Cozy Mystery at Chalet Creek: Chapter 1

Snowy Lodge Morning with Coffee & Secret

The thing about Chalet Creek was that it never really slept. Even at 6 a.m., before the first lift groaned  and the sun bothered to stretch over the peaks, the place already buzzed with a life of its own. The clinking of mugs against saucers mixed with the muffled thud of boots on wooden floors. The smell of overpriced coffee and lattes drifted through the lodge, courtesy of Willy Davies, Chalet Creek's resident Australian barista, who somehow managed to make every flat white with the energy of a man who'd just won the lottery.

“Oi! Extra shot for ya, love!” Willy called out from behind the counter, his accent rolling through the lodge as he slid a perfectly foamed cappuccino across the bar. “Gotta keep you upright on those slopes!”

Somewhere deeper within the lodge, a high-pitched whine pierced the quiet—undoubtedly, Augie Tassotti was already locked in battle with a pair of rental skis.

Mikey Beckerman cherished mornings like this. Quiet. Predictable. Nobody screaming for a hot chocolate refill. Nobody tumbling down a double black diamond. Nobody dying.err

At least, not yet.

He leaned against the weathered railing outside the lodge, the rough wood cold against his palms, and inhaled a long, steady breath of crisp mountain air. It smelled of pine needles and freshly fallen snow—a scent that smoothed the restless edges of his mind.

Below him, Whistler Valley stretched out in all its snow-glazed glory. The runs, groomed to perfection, shimmered under the pearly light of dawn. A plume of smoke curled from the lodge chimney, twisting into the morning air like a dancer's ribbon.

From up here, Chalet Creek looked exactly how Mikey liked his life: orderly. Peaceful. Untouched by whatever fresh chaos the day might hold.

Mikey always started his day the same way: a quiet meditation at the top of the mountain, just as the sun began to paint the sky with streaks of pink and gold. He'd find a secluded spot, sheltered from the wind, and settle onto a bed of soft snow. Closing his eyes, he'd breathe in the crisp mountain air, the scent of pine needles filling his lungs. He'd picture the slopes unfolding before him, visualizing each turn, each mogul, each exhilarating descent. It was his way of grounding himself, of connecting with the spirit of Chalet Creek, of preparing for whatever the day might bring. But on this particular morning, as Mikey prepared for his lesson with Mrs. Van Derlyn, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. He'd overslept, missing his usual sunrise meditation, and the mountain felt... out of balance.

“You look like someone who’s about to propose to the mountain,” a voice boomed behind him. “Real soft stuff, Beckerman. Real emotional.”

Mikey smirked, not bothering to turn around. “Morning to you too, Augie.”

August "Augie" Tassotti Jr. stomped up the steps, cheeks flushed red from the cold, breath puffing clouds in the air. He was bundled in no less than three jackets and two scarves, looking like an overstuffed, multicolored marshmallow. Augie approached snow like it was out to get him personally. His motto? Why have one jacket when you can have four?

“Just saying,” Augie went on, brushing imaginary snowflakes from his sleeves with a dramatic flourish. “You’ve got that brooding thing going again. Like you’re solving all of life’s problems through... vibes.” He rolled his eyes, his voice laced with that warm Italian lilt that could thaw even the coldest Canadian morning.

“It’s a sunrise, Augie,” Mikey said. “I’m allowed a moment of introspection.”

“Yeah, well, Mama always said the only thing you get from staring at the horizon is a cold nose and empty thoughts.”

Mikey raised an eyebrow. “Thought your Mama was back in California.”

“She is,” Augie said, puffing out his chest. “Doesn’t mean she’s wrong, does it?”

Mikey chuckled and turned his gaze back to the slopes. The mountain was beginning to stir. Staff moved like shadows through the mist, setting up barricades, testing lifts, prepping for the inevitable onslaught. Soon enough, the place would be crawling with tourists who thought five-star luxury included nearly breaking their legs on a double black.

“Big day?” Mikey asked.

“The rental desk’s already a zoo,” Augie grumbled. “Some influencer group checked in late last night. Whole gang from L.A., and they’re insisting on matching neon everything for their content. Pray for me, Mikey. Pray for me.”

