Scene of the Climb by Kate Dyer-Seeley

response from Krissy or Andrew. Neither of them bit.
    â€œOkay, if you’re sure. I guess I’ll see you at seven.” Greg ran his fingers through his hair as they all piled into the van.
    Krissy maneuvered the van eastward out of the parking lot. I pleaded with Greg, “Why didn’t you—” but the sound of a siren cut me off.
    The medical examiner arrived. Sheriff Daniels pulled back caution tape to allow the ambulance to enter. There wasn’t a body for him to examine. The Crag Rats were still lowering themselves and Lenny’s body on the sheer rock face.
    â€œYou go home. Take a bath or something. I’ll hang out until this is wrapped.”
    â€œBut why didn’t you say anything to the sheriff?”
    Greg looked around the parking lot. “Not now. Not here. Go rest. We’ll talk later.”
    Confusion swirled in my head. None of this made sense. Why wouldn’t Greg say something to Sheriff Daniels? I could tell from his solid stance I wasn’t going to get anywhere by pushing him right now.
    I might as well head home. A bath sounded like bliss. I could smell the lavender bath salts Jill kept next to her tub. Tugging my arm out of one of the sleeves of Greg’s fleece, his warm, firm hand caught mine.
    â€œKeep it.”
    Before pulling out of the parking lot, I texted Jill. I knew she was in depositions, but I had to tell someone.
    OMG. You’re never going to believe what happened. A contestant died. Maybe murdered. I’m freaking out. Call me as soon as you can.

Chapter 11
    Two hours later, my cell phone alarm blared in my ear. With my eyes shut, I reached my hand out toward Jill’s coffee table. Fumbling over a pile of candy wrappers and an empty chip bag (hey, I needed comfort food after today’s ordeal) I found my phone and slid the alarm off.
    The warmth of my squishy feather-filled down comforter wasn’t enough to escape the first image that flashed through my mind—Lenny’s body plunging past me. I stretched and pulled my phone close to my face—6:15. The barbeque hosted by Northwest Extreme was in forty-five minutes. I’d better get moving.
    A text beeped on the screen. Text messages are announced on my phone with the sound of the return key on an old-fashioned typewriter. I should have been born in the 1950s. It suited my style. The high-waisted skirts, clunky typewriters, men who knew how to dazzle women with their impeccable style and manners; yep I was born forty years too late. My dream home office, where I’d write my Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, would pay homage to my favorite decade. I keep a secret file folder with clippings of a vintage red Olivetti and of a coral satin flare dress. One day, when I have my own place I’ll deck my office out with these trinkets of inspiration.
    The text was from Jill.
    It read, Sorry. Been in depos all day. Done by 7:30 or 8:00. Get a beer then? Love you.
    Seeing her friendly words brought a smile to my face. But ouch, did moving ever hurt. Angel’s Rest killed my quads. I pushed myself off the couch with my arms and hobbled down the hallway to the bathroom.
    After a quick shower, I dusted my face with powder, applied lip gloss, blew my hair dry upside down and tugged on a pair of stretch jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt and my favorite pink puffy vest. My cheeks and lips were chapped and raw with windburn. My eyes felt heavy. I’d have to wear my glasses.
    I much prefer my contacts, but when the occasion for frames occurs I’m glad I have an assortment to choose from. Without corrective lenses I’m absolutely blind. Can’t see my hand in front of my face. Fortunately, my prescription hasn’t changed since I was in elementary school. Since my insurance covers a new pair of frames once a year, I’ve amassed an impressive collection of frames. Tonight I opted for a chocolate brown frame with pink sherbet swirls.
    I scribbled a note for