Award-winning author Katherine Hall Page is one of the reigning queens of the traditional mystery. Now, in this fifteenth mystery in her much-beloved Faith Fairchild series, she takes us to the blustery slopes of a Vermont ski resort, where murder makes an unwelcome appearance at the Fairchild family reunion.

When caterer Faith Fairchild learns of her father-in-law’s plan to celebrate his seventieth birthday by treating his children, their spouses, and his grandchildren to a weeklong stay at the Pine Slopes resort, her reaction is mixed. Yes, she likes to ski and yes, she loves the kin of her husband, the Reverend Thomas Fairchild, but both in smaller and shorter doses.

The Fairchilds have been coming to the ski area since Tom and his siblings were toddlers and are old friends of the owners, the Staffords. All starts well as the family settles into neighboring condos, until Faith discovers a body on one of the cross-country trails -- the apparent victim of a heart attack. Then Pine Slopes' star chef vanishes without a trace. One catastrophe follows another: a malicious prank at the sports center, a break-in at the Fairchild condo, and one of the chairlifts is sabotaged. Who is the mysterious woman living in the "gingerbread cottage" deep in the woods? And what are adolescents Ophelia Stafford and Faith's nephew Scott -- filled with angst and anger -- up to? Family secrets abound and family dynamics explode.

Then one morning skiers arrive and are horror-stricken to find the slopes covered with patches of red snow, the result of a body falling, or being pushed, into the water supply for the snow-making guns. Faith must get to the bottom of the crime spree if she wants to salvage the reunion, prevent the closing of Pine Slopes -- and save her own life.

The Body in the Snowdrift

A Faith Fairchild MysteryBy Katherine Hall Page

William Morrow & Company

Copyright ©2005 Katherine Hall Page
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780060525309

Chapter One

The curtains at the window didn't quite meet in the middle, and asliver of gray winter dawn cut across the bedclothes like a dullkitchen knife. Boyd crept out of bed, groping for his slippers as hisfeet touched the cold floor. At the door, he stopped and fondly lookedback at the motionless figure under the bedclothes, aware that he wasalone in his belief that the early hours of each day were the most precious.He closed the door to the adjoining bath noiselessly, turned on theceiling heat lamps to take the chill off, and dressed quickly. He'd laid hisclothes out the night before, even his parka. Holding his boots in onehand, he went back into the bedroom and then out into the hallway. Thebedclothes hadn't stirred, but the shaft piercing them was brighter. It wastime to go.

In the kitchen, he put on his boots, fed the cats, and stuffed someClif Bars, an apple, and a bottle of water into his fanny pack. He'd eatbreakfast on the trail. His skis and poles were in the mudroom, wherehe'd left them the previous day. Reaching for the rest of his gear fromone of the shelves, he noticed a pair of boots that had been kicked offand left sprawled next to a heap of outerwear. The untidy mess wascrowned by one of those Polartec court-jester hats in Day-Glo orange and blue. So, the guest room was occupied. He was tempted to pitch thestuff into the snow.

Instead, he grabbed his things, pulled the door open, and stepped outside.The cold air almost took his breath away. His annoyance vanishedinto the clouds of vapor from his breath. Hastily, he pulled his neckgaiter up, knowing that as soon as he got moving, he'd be peeling it off.

It was quiet. Too cold for birds. No sound except the steady schuss ofhis skis as he made his way through the woods, heading toward the resort.He moved effortlessly, rhythmically poling, side to side, a graceful Nordicdance. He passed the base lodge. The lifts didn't open until 9:00 a.m., andnot even the ski patrol was up at this hour. He glanced toward the employeeparking lot. Pete, the head of maintenance, was pulling in. It was atoss-up as to whether his truck outdated him or the other way around.He'd managed to keep the ski resort going since the1960s with, as he putit, ?mostly baling wire and duct tape, plus the odd piece of chewing gum.?Boyd was tempted to stop for a chat, but the mountain beckoned, so hecontinued on his way, climbing high up into the backcountry.

They'd had about ten inches of much-needed new snow overnight,and he soon paused for some water, stripping off his gaiter. He'd reachthe groomed Nordic trails soon. This shortcut was his secret, and eventhough it meant striking a trail through the powder, he wouldn't skip itfor the world. The sun was rising higher in the sky. Soon it would be oneof those picture-perfect Vermont snow-scene days -- the sky so blue that itlooked dyed like an Easter egg and, beneath it, Christmas trees dustedwith frosting. No holiday could compete with the everyday sights on themountain as far as Boyd was concerned. He'd been skiing here all his life,even before it was a resort. He and his father would ski up the mountain,pushing themselves to the limit; then there would be that long, mad, gloriousrun down. In some museum in Norway, he'd heard, there was a pairof skis over four thousand years old. What he and Dad had used seemedjust as ancient, Boyd realized, looking down at the new Fischers he'dtreated himself to in December. But what held true for those earlyNorsemen, and their descendants everywhere, was their addiction to the sport. Speed, endurance. It was a kick. Endorphins, adrenaline, call itwhat you will.

Boyd liked to ski fast, straight up or straight down. It didn't matter.That was the beauty of it. All you needed was snow. No chairlifts. Notechnology, unless you counted the skis, Salomon boots, carbon-fiberpoles, Swix waxes, even clothing. He laughed to himself. He was wearingCraft underwear -- the self-proclaimed "Apple computer of underwear" -- made of some kind of miracle fiber.

Global warming was shrinking winter, and these last few years, he'dhungered for skiing to the point of taking summer vacations in NewZealand and Australia, trying to sustain the feeling, sustain the pace.

Last March, he'd gone to Norway to ski in the Birkebeiner, a fiftyeight-kilometer race from Rena to Lillehammer. He'd wanted to do it foryears, attracted as much by the story behind it as the event itself. Duringa period of civil unrest in Norway in the thirteenth century, the Birkebeiners,the ?birch leggers,? were the underdogs and so poorly equippedthat they used the bark from birch trees for boots. To keep HaakonHaakonsson, the tiny heir of the dying king, safe from the rival faction,the Baglers, two Birkebeiners took him far across the mountains to safety.It was a perilous journey to make in the winter, freezing cold, but theskiers, with the boy strapped to one of their backs, made it. He grew upto become King Haakon and defeated the Baglers, bringing the countryto new heights of glory. During the annual race to commemorate theevent, each skier carryied an eight-pound pack to simulate the littleprince. Boyd had thought he would be the oldest, but he found many farolder -- and in better shape -- among the nine thousand entrants. It hadbeen one of the happiest days of his life. The route was lined with cheeringcrowds; the skiers constituted a community unlike any other he hadexperienced. In Norway, skiing was as natural as breathing -- and startedalmost at the same time. He'd go back next year.

Continues...

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