Murder Mountain

By Owen Curvelo and Katya Strasburger

Rosefield has moose, a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yarn Authority
• Release date: Mar 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9780988229655

Owen Curvelo

Contrary to convention, Owen Curvelo's childhood was split between the frigid Vermont winters and a Caribbean cruising sailboat in the summer. During the long winters/voyages, he consumed science fiction and fantasy, appreciating the expansive worldbuilding. Soon, Owen wanted to craft worlds of his own. Toward that aim, he studied creative writing at Eckerd College and spent the following decade further refining his yarns. Check out more of his stories at yarnauthority.com.

Book preview

A trail map with Murder Mountain on the coverA map of Murder Mountain's ski trailsA facility map of Murder Mountain's baseThe table of contentsA trail sign with various locationsJoey, age 22, incredible skierPeggy, town sheriff, grandma of fiveRodney, resort owner, aspiring business magnateJane, age 24, Rosefield's number one bartenderHappy, age 22, snowboarding romanticCD titled Small Town Hero

The first snowstorm hit Rosefield, which meant Joey headed to the mountain. A solid inch greeted him as he stepped out of his house at 9 AM. All he hankered. Joey tried convincing the other Powder Boys into joining him for the hike, but they all responded the same way: not enough snow. Hah! Joey would show them. He whipped together his pack, grabbed his skis, hopped in his truck, and sped east on Route 13.

He slowed to a modest thirty-five mph when he drove through Rosefield. Sheriff Peggy told him he better follow the speed limit in town, or she’d confiscate his skis. He knew her threat was sincere, especially after Joey’s minor accident last Christmas morning. Plus, Peggy always ate breakfast at the Sled Stop. She would catch him speeding.

As sure as a January Nor’easter, Peggy strode from her green Jeep to the Sled’s front door. Joey stopped to congratulate her. He parked on the street and rolled the passenger window down.

Hey Peggy, I heard Lyndsay has another baby McStoots on the way.

Gregory-McStoots, corrected Peggy. She wore her leather jacket, elbows faded from decades of use. Without it, she was a regular Rosefield resident, and unless the fire department caught ablaze again, she wouldn’t answer her phone. Heading up to the mountain?

I never miss the first snowstorm.

Only an inch dropped last night.

That’s plenty for an almost-pro like me. Joey laughed. It just adds to the challenge.

Be careful. I don’t want to drive up there today.

I’m no flatty! protested Joey. I’m familiar with every stream, tree, and boulder on the mountain. No trail could possibly harm me.

Sorry, guy. Peggy sighed. Enjoy yourself.

Joey shot her a two-fingered wave, and she returned with the same. He rolled up his window, turned onto Left Mountain Road, and slammed the accelerator. Outside of town, Joey shifted into turbo.

snowmobile, also known as a sled

After driving eighty mph and passing three cars, he arrived at the resort in two and a half minutes. He parked at the sign to pay respect to the logo, a rose with its petals shaped like Rosefield’s ridgeline. He raised his arms in an X and shouted, For snow and for glory!

Next, he nodded in respect to the distinguished ski tycoon Rodney Buric II. His first act as owner three years ago was installing a second sign with a photo of himself. He might not resemble a skier with his bulbous figure, but he knew everything about the industry. Rodney said so himself. Joey couldn’t imagine possessing such tremendous knowledge and owning a ski resort at thirty-nine years old. Now that was a man with sharp edges.

With respect paid, Joey straight-lined it to the parking lot. He whipped in so fast, the rear end of his pickup fishtailed out. Nothing announced your arrival like kicking up a dust cloud. He slid his rig into the closest spot to the slopes, right next to Timmy Harton’s black truck.

Biscuit my dog. He beat me to it. Joey stomped his boot before shouting up the mountain. Save some for me!

Knowing Timmy, he’d scratch off all the best snow—on purpose. He was a jerk no one liked. He picked fights every weekend at the Sled Stop and cussed out Cody’s checkout girls whenever they messed up. Not to mention the incident with his horse a few years back. What drove a man to behave so horribly? Joey shuddered, then shook the memory. He should stay focused on the snow.

He threw on his bright blue jacket, matching his Scandinavian eyes, with racer white stripes to complement his (sort-of) naturally blonde hair. His snow pants still sported their factory smell; Joey always upgraded his gear at the start of a season.

