Winter of Secrets by Vicki Delany Page A

her, home. Yes, she wanted to go home. Get through the ordeal of loading Jason’s coffin onto the plane, making the arrangements, the visitation, the funeral.
    Mr. and Mrs. Williams, Ewan’s parents, were spending the holidays sailing in the Caribbean. No one had been able to contact them. Jeremy and Rob decided to stay in Trafalgar until things were settled. Alan didn’t seem so sure. At first he’d said he was leaving, but then he changed his mind. Which might have had something to do with the fact that Sophie, who hadn’t met Jason until this trip, most definitely wanted to finish her vacation.
    Wendy reached the bottom of the hill, and pulled off her goggles and helmet. Alan and Rob had headed immediately for the Black Diamond runs. She’d gone up the hill with Jeremy, who was the same level of skier as she, but she’d lost him soon after stepping off the lift. Sophie, lucky Sophie, was spending the day at the spa. Wendy would have liked to join her but she was afraid of running into Doctor Wyatt-Yarmouth Number Two (aka Mom) who’d announced a similar intention. Also, as Wendy didn’t care to admit, even to herself, she couldn’t afford a spa day. If Jason hadn’t bribed her into coming by paying for a good chunk of her expenses, including room at the B&B and a two-week ski pass, she couldn’t afford to be skiing either. She had barely enough room left on her credit card to go shopping in Toronto for ski clothes. The ones she’d worn to Whistler three years ago were so out of date.
    She joined the cafeteria line, picked up a tray, and ordered a chicken Caesar salad. She’d waited until close to two o’clock before coming inside for lunch in order to snag one of the wooden benches that served as seating.
    She handed her money to a strikingly beautiful woman with a trace of Asian features and grabbed a place by the window. The air was heavy with the scent of soggy clothes, damp woolen hats, exposed socks, fragrant food. She munched on her salad and watched people enjoying the day’s skiing.
    A woman threw her tray onto the table next to her. Wendy looked up, mildly annoyed. There was plenty of room, why couldn’t the woman sit somewhere else?
    “Mind if I join you?” The interloper sat down without waiting for a response. She wore a knee-length purple sweater over a black T-shirt that emphasized her most valuable assets and snugly fitting blue jeans. Every piece, Wendy couldn’t help but notice, looked pretty high-end.
    Although nothing at all like one would wear for a day on the slopes.
    Wendy speared a slice of chicken and turned her head to the window.
    “Good skiing?”
    “It’s okay. I was expecting a better quality of resort.”
    The woman laughed. Her teeth were straight and unnaturally white. Her long black hair was gathered into a wild bunch at the back of her head. “You’re not here for just the powder then?”
    Wendy’s head turned. Something was not quite right about this woman’s appearance or her demeanor. She was not here to ski, nor did she appear to be all that interested in the beef stew on her tray.
    “I’m afraid I have the advantage of you, as they say in the classic English novels. You’re Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth.”
    “For my sins, as they say in the more contemporary English TV shows. Who the hell are you and what do you want?”
    The woman smiled. She held out her hand. “Meredith Morgenstern. Trafalgar Daily Gazette , for my own sins. My condolences on your loss.”
    “Thank you.”
    Wendy hadn’t accepted the handshake. The woman didn’t seem put out and picked up a whole wheat roll. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about the death of your brother and his friend.”
    Wendy looked down her nose and snorted. “I don’t think so. Take your tray and find another table, before I call security.”
    “Please, Wendy, hear me out.” Meredith thrust her fork into the bowl of stew on the table in front of her. Brown liquid bubbled up. “The police will not