Read The Jeweler for Free Online Page B

sunshine, she squinted hard to find her footing down the slope from the parking lot. The reader board mounted above the lodge made clicking noises like the shuffling of cards.
    “Ginger! Ginger!”
    She’d made her way down to the flats and turned to see two women behind her. She’d forgotten it was Wednesday. This was the day a group of older skiers descended upon the mountain. The Silver Skiers group had only one membership requirement: sixty years of age, minimum. And Rose and Miriam were two of them. The loudest two.
    “Hi, ladies. How are you?”
    Rose always spoke first. She had faintly blue hair that today peeked out from under a cap with a huge pom-pom on the top. She was at least seventy, as she’d been skiing with the Silver Skiers for more than ten years. “We’re ready to cut up some powder, my dear. And we’ve rented you for the day. Just us gals. Are you ready?” Miriam wore a purple jumpsuit, which accentuated all the strange bumps and lumps a woman past sixty begins to acquire.
    Ginger smiled. These two were supposed to ski with the rest of the older women, but they always bought an all-day lesson and “ditched the slow girls,” to quote Miriam.
    Miriam spoke to Rose. “I love the way you say ‘rented.’ You make it sound trashy.” The ladies giggled, and Rose gave Ginger a big wink.
    “I need to check in with my supervisor and get my gear on. After that, I’m all yours. Meet me at the bottom of Chair Two?” Ginger turned toward the ski school room to boot up.
    “We’ll get in some warm-up runs on Lulu. Wouldn’t want to get cold before we get to the backside!”

    At the Corral last night, Fender had told Sam his story, and Sam came up with a fabulous plan: Fender was going skiing. If this mystery girlfriend had a Blackwolf parka, Sam surmised, she was an employee. It couldn’t be too hard to track her down.
    He’d also advised that Fender rid himself of the ring and the whole mess and move on. Sam, never big on guilt or conscience, suggested handing her the ring with a one-sentence accompaniment like, “Your boyfriend wanted you to have this,” and scooting off, never to be seen again. End of discussion.
    With more than a few tequilas under his belt, Fender had decided this was a good idea. But now, the next morning, driving up an icy, narrow road, he wasn’t so sure. He’d left a note on the shop door: Gone Skiing , instead of Gone Fishing , so at least they’d know where to look for his body when he didn’t turn up the next day.
    In high school, he’d been up to the resort once, on a field trip. He’d taken one lesson. He knew how to stop, using the “pizza wedge.” The wedge, or snow plow, involved turning the two planks on his feet in toward each other in a V-shape that looked like, as the bouncy instructor told him that high school day, “a piece of pizza, ’kay?” That was all he’d learned from perky ski girl.
    On that trip, it had served him just fine. His friends dragged him up the rope tow and across some terrain to a stand of trees. They’d spent the rest of the day smoking pot while hidden from view. Then he’d wedged down the slope and stumbled out of his skis and onto a bus for the ride home. That’s about all he remembered.
    As he parked the car, he realized the first thing he’d forgotten: it is cold in a place that has snow. His attire probably wasn’t going to cut it. There was a light breeze, and it sneaked through the sweater he’d put on, chilling his skin.
    But all he had to do was spot this girl and dispose of the ring. The ring. Damn it . He’d left it on his dresser in its place of infamy. Well, what the hell was the point of his trip up here, then? He started back to the car. Of course, he could do reconnaissance. He’d screwed this all up already. Maybe some careful spying could improve his position and finish the mess more quickly. So, like any good intelligence man, he turned and pressed on.
    The first building he came to, he entered.