Mikey smirked. Augie’s personal hell involved any sentence containing the phrase for the aesthetic.

“And hey, bonus,” Augie added, lowering his voice. “You’ve got Mrs. Van Derlyn this morning.”

“Oh, joy,” Mikey deadpanned.

Mrs. Van Derlyn. Chalet Creek royalty—or at least, she acted like it. Wealthy, particular, and always one snowflake away from filing a complaint. Mikey had a feeling this lesson was going to be... memorable.

“Word is,” Augie whispered, “she’s been sniffing around about some old family heirloom. Keeps asking weird questions at the Fireside Tavern. You hear anything?”

Mikey shook his head. “Not a peep.”

“Well, keep your ears open, amico. People around here love a good rumor. Figure she’s either here for the slopes or she’s planning to rob the place blind.”

“Maybe both,” Mikey said, smirking.

Augie grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of things.”

But Mikey wasn’t so sure. A shiver slid down his spine, unease settling low in his gut. He scanned the slopes, eyes drifting over the snow-covered peaks, searching for the source of the feeling. Maybe it was just the early morning chill. Or maybe it was something else.

Something darker, waiting just beneath the pristine surface of Chalet Creek.

Augie checked his watch and groaned. “Alright, I gotta get back before someone tries to rent snowshoes for a black diamond run. You good?”

“Always,” Mikey replied automatically.

“Liar,” Augie shot back with a grin. He paused halfway down the steps and pointed a gloved finger at Mikey. “And hey, if you see anything weird out there—ghosts, cults, suspicious ski instructors with shifty eyes? Let me know. I could use some excitement.”

Mikey smirked. “Sure. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

But as the first cable cars crawled up the mountain, that uneasy feeling clung to him like a shadow.

For the first time in a long time, Mikey Beckerman wondered if excitement was exactly what he should be afraid of.

It was only supposed to be for a season. A year, at most. One of the Saint Mary's alumni owned a hotel here in town and set both of us up tending bar for the winter. He had some extra condos, and everything just sort of... worked out. Easy money. Easy living.

But then the slopes got involved.

The moment we stepped onto Chalet Street and looked up at those peaks, capped in pristine white, it was over. The mountains crawled under our skin. Wrapped around our ribs. Pulled us in like gravity.

Neither of us knew how to ski when we arrived, but between Augie's overconfidence and the fact we were still in peak shape from basketball, we picked it up fast. Too fast. Before long, we weren't just skiing—we were obsessed. As if we were training for the Olympics. Every spare minute on the mountain. Every paycheck blown on gear. The wind whipping through our hair, the crunch of fresh powder beneath our skis, the sheer exhilaration of carving down the mountain like it belonged to us... intoxicating doesn't even cover it.

Before long, it had become a lifestyle and a strict routine.

And, naturally, it wasn’t long before Augie’s family had to visit.

If Augie and his mother go longer than a few months without gazing into each other’s eyes, he starts showing withdrawal symptoms. Plus, the man can't survive without his mother's manicotti. It’s an Italian thing. Hard to explain.

But when Mama Tassotti’s manicotti is involved, you don’t ask questions.

The funny thing about Chalet Creek was that it had a way of pulling you in. No matter where you came from, no matter what your plans were, the mountains seemed to grab hold of something in you—something you didn’t even know was there—and refuse to let go. Mikey Beckerman had seen it happen to Augie, to himself, and to half the staff who swore they were only here for “one season.”

Except, of course, for the ones who left. The ones who couldn’t handle the isolation, the cold, or the secrets. Because if Chalet Creek had a way of drawing you in, it also had a talent for keeping things buried.

Mikey leaned back against the railing, watching the first cable car lurch its way up the mountain, the cabins swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere out there, Mrs. Van Derlyn was probably getting ready for her lesson, and Mikey was already bracing himself for her particular brand of passive-aggressive critique.

“Your turns could use a bit more… polish,” she’d say, her tone dripping with honeyed superiority. Or maybe, “This slope is charming, but don’t you think the real skiing is in the Alps?”

By mid-morning, the mountain was awake and fully caffeinated. The hum of chairlifts, the scrape of skis over fresh corduroy, the distant laughter of snowboarders launching themselves off kickers—it all blended into the usual Chalet Creek soundtrack. Mikey had just enough time to savor the peace before Mrs. Van Derlyn arrived, turning the morning into a production.

