Red Snow Read Free Page A

“e”
    should be handcuffed
    and thrown headfirst in the Dee.
    In the U.S.A. and Ireland,
    it’s spelt with an “e”
    but in Scotland
    it’s real “Whisky.”
    So if you see Whisky
    and it has an “e,”
    only take it,
    if you get it for free!
    For the name is not the same
    and it never will be,
    a dram is only a real dram
    from a bottle of “Scotch Whisky.”
     
    “A pub with entertainment,” said Nick, hoisting his glass in a toast to her and downing a swig.
    “That’s Stanley Bruce, the Bard of Banff. Google him. His poem has earned me a lot of tips.”
    “I’ll bet. What’s your name?”
    “Karen,” she replied.
    “I’m Nick,” the corporal said, flashing his regimental badge.
    “You can drink on duty?”
    “Actually, I’m on my days off. But since I’m the only cop who can ski Boomer’s Run, the local Horsemen called me in to assess the murder scene. Currently, though, I’m off duty.”
    “Poor Boomer. An ugly way to go. I guess he messed with someone else’s chick one too many times.”
    “In here?”
    Karen nodded. “This was his watering hole.”
    “Any chicks in particular?”
    “That table would be a good place to start.”
    Turning from the bar, Nick followed her nod toward three striking women—a blonde, a redhead, and a knockout with raven hair—shedding their coats for what he suspected was an après-ski manhunt for Olympic champions. The Gilded Man was filling up with satisfied skiers and boarders from around the world, all of them lured here to test the waters before going for the gold in February. As North America’s blue-ribbon resort, Whistler had always been the haunt of beautiful yuppies. But now the whiff of real money— endorsement money—had gold diggers like these three polishing their velvet claws. If they could hook a future owner of the podium, these foxes would be able to enjoy the money-is-everything lifestyle that spills from the bed of all platinum jocks.
    Have you ever noticed how many multimillionaire sportsmen have Barbie dolls clinging to them?
    Nick had.
    As a cop from the wrong side of the tracks, the corporal felt inadequate in a gene pool like this. Somewhere, he had read about a speed-dating study that stripped away what people like to think they’re looking for—a like-minded soul mate—and exposed the brutal reality that men are attracted to beauty and women to wealth. Women trade their attractiveness for higher-quality men, leveraging their looks for security, fitness, and commitment. A man wants the most attractive woman who’ll accept him, so he can mate with good genes. Feminine beauty plus masculine money equals love, because evolution drives us to create more successful offspring. Not a pretty picture, but it had the ring of truth. And that’s why Nick knew these three babes were out of his league.
    “Karen!” one of the honey traps beckoned, lifting three manicured fingers above her expensive coif. “Guinness is good for you.”
    Accepting the advertising slogan as an order, the bartender popped the tops off three cans of beer, partially filled glasses with the dark, foamy brew, and arranged them on a small round tray for delivery to the table.
    “I guess I should talk to them, eh?” said Nick.
    “I thought you were off duty.”
    “Conscientious cops are never off duty, Karen.”
    “Not if the duty looks like that,” said the barkeep, rolling her eyes. She passed Nick the drinks. “Here. Go introduce yourself. But return the tip to me.”

Snow Bunnies
     
    The music in the Gilded Man—strictly retro R&B—was played softly enough that drinkers didn’t have to bellow to flirt, but loudly enough that they were induced to get it on. Nick weaved the tray through clusters of chatter to strains of “Money Honey” by the Drifters. A clumsy waiter, he served the sexy trio without spilling too much, then pulled back one of the vacant chairs at their table and sat down.
    The blonde tossed him a “get lost” glare.
    The redhead