Free Killer Weekend by Ridley Pearson Page A

floor, and three guest suites upstairs—living room, bedroom, bath—one of which he currently occupied. He bounded up to the top of the stairs and turned quickly toward his room. This hallway connected to the central barn’s U-shaped balcony that overlooked the living room where the cocktail party now raged. In taking the corner at the top of the stairs too quickly, he nearly knocked over a guest.
    The man, who wore wraparound sunglasses, dropped a cane—a thin, white cane.
    He was blind.
    Danny made immediate apologies.

Twenty-one
    T revalian had found the perfect view. From the balcony he’d watched Shaler’s grand entrance. Hearing someone bounding up the stairs, he’d turned and forced a collision, to win sympathy over suspicion.
    Now, on his knees, he patted the floor searching for his cane, even though he could see it to his right.
    “Sorry.” The man who’d knocked into him was profoundly good-looking, and polite in his supplication.
    “No problem,” he said, moving tentatively toward the stairs and grasping for the handrail.
    “You’re a long way from the party,” the man observed.
    “Bird’s-eye view.” Trevalian openly smirked at his own joke. “I was taking the dime tour.” He was now halfway down the stairs, and with the man behind him he couldn’t risk observing Shaler as he’d intended. But given that he’d counted at least four security escorts around her, it was better not to test their abilities to spot people like him.
    “If you give me a minute, I could show you back downstairs. I’ve got a fifty-cent tour that might beat your dime.”
    “I can find my way, thank you.” He added to his voice the curt edge of a man who was used to and resented being patronized because of his disability. He followed the banister around the turn of the landing and continued down the stairs.
    A gorgeous redhead arrived at the base of the stairs. “Hello,” she said.
    “Hello,” Trevalian answered, looking in her general direction and raising his head like a dog sniffing the wind. The air smelled of ambrosia, and something earthy and pungent.
    “You didn’t happen to see…that is, I’m sorry…Did anyone pass by you just now?” she asked.
    Trevalian knew intuitively to stay out of this. The man who’d run into him had clearly been in a hurry: but to make a love nest or to avoid one?
    And then, from above, “Up here, Ailia.”
    Her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled. “Excuse me,” she said, hurrying past him, leaving Trevalian awash in her complex scents, and, to his surprise, aroused.

Twenty-two
    Y ou look a little lost,” a friendly voice said from behind Walt.
    He turned to find Clarence Stillwill, a fixture in the Wood River Valley for the past forty years. He’d been a river guide, a saloon owner, a magazine and book publisher, and was currently an organic farmer on twenty acres outside of Fairfield. And for good measure he and his wife filled in as bartenders for friends who ran the most popular catering company in town.
    Clarence was a big man, but well proportioned so it didn’t show until you stood right next to him, part cowboy, part college professor. He manned a wine bar between two potted trees.
    Walt took a beer.
    “Money like this…”
    “Yeah,” Walt said.
    “This house…he’s here, what, three weeks a year?”
    “If that.”
    “Talk about a crime.”
    “I know.”
    “Why the civvies?” Clarence asked.
    “I’m undercover.”
    “Yeah, you fit right in here.”
    “I’ve got to do the impossible: convince a woman not to talk.”
    “It really is a thankless job.”
    “Jerry’s involved.”
    “How is it between you two?”
    “About the same,” Walt said.
    “Bobby’s death?”
    “The great divide.”
    “It was a real loss. How’s the kid?”
    “Messed up.”
    “Yeah,” Clarence said. “Kinda figured.”
    “We all are. Gail and I…A lot of that was losing Bobby.”
    “I figured you two forever.”
    “You and me, both.”
    “Can’t live