The Mt. Bachelor Murders

By Ted Haynes

A murder mystery set in Central Oregon, starting with a murder committed in 1966 and ending with the murderer finally identified in 2018. The Mount Bachelor Murders features continuing characters from Suspects and The Mirror Pond Murders but can be fully enjoyed without reading the earlier books.

When Erik Pe

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Robleda Company, Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733154437

Ted Haynes

Ted Haynes is the author of both history and fiction set in Central Oregon, including four earlier books in the Northwest Murder Mystery Series. He and his wife first visited Bend in 1975 and live on the Little Deschutes River near Sunriver. Ted is a fisherman, kayaker, and competitive master swimmer. He has studied fiction writing with Hilary Jordan, Lynn Stegner, and Nancy Packer. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America and a founding board member of the Waterston Prize for Desert Writing.

Book preview

Part 1

February 1966

Chapter 1

Sally Paulsen

Lisbeth’s father, Mr. Peterson, went ahead of Lisbeth and me and the chairlift operator called out Single when he got to the front. A young man in a sharp ski outfit came up from behind to share Mr. Peterson’s chair. The young man looked like he skied in places more sophisticated than Mt. Bachelor, like Aspen or even Europe. He had plastic ski boots that were newer, stiffer, and better than the leather boots everyone else was wearing. His skis were Heads. His black parka and ski pants matched and had light blue piping down the seams. He wore a wool Peruvian ski hat, a chullo, with tassels that hung down from the ear flaps. Competitive ski racers didn’t wear chullos. The chullo implied, though, that he was such a serious skier that he went to South America to ski when it was summer in North America and winter down there. At Bariloche, probably. We’d heard of it. Maybe he skied in Austria too, something Lisbeth and I could only imagine.

I hoped the man would notice us as he went by, especially Lisbeth with her long blond hair streaming from her powder blue ski hat. My mother said I was just as pretty as Lisbeth but my dark hair, raven my mother called, didn’t catch eyes the way Lisbeth’s did.

The man wore big tinted ski goggles that hid most of his face but he had full lips and a firm jaw. He was about six feet tall, taller than Mr. Peterson, and he pushed his ski poles into the snow with powerful strokes, as though he were stabbing the ground and wanted to hurt it.

Lisbeth and I were serious skiers too, we thought, though we’d never been out of Oregon. We had almost made the ski team this year. Mr. Peterson was treating us to this day, not to celebrate Lincoln’s birthday, February 12, but to celebrate Lisbeth’s birthday on the same day. She was sixteen. And also to console us for not making the team. Maybe next year.

We were eager to get going today. Snow was falling and the skiing would be good right now. We probably wouldn’t get in a full day because there was a storm coming in and Lisbeth’s father knew how many things could go wrong in a storm.

Mr. Peterson said when the snow got so thick we couldn’t see from one pylon to the next on the chairlift we should meet him at the bottom of the Red Chair and we would go home. Mt. Bachelor had two chairlifts now, the Red Chair and the Black Chair. When the ski area opened in ’58, it only had two rope tows and a Poma lift.

Do you think they’ll stop at the top? I asked Lisbeth. Maybe your father will introduce us. I’d like to know where the man is from.

Someday Mt. Bachelor might be cosmopolitan, like Vail or Squaw Valley. For our little town of Bend, a lumber town cutting less lumber every year, Mt. Bachelor was the hope for the future. We were all very proud of it. Last year the Junior National Championships were held here.

I don’t know, Sally. Do you really think he’ll want to meet us? That was Lisbeth. Not exactly pessimistic but always cautious. That was why she didn’t make the ski team. She was a better skier than some girls but she wouldn’t push herself to the edge. She never missed a flag and she never fell.

I had to take risks because I wasn’t as good as the others. Sometimes it paid off and I won a race I shouldn’t have. I fell a lot and my parents were afraid I’d break something, probably my neck. My favorite event was ski jumping.

