Chapter 1

Blood-curdling screams came from the crowd lining the cocoa hut where I was helping serve hot beverages. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard them. Standing on my tippy toes, all I could see was a horse racing down Main Street without a rider. I climbed on the stool and realized what the commotion was. A man was being dragged down the street by his wrists. He was face down in the snow, and bits of his ski equipment left a trail in the startled horses’ wake. Two horse rangers raced down the road behind, who was more than likely a deceased man and his runaway horse. A cloud of snow kicked up under their hooves added to the already dramatic scene.

Time seemed to stand still as the crowd, frozen in horror, watched the events unfold. From my perched position, I could see that one of the rangers was closing in; he was almost parallel to the frightened horse and was reaching for the reins. The second ranger was closing the gap on the other side of the poor creature. Moments later, the rangers had the horse stopped, but not before it reared, backed up, and trampled the victim.

Oof, I sucked in some air. If he wasn’t dead, he was going to be in a lot of pain.

Hi, I am Taryn O’Kelly. I plan events, and today I am working the hot cocoa tent at the Ironcrest Annual Skijoring competition. Ironcrest is a very small historic mining town north of Silver Springs, where I live. The Skijoring committee asked if I could plan this year’s ceremony. It was an honor to do so, but the high-profile wedding, at which I nearly lost my life, probably helped me get the contract. Oh yeah, I just recently recovered from a near death experience. A murderer kidnapped me and tried to sell me to a Colombian drug lord. Said murderer is facing life in prison. I am happy to see another day and to plan another party, or should I say a Skijoring ceremony?

“What are you doing on that stool?” shouted Kandice, “Get down now. You’ll re-break that ankle.”

Kandice is my very best friend and played a huge role in saving my life from said murderer. That same near-death incident produced a badly broken ankle.

“I am not going to re-break my ankle. The doctor said I was cleared, to resume daily activities,” I said, slowly climbing down from the stool.

The crowd was growing restless as the emergency crew rushed to the scene. Suddenly, everyone wanted hot cocoa and coffee.

“Fourteen weeks is barely enough time to heal, and I doubt climbing on a stool counts as daily activity,” my dear friend ranted as she filled customers’ orders.

Kandice is starting school to become a dental hygienist, and she had the weekend off, so she is helping me. She is a tall, half-African American and half-Italian woman. Basically, she looks like a dark Grecian goddess. She was wearing tight-fitting leggings, fur-trimmed boots, and a snug short-waisted blue coat. Her wavy brown hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, and she wore a matching blue headband. I, on the other hand, was frozen. I was not sporting any fashion. I was attempting to stay warm. I had two pairs of fleece-lined pants on, long johns, a thick sweater, an electric heat vest, and a long wool coat that covered my butt.

It was 18 degrees out, with the sun at full rise, and I was freezing. I wanted to climb back on the stool to see what was happening, but the crowd wasn’t dying down. Plus, I didn’t want to face the wrath of Kandice.

“Have you heard what has happened?” I asked one of the customers as I handed her the mocha she had ordered.

A middle-aged woman replied, “I think it’s Howard Walsh. He was supposed to be the next skier. His horse took off before the rider was mounted.” She smiled and thanked me.

Howard Walsh had a reputation for being that nosy, narker neighbor no one liked. He would walk around town looking for code violations or things that bothered him and report them to the compliance office. I had already had a run-in with him this morning. He actually got out a tape measure and measured my tent, informing me I was only allowed a 10-foot tent. My tent legs are 10.5 ft, a code violation, creating a hazard in the walkway. I had to put out bright pink sandbags at each foot just to appease him. The crazy thing is, this is the town’s tent.

The sirens were blaring as the town’s only ambulance rushed towards the scene. If you have never been to Ironcrest, its elevation is 9,302. Tucked high into the Colorado Rockies, its population is 713 in the summer. During the winter months, the population drops to 400 at best. That is unless it’s the annual skijoring competition; then the town swells to over 3,500 people. The event is a vital part of the town’s tourism income; especially since all the mountain passes in and out of Ironcrest are often closed for long durations during the winter months due to heavy snow and avalanches. 

At least a third of those people currently hammered our tent with hot beverage needs, and Kandice and I were slammed. The race had been put on hold, everyone was freezing, and with nothing to keep them busy, what was the point of standing out here in the cold? Murmurs from the crowd started to spread. I heard things like ‛I heard he had a heart attack’ or ‘the horse got scared before he had a chance to get ready’. The crowd’s murmuring was turning darker the longer they had to wait. ‘It is about time someone stopped that lunatic.’

If it really was Howard Walsh, there wasn’t much sympathy for the guy.