She’d been a “regular” at Chalet Creek for the last few seasons—if you could call someone who booked the penthouse suite for two weeks at a time and treated the staff like her personal entourage a regular. Word around the lodge was she’d made an absolute killing in crypto. Cashed out just in time, too. Right before Sam Bankman-Fried made headlines for turning the whole industry into a punchline.

Some said Mrs. Van Derlyn saw it coming. Others claimed she was tipped off. Either way, she left the game just before the ship sank, and Chalet Creek had been her winter playground ever since.

Not that she ever admitted to any of it. Ask her what she did for a living, and you'd get some vague mention of “portfolio diversification” and “strategic consulting,” followed by a smile so practiced it could cut glass.

She wasn’t here for the discounts or the charm.

No, Mrs. Van Derlyn had declared—loudly and often—that Chalet Creek was “quaint.” Quaint enough to keep her entertained between European ski trips and Miami galas, at least.

Her lessons with Mikey had started after the Great Après-Ski Wipeout of last year—a minor incident involving a champagne toast, an ill-timed patch of ice, and a fall that became local legend before the night was over. Since then, she insisted on booking him exclusively, telling anyone who’d listen that he had "the patience of a saint and the legs of an Olympian."

Which sounded flattering until you realized she said it loud enough for half the lodge to hear.

Still, Mikey didn’t mind. Mrs. Van Derlyn tipped well and skied better than most of the guests who thought double blacks were just a suggestion.

But lately, she’d been... different. Asking strange questions. Staying late at the Fireside Tavern. Prying into old town lore with an interest that felt a little too pointed.

And this morning, as she strutted toward him in a gleaming white ski suit that probably cost more than his car, Mikey couldn’t shake the feeling that Mrs. Van Derlyn wasn’t just here for the fresh powder.

The day of the course was a deep dive into not just skiing, but the art of teaching it. They learned how to analyze a skier’s form, how to spot mistakes, how to communicate clearly and effectively. They practiced drills until their legs felt like jelly, then practiced some more.

Mikey, ever the perfectionist, threw himself into it with laser focus. Augie, on the other hand, approached it with his usual brand of chaotic enthusiasm. He wasn’t always the most technical skier, but his natural charisma and boundless energy made him a magnet for people.

By the end of the course, they’d both passed with flying colors.

Becoming instructors changed everything.

Suddenly, skiing wasn’t just a hobby. It was a job—and a damn good one. Mikey loved the structure of it: the precision, the technique, the satisfaction of helping someone else discover the same joy he’d found on the mountain.

Augie, unsurprisingly, loved the people. He thrived on making his students laugh, turning every lesson into a mix of comedy routine and pep talk.

Together, they became something of a legend at Chalet Creek. The dynamic duo. The guy who could analyze your turns down to the millimeter and the guy who could make you laugh so hard you forgot you were terrified of falling.

And the best part? They still got to ski every day.

What had started as a detour—a way to kill time and make a little money—had turned into something much bigger.

The mountain had given them more than just a job. It had given them a purpose.

And neither of them was in any hurry to let it go.

The morning was still, the kind of crisp, quiet calm that only came before the mountain fully woke up. Mikey sat cross-legged in his usual spot, the snow cold beneath him, his breath fogging faintly in the air. His eyes were closed, but his senses were sharp. He could hear the faint hum of the first lifts spinning to life in the distance, the soft rustle of wind through the trees.

This was his time. Quiet. Centered.

Until it wasn’t.

“Mikey!”

The voice hit him like a slap, shattering the calm. His eyes snapped open, and his heart gave a little jolt—half from the surprise, half from irritation. Turning, he saw Mrs. Van Derlyn approaching, her white ski suit gleaming like fresh snow in the pale morning light.

She was early.

“Michael,” she called again, her voice carrying cheerfully through the stillness. “There you are!”

He sighed, standing and brushing the snow off his pants. “You’re early,” he said, keeping his tone polite but clipped.

“Oh, I know,” she replied, clearly unbothered. “I just couldn’t wait. It’s so peaceful out here in the mornings, don’t you think?”