Mr. Peterson was an expert skier. He had taught Lisbeth and me to ski, progressing from the snowplow through the stem christie to parallel turns. What he liked himself was Telemark skiing, an old fashioned technique that took a lot of work. He tried to teach us that too but we didn’t like it. It wore you out with bending the knees so far down. The supposed advantage was the Telemark bindings let you lift your heel up off the ski so if you wanted to go cross-country you were all set. That’s what Mr. Peterson liked most of all, setting off into the woods where the tracks you saw were animal tracks. One time Mr. Peterson and my father took Lisbeth and me to the ranger station at Elk Lake in winter. Mr. Peterson got a key and special permission to stay overnight from a friend in the Forest Service. We were really out on our own, no one else around for miles. We had a fire and bolted the door against bears.

He was kind of an embarrassment to us now, Mr. Peterson, though we were too well brought up to say it, even to each other. He wore wool trousers and a long oilskin jacket to ski. His hat was a red wool beanie that stretched over the top of his head and had a pom-pom on the top. He still skied on wooden skis when everyone else had metal.

The lift stopped below Pine Martin Knob and the two men skied off to the right. They would be skiing West Boundary or Last Chance, not our favorites. We turned left to ski Tippy-Toe and get over to the Black Chair. Maybe we’d meet Mr. Chullo later.

Lisbeth and I had been training very hard to make the team but today the pressure was off. We were skiing simply for fun. We covered the slopes in big sloppy turns, as much the opposite of racing turns as we could make them. We made extravagant leaps over tiny moguls. We crouched as low as we could into ridiculous slow-speed turns. Halfway down, not at the bottom where people could see us, we spread our arms and glided straight ahead, smiles on our faces like champion skiers who knew they had just posted a winning time.

And we sang Joan Baez songs, our favorites. Skiers we passed caught snatches of Farewell Angelina and There But For Fortune.

We didn’t go fast when we couldn’t see what was around the next turn or below the next drop-off. We didn’t want to be jerks. We knew everyone on the ski patrol and many of the other skiers as well. Bend, twenty miles downhill, was the only town of any size anywhere near Mt. Bachelor. There were skiers from Portland and Seattle and farther away but a lot of skiers were our neighbors. Our parents said the city people brought in money but as far as we were concerned they only cluttered up the slope. They had good equipment but many were beginners or barely intermediate skiers.

You can’t tell ‘til they get on the snow. All our skiing friends said this over and over. None of us came from rich families. Mill workers mostly. But many of Norwegian descent. My father said his grandparents never considered skiing a rich man’s sport. It was how they got around in the winter.

By the time we made our second run down Skyliner the snow was falling fast and it didn’t look likely to stop. We were singing as loud as ever—the sky is on fire, and show me the jail. Mr. Peterson would be anxious. We looked for him near the chalet and then at the base of Red Chair. We stood by the chair and scanned the parking lot. The cars were coated with snow and they were starting to all look alike. We knew Mr. Peterson wouldn’t wait by the car anyway. He’d wait for us right where we were standing. Maybe he had decided the snow wasn’t so bad. Maybe he’d decided we were such good skiers, and Lisbeth’s birthday was so special, that we should all ski a little longer in spite of the snow.

Should we ask the ski patrol if they’ve seen him? Lisbeth queried me.

It hasn’t been that long, I said, and they’ll think we’re silly if we ask.

Let’s ski underneath the lifts and look for him coming up, said Lisbeth.

Ugh, I said. Those are the boringest runs. Don’t worry. We’ll see him. But Lisbeth was anxious and we agreed I would ski the Black Chair while Lisbeth skied the Red.

I hated having to slow down, and stop from time to time, to make sure I saw every person on every chair, looking for Mr. Peterson’s red beanie. The snow was falling hard and this dumb run might be the last of the day. I hoped that Mr. Peterson would decide we had time for one more run. It would be beautiful to ski while the snow was falling heavy, away from the lifts, the air dead silent except for the sound of my skis. I’d have to be careful not to hit a pylon or a person because I wouldn’t be able to see very far. I would ski fast though, to make sure nobody ran into me from behind.

