to mind as a gigantic ice castle from the fairy tales her mother had read to her as a child.
It wasn't beautiful, really, more like bizarre-and mind-numbingly large, which was especially startling out here in the middle of nowhere. A hodgepodge of five interconnected structures, Mumford Mountain Hotel might have been a junkyard for old buildings: in front, near the lake, sat a squat dark-wood ski chalet; to the right and behind the chalet, a huge gray castle complete with turrets and chimneys rose seven stories. That gothic monstrosity was flanked by two functional-looking green four-story buildings that might have been the boys' and girls' dormitories at an old private school.
The one on the right had a deeply sloped, gabled roof, while its fraternal twin at the other end had a flatter roof with a single sharp point rising like the conical hat of a Brothers Grimm princess. If those buildings didn't supply enough rooms for Mumford's guests, a last building-what looked like a two-story gingerbread house-had been cobbled together on the far right end. The whole unlikely assembly seemed to shimmer under a heavy ice-crystal- flung dusting of snow.
'The Mumford Mountain Hotel,' Cormier said, pride obvious in his voice.
'Can't say I've seen its like before,' Maher admitted, arms folded against himself. 'What's the story on the various building styles?'
'Well, that castle part came first-then wings were added, to suit whoever was running the place at the time. The hotel just sort of grew over the years. It's hard for people to get an idea of how big she is, when they're up close. I like to give folks the chance to see it from a distance, get a little perspective.'
Sara said, 'You could get lost in that place.'
Cormier nodded, breath smoking. 'Over two hundred fifty guest rooms, grand ballroom, complete gym, meeting rooms, tennis courts, golf course.'
'The lake get any action in the winter?' Maher asked.
Again Cormier nodded. 'They'll clear the snow off and play hockey on it when the weather gets a mite colder.'
Soon they were back in the car and following the narrow road that wound down the mountain and ended at the check-in entrance of the hotel, which was alongside the building-otherwise the guests would have had to maneuver the flight of stairs to the actual main entrance and the vast covered porch where countless rocking chairs sat unattended. A light snow began to fall as Cormier directed several bellboys to unload the station wagon, piling the guest luggage onto carts, a process Grissom watched with suspicion-his precious tools and toys were in those bags.
They checked in, having just missed lunch, but Grissom shared with her a fruit basket the conference chairman had sent, and Sara left him at his room, where he was eating a pear as he unpacked. She headed down the wide, carpeted hall for her own accommodations, eating an apple along the way. She felt like Alice gone through the mirror into a Victorian wonderland-dark, polished woodwork; soft-focus, yellow-tinted lighting; plush antique furniture; wide wooden stairways; and little sitting areas with fresh-cut flowers and frondy plants and their own fireplaces.
Now, midafternoon, having gotten the nap she so desperately needed (sleeping in the car had actually made her feel worse), Sara felt an irresistible urge to go exploring-there were only a few hours left before sundown. She wondered if Grissom would feel the same.
Of course he wouldn't.
He was probably curled up with that damned bug book again. Not that she didn't understand his almost hermit-like behavior-she was a loner herself. But ever since the Marks case, Sara had tried to force herself out into the world more, to have a life beyond the crime lab, after noting the work-is-everything, stay-at-home, shop-out- of-catalogues existence that had contributed to the death of a woman way too much like herself.
She had come to Mumford with a plan to embroil Grissom in an outing and Sara Sidle was nothing if not thorough. Quickly she changed from her traveling clothes into black jeans, a heavier thermal undershirt and a dark flannel blouse. She slipped into her parka, snatched up her camera, briefly considered taking along her collapsed portable tripod, then decided not to be encumbered. Maybe later. She locked the door behind her and went to Grissom's room.
Her first knock inspired no answer, and she tried again. Still nothing. On the third, more insistent knock, the door opened to reveal Grissom, entomology text held in his hand like a priest with a Bible-it was as if she'd interrupted an exorcism.
'Hey,' she said, chipper.
'Hey,' he said, opening the door wide. 'You look rested.'
Wow-that was one of the nicest things he'd ever said to her.
Encouraged, she tried, 'You wanna go for a walk?'
He glanced toward the window on the far side of the room, then turned back to her. 'Sara-it's snowing.'
She nodded. 'And?'
He considered that for a while.
'I don't do snow,' he said. He was still in the black slacks and black three-button shirt. Gesturing with the bug book, he said, 'It's cozy, reading by the fire. You should try it.'
That almost sounded romantic….
He frowned at her and added: 'Don't you have a fireplace in your room?'
'…I finished my books already.'
'The first thing the pioneers did was build shelter and go inside. Out of respect to them, I-'
'Did you know there are 274 winter insects in eastern New York state alone?'
He stilled, but clearly sensed a trap. 'You made that up.'
Grinning, she handed him the printout. 'Snow-born Boreus, Midwinter Boreus, Large and Small Snowflies and the Snow-born Midge…just to name a few.'
After a quick scan of the page, he said, 'If you've got your heart set on it, I guess I'll get my coat.'
To Grissom's credit, the coat he withdrew like a rabbit out of a hat from his canvas carry-on-a black, leather-sleeved varsity-type jacket, sans letter or any other embellishment-was heavier than the windbreaker, though still not really sufficient for this weather. He slipped some specimen bottles into the pockets, zipped up the coat, yanked on black fur-lined leather gloves and they were off.
The first hour or so they spent hiking through the snow-covered woods, Grissom stopping every now and then to look for insects on the ground and on trees. Sara-who found Grissom's behavior endearingly Boy Scout-ish- snapped off about a dozen nature shots, barely putting a dent in her Toshiba's 64-mg memory card; but after a while the snowfall made that impossible. It was getting heavier, and Sara knew they should head back.
But she was having too good a time. The wintry woods were delightful, idyllic. A charmingly gleeful Grissom actually found several specimens that he had carefully bottled for transport back to the hotel. He was close to her, their cold-steam breath mingling, showing her one of his prizes, when they heard it.
A pop!
They swung as one toward the forest.
Frowning, Sara asked, 'Hunters?'
Grissom shook his head, but before he could speak, four more pops interrupted.
Shots-no doubt now in her mind, and clearly none in Grissom's, either.
Even though the shots were in the distance, they both found trees to duck behind.
'If it's hunters,' he said, looking over at her, 'they're using handguns.'
'Where?'
'Can't tell…. Over there, maybe,' he said, pointing to their left. Without another word, he took off walking in that direction, and Sara fell in behind him.
'Should we really be moving toward the gunfire?' she asked.
He threw her a sharp sideways glance. 'It's our job, Sara.'
'I know that, but we're not in our jurisdiction and we're not armed. What are you going to do if we meet the shooter?'
They were moving through the trees, twigs and leaves snapping underfoot; and the snow was coming down now, really coming down.
'What if it's a hunter?' she asked. 'We aren't in bright clothing-Grissom! Stop and think.'
He stopped. He thought.
