"First off, all the ice climbers are leaving so there's no hurry cleaning up what's going to be empty rooms, probably until the weekend. Ryland and the Quincys won't be back until dark."
Plus, Dean thought, it would give the old man a good excuse and ample time for some world-class snooping. He'd even have a shot at Gladys' and Edith's rooms. They would have to be absent for lunch. "I'll take you up on that offer," Dean answered. "I owe you one."
Fred dipped his voice to a whisper. "It'll give you a chance to telephone to Cynthia, too." Then he added, "Why not give her a long-ring call from here? She won't answer, but just in case the law's got a tap on the line it'll keep 'em off base. They might get a mite suspicious if you didn't try to give her a call." Dean chuckled at the intrigue, but the suggestion made sense. When he finished eating, he called the Indiana number, letting the phone ring a dozen times.
It was after nine when Dean stepped out on the porch. A breath of almost spring-like weather assailed him. It was a signature day in Ouray, better than the best of the area's finest painted or photographed images with the sky so blue, the pines so green and the snow so white, you couldn't paint truer colors with an art store's inventory.
Thursday's storm had roared into town with uncommon severity, bringing with it not only more than two feet of fresh snow, but a wind that set the white stuff a-dancing and swirling about the town, like a wild rhumba or some native fertility rite. But Monday, the dance master played a different tune-a beautiful Viennese waltz of warm air and sunshine that teased of spring, still months in the future. The town's promenaders were clothed in sweaters at most, with only tee shirts adequate in the brilliant sun. One hearty soul was clothed in shorts, as if trying to wow his neighbors with an out of season, near full body tan.
Dean took a look at the thawing street in front of Bird Song and went out back and unhooked his bicycle. Why let a hint of spring pass by unutilized? He donned biking clothes, packed a jacket and sweater in his pannier and set off in pursuit of a few peaceful moments in one of his favorite worlds. Hoisting the lightweight bike to his shoulders, he walked to the paved Main Street before mounting. It was a long, slow glide, mostly downhill toward Ridgway ten miles distant and Dean leaned his head back, as if to clear his over-burdened brain of the confusion of the past few days. While the air remained chilly, especially in the shaded patches, it was so clear and unseasonably warm Dean hardly noticed. He didn't even mind the rooster tail spray of water from his back tire, the product of the run off from melting snow. If anything, winter biking was more pleasant without playing dodge ball with rushing tourists and campers along the summer-busy, shoulder-less highway. The local vehicles that passed him invariable gave him a wave and a wide berth.