“Hey, Taryn?” Someone hollered from the crowd. “Looks like you have another case to solve.”

I shouted back to the voice in the crowd, “Sorry, I plan events. Call Detective Parker if there is a case.” One of the unfortunate things about being a victim and a heroine in a small town is that almost everyone probably knows about it. That, coupled with social media, made escaping my incident impossible.

Kandice decided to chime in. “The angels only investigate murder!”

“What are you doing? We are not angels, and we are not investigating anything. You have got to stop calling us that.” I prepared another hot chocolate, this one with whipped cream and sprinkles.

Kandice ignored me and continued taking orders. By the time the crowd died down, the clean-up crew had collected the bits and pieces of Howard Walsh’s equipment and deemed the racetrack ready to resume the races.

The mayor made a short address: “It saddens me to say that one of Ironcrest’s residents has departed from us. He loved this community and this town. Now, many of you weren’t always on what seemed like the receiving end of his love for this town, but rest assured, he meant well, and at least he died doing something he loved. Let’s have a moment of silence.”

I heard a snickering coming from the crowd, somewhere close by, too. I looked around briefly, trying to be respectful, but I wasn’t able to see who was making the sound. It was rude, whoever it was. Howard Walsh was no saint, but you should always respect the dead and those who loved them. I am sure Howard’s wife was in the crowd somewhere.

You may be thinking “How was this guy married when he ran around treating everyone like they were criminals?” but he was. Betty Walsh was nice, too. She would get on to Howard when he would go on a rant about harmless things a neighbor may be doing. Whatever happened to him, I felt bad for her, and even though I never cared much for Howard, it was still sad to see someone you know dead.

The moment of silence ended, and Mayor Walter Mann announced the races would resume momentarily.

Skijoring is a dangerous and, quite frankly, ridiculous sport, but it is entertaining to watch. Men and women on skis are pulled down a race track by a horse and rider; there are several obstacles that the skier must correctly attempt without crashing. Whoever has the fastest time and completes the course correctly is the winner. Ironcrest has been holding the skijoring competition since the 1940s. It’s a 4-day event, starting with the opening ceremony, which was last night, followed by two days of racing, and finally the closing and awards ceremony.

Racer Brad Martin was announced with his rider Kate Swanson and horse PJ. Kate owns the Cowboy Inn and Dude Ranch. She also owns PJ, a beautiful Black Morgan. PJ was Kate’s first horse when she opened the dude ranch 5 years ago. Kate had long brown hair, and she often wore it in a French braid. Today, it was braided under her riding helmet. Brad grew up skijoring and commissioned Kate and PJ to be his horse and rider 2 years ago. A good choice, too, since they had won the race the last two years in a row.

Brad was the town’s darling; he looked like Paul Bunyan. He was charming, handsome, and helpful. The kind of guy who helped old ladies across the street and carried groceries to the car. An overall good guy without a wife. Every girl in town would love to make him theirs, but Brad wasn’t interested in them. Everyone could see he liked Kate, and Kate either didn’t care or was oblivious to it.

My vote is she’s oblivious; she loves those horses more than some people do their children. She spends every minute she can with them, PJ in particular.

Brad, Kate, and PJ soared past us as though they were flying. The crowd cheered, oohed, and awed as Brad and Kate raced by. PJ was so light on his hooves, you barely heard him blazing down the icy road. He danced across the course like a feather on the breeze. Kate and PJ were one; she barely touched the reins, and he knew what to do. Their trust and friendship were incredible. Brad was just as amazing maneuvering through the snow and obstacles as though they were puffs of cotton instead of icy berms. It’s no wonder they were returning two-time champions. As they crossed the finish line, the crowd roared with excitement. Their cheers echoed off the mountain peaks.

Kandice and I continued to serve hot chocolate and coffee to the freezing crowd. I was thankful for how busy we were; it was the only thing keeping me from turning into an ice sculpture.

“We need to start asking questions about Howard,” Kandice approached me with an extra mocha she had made, handing it to me.

“Why, he had a heart attack?” I asked, accepting the coffee, taking a sip, and snuggling the warm cup to my cheek.

“You don’t find it odd that his rider is nowhere to be found?” Kandice replied.

“How do you know that? We haven’t heard anything about it.” I said, switching the warm cup to my other cheek

“I’m just sayin.”  It’s odd to have him dragged down the street without his rider. Shouldn’t the rider be worried about his horse?” Kandice shifted her weight to one side, leaning against the tent pole.

“Maybe Howard started without the rider? He wasn’t an easy man to get along with, and he did things his way,” I explained.

“True, but his way was by the book even if the book didn’t make sense.”

