Free Last Resort of Murder (A Lacy Steele Mystery Book 9) by Vanessa Gray Bartal

up,
determined to master the towrope. But her next three attempts ended in
disaster. Every time she touched the rope, her hands went faster than her feet.
The problem was that she couldn’t seem to brace her feet well enough to prepare
them to move. After regrouping and giving the problem some serious
consideration, she realized what needed to be done: she needed to straddle the
rope. It was the perfect solution, so perfect that she couldn’t believe no one
else was doing it.
    When it was her turn again, she
hoisted one leg over the rope, took a breath, and grabbed on. At first
everything went according to plan. She congratulated herself on making it
halfway up the hill when disaster struck. Later, as she replayed things in her
mind, she still couldn’t pinpoint how things went so wrong, but all of a sudden
one leg was wound in the rope. For one horrible second her leg was tangled. The
rope paused; the man behind her bumped her back. And then the rope unwound with
a curious amount of energy.
    Lacy was flung high in the air. She
landed on her back upside down with her head facing the bottom of the hill.
Worse, her skis were anchored deep in the snow. Now she was blocking traffic
and she couldn’t roll away. The rope stopped. The worker at the top yelled and
motioned for her to get out of the way, but he made no move to help her. She
reached for her skis, trying to dislodge them, but gravity—and her
complete lack of abdominal muscles—worked against her. She couldn’t sit
up, couldn’t reach her feet. She was as helpless as an overturned turtle. Not that
it stopped her from trying. She grunted as she struggled, desperate to reach
her feet and pull them from the snow.
    Why hadn’t she done more Pilates in
preparation for this moment?
    Behind her, the line was growing
longer. People were beginning to complain. But no one moved to help her.
    “C’mon, lady, move. Move, we’re
waiting.”
    She was fourteen again with spinach
stuck in her braces.
    Panic began to edge in. She was
thoroughly stuck. How was she supposed to get out of the snow when she couldn’t
remove her skis? She glanced hopefully at the teenage towrope operator.
    He stood and yelled. “Lady, move
out of the way.” As if to illustrate what he wanted of her, he waved his arm.
    “I can’t,” Lacy said weakly. The
blood was rushing to her head, whether from humiliation or because she was
upside down, she didn’t know.
    Finally an angel of mercy arrived
to help her. A woman skied beside her and began trying to lift her out of the
snow.
    “Thank you so much,” Lacy said. She
was so glad for the help that there were tears in her eyes.
    The woman replied in Japanese. She
pulled on Lacy’s arms, but only gained a few inches of leverage before dropping
Lacy resignedly onto her back again. Muttering to herself in Japanese, she slid
behind Lacy and started to push her up. That didn’t work, either, and Lacy
plopped onto her back with a thump.
    Behind her, people were getting
angrier. Now her would-be savior was feeling the pressure. She raised her hand
to the top of the hill, made a motion, and yelled something in Japanese.
    A minute later a man arrived,
presumably the woman’s husband. He had their two children with him, small
children who’d had no trouble ascending the hill with the towrope. The couple
spoke while the man studied Lacy appraisingly. He had a plan; Lacy could see
it.
    After mounting a strategy, he began
issuing orders to his family. At first they stood helpfully aside while he
confidently reached for Lacy’s arms and gave them a tug. She didn’t budge.
Frustrated, he stood back to reappraise the situation and then gave directions
to his wife and children.
    They only spoke Japanese, but
apparently he was going to pull on Lacy’s arms while the wife and kids got
behind her and pushed.
    He pulled.
    They pushed.
    There was much grunting from
everyone involved, but still Lacy didn’t budge. The man of the family took her
resistance as a