nods, smiles, and various noises of approval.
When she was done, she gave as natural a laugh as she could muster, and said she’d been talking way too much and would love to hear his thoughts.
At this Chief Morris took another sip of coffee, cleared his throat, praised her for her hard work and enterprise, told her how much he appreciated her coming in, and — again — how interesting her project sounded. Yes, indeed. He would have to think about it, of course, and consult with the local coroner’s office, and with the historical society, and a few others, to get their views, and then the town attorney should probably be brought into the loop…And he finished off his coffee and put his hands on the arm of his chair, looking as if he was getting ready to stand up and end the meeting.
“Why, yes.” He settled back in his chair.
“It took me ages to scrape together the money for this project. I had to work two jobs in addition to my scholarship. Roaring Fork is one of the most expensive places in the country, and just being here is costing me a fortune. I’ll go broke waiting for permission.”
She paused, took a breath.
“Honestly, Chief Morris, if you consult with all those people, it’s going to take a long time. Maybe weeks. Everyone’s going to have a different opinion. And then, no matter what decision you make, someone will feel as if they were overridden. It could become controversial.”
“Controversial,” the chief echoed, alarm and distaste in his voice.
“May I make an alternative suggestion?”
The chief looked a bit surprised but not altogether put out by this. “Certainly.”
“As I understand it, you have the full authority to give me permission. So…” She paused and then decided to just lay it out, completely unvarnished. “I’d be incredibly grateful if you’d please just give me permission right now, so I can do my research as quickly as possible. I only need a couple of days with the remains, plus the option to take away a few bones for further analysis. That’s all. The quicker this happens, the better for everyone. The bones are just sitting there. I could get my work done with barely anyone noticing. Don’t give people time to make objections. Please, Chief Morris — it’s
This ended on more of a desperate note than she intended, but she could see that, once again, she had made an impression.
“Well, well,” the chief said, with more throat clearings and hemmings and hawings. “I see your point. Hmmm. We don’t want controversy.”
He leaned over the edge of his chair, craned his neck toward the door. “Shirley? More coffee!”
The secretary came back in with two more paper cups. The chief proceeded once again to heap an astonishing amount of sugar into the cup, fussing with the spoon, the cream, stirring the cup endlessly while his brow remained furrowed. He finally laid down the plastic spoon and took a good long sip.
“I’m very much leaning toward your proposal,” he said. “Very much. I’ll tell you what. It’s only noon. If you like I’ll take you over now, show you the coffins. Of course you can’t actually handle the remains, but you’ll get an idea of what’s there. And I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow morning. How’s that?”
“That would be great! Thank you!”
Chief Morris beamed. “And just between you and me, I think you can depend on that answer being positive.”
And as they stood up, Corrie had to actually restrain herself from hugging the man.
5
Corrie slid into the passenger seat of the squad car, next to the chief, who apparently eschewed a driver and drove himself about. Instead of the usual Crown Vic, the vehicle was a Jeep Cherokee, done up in the traditional cop-car two-tone, with the city symbol of Roaring Fork — an aspen leaf — painted on the side, surrounded by a six-pointed sheriff’s star.
Corrie realized she had lucked out, big-time. The chief appeared to be a decent, well-meaning man, and although he seemed to lack spine he was both reasonable and intelligent.
“Have you been to Roaring Fork before?” Morris asked as he turned the key, the vehicle roaring to life.
“Never. Don’t even ski.”
“Good gracious. You need to learn. We’re in the high season here — Christmas approaching and all — so you’re seeing it at its finest.”
The Jeep eased down East Main Street and the chief began pointing out some of the historic sights — City Hall, the historic Hotel Sebastian, various famous Victorian mansions. Everything was done up in festive lights and garlands of fir, the snow lying on the roofs, frosting the windows, and hanging on the boughs of the trees. It was like something out of a Currier & Ives print. They passed through a shopping district, the streets thicker with upscale boutiques than even the gold mile of Fifth Avenue. It was amazing, the sidewalks thronging with shoppers decked out in furs and diamonds or sleek ski outfits, packing shopping bags. The traffic moved at a glacial pace, and they found themselves creeping down the street sandwiched among stretch Hummers, Mercedes Gelandewagens, Range Rovers, Porsche Cayennes — and snowmobiles.
“Sorry about the traffic,” the chief said.
“Are you kidding? This is amazing,” Corrie said, almost hanging out the window as she watched the parade of stores slide by: Ralph Lauren, Tiffany, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Rolex, Fendi, Bulgari, Burberry, Brioni, the windows stuffed with expensive merchandise. They never seemed to end.
“The amount of money in this town is off the charts,” said the chief. “And frankly, from a law enforcement point of view, that can be a problem. A lot of these people think the rules don’t apply to them. But in the Roaring Fork Police Department, we treat everyone — and I mean
“Good policy.”
“It’s the only policy in a town like this,” he said, not without a touch of pomposity, “where just about everyone is a celebrity, a billionaire, or both.”
“Must be a magnet for thieves,” Corrie said, still staring at the expensive stores.
“Oh, no. The crime rate here is almost nil. We’re so isolated, you see. There’s only one road in — Route 82, which can be an obstacle course in the winter and is frequently closed due to snow — and our airport is only used by private jets. Then there’s the cost of actually staying here — well beyond the means of any petty thief. We’re too expensive for thieves!” He laughed merrily.
They were now passing a few blocks of what looked like a re-creation of a western boomtown: bars with swinging doors, assay offices, general goods stores, even a few apparent bordellos with gaudily painted windows. Everything was spotlessly neat and clean, from the gleaming cuspidors on the raised wooden sidewalks to the tall false fronts of the buildings.
“What’s all that?” Corrie asked, pointing at a family getting their picture taken in front of the Ideal Saloon.
“That’s Old Town,” the chief replied. “What remains of the earliest part of Roaring Fork. For years, those buildings just sat around, decaying. Then, when the resort business picked up, there was a move to clear it all away. But somebody had the idea to restore the old ghost town, make it into a kind of museum for Roaring Fork’s past.”
As she stared at the well-maintained structures, a brace of snowmobiles roared past, throwing up billows of powder in their wakes.
“What’s with all the snowmobiles?” she asked.
“Roaring Fork has an avid snowmobile culture,” the chief told her. “The town’s famous not only for its ski runs, but also for its snowmobile trails. There are miles and miles of them — mostly utilizing the maze of old mining roads that still exist in the mountains above the town.”