I took another sip of my coffee. Kandice wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t sure that these deductions automatically equaled something sinister. “You may be right,” I said, “but the police will figure it out, if there is anything to figure out.”

Kandice waved her hand in the air, brushing me off. “We will see about that,” she said.

I wasn’t ready to dive headfirst into another investigation. Kandice, on the other hand, was clearly hoping for one.

The break was over, and the crowds were trickling back in. Kandice and I continued to create hot masterpieces. The next team was from Quartz Creek over the mountain pass. Austin, the skijorer, was pulled by Bulldog, an oversized chestnut thoroughbred, and his rider, Justin. The team usually did well in the competition. They were a couple of tough ranch boys. Bulldog drove cattle with them. That horse was an agile brick. Watching the lumbersome team was comical; the speed they had did not fit their looks. They were tanks thundering down the race track at lightning speed. You could feel the hoofbeats in your chest as they whizzed by.

I handed a woman with short blond hair, tucked behind a pink headband, her coffee. As she reached for it, she said, “Howard tried to get those boys disqualified.” She pointed towards them. “Yesterday at check-in, he said they were one minute past the deadline.”

“Howard was difficult at times,” I said, trying not to keep the gossip going.

The woman shrugged her shoulders and left with her coffee clutched in both hands.

“What did she say?” Kandice whispered.

“Howard was being Howard yesterday. The same reason we have pink sandbags on our tent feet,” I said, wiping down the topping table. Sprinkles and sugar flecks were everywhere.

“I don’t buy it,” Kandice said, lifting up the various items on the table so I could wipe under them.

“I will agree with you on one thing and one thing only, the missing rider. I am not saying that it means anything. Howard was old, and heart attacks at his age are not uncommon. Honestly, I am not sure why he would even enter the skijoring contest. That’s more of a mystery to me than his death.”

“So, you admit there’s a mystery,” Kandice smiled, replacing the coffee carafe.

“If you want to call reentering a former hobby at age 70 a mystery, then sure,” I teased, rolling my eyes at her, smiling and shaking my head. I noticed the mayor approaching our tent, his big eyes and wide smile fixed on me.

“Hello, Mayor Mann. What can we get you?” I asked as the mayor stepped up to our tent.

“How about a hot chocolate, Taryn? Thank you.” His thick and cheery voice matched his physique.

“No problem, I’ll get right on that,” I said, making my way to the carafe full of creamy homemade hot chocolate from Cathy’s Cocoa and Coffee shop. “How do you feel things are going today? Aside from Howard’s tragedy?” I asked while filling the cup.

“I think the event is going smoothly. We don’t need any more drama. I’ve heard some whispers, and they need to be shut down. I need this event to go well,” he paused for a moment. “If you know what I mean,” he said, winking and reaching for his hot chocolate.

“Oh, of course, sir. I understand,” I nodded.

“Good, good. Thank you, Taryn. I knew I could count on you to make the event spectacular,” he said, turning to disappear into the crowd.

“Thank you, Mayor Mann,” a bystander in the crowd greeted him. I watched as he chummed it up with the people, shaking their hands, patting their backs, and smiling. He was in campaign mode. The elections were coming up in April, and this skijoring event was a big tourist money maker for the tiny town during the long Colorado winter.

“Did he just tell you to stay out of whatever is going on here?” Kandice asked while she refilled the creamer carafe.

“I think so,” I said, before chewing on my lip in thought. “It’s probably that he just wants the event to be good, not that he was suggesting anything about Howard’s death,” I said, reassuring myself and Kandice.

“Nope, I don’t buy it. He’s up to something. He knows something,” Kandice said, returning the creamer jug to its cooler. “No worries, the Angels are on the case!” She declared.

I groaned, “Kandice, solving one murder does not make us ‛Angels’ or good at this, for that matter. I almost died, remember?”

“How could I forget? I almost died thinking you died! But, we are good at this, plus it’s fun,” she smiled.

“I think the Lucy and Ethel description of us is more accurate. But in order to convince you that nothing is going on here but a man dying of a heart attack and a Mayor wanting to secure his seat at reelection, I will play along. Once we have proof, you have to let this ‛Angel’ thing go.” I said, placing my hands on my hips.

“Since when did you become a mom?” Kandice grinned.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked

“It’s just you are always too focused, so organized, so straight arrow. I balance you out, you know,” she hugged me.

“Well, you are crazy and impulsive. At some point, I need to pull you in my direction,” I grinned, pulling away from her hug to look into her big brown eyes.

“You have, I am here serving hot drinks in the freezing cold. Where is the fun in that?” She giggled.

“True, I guess. I have roped you into my event planning world of orderly behavior,” I laughed.