He pressed his hand against the ‘POW Life’ sticker on his truck bumper and immediately felt energized. He muttered his slogan, his motto, his mantra, For snow and for glory.

He said goodbye to his unnamed pickup, replacing the Snow Slayer. Joey totaled it last winter. Apparently, the Snow Slayer needed to drop a gear to complete a turn sometimes, especially during ice storms. Fortunately, his new truck had better handling.

Joey hiked the steps along Squirrel Lodge. Even from outside, he whiffed its signature aroma of sweat, feet, and stale cafeteria food. He breathed in long and slow, letting the familiar scent trigger decades of memories. Ah, what an extraordinary odor.

I hankered my first whiff, too.

Jordan. Joey recognized the speaker before he raised his eyes. Only one man possessed a voice that deep. I meant to call you.

What for? Jordan wore his yellow Ski School jacket, a matching helmet, and his eternal frown.

You know, grunted Joey once he reached the landing. Just to confirm my position is … available.

If you have a job? He carried a backpack with strapped-on L3 skis, scraped and chipped from a decade of usage. After you lost that kid in the Flats last spring?

I found him before last chair, protested Joey. "And I truly thought he could keep up."

I’d fire you, but I lack the numbers. Besides, I’d axe Timmy first.

He’s the worst! Remember the horse incident? The broken piece of plywood still haunts my dreams.

It’s the two-by-four for me.

And now, said Joey, pointing up the hill, he’s scratching off the best snow.

Timmy’s here? Jordan squeezed his mittens until his knuckles burned. I missed his arrival while in my office. Which trail did he hike?

He’s probably heading to the top for the deep stuff. Joey shrugged. I know that’s my destination.

To Absolute Zero for me, I’d rather avoid a confrontation today. Jordan clenched his jaw until his cheeks bulged. I’m still angry about last spring.

What happened?

I take great pride in my position as Park & Grill’s top culinary judge. My palate is impeccable.

You’ve been a fixture of the judging team since the days you taught me to ski.

Nineteen years, confirmed Jordan. Timmy spread a rumor I took bribes. I’d never!

Oh yeppers, Joey remembered the incident. Rodney almost banned Jordan from officiating, but Peter Smith forced a confession out of Timmy before competition day. Why’d he do that?

Because he missed his chance at stardom while I became Rosefield’s Director of Ski School.

Uh-huh. In Rosefield, a Rez established rivalry often endured for life.

Sorry, guy, said Jordan, tightening his backpack. I oughta cool off.

We better hit the snow before it melts, agreed Joey.

Jordan started up Lower Underdog while Joey hiked Greenhouse Way. He cut through Woods Delicious to the headwall on Southway, which he followed to the top.

He required two breaks; only weaklings needed more. During his first stop, he powered down an energy drink produced by his cousin James. Flying Purple flavor, Joey’s favorite, featured a hint of grape combined with cups of sugar and energy compounds. At the Fish Bowl, he powered down an energy bar breakfast, also concocted by his cousin. Cashew Chunk, but James replaced the titular nut with peanuts as they were far cheaper.

Halfway through breakfast, Joey noticed Timmy shredding the next trail over. He waved, but the guy was too busy popping off boulders on his red Astronomics. For a man in his forties, Timmy still skied as though training for the Olympic tryouts. Apparently, he placed five spots shy of the USA slalom team.

Joey would succeed in his place. Next year, he’d solicit some agents or trainers. He had the rest of his twenties.

Timmy never flourished as a pro because he simply lacked style. His purple pants mismatched his bright green jacket, and his goggles clearly came off the clearance rack. He didn’t wear a helmet, either. How unsafe.

After breakfast, Joey powered to the top, summiting in under two hours. Boom!

The sight of the Upridge Bullwheel cresting the top of the mountain always put a smile on his face. Its orange rails encircled the yellow bullwheel with perfect symmetry. The brown lift shack tilted off the cliff as though ready to ski down the mountain itself. All blessed with two inches of crusty white fluff.

Above towered the Upridge Shelter. As the sixteenth largest mountain in the state, it boasted one of the grandest views in Vermont. A pair of south-facing windows offered a tremendous view of Mount Mansfield. Breathtaking.

Once he had his fill, he hiked along the ridge to the trail he deemed worthy for his first run. He had dreamt about it all summer. Usually, he dropped Boulder Chute, the hardest trail on the mountain. However, this summer, a few industrious trailblazers cut the newest hardest trail, Rusch Chute, named after the late ski legend Nick Rusch. Joey might as well send it.

