A Very Stark Christmas: Chapter 8
A Stark Mystery
Jostling along a narrow, snow covered mountain road in a bus, psychedelic or not, was no treat to my keester. Since no one else seemed to know where we were headed, Helen pulled out her phone and checked Google maps.
“We’re in the Catskills.” She held up her screen and I followed the bouncing blue dot as it wound its way up a mountain.
“I hope Danny has a plan, because I sure don’t.” I settled against the cracked vinyl of the bus seat and tried to catch a few winks. Not an easy task — the milk maids had joined the Santa plumber chorus and they were mangling their way through Feliz Navidad. Just when I drifted into a dream about a dancing bottle of scotch, Helen elbowed me in the ribs.
“Wake up! I know where we’re headed!”
“What?” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked toward the window. A Jeep rumbled past with several pairs of snow skis strapped to its luggage rack.
“We’re going skiing!”
“Maybe you’re going skiing, but I’ve got a case to solve, sweet cheeks.” I’d last been skiing when Jimmy Carter was president. The old guy was still out there hammering for Habitat for Humanity, but I bet neither one of us would be lining up to hurtle down a mountain.