The people riding up were watching me. I carved turns gracefully, beautifully I thought, shamelessly showing off. I slalomed through invisible flags. I imagined the people thought I was one of the star skiers from Bend—like Kiki Cutter or Jane Meissner. I would be embarrassed if I saw Mr. Peterson. But I hoped the people on the lifts were impressed.

Mr. Peterson really should have been at the bottom of the slope by now waiting for us. Maybe something had happened to him after all. Maybe Lisbeth was right to be worried. But it seemed so unlikely. He was a good skier who didn’t take risks, a solid man, dependable. Rigid even, by the book.

I would tell Lisbeth not to worry, persuade her not to alert the ski patrol, push her for one more run. If her father truly were in trouble, though, I would regret it. What if Mr. Peterson were lying unconscious in a snow bank, getting harder and harder to spot as the snow kept falling?

Lisbeth came toward me at the base of the slope with a discouraged look on her face. No thumbs up. I clomped over to the nearest bright yellow jacket, a boy on the ski patrol not much older than I was.

Ernie, I said, Mr. Peterson is missing.

Chapter 2

Ed Haley

Every winter we had more skiers. Every summer we built more facilities. Two years ago we built our second chairlift. This year we built a new lodge for overnighters. Next year we’re going to add more runs and another chair.

Not that we didn’t have headaches. I was managing the whole resort but the damn overnight lodge was taking all of my time. With hundreds of happy skiers on the slopes the dozen or so guests at the lodge had constant requests and complaints, most of them justified. The heat wasn’t right. We lost their baggage or their skis. Meals were late or cold or not appetizing. Service was hit or miss. The ski bums on the staff wouldn’t show up if the snow was really good. I was going to tell the board we should stick to the ski business and leave the hotel business to others.

Today, a Saturday, my main worry was the snowstorm coming in. The earlier we closed the lifts the more unhappy customers we’d have and the more day tickets we’d have to refund. The later we closed the lifts the more risk we had that someone would get lost and wander off into the wilderness. We’d have the ski patrol out to all hours, risking their own necks until we found the lost souls. Or it would turn out the missing person went down the mountain early and we’d kept the ski patrol late for nothing.

The snowflakes came down like mayflies outside my tiny office window, millions of them, each one theoretically different but lost in an ocean that made them all look the same. My office was stuck on the end of the chalet where skiers came in for hot chocolate, or soup, or hot dogs, or the oversize cookies we sold. I could hear the scraping of their boots and bits of conversation. Happy voices mostly, interrupted for me by the low working-day chatter of the ski patrol coming over the hand-held radio on my desk. I kept the volume low, only half listening. Peter Cary, the ski patrol director, was directing who patrolled which slope, making sure they didn’t neglect a run for any length of time. They were dealing with injured skiers, broken skis, lost skis, and skiers who had started down runs they weren’t skilled enough to handle. Peter was reminding the patrol to check the edges of the runs for tracks leading ‘off-piste’ into the unpacked snow. We had signs telling people those areas were not maintained, not patrolled, and if they went there they skied at their own risk. People still went. It was fun to go exploring. It was fun to ski between the trees, if you were good enough not to run into them. People had died that way in the past, not the kind of story we wanted the newspapers to be running. And people who got lost cost the ski patrol time and put them at risk.

Then I heard Peter loud and clear, Ed, switch to channel 15. He didn’t want the whole ski patrol listening to our conversation. They could, of course, switch to channel 15 if they wanted to. But most would honor Peter’s intent.

Roger, I said, switching to fifteen. I changed the channel to fifteen and announced, Ed Haley calling Peter Cary. Are you there?

We have a skier under the snow in a tree well in the woods west of Last Chance, said Peter. He was being careful with his words. I had to think about what Peter was saying. He wouldn’t normally call me about rescuing someone from a tree well and ‘under the snow’ had an ominous implication.

Can he get down the slope under his own power? I asked.

Not now, said Peter. And another thing, it looks like a Code 31.

We didn’t have anything called a Code 31 or a Code anything else. I was struggling to grasp what Peter meant. Walter will want to know about it, he said.