When he arrived at the top, Joey dropped his skis and stepped into their carbon-fiber bindings. For nearly two hours, he had deliberated on which pair to bring. He almost opted for his Nightingales, the first skis he ever owned. Fully broken in by rocks and roots, they held more scars than all his other alpine combined. However, his brand-new Tail skis had been beckoning Joey all summer. He couldn’t resist trying them out.

Next, he popped on his helmet and secured his goggles. He slipped his hands through the straps of his next-generation poles. They enjoyed a couple of massive upgrades with auto-tightening wrists straps and the deepest racer bend ever crafted.

He put his earbuds in and selected the greatest band south of Montpelier, the Rutland Rotary Boys. A northern rock band with a southern soul, illustrated by their uniform white cowboy hats. The guitarist, Hector Yacoven, strummed chords once considered impossible. The lead singer, Seth Alltheway, possessed a vocal range that hit every octave. When he skied the best, he listened to the best.

He chose Small Town Hero, one of his favorite songs:

Joey gazed from the peak while listening to Small Town Hero

Often Joey felt like Rosefield’s small-town hero. He threw the coolest tricks and skied the most challenging terrain. Plus, he taught the Rosfieldian youth how to achieve the same twice a week in Ski School. Was anyone more heroic than that?

Embracing the notion, he began his descent. He side slid the top chute to the first turn and swung his skis around with perfect precision. He drifted down into the buttery snow, spraying waves of white against the boulder backdrop. On his second turn, he swooped his skis around the next grouping of pines, greedily scratching off every ounce of cheddar. Turn three, he caught his edge on a rock and launched downhill face first.

He ejected out of both skis and tumbled down the ridge. By jamming his boot heels into the snow, he skillfully dodged pines and maples as he descended. He shielded himself from the boulders with his arms. One snuck through his defenses and smashed up his nose. When he skidded to a halt twenty feet later, both nostrils gushed blood.

Blue skiboots

The risk every almost-pro skier accepted: when you went big, sometimes you wiped big, too. Whatever. At least his Tails skidded to a halt nearby. His poles, well, they sucked anyway, not a deep enough racer bend. And the reason he fell, most likely.

Joey retrieved his tactical folding knife from his bag and cut two strips from his shirt for nose clogging. Then he fetched his skis and slid down an easier trail. The lower grade runs deserved attention, too, and he shouldn’t show off every moment. He skied Le Jardinet to Mule Run until the snow thinned to grass.

Instead of taking Whittle Path the rest of the way down, he stomped through the woods off skier’s left. Open Glade, where they chopped down ninety-nine percent of the trees for beginners. Disgusting. It could’ve been a hundred times better, but the flatties ruined everything.

Halfway through, he spotted Timmy’s bright green jacket hanging off a branch. Why would he ski a newbie trail? Joey crept closer. A chill wind swept through the trees, raising goosebumps while his knees trembled. Something wasn’t right. He sensed it. No worries, Rosefield’s very own small-town hero Joey Rogers had arrived.

A bright green jacket in the fall woods

However, Timmy was beyond saving. Joey found him sitting against a great white oak with a giant knife stuck in his chest.

Timmy! Joey rushed forward, but the guy was a goner. RIP. All those words. Timmy’s skin matched the snow. His eyes gazed ahead with an unblinking stillness that weakened Joey’s knees. He dropped his skis and crumbled to the ground.

Joey had never seen a dead person before. For a moment, he considered own his mortality. While Joey navigated a fall like a champion, his nose and forehead ached from his encounter with the rock. If he’d connected with one of those trees, he might have broken something permanent.

Ope. An almost-pro couldn’t afford to entertain such negativities. Send it big or not at all.

Timmy understood the pressures of being a local ski legend. He couldn’t resist the ever-looming urge to pull the next epic trick. He probably attempted to balance his knife while boot shredding on the dusted leaves. Tragically, Timmy biffed the ultimate landing.

Joey wiped some eye wetness and grabbed his second energy drink from his backpack. He ripped off the cap and poured out half. Sure, Timmy would’ve preferred a Bacon or some other IPA, but the Bent Pole wasn’t open yet for the season. Joey chugged the rest. Then he hiked down to alert security of the tragic accident.

