Westerby poured another cup of coffee and laced it with too much sugar. Between that and the caffeine he was sure to stay awake long after Jackson and the girl's body had been driven down the mountain.

He faxed the pictures he took at the scene to the police: There may be lousy cell phone service up here but there were other ways to contact the outside world.

In addition to the pictures he sent a grocery list to the dispatcher to forward to his friend Sergeant McKenzie at the police station. She would be the one coming up the mountain so may as well take advantage of the trip. It was almost Christmas and for some reason he felt like baking up a batch of his Mom's anise cookies.

He looked up at the lights in the rooms occupied by the families. They'd been blinking on and off for several hours but at the moment they were out. Good. They all needed to get some sleep and having them in their rooms made it easier to keep track of them.

He sipped his coffee. Families. While he was thinking of baking his family's cookies the people in the lodge were watching over an injured son and another family would soon learn of a daughter's death.

"Yes," he though, "a wonderful time of year."

An overly large snowflake drifted by the window. He wasn't pleased to see it. Snow was expected but large flakes like that meant it was wet. Powder was needed now.

Another flake and another and more followed. The help that was coming would hit the snow just as they hit the switchback sections of the road. That seven hours of traveling time could turn quickly into several more or the trip could stop completely for an indefinite time.

He sighed, so much for making Mom's cookies.

The snow fell faster and heavier now which meant he'd better get his gear on and take a turn around the place. If he were here by himself he'd go back to bed and wait until daybreak but as long he was up and had the families to care for he may as well do it now so he could be ready for the barrage of questions they'd have later.

The cup stopped halfway to his lips as he stared outside. He was sure he'd seen someone run around the corner of the building but he couldn't tell who. He thought back to his assurances to Jackson's father that there wasn't anyone in the area and wondered. Could there really someone else here or was that one of the family members outside, and if so, who and why?

He went to the hall closet to get his gear and grabbed a hatchet by the door. After all, may has well get some wood for the stove while he while he was out there. And hatchets did have other uses.

****

A quick prowl around the premises revealed that everything was snug and prepared for the storm. He already knew that but he wasn't one to leaves things to chance or oversight. He took his time poking here and there, testing windows and checking doors. If there was someone that he didn't know around the place, and if they were watching him, he wanted them to think he was following an old routine. That way he might be able to surprise them. He even stopped to chop a few pieces of wood.

At last he found some fresh footsteps made by boots, but small ones; or rather, smaller than most men's. There were three women in the lodge. Muriel was tall and her feet reflected that. It would be easy to think of boot marks made by her to be mistaken for ones made by a man. He wasn't sure about Laurel's feet, probably average and the same for Molly.

The more he thought about it and the more he followed the steps he realized it couldn't be Muriel. Skulking around the corners of buildings just wasn't her style. She was more for banging doors open and making an entrance like she'd done earlier.

Which brought him to Jackson's mother, Laurel. A diminutive woman, but he suspected strong; the small ones usually were; judging from his past wives. It's possible she might sneak around, just because she gave the impression she didn't wish to bother anyone but help them instead didn't mean she wouldn't stoop to sneaking. Or maybe she was going to the parking lot to get something out of their car and she happened to do it at 4:30 in the morning. Yeah, sure.

Then there was Molly. Smallish, like her Mom, although a little taller. He got mixed messages from her on how she felt about Mara. Westerby hadn't been witness to the argument all the women were said to have had, but his impression was that Molly had stayed out of it, not taking sides with anyone. She didn't strike him as the type that didn't have opinions, though.

He slowed his walk now. The only place left to check was where the footsteps lead: the back door to the lodge café kitchen. Which meant someone was with the body.