“Gee, thanks.” Smitty accepted the large bottle, weighing it in his hand like he was calculating ounces by feel alone. He stood at least six foot eight, broad enough to block most of the doorway. Thick gray-white hair stuck out in uneven waves. His eyebrows were legendary and bushy enough to qualify as wildlife, while his brown eyes missed nothing. He was Inuit, full-blooded as far as Ace knew, and had lived in these mountains longer than anyone could remember.
“Come on in,” Smitty said, wearing his usual blue overalls over a red check shirt, thick wool socks padding silently against the wood floor.
“Thanks.” Ace stepped inside. The cabin always surprised people. From the outside it looked compact, almost tight against the slope. Inside, it opened up into a surprisingly spacious living area with exposed beams and a tiny kitchen tucked to one side. The logs that formed the walls were thick and dark with age, packed tight and solid.
Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall near the kitchen, showcasing the jagged peaks of Knife’s Edge Mountain and the long mountain range stretching far. Sunlight poured in, catching dust motes in the air.
Smitty had a thick, battered blue leather couch facing two mismatched recliners, all gathered around a hand-carved pine coffee table scarred with knife marks and rings from too many mugs.
“You want a drink?” Smitty asked, already moving toward the kitchen.
“Smitty, it’s eight-thirty in the morning.”
Smitty kept moving. “Yeah. You want a nip in your coffee?”
Ace shrugged. What the hell. “Sure.”
“Have a seat.”
Ace looked at the quiet room. “Do I take the sofa or one of the chairs?”
“Couldn’t care less.” Smitty disappeared into the kitchen, which was more of an open space with a long counter that doubled as a bar.
Ace turned and dropped onto the sofa. It seemed like the right thing to do.
Minutes later, Smitty came back around the counter carrying a steaming mug. “I just put a little Bailey’s in it. Well, and a little Crown.”
“Thanks.” Ace took the mug and lifted it to take a drink. “Holy crap.” He lowered it slowly. That was more than a splash.
A stone fireplace built into the left wall threw steady heat into the room, flames snapping softly behind the iron grate. The wide windows did most of the lighting, though, bathing everything in clean morning sun.
Smitty lowered his bulk into the yellow-and-brown striped recliner on the right. It looked original to the seventies. “I heard you got pulled in for a murder case.”
Ace blinked and took another swallow of the coffee, which tasted like chocolate beneath the burn of alcohol. “Yeah. The tourist that died had gotten into an altercation with some guy the day before, and I stepped between them.”
“Is that it?” Smitty asked, both bushy eyebrows rising.
“Yeah, that’s it. I didn’t kill her.”
Smitty lifted one massive shoulder in a half shrug. “You’ve been pretty goofed up for a while.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a murderer.”
Smitty grinned, flashing the gold tooth in the front of his mouth. “I know. I’m just fucking with you.”
Ace frowned. “Are you supposed to do that?”
“I’m not a shrink. I don’t have any rules,” Smitty retorted. He reached over and tugged an old wooden lever on the side of the recliner, the mechanism groaning as the footrest kicked out. “Ah, there we go.” He settled back in, the chair protesting under his weight before giving up and accepting it.
Ace shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You comfortable?”
“I’m getting there. Another one of these drinks and I might take a nap.”
The fire snapped softly in the hearth, and sunlight poured through the tall windows, warming the worn wood floors.
“I figured you’d want to talk first,” Smitty said, folding his massive hands over his stomach.
“Yeah.”
