Free The Silent Girls by Eric Rickstad

pugged Frenchman’s nose, and the pinched eyes set too closely, the teeth that begged for braces they would never get, and you could see he was a local yokel from Morrisville or some other piss-poor town that bordered Stowe. And as soon as he shed his Double Black Diamond disguise, he’d be out tooling around on his ATV to sate that inflated insatiable macho urge found in rednecks everywhere to burn up gasoline. Grout despised ATVs and snow machines and the lazy asses who rode them for shits and grins. Same for the yahoos who churned the quiet of Lake Canaan into froth with their Jet Skis. Wherever they towed their Big Boy Toys, they left behind shattered beer bottles, spent condoms, and McDonald’s trash. A real nice sight for his two kids and wife when they were trying to enjoy a day outside.
    The bellhop probably despised the folks who passed through these doors and gave him his livelihood, resentful of their money. Grout had no use for them either, but not because of their money. He’d have liked to have himself a piece of this pie. He’d even played with the idea of applying for a head security position at the resort. He’d heard they made good money. They worked more normal hours, too, and were less likely to get their ass shot while investigating a domestic. Jen had all but begged him to apply for an opening she’d seen in the paper. He’d driven up to get an application but had decided against it at the last minute and sat in the car for an hour listening to ESPN radio. After all, what kind of life was it for a man, a detective, being a rent-a-cop for the rich? Still, he had to admit, it was good money.
    It was the privileged class’s ignorance, not their money that rankled Grout. They skied here and shot their wad when they saw a black bear scrounging from the Dumpster at their slope-side condo, oblivious to the fact that the ski area’s development was destroying bear habitat, putting the population on the edge of collapse, and forcing the bears to seek food at the Dumpster to begin with. They whined about how the old swimming hole they’d loved when they’d “summered” here as kids was now muck, blind to the ski area sucking water from the river for snowmaking. Not that Grout gave a shit about the environment. He was no tree hugger. He was one of a few locals who had approved of the Ravens Way estates on Canaan Ridge. It was stupidity Grout hated.
    He elbowed past the moneyed guests on his way to the customer-service desk.
    A young woman with a pixie haircut and the requisite black slacks and blouse of the Double Black Diamond looked up from a laptop. FAWN , her nametag announced. Was that her real name? If so, where could her next stop be except a Montreal strip joint?
    “Can I help you?” Fawn said, arcing an eyebrow plucked in an already unnatural perpetual arc.
    “I’m here to speak with Cynthia Mann,” Grout said, and flashed his badge. Fawn gaped at the badge.
    “Cool,” she said, beaming. “I’ll grab her.” She turned toward a shut door behind her, then turned back to Grout, and whispered, “What did she do?”
    “I can’t say,” Grout whispered.
    “You never know.”
    “You never do.” Fawn opened the door and slipped inside the back room.
    Grout looked at his wristwatch. He could devote a half hour to Cynthia before he headed back north. It was his “official” day off, and he needed to get back for Liam’s basketball game and family-dinner night at the Pizza Palace, a place that fell pathetically short of its name. Still, Sunday was the only day he didn’t arrive late from work or have to head out for work; and aware as Jen was about his career demands, she was as impatient with its cutting into his supposed day off. Family Day. He saw her point. But what else could he do? Sniffing out scum was his innate talent. His job. What he wanted was to be Senior Detective, then interim chief when Barrons shoved off to live his Caribbean dream. Grout expected he’d advance when