He nodded, though his patience was already wearing thin. She wasn’t supposed to be here yet, and something about her sudden appearance had set his nerves buzzing.

“Meditating, were you?” she asked, tilting her head as she studied him. “I’ve always wanted to try that. They say it’s excellent for stress.”

He forced a tight smile. “It is.”

“Hmm,” she said, glancing past him toward the slopes. “Well, I hope I’m not interrupting anything too important.”

“You’re fine,” he said, though the words felt hollow. “We can start early, if you’d like.”

“Lovely,” she said, her smile sharp and practiced.

But as she turned, something about her demeanor struck him as odd. Her gaze lingered a little too long on the tree line, her movements a little too deliberate.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, his voice steady but pointed.

“What? Oh, of course,” she said lightly, waving a hand. “I just… well, I wanted to get a head start today. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” Mikey said, though unease prickled at the back of his neck.

She gave him another bright smile before gesturing toward the slope. “Shall we?”

The story of Chalet Creek wouldn’t be complete without the El Amrani family.

The resort wasn’t always the polished gem it was now, with its five-star accommodations and immaculate slopes. Decades ago, it had been a struggling, mid-tier ski lodge that catered to locals and the occasional budget-conscious tourist. But then the El Amranis arrived, bringing with them a vision that would transform the place—and the town surrounding it.

The patriarch, Idris El Amrani, had built his fortune in Morocco through a mix of savvy real estate investments and a deep understanding of the global tourism industry. From luxury riads in Marrakech to sprawling beach resorts in Essaouira, his family name had become synonymous with high-end hospitality. But Idris wasn’t content with just dominating the warm-weather market. He wanted a winter jewel—a place where the wealthy and adventurous could escape, no matter the season.

That’s when Chalet Creek caught his attention.

At first, no one in the sleepy mountain town could figure out why a man like Idris would invest in their little corner of the Rockies. The lodge was in disrepair, the town’s infrastructure was laughable, and the clientele it attracted couldn’t afford the kind of luxury Idris was known for. But Idris saw potential. He saw the pristine slopes, the endless blue skies, and the rugged charm of the town itself. More importantly, he saw an opportunity to create something no one else had: a ski resort that blended Alpine elegance with Moroccan opulence.

The transformation wasn’t immediate. It took nearly a decade of strategic investments, design overhauls, and relentless marketing to turn Chalet Creek into the destination it was today. The once-humble lodge was now a sprawling complex of luxury chalets, fine-dining restaurants, and state-of-the-art ski facilities. Every detail—from the intricate tilework in the spa to the hand-carved wooden beams in the main lodge—reflected the El Amranis’ signature blend of global sophistication and local authenticity.

But it wasn’t just about the aesthetics. The El Amranis had a way of making their presence felt, even when they weren’t physically there. Idris was a master of storytelling, weaving the history of Chalet Creek into the resort’s identity in a way that made guests feel like they were part of something special. His youngest daughter, Yasmina, handled the day-to-day operations with a sharp eye and a firm hand, ensuring that every guest’s experience lived up to the family’s exacting standards.

And then there was Karim, the eldest son.

Karim was the face of Chalet Creek, the one who charmed investors, dazzled guests, and kept the staff on their toes. He had Idris’s charisma and Yasmina’s discipline, but with a streak of unpredictability that set him apart. He was just as likely to be found schmoozing with VIP guests in the lounge as he was carving turns on the double blacks or helping the kitchen staff perfect a new tagine recipe.

To Mikey and Augie, the El Amranis were equal parts fascinating and intimidating. Karim, in particular, had a way of commanding attention without even trying. He’d stop by the ski school occasionally, chatting with the instructors like they were old friends, but there was always an air of formality beneath the surface.

“They’re like royalty,” Augie had said once, watching Karim stride through the lodge with a group of investors in tow. “But, like, cool royalty. The kind that actually knows how to ski.”

Mikey had laughed, but there was some truth to it. The El Amranis had a way of making you feel like you were part of something bigger, even if you were just a ski instructor scraping by on tips and free meals from the cafeteria.

Still, there were whispers.

