Free Destination Murder by Jessica Fletcher

pristine air and transported me away from that day’s events—the train, the people holding sharp views of Alvin Blevin, and especially his untimely and grotesque death. I shook my head, deliberately pushing from my mind the image of his convulsing body arched on the floor of the club car, every muscle in spasm, eyes bulging, mouth twisted into a macabre grin. Instead, the picture was replaced by the captivating scenery below and above me. Mountain bikers flew down crenellated trails that their wheels had carved into the mountainside, and hikers slowly climbed over rocks and through brush and clumps of evergreens. The village fell away faster and faster, and I joined my companions in straining to spot the bears from our Plexiglas cocoon.
    At the same time, I realized how vulnerable I was, dangling from a cable high above the rugged, rocky terrain of Whistler Mountain. I wasn’t concerned; such thoughts occur to everyone, I’m sure, especially when the ride gets rough as the cars bump over the connections atop the towers supporting the cable. Gondolas on their way down passed me; small children, their faces pressed against the clear walls, laughed and waved, and I returned their greetings.
    “There’s the bear,” the young woman said.
    “Where?”
    I followed the direction of her eyes to a clearing in which a mother bear and two cubs could be seen foraging for food. The couple was giddy at seeing the bears, and I got caught up in their youthful enthusiasm. Yet I was equally concerned that the mountain bikers would intrude upon the bears’ territory. What would the mother bear do to protect her cubs?
    Our gondola finally arrived at the roundabout atop the mountain and we happily parted, agreeing that the bear sighting had been a special moment. I stepped outside the tall glass doors, went down some stairs to a gravel path, and then walked up a rise to where a large patch of snow covered the ground, even on this sunny day in July. It was cold, and the light sweater I wore wasn’t sufficient to keep me warm. Even so, I basked in the clean, chilly air and drew it in, enjoying the tingling feeling it sent through my body. I wrapped my arms about myself and began a slow, deliberate, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn in order to take in the spectacular mountain views. Everywhere my eye fell were mountaintops still dusted with snow, some rocky and barren, others with ski trails carving delicate lines through the trees. Off to my left, partway down the mountain, a cobalt blue pond reflected the clear sky.
    Halfway through my slow pirouette, I saw the dark-stained wooden lodge which housed the gondola station. Rock music blared from outside speakers, and young people streamed in and out of the tourist shop and nature exhibit next door. The loud commercialism made me sharply aware of the contrast between the beauty of nature and humankind’s dubious additions to it.
    Through the glass walls of the station, I could see the moving cars circle inside, discharging and taking on passengers. An open deck greeted those arriving. I realized that in winter, skiers would have to descend the broad wooden steps before they could don their skis. I was about to continue my personal, circular tour of my surroundings when the sight of someone walking out onto the deck stopped me. It was Benjamin Vail. He came directly to where I stood.
    “This is a surprise,” I said pleasantly. “I thought you and your mother were going back to Vancouver.” When he’d been in line behind me at the hotel, I’d assumed that was still the plan, delayed perhaps by some logistical problem. But his appearance on the top of Whistler Mountain, at precisely the time when I was there, couldn’t have been a chance occurrence.
    “She went,” he said. “I’m staying.”
    “I see,” I said, not really seeing at all why he wasn’t accompanying his grieving mother. “So, here we are. I have the feeling it’s not a coincidence that we’ve both ended up