Who the hell was Walter? We didn’t have a Walter working for us. It took me a second to make the connection. Walter Moore was the sheriff of Deschutes County. I put it together. We needed the sheriff because a crime had been committed. We had a skier under the snow. A Code 31, whatever the hell that was. We had a serious crime, presumably a death.

You sure about that? I asked.

Yes, said Peter. He couldn’t have got there by himself.

Who is it? I asked, regretting my question immediately. I didn’t want Peter to say the name over the radio.

It’s Mister Telemark, said Peter.

God, I thought, it’s Erik Peterson. Everybody at the resort knew Erik Peterson, a man who loved skiing so much he’d spend hours climbing a mountain only to ski down it in twenty minutes. People would be devastated to learn he was dead.

You’re absolutely sure? I asked.

I can see his face and I recognize his parka.

Can you find his wallet and look at it?

I’ll look, he said. Peter’s tone suggested I was being obsessive. But I’d want to tell Walter we’d checked.

It’s him, said Peter.

I got Peter to give me Erik’s address from his license. Walter would want to know that.

Walter will consider that place, wherever the hell you are, a crime scene. He won’t want us to disturb it. Can you guard it until he gets somebody here?

Can’t we just bring the man down like any other injury? asked Peter. There’s snow every which-way here. Hank and I have been making tracks and pushing snow all over the place digging the man out. We had to try to save him. If there is anything to see the snow will cover it before anyone gets here.

I’ll ask Walter, I said. In the meantime look around and see what you can find. Memorize whatever you can. Write it down. You got a camera?

No. I’ll see if one of my people does. But look, I’ve got to get back to the patrol. Conditions are getting worse. I’ll get somebody else to wait here and keep people away.

Okay, I said. Stay in touch. And if anyone else is listening to this conversation keep it under your hat. News blackout. No rumors, no speculation. Over and out.

Crime was rare at Mt. Bachelor. Sometimes people broke into cars. Sometimes skiers got into heated arguments that led to fights. But fighting in padded clothes with skis on usually wound up with two guys lying on the snow, thrashing around and looking ridiculous. We warned people about leaving their skis unattended on the racks outside the chalet but they did it anyway. Brand new two-hundred dollar skis did get up and walk away. Aside from the warning signs we couldn’t do anything to stop it.

But Walter Moore, the sheriff, took a serious interest in keeping us safe and crime-free. We paid a lot of property taxes and, unlike most businesses in Deschutes County, we were growing. There was talk of building golf courses and resort communities but they hadn’t started yet. Mt. Bachelor was the big bet. In return for his special attention we gave the sheriff and his deputies a tour of the ski resort every year and arranged ski lessons and lift tickets for those who wanted them.

Walt, I told him over the phone, we’ve had a skier die up here and my ski patrol chief thinks somebody killed him. I hope it isn’t some nut on a killing spree. I need deputies here as fast as they can make it. And I need them to be visible, make people feel safe when word gets out.

I’ll give you all the manpower I can, said Walt, and I’ll send Forest up there to get to the bottom of this.

Forest Connor was the sheriff’s detective, a decent man on flat land, I thought. I’d liked him well enough when I first met him. But he’d come to Bend from Gadsden, Alabama. He didn’t know a damn thing about skiing. Walking on snow made him nervous.

So who’s the victim? asked Walt.

Erik Peterson. Lives in Bend. Peter Cary, the head of the ski patrol, knows him, recognized him. And checked his wallet. I have his address. Do you want to notify his family? Walt and I had been through this part of the drill once before. A death but not a murder.

I’ll send a deputy. You’re sure of the identification and absolutely sure he’s dead?

I asked the same questions of Peter and he’s sure.

What do you know about who might have killed him? Walter asked me.

Nothing. This happened in the trees. No idea who killed him or what the killer looks like. But it was no accident. Peterson’s too good a skier for that.

You need to have your ski patrol guy, Peter whatever his name is, available when Forest gets there.

Will do, I said, but Walt, there’s one more thing. At some point you’re going to talk to the press. Help me out here. Steer them toward the idea that the killer was after Erik Peterson specifically. We don’t want people thinking there’s a madman killing random skiers.