No one could ever agree on the specifics, but everyone in town had their own theory about why the El Amranis had chosen Chalet Creek. Some said Idris had fallen in love with the place after a chance visit during a business trip. Others claimed it was a strategic move to expand his empire into North America. And then there were the darker rumors—the ones about buried secrets, hidden deals, and the mountain itself.

Mikey didn’t pay much attention to the gossip. As far as he was concerned, the El Amranis were just another part of what made Chalet Creek unique. But every now and then, when Karim looked at him with that piercing gaze or Yasmina asked an oddly specific question about the ski school’s finances, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to the family than they let on.

The lesson began like any other, but Mikey couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Mrs. Van Derlyn was eager, as always, but there was an edge to her today—a restless energy that made her movements just a little too sharp, her turns a little too rushed. She wasn’t skiing like herself, and Mikey noticed it immediately.

“Alright,” he said, keeping his voice calm and steady as they started their first run. “Let’s ease into it. Focus on control. Remember—smooth and steady.”

She nodded, but the look in her eyes was distant, her focus somewhere else entirely. Her first few turns were precise enough, but there was a tension in her body that hadn’t been there before, as if she were bracing for something.

Mikey followed close behind, his gaze fixed on her form. Skiing was as much about instinct as it was technique, and her instincts today felt wrong. Too aggressive. Too rushed.

“Good,” he called, his tone firm but encouraging. “But relax into it. Let the mountain come to you. Don’t fight it.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she pushed herself faster, her skis carving through the snow with a kind of defiance that made his stomach tighten. Mikey frowned, his mind racing to figure her out. Was she angry? Nervous? He couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

“Van Derlyn,” he called again, this time louder. “Keep it steady. No need to rush.”

She didn’t slow down.

The slope began to steepen as they approached the halfway point of the trail. The trees on either side seemed to crowd closer, the air growing colder and thinner as they descended. Mikey’s heart thudded harder in his chest, a subtle but persistent warning.

“Alright,” he tried again, his voice rising slightly. “This next section gets narrow. Stay in control and take it easy.”

Still, she didn’t respond.

Her speed increased, her skis slicing through the snow with a precision that felt almost reckless. Mikey leaned into his turns, trying to keep up as she barreled toward the curve ahead—the part of the trail he always warned his students about.

The trail narrowed sharply here, with a line of trees on the left and a steep drop-off on the right. It wasn’t a place to take risks.

“Mrs. Van Derlyn!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the crisp mountain air.

She was too far ahead now, her movements growing more erratic with every second. Her left ski wobbled slightly as she hit a patch of uneven snow, and Mikey’s heart lurched in his chest.

“Slow down!” he yelled, panic starting to creep into his voice.

She didn’t—or couldn’t—hear him.

Her left ski caught again, this time harder, and for a split second, he thought she might recover. She tried to shift her weight, her arms flailing for balance, but the momentum was too much. Her skis crossed, her body twisted—and then she was gone.

Mikey skidded to a stop, his breath catching in his throat as he watched her tumble over the edge. The world seemed to slow down, every detail searing itself into his mind: the glint of sunlight on her white suit, the spray of snow as she fell, the sickening sound of her body hitting the slope below.

For a moment, everything was silent.

Mikey stood frozen, his heart pounding in his ears. Then, instinct took over.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, unclipping his skis with trembling hands.

He stumbled forward, his boots sinking into the snow as he dropped to his knees at the edge of the trail. Peering over, he felt a cold dread settle deep in his chest.

About twenty feet below, Mrs. Van Derlyn lay sprawled in the snow, her white suit blending almost seamlessly with the icy ground. She wasn’t moving.

Mikey’s stomach churned as he fumbled for his radio, his fingers stiff with cold and adrenaline.

“This is Beckerman,” he said, his voice tight and strained. “We’ve got an accident on Ridge Run. Requesting immediate assistance.”

The radio crackled faintly in response, but he barely registered the words. His eyes stayed fixed on her still form below, his mind racing with questions he didn’t want to answer.

What had gone wrong?

Why had she been skiing like that?

And why did this morning feel like it had been leading up to this?

That creeping unease he’d felt earlier, the sense that something wasn’t right—it was back, stronger than ever.

Something about this morning had felt wrong from the start. Now, that feeling had turned into something far worse.