and deeper. She spread the fingers of both hands on the table. “Okay, say Dana was right to call and tell you about Kristiana Felgard’s death. Here you are in Painter’s Bluff, a police officer from Denver who specializes in cold cases. Why on earth would the killer still be in town? I wouldn’t hang around, would you?”

      “No, but then I’m not a killer.”

      “Nick, he’d have to be crazy—No, scratch that, obviously he is crazy. He’d have to be stupid to remain at the scene of a murder that he must surely know is bound to attract even more police attention than usual.”

      “Havoc,” Nick replied simply. “Some serial killers thrive on it. They get a rush from the act, then relive it through the media attention.”

      “You said the murderer strangled Kristiana and left her naked inside a snow angel?” God, but that was a grisly image. “And he’s murdered seven other women the same way over the past eight years?”

      Nick nodded, rolling the base of his beer glass on the table. “Two of the victims were discovered in Boise, one in a town outside Minneapolis, another in Otter Lake, Utah.”

      “That’s only four.”

      “It’s the first of two clusters. He murdered those four women eight years ago, then appeared to stop. Three years later, three more women died. The first was visiting her sister in Lake Tahoe, the second was skiing in Wyoming, the third was killed on the rim of Yellowstone Park. The woman in Aspen six weeks ago was extremely fortunate to escape.”

      There were times, Sasha reflected, when an imagination could be a curse. She envisioned eight clones, lying naked in snow angels, with the wind blowing their hair over their faces and their eyes wide open and staring. She could even picture the angel snow globes, like the one her uncle Paul displayed on his console table every Christmas.

      Across the bar table, Dana drummed his fingers on the scarred wood. “I told Will Pyle to meet us here at seven o’clock. It’s eight now. Where is he?”

      Sasha didn’t know or care. If there was one person she had no desire to meet it was the sheriff. She was having a difficult enough time dealing with the men beside her.

      “Maybe the Sickerbies ran him off the road,” she suggested.

      “Or hit the liquor store again,” Nick murmured.

      Dana rubbed his temples. “Thanks for that, Nick. The Sickerbies into theft. God help us if that’s true.”

      Sensing an opportunity to change the subject, Sasha asked, “Were you a local boy once, Nick?”

      “In a way. I grew up in Outlaw Falls, about a hundred miles from here. Dana and I went to grade school together. His family moved away before we started high school, but we managed to stay in touch.”

      Dana continued to massage his temples. “We made a point of going fishing every summer at Sun Lake—that’s near Outlaw Falls—but the fish got scarce and the licensing laws changed. Now we hike up Hollowback and do the camping thing.

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