Forest will take the investigation where it needs to go. But I got your message and we’ll do what we can. We hung up. I was about to radio Peter when he radioed me.

Ernie says our man’s daughter and her friend are at Red Chair asking about him.

Do they know he’s dead?

They only know he’s missing

Tell Ernie to bring them to chalet and I’ll talk to them. And Peter, I’m going to tell the lift operators to stop sending people up. If we have a crazy man up there we need to get people off the slopes. I’ll have them tell the skiers it’s because of the snowstorm. We’ll keep the lifts operating for you guys. You’ll need to sweep the slopes for stragglers.

Hell. I was sad for Erik Peterson. I didn’t know him well. I’m not sure anyone knew him well. But I liked him. Respected him too. But my immediate concern was the unhappy skiers we would be sending home. The ones from out of town might never come back. And now I had to go tell a daughter her father was dead.

I went outside to meet Ernie and the girls. I introduced myself and got their names. The blond girl, Lisbeth Peterson, had a frantic look on her face. The taller, dark-haired girl, her friend Sally Paulsen, kept a wary eye on her companion. They kept looking up at the slopes, hoping, I was sure, to see Lisbeth’s father. I said I had something important to tell them. While they racked their skis I told Ernie to ask Helen Muhl to come to the chalet to drive the girls down to Bend. Helen was a schoolteacher who did ski patrol on her days off. I thought she’d know how to handle two unhappy teenagers better than I could. But I would do my best.

The girls followed me through the cafe and into my little office. I turned off the walkie-talkie so the girls wouldn’t hear any chatter and I asked them to sit in the two chairs facing me.

I have some bad news, I said softly, looking directly at Lisbeth. The ski patrol found your father in the trees to the west of Last Chance. He fell into a tree well and couldn’t get out. I’m sorry to tell you he died there.

Lisbeth put her hands to her face and bent forward. Sally hunched her chair over and put her arm around Lisbeth’s shoulders.

How did this happen? asked Sally, not in grief or in wonderment but as a pointed question. She wouldn’t be the last person, I knew from experience, to question whether the resort was somehow responsible for this happening.

We’re not sure yet, I said. The sheriff’s detective is coming to investigate. Do you know if Mr. Peterson was skiing with anyone? I knew Forest Connor would not want me to question the girls before he did but if there was a crazy on the slopes I needed to find him before he killed anyone else.

He rode up in the chair with a single, said Sally. And they skied off toward Last Chance together.

What did the man look like?

I think he was in his twenties. Taller than Mr. Peterson. Maybe six feet. He had Head skis and Marker bindings. He wore black ski clothes. I don’t know what brand but the pants and the jacket matched. And he had on a brown and white chullo.

That was pretty unique, not what you’d think a murderer would wear. We didn’t sell chullos in our ski shop. Not enough demand. Maybe one in a hundred, or one in a thousand, skiers wore a chullo. We might be able to find the guy if he were still on the slopes.

What hair and eye color?

Sally thought about this a minute. Couldn’t see. He had the chullo on and his goggles covered his eyes.

The detective is going to want to talk to you both. The sheriff would want me to tell you not to discuss what you saw or what you know with anyone else, not even your family or each other, until the detective talks with you. That’s going to be hard, I know, but he says it is very important.

Why is there a detective? asked Sally. Lisbeth looked up, surprised. She hadn’t thought of the question but she wanted very much to know the answer.

It may not have been an accident, I said.

How do you mean? asked Sally. Her tone was more curious than demanding. But she looked me in the eye. She wasn’t going to sit back and wait for me to say more, as though she were watching the news on television.

I shouldn’t say anything. I’m sorry. The detective will want you to tell him exactly what you know, not what you heard from me or anyone else. Then I’m sure he’ll tell you what he can. Sally’s eyes narrowed and I expected an outpouring of anger. I went on talking. I hardly know anything myself at this point. It’s going to take everybody a while to sort this out. I guess she saw the logic of what I was saying and took a different tack.

Where is Mr. Peterson now? she asked.

"He’s still up on the mountain. The ski patrol is with him. The