A Jeep labeled a brewing nor'easter

Peggy began her day at the usual 8 AM with a cup of Tootin’ from Roaster Dan. She added a healthy pour of Old Gregor’s Crude Raw Milk, less than a week from the teat. Not her best rhyme, but as Lydia instructed, the poem’s story outweighed the lyric.

Besides letting Diohgee out, nothing happened before Peggy downed that first cup of coffee. Not even if Bob Hordell rang. Like last Christmas morning, he called eight times because Joey slid off the road and knocked a telephone pole across Main Street. She didn’t answer, not once, not until she consumed her first full mug of caffeinated glory.

Peggy reviewed The Facebook for updates on her three daughters and five grandbabies (with a sixth on the way) while she sipped. After Mary Anne graduated from college next year, she’d move back from Burlington and settle down with a nice young man. Then she could pop out a couple of grandbabies, too. Of course, that was Mary Anne’s decision.

After checking in with The Facebook, Peggy read at least one poem from Lydia McStoots’s masterful collection, Seasonal Colors. Today, she decided on this well-fertilized nugget titled Pre-Pellet.

A poem: The owl glides through the trees, eyeing the laden forest ground. The rodent flees, but caught with ease, and consumed after the prayer sound.

Ah, she loved starting the day with a hunting story. One of Siaytee’s favorite poems, too, she purred on Peggy’s lap for the entire reading.

At 9 AM and not a moment sooner, Peggy threw on Robert’s ten-year-old leather jacket and exited her house. She strode to her office, a twenty-year-old green Jeep her husband had maintained for her. After he died, she named it after him: Road Runner Robert.

When she became sheriff five years ago, Peggy installed a couple of modifications in case she needed to arrest somebody. She disabled the inside rear door handles and placed metal fencing between the front and back seats. No arrests yet, but it was better to overpack than return without a new pair of antlers.

She hopped in and turned the key. Click, click, click, returned the misbehaving starter. She’d teach it a hard truth. Peggy grabbed the stick from the trunk. Three strikes later, lesson learned; the starter engaged and the engine turned on. She pulled out of her driveway and turned down Left Mountain Road.

While she considered herself officially on duty once she pulled out of her driveway, she still wouldn’t answer her phone. It wasn’t safe using the ol’ cellular while driving. Probably illegal, too, but Peggy didn’t need to know those specifics to sheriff Rosefield.

Her first destination was always the same: the Sled Stop, a cafe during the day and a bar at night. She parked next to Frank’s black truck out front. After a brief exchange with Joey on his way up to the resort, Peggy entered through the wooden front door.

She claimed her favorite booth, next to the stuffed black bear Uncle James shot thirty years ago. Jane must have noticed her Jeep because a coffee and newspaper awaited. Once settled, Peggy perused the headlines.

Newspaper and coffee

Sheldon Dairy switching to goats next summer. Ope. Another farm planned on ditching their cows, citing the cheaper cost and improved environmental impact. While Peggy enjoyed a goat cheese on occasion, she preferred the cow version.

Legendary Hornet defense overwhelmed Lake Region in Enosburg’s first home game. Go Hornets! The only athletic outfit Peggy followed, professional or otherwise. The girls’ soccer team had several excellent strikers. They might make the playoffs.

Stoplight to be installed in Jay. Oh no. Peggy panicked until she read it was temporary while they repaired a bridge on Route 242. There were enough of those awful things in northern Vermont already.

What a big news day. Peggy didn’t mind a single potato rind, as it put off her messages that much longer. Unfortunately, she’d run out of headlines. She set the newspaper aside and picked up her cellular.

Since it was a Monday, she expected a half dozen messages from her fellow Rosefieldians. Maybe a kid drove his four-wheeler over somebody’s lawn, or a hunter triggered on their neighbor’s property. Maybe some teenager honked and swerved all over the road late Saturday night. Hardly anything more than small-town pettiness, not worth Peggy’s energy. Yet she replied to each one, showing the townsfolk their sheriff assisted with their squabbles.

Today, however, Peggy encountered zero messages on her phone. Only spam on her email, too. Not a single issue all weekend? Suspicious. Well, no messages meant no work.

I haven’t seen you this happy since Lindsay’s pregnancy announcement, said Jane when she returned for a refill. Her black hair matched her grandmother, the ramen-slinging Nami Reech, who still served her authentic noodles at every farmer’s market. What’s up today?

Nothing. Peggy pointed at